Kissing the Demons (15 page)

‘What is it, Carla? I'm busy.' Then he looked up, his pockmarked face clouded with anger, and when he saw it wasn't Carla who'd disturbed him he rose from his seat. ‘Who the hell are you?'

Emily made the introductions and McNeil sunk back into his executive leather swivel chair, suddenly meek, the model of cooperation.

‘We've been talking to Andrew Cassidy and he says he was with you on Saturday night till midnight.'

‘Er . . . that's right. I took some papers round for him to have a look at. Why? Andy's not in any trouble, is he?'

Joe watched the man's expression. His eyes flickered from side to side as though he were searching for an escape route.

‘Do estate agents usually deal with legal papers?' said Joe innocently. ‘Isn't that usually dealt with by solicitors?'

‘They were council reports . . . about planning permission on a property he's considering buying.'

‘I see. You're absolutely sure you were with him all night? Was there any time he might have slipped out for half an hour, say? Or perhaps you weren't sure of the time you left.'

‘I must admit I wasn't paying much attention to the time but I'm sure I left around midnight.' He hesitated. ‘Or it could have been a little bit earlier, I suppose – say quarter to. I can't really be sure.'

‘That's dedication to the job,' said Emily. ‘You wouldn't find me working that late on a Saturday night unless I had no option . . . unless I had something like the death of a young student to investigate.'

McNeil gave her a smooth smile. ‘It's different when it's your own company, Chief Inspector. You work whenever you have to and it was the only time Andy could fit the meeting in. He's a busy man.'

Joe looked at Emily. He could tell that, like him, she didn't much like the man but that didn't necessarily mean he was lying.

‘Did you know Petulia Ferribie? She was one of Mr Cassidy's tenants at thirteen Torland Place.'

‘No.'

‘Do you and Andy Cassidy see much of each other?' Joe thought the question was worth asking.

‘We have a drink from time to time. Mainly business.'

‘How long have you known him?'

‘Quite a few years actually.' Joe sensed that the subject was uncomfortable and he thought he knew the reason why.

‘So you know about the time he spent in prison?'

McNeil looked away. ‘Andy was ill. What he did was terrible but they put him in hospital, not prison.'

‘Did you know his sister, Grace?'

It was a few seconds before McNeil answered. ‘I'd met her but I didn't know her well.'

‘I'm surprised you wanted to keep in touch with him.'

‘I didn't particularly. But our paths crossed through work and . . . I wouldn't describe our relationship as close.' McNeil hesitated. ‘Andy and I don't share the same interests, Inspector.'

‘Go on.' Joe caught Emily's eye. He wanted McNeil to talk, to tell him everything he knew about Cassidy.

‘Sometimes Andy makes me feel a little uncomfortable. His attitude to women and . . .' He shook his head. ‘Like I said, I don't want to get him into trouble.'

‘Please. We need to know everything.'

‘It's just that he's a bit of a ladies' man – likes to go out to bars and clubs and parties. I'm happily married with a lovely baby daughter and . . . Well, I'm just not into that sort of thing any more.'

‘What sort of thing?' Joe looked at Emily who was listening intently.

‘Well, a couple of months ago he asked if I'd like to go to a strip club with him and a few friends. I made an excuse.'

‘What about his girlfriend? Anna, is it?'

‘I think she's just one in a long line.'

‘Do you know the names of any of his other women?'

McNeil shrugged apologetically. ‘Sorry. Like I said, I'm happily married and I don't take much interest in what he gets up to.'

‘We'll send someone along to take a statement,' she said. ‘And I'd be grateful if you had another think about the time you left Cassidy's on Saturday night. Perhaps you heard the news on the car radio or . . .'

‘I'm pretty sure it was around midnight but . . .' Somehow he didn't sound very convincing.

As they took their leave, Joe gave a reassuring nod to the woman who had now resumed her place at the front desk.

‘I think it's time we found out more about Mr Andrew Cassidy,' said Emily, shutting the office door behind her and stepping out on to the street.

ELEVEN

W
hen they arrived at Cassidy's house Anna seemed nervous and Joe was careful to keep his dealings with her gentle. He said it was nothing to worry about and asked when she expected Cassidy home.

‘I don't know. He never said.'

‘Where's he gone?'

‘Leeds. He has properties there,' she said. She sounded defensive and he wondered why.

‘Were you here on Saturday night?'

‘I went out to visit a friend but I came back later . . . about half past eleven.'

‘Was Mr McNeil here when you got home?'

She hesitated, unsure of herself. ‘I think so. But I did not see him. They were in the room with the door shut. Business. I went to bed early.'

‘So Mr Cassidy was definitely here?'

She nodded warily.

‘Your English is really good,' he said with an encouraging smile. ‘How did you meet Mr Cassidy?'

‘I apply for a job as his cleaner. He advertise in the newsagent's window.'

‘And you became . . . involved?'

She thought for a moment and in the end she decided on a nod.

In view of what they'd learned about Cassidy's past, there were questions they had to ask. ‘Would you say he has a temper? Has he ever been violent towards you?'

She looked up sharply. ‘No. What kind of a man do you think he is?'

In the face of this spirited defence, Joe backed down. It was clear that Anna wasn't going to dish any dirt on her lover. And perhaps even her story about him being there at eleven thirty on Saturday night couldn't really be trusted. Cassidy had an alibi for Pet's murder alright – from a man who might well be stretching the truth out of a misplaced sense of loyalty and from a young woman who had a lot to lose. He looked around the tastefully opulent room. Everything comes at a price.

Emily's phone began to ring and she answered it. Her only words were ‘Right' and ‘Thanks'. She ended the call and gave him a nod of triumph. Cassidy had arrived home.

Emily put a hand on Anna's arm when they heard the front door open. But even if she called out a warning, there were a couple of DCs outside in an unmarked car who'd do the necessary.

When the door to the drawing room opened, Cassidy hovered on the threshold. ‘What can I do for you this time?' He addressed Joe, ignoring Emily.

Joe informed him that they were taking him in for questioning in connection with the murder of Petulia Ferribie and recited the familiar words of the caution. And as Cassidy was led out protesting his innocence, Joe saw that Anna was crying.

Not everybody is delighted to see an exorcist sitting sipping tea in their kitchen, not even when he is known by the less dramatic title of Deliverance Minister, which Matt thought sounded like a cross between a midwife, a postman and a politician.

George Merryweather had arrived at thirteen Torland Place at midday and, fortunately, Matt had managed to get home just in time. He hardly wanted to leave the clergyman to the mercy of Caro or Jason who were sceptical at best, hostile at worst.

Matt had expected to see a cadaverous figure in a cloak rather than a round, middle aged, good-natured man in casual slacks and an open-necked shirt. He felt a little disappointed, as though the church were short-changing him. But on the other hand, he was rather relieved that the clergyman seemed so easy to talk to.

He had told George about the seance, the history of the house, the police enquiries about Jasmine and Pet's murder, and he was surprised when George said he'd already looked up Obediah Shrowton on the Internet. Somehow he hadn't associated exorcists with computer technology but then he remembered that he'd contacted him by email. Even those who deal with that most ancient of mysteries, the human soul, have to keep up to date these days.

‘So you think there's a hostile presence in this house?' George asked gently.

Matt thought it sounded rather ridiculous when someone put it into words but he nodded.

‘I'll begin by saying a prayer. It often does the trick, you know.'

Matt hadn't been in a church in years, not since his days in the cub scouts. But he sat there with his head bowed while George spoke softly to a God Matt hadn't really given a second thought to since childhood. He was surprised that, somehow, the words seemed comforting. And he was glad that Caro and Jason weren't there to sneer, as he knew they would.

When George finished Matt sensed that the atmosphere was a little lighter. Or maybe he was imagining it.

George was just finishing his mug of tea when the door opened.

‘Who's this?' Caro stood there, arms folded, glaring at George.

George stood up and put out his hand. ‘George Merryweather. Matt here asked me to pop round.'

‘So who are you?' Jason stood behind Caro, looking as though he was ready to back her up and eject the interloper if necessary.

‘I work at the cathedral.' George turned to Matt. ‘You have my number. Get in touch any time, won't you. Don't bother to see me out.' He gave the two newcomers a friendly smile and left the room.

Once they'd heard the front door close Caro spoke. ‘Who the hell was that?'

‘Just someone I read about in the local paper. I thought he might be able to help.'

‘With what?'

‘This house. With Obediah Shrowton.' Suddenly Matt suspected that he'd gone over the top and felt his face redden with embarrassment.

‘Who is he? Some weirdo psychic?'

Matt fished the newspaper cutting out of the pocket of his jeans and handed it to Caro. She read it then handed it to Jason who scanned it then gave a derisive snort.

‘Deliverance Ministry. You don't believe all that crap do you?'

Matt glared at him. ‘You seemed happy to believe in it when you were organizing that bloody seance.'

Jason shrugged, unable to think of an answer.

‘Anyway, I think it's already working,' said Matt, gaining in courage. ‘I think the place seems less. . . .'

‘Less what?' said Jason, his face forming a sneer.

‘Less . . . threatening.' He paused. ‘Anyway, where were you when Pet died?'

Jason spun round and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Each time Joe's phone rang, he feared it was Kirsten. She was lurking at the back of his mind, unpredictable and dangerous. If she chose to, she could make a lot of trouble. And he reckoned she was crazy enough to do it.

Cassidy was downstairs waiting to be interviewed. Joe had been in favour of doing it right away but Emily had disagreed. She wanted to keep him in a state of nervous suspense to soften him up. It wasn't the first time he and Emily had disagreed on tactics, and he imagined it wouldn't be the last.

Joe needed some fresh air so he left police headquarters and walked towards the city centre. As he walked he could see the cathedral towers protruding above the rooftops reminding him that it was time he spoke to George to find out how he'd got on at Torland Place. There was something in that house that wasn't right. But could it have anything to do with Pet Ferribie's death? In the circumstances, every small possibility was worth following up.

When he reached the cathedral he entered by the main door and he was greeted by a row of counters issuing tickets to tourists. He watched for a while. All his instincts told him it was wrong to charge admission to what was, principally, a place of worship. On the other hand, the upkeep of the vast architectural treasure ate up millions of pounds each year so he supposed there was little option. But he hadn't just come to look so he sidled up to one of the staff and said he was there to see Canon Merryweather. He was admitted with a polite nod and he made his way into the nave.

He had been inside the cathedral so many times but its beauty never failed to astound him. He paused for a while and sat down, bowing his head, unsure what he was praying for: the bringing of Pet's killer to justice; a resolution to the twelve-year-old case of the two missing girls; or that Kirsten would get out of his life and stay out. He tried to concentrate. But it was useless.

He made for the north aisle, heading for the oasis of chaos that George Merryweather optimistically referred to as his office.

He pushed open the door and saw that George was still wearing his old anorak.

‘Come in, come in. I've just got back from Torland Place.'

‘How did you get on?'

George's smile vanished. ‘I'm not sure.'

Joe cleared a pile of books off a chair and made himself as comfortable as possible.

‘Matt seems a nice lad. More sensitive than his housemates, I'd say.'

‘You met all of them?'

‘Briefly. They seemed rather hostile to the idea of spiritual help. Not that I can blame them. The violent death of a friend must have come as a dreadful shock.'

‘According to them, the dead girl wasn't really a friend. Apparently they all got on well in the hall of residence but when they moved into Torland Place, things changed.'