Kissing the Demons (17 page)

‘Come on, Joe, you've got to tell me. Who the hell was that?'

‘My sister-in-law.'

‘Something tells me she doesn't like you much.'

‘You're not wrong there. I need a drink.'

They walked the quarter of a mile to the Star in silence. The pub was experiencing the quiet lull between the tourist invasion and the evening rush so they were able to claim a cosy seat in the corner of the lounge bar. Joe went to the bar and bought a pint of Black Sheep for himself and a red wine for Emily. He sat down and Emily took a long sip, smacking her lips with satisfaction. ‘So, tell Aunty Emily your troubles.'

For a few moments Joe sat in silence, wondering where to begin. Then he launched on a brief summary of Kirsten's allegations.

‘It's taken her long enough to get round to it.'

‘I think that's the problem. She feels bad about neglecting her sister and she's taking it out on me.'

He picked up one of the cardboard menus that were propped up in the centre of the table. ‘What are you having?'

‘Lasagne. What about you?'

Joe scanned the menu. After his encounter with Kirsten his appetite had left him. ‘I'll just have an omelette.'

‘Don't let this business get to you.' She paused. ‘Unless you're guilty, that is. Sorry, only joking. Do you want me to have a word with her? I'll put her right.'

Joe shook his head. He just wanted to change the subject and forget it.

He was relieved when the conversation moved on to the case and, as they ate, Emily used him as a sounding board to get things straight in her mind.

He couldn't get Barrington Jenks' connection with thirteen Torland Place out of his head somehow. And then there was George's interest in the place. A mass murderer had lived there, a man who had killed his family and servants. Something in Obediah Shrowton must have snapped to make him commit such an atrocious act and suddenly he wanted to find out more, although he doubted whether he'd have time with his current work commitments. Maybe when they found out what had become of Jade and Nerys, and Pet's killer was brought to justice.

They walked back to the police station through the narrow medieval streets with their overhanging upper storeys. At least, as far as Joe could tell, Kirsten hadn't decided to follow them.

After checking that nothing new had come in, Joe saw Jamilla sitting at her desk, tapping away at her computer. He walked over to her and perched on the corner of her desk. But she had nothing exciting to report. She'd taken the picture of the figure in the bushes to Jade Portright's parents but they had no idea who it was. The visit had been a waste of time and, according to Jamilla, had only served to raise the parents' hopes.

Joe made for Emily's office. The beer was making him feel a little drowsy. Perhaps he should have followed Emily's advice and eaten something more substantial than an omelette.

‘You look how I feel,' said Emily with a sigh as he sat down.

But before she could say any more, Sunny burst in and, from the expression on his face, Joe could tell that he was the bearer of interesting news.

‘I've checked out those names like you asked, ma'am. Den Harvey, the handyman at the leisure centre, was questioned about the death of a woman eleven years ago. She was his girlfriend and she was stabbed in an alley near his house. His mother provided his alibi and nothing could be proved against him.' He paused. ‘And there's something else. The victim's eyes were gouged out.'

Joe let the news sink in for a few seconds before speaking. ‘We'd better bring him in then.'

Death felt at home in the darkened streets of Eborby, hood raised against the legions of watching CCTV cameras. Things had been so much easier for that man who'd killed five people so brutally in Valediction Street all those years ago.

He wanted the anonymity of darkness so he avoided the main thoroughfares filled with drinkers and tourists, favouring the narrow snickleways that ran between the older buildings and meandered between ancient streets. Some were framed by archways, others were just narrow passageways, part of the great rabbit warren that had been Eborby city centre since the middle ages. They bore names like Cheat's Yard, Slaughterman's Passage and Mad Maggie's Way. If Death hadn't been so preoccupied he would have found them interesting.

He passed the cathedral and hurried under the archway of Monks Bar. He knew where he was heading. He knew the Enemy.

When he reached his destination, he saw that the Enemy had left the blinds up, giving him a good view inside. He would have preferred to target the woman, but he hadn't been able to trace her address among all the Thwaites in the local phone directory. Plantagenet, however, had been an easy name to track down. And besides, there was bound to be a woman in his life. Or a close female friend or neighbour whose fate would cause him pain. It was just a question of watching and waiting.

Death kept his hidden vigil for a while until the Enemy appeared at the window and lowered the blinds.

Show over. For now.

THIRTEEN

W
hen the team assembled at seven thirty the next morning, Emily briefed them about the murder of Den Harvey's girlfriend. Eighteen-year-old Sharon Bell's eyes had been stabbed repeatedly so that her face was left a bloody mask of horror. Den had been questioned, but his mother provided him with a watertight alibi which the investigating team had been unable to break.

At the time of Sharon's murder Den had been helping his mother prepare a room in a local church hall for a hot pot supper. Then mother and son had gone home to watch a TV programme; a detective series which was one of Mrs Harvey's favourites. When he'd been interviewed he'd been able to recite the whole plot, including the identity of the murderer. And, as the pair hadn't possessed a working video at the time, this was taken as proof that he was telling the truth.

‘Why didn't the mum stay for the hot pot supper?' one of the DCs asked. It was something Joe had been wondering himself.

‘She was caretaker of the church hall and she wasn't invited. But one of the event organizers – a Mrs Groves – locked up and dropped the keys off at the Harveys' house on her way home. She confirmed that both mother and son were in when she called. In fact Den answered the door. This was at ten.'

‘So he was telling the truth.'

‘Possibly. But there are distinct similarities between Sharon's death and Pet's. Both were stabbed twice in the chest before their faces were mutilated.' She looked round. ‘I want some of you to go through the Sharon Bell files to see if there are any familiar names in there – anything that connects her with Pet Ferribie. At the moment the only link we've got is Den Harvey. I take it he's being brought in?'

‘A patrol car's gone to pick him up, ma'am,' said Sunny.

‘Good. I want to know when he arrives.'

Sunny held up a sheet of paper. There was more. ‘That password protected file on Cassidy's computer – it was just accounts. Do you want someone to go through them . . . the fraud squad?'

‘No, Sunny. We're too busy to do the tax man's dirty work for him. Leave it.'

She began to march towards her office just as one of the DCs burst in to announce Den Harvey's arrival.

She turned to Joe. ‘I think we'll handle this one ourselves, eh. You ready?'

Den Harvey had been put in interview room number three, a windowless room painted a depressing shade of grey and lit by a pair of fluorescent strip lights. The table was bolted to the floor and what was at first glance a thin black dado rail half way up the wall was in reality a panic strip rather than a design statement. On the advice of his mother Harvey had requested the presence of the duty solicitor, a middle aged, overweight man who wore an expression of exasperated boredom on his flushed face. Joe knew it was nothing personal because he always looked like that.

‘We'd like to talk to you about Sharon Bell,' said Joe after they'd introduced themselves for the benefit of the tape recorder humming at the far end of the table. ‘You remember Sharon?'

Den glanced at the solicitor who was turning a pen over and over in his fingers. ‘'Course I remember her. She was my girlfriend.'

‘She was murdered,' said Emily, looking him in the eye.

Den bowed his head. Joe could hear his breathing, fast and slightly wheezy. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a blue inhaler, held it to his lips and the thing gave a muted hiss. Emily watched and waited until his breathing eased. Then she spoke again.

‘You were questioned at the time.'

Den looked up. ‘I wouldn't have harmed a hair on her head.'

‘I've heard that she was two timing you.'

Den shook his head vigorously and a small flurry of dandruff landed on the table's shiny black surface. ‘That's a lie. She said she needed time to sort out her feelings, that's all.'

Joe leaned towards him, his fingers arched. ‘How did you feel about that, Den?'

‘I wasn't happy. But . . . Well, it was up to her, wasn't it?'

‘Some people would get very upset about something like that. Upset enough to kill.'

‘Not me.'

Joe spoke quietly. ‘Sometimes something happens that overwhelms us . . . makes us lose control.'

‘There's no way I'd have done anything like that. I was never one of those lads who'd carry a knife round to feel big. Ask anyone who knows me. Ask my mum.'

Emily asked the next question. ‘Where did you meet Pet Ferribie?'

‘I never met her.'

‘Did she come to the leisure centre?'

‘I don't know. I'm on the maintenance side so I don't see the punters.'

‘When you found her body did you recognize her?'

‘No way. Anyway, it was Peter who found her, not me.'

‘But you were out there.'

‘I'd only gone out for a smoke. I didn't see her. I had nothing to do with it.'

‘What's worrying us, Den, is that there are some similarities between Pet's death and Sharon's. You see our problem, don't you? You knew Sharon and you're there when Pet's body is found. You're the connection between the two murders. Where were you at eleven thirty on Saturday night?'

‘I was home. I was with my mum.'

Den put his head in his hands and when he looked up there were tears forming in his eyes. ‘I didn't do anything,' he said. ‘I'm innocent.'

‘We'll need to search your house,' said Emily. ‘We can get a warrant but it'll be easier all round if you give us your permission.'

‘Go ahead. You won't find anything.'

Emily stood up, announcing that the interview was at a close.

‘Can I go?' Den asked. He looked at the solicitor who was busy polishing his glasses on a grubby handkerchief.

‘Not just yet,' said Emily. ‘We'll need to talk to you again.'

As they stood up to leave, Joe found himself feeling a little sorry for the man.

Joe felt restless. He was still waiting for technical support to report on the location of Pet's mobile phone at the time Matt had called her and heard what were, he'd concluded with hindsight, her dying agonies. Pet's body had been dumped at the leisure centre but they needed to know where she'd died.

Emily had been summoned by the Super who had wanted an update on the Barrington Jenks connection. There was nothing much to report and Jenks would now be up in Westminster doing what the taxpayers paid him to do. He would return at the weekend to take his constituency surgery but until then he would be living in his sheltered parliamentary bubble.

The previous day Joe had contacted the university to ask them whether a student called Jasmine was registered at the appropriate time but either Jenks's Jasmine had lied about being a student or Jasmine wasn't her real name. Or there was always the possibility that Jenks hadn't told them the truth.

The phone on his desk rang. Scientific Support had traced Pet's mobile at the time of Matt's final call to her last Saturday night to the city centre. The Queen's Square and Fleshambles area. Not far from the place where she was last seen following the Waits during the music festival. He ended the call and sat for a while, wondering where somebody could imprison and murder somebody without exciting comment in such a busy, bustling district.

He wanted to speak to Matt again about the call. But before he did, there was something he had to check.

Jamilla was at her desk in the corner of the incident room going through witness statements, making notes. She looked as though she'd be glad of a distraction.

‘Jamilla. Have you still got Pet Ferribie's address book?'

Jamilla leaned over and took a plastic bag containing a small book with a floral cover from a tray at the back of her desk. ‘I've contacted everyone in there,' she said, handing the bag to Joe. ‘It's remarkably empty for a girl of that age. There are a few old school friends. A cousin in Devizes. Her father's address in Dubai. But . . . Oh, I don't know. It just seems a bit odd.'

He looked at Jamilla for a few moments. From past experience he had learned to trust her judgement. ‘When's the father coming?'

‘Tomorrow. First flight he could get apparently.'

‘Is Andy Cassidy's name in that book?'

‘Yes. But no address. Just his number.'

‘What about Ian Zepper?'

She opened the address book and handed it to Joe. On the page allocated to the letter Z, not usually the most populous of pages, were three numbers: one marked home, one marked uni and one marked mob, presumably for mobile. Zepper's home address in Pickby was also there. He flicked through the book until he found Cassidy. As Jamilla had already pointed out, there was no address, just a mobile number.