Kissing the Demons (23 page)

He could see her in the rear view mirror, walking casually down the street. Nearer and nearer. When she drew level with the car he leaned over and opened the door. She got in.

‘We must have hidden it well but we've found it,' she said breathlessly. ‘We'll need help to move it. Tonight.'

‘I don't want a mess in this car.'

‘We've got bin bags. You can drive out to the country and we'll dispose of it there.'

He looked at Jasmine. She looked so much older now, and lined with worry. The sins of our youth sometimes come back to haunt us.

‘I don't want to put it anywhere which might point to my involvement,' Jenks said weakly.

‘You're involved whether you want to be or not.'

Jenks clutched the steering wheel to stop his hands from shaking. ‘What . . . what state is it in?'

‘You squeamish?' Jasmine's voice was mocking and Jenks suddenly felt like lashing out. ‘You'll see for yourself tonight.'

‘Can't we use your car? I . . .'

‘It's tiny. No boot space. You've got plenty of room.' The car door opened. ‘See you tonight. Midnight.'

Jenks sat there, his hands still fixed to the wheel. As Jasmine disappeared down the road he was surprised to see a chubby clergyman with a bald head walking towards her house.

The last thing he'd have expected Jasmine to do was to get religion.

SEVENTEEN

A
nna had been fully clothed but now she was naked. Her clothes lay bagged up on a steel trolley at the end of the white tiled room, ready to be sent for forensic examination.

As Sally began work Joe glanced at Emily who stood beside him behind the glass screen, arms folded.

‘I never like this bit,' she muttered.

‘You and me both.'

Sally kept up a running commentary of what she was doing and every so often she looked up at Joe and smiled. He'd always found Sally to be good company, in spite of her gruesome profession. But somehow he just couldn't detach the professional Sally from the private woman in his mind. He knew it was ridiculous but it was something he couldn't help.

When Sally had finished and her assistant was clearing up, she took off her surgical gown and joined them in her office.

‘It's almost identical to Petulia Ferribie. Similar knife wounds from the same angle. The only difference is that he's removed her ears this time instead of cutting out her tongue.'

‘There was a similar murder down in London,' said Joe. ‘A woman was found stabbed twice through the heart with damage to her nose. The DCI in charge of the case thinks the killer was disturbed before he could finish whatever it was he wanted to do. When the post-mortem report arrives, will you have a look at it for me . . . tell me if you think it's the same killer?'

Sally nodded. ‘No problem.'

‘Thanks,' Joe said. There used to be a time when Sally would drop casual hints about seeing Joe off duty and mention a film or a pub she fancied trying. But it seemed she'd given up. And Joe was rather surprised that he felt a stab of disappointment.

‘I noticed something about Anna's clothes when she was undressed,' Sally said as Joe and Emily reached the threshold of her office.

‘What was that?'

‘There were some fibres on her coat that looked like carpet fluff. There were similar fibres on Pet Ferribie's clothes.'

‘They were carpet fibres. Blue and red.'

‘So they're killed somewhere with a blue and red carpet.'

‘Now all we've got to do is find it,' said Emily who'd been listening intently. She began to march off down the corridor that led out of the mortuary to the outside world of the living.

Joe thanked Sally and hurried after her.

The incident room was almost deserted when Joe and Emily returned. Some of the team were out making enquiries at the hospital and the houses in the area where Anna's body was found. Others were trying their luck with carpet firms and some were still in the AV room trying to earn that promised pint from the boss. But, as yet, it seemed they weren't having much luck.

Emily found a report on her desk from Scientific Support. They'd gone through Den Harvey's computer and found nothing of interest apart from a file called ‘Kissing the Demons', full of downloaded Internet pornography. Nothing too disturbing and no kids, Emily was relieved to discover. But the title he'd chosen intrigued her. She'd heard the phrase before . . . at thirteen Torland Place if she remembered right.

‘Has anybody managed to trace the chef Ferribie's missing wife was supposed to be shacked up with?'

‘With a name like Paolo Jones he shouldn't be hard to find . . . if he's still in the area.'

Joe heard a tentative knock on the office door. When it opened, Jamilla was standing there and she looked as if she had news. ‘The Met have emailed through details of that murder in London. It certainly looks similar.' She handed a file to Emily who sat down at her desk to read it.

Joe couldn't resist looking over her shoulder. She had reached the post-mortem report now and he could see the pictures of the naked body of Roni Jasper, aged twenty-one at the time of death. Roni was a drug user who worked as a prostitute. The Met had followed many lines of enquiry but had eventually drawn a blank. Case unsolved.

Joe studied the pictures with the dawning realization that the Met's cold case had just turned red hot. The two stab wounds to the chest looked identical to those on the bodies of Sharon, Pet and Anna. Coincidence was always a possibility but Joe was certain now that the three women were killed by the same man.

Emily was still scanning the pages of statements and reports for familiar names.

‘I was hoping to find Cassidy's, Harvey's or Zepper's names amongst all this lot but there's no sign.'

‘If she was a working girl there's a good chance she was killed by a punter. And they usually prefer to remain anonymous. We need to find out if any of our suspects were in London at the time of the murder.'

Emily looked up at Jamilla and smiled sweetly. ‘Can I leave that to you, Jamilla? Use your charms and don't mention why you want to know where they were.'

‘Right, ma'am.' Jamilla turned to go.

‘We do know someone who would have been in London at the time,' said Joe. ‘Someone who would have been in the Westminster area.'

After a couple of seconds Emily's lips turned upwards in a smile of realization. ‘Our local MP. Of course. But he wasn't here to murder Anna last night.'

‘Wasn't he? We saw him at the station, remember.'

Emily banged her forehead with the palm of her hand, annoyed with herself. ‘I've had so much on my mind I almost forgot. But where was he when Sharon and Pet were killed?'

‘That's something we'll have to find out.'

‘Well we can't just do a routine check. Remember what the Super said about discretion.'

‘Anyone would think the man's above the law.'

‘We've got to keep the Powers that Be happy, but I think Jenks might be worth another visit. No need to tell the Super if it's just a routine chat, is there.'

Before Joe could reply, a young Detective Constable poked his head round the open door. ‘Excuse me, ma'am, sir. I've traced that chef. Paolo Jones. He works at the Gunpowder Plot. Head chef no less.'

A smile spread across Joe's face. ‘Gunpowder Plot. GP.' He turned to Emily. ‘I'll go and have a word. Any news on Anna Padowski's family yet?'

Emily sighed. ‘It's being dealt with.' She looked at her watch. ‘Lunch time. Not a good time to interview a chef.'

‘All the better. He won't have time to cook up any clever answers.'

The Gunpowder Plot stood in the centre of the city, on one of the thin and winding medieval streets that radiated out from the cathedral. Its restaurant was rather expensive in Joe's opinion, but popular. By the time he walked through the door it was coming up to two o'clock but the place was still busy.

Joe was met at the door by a thin young woman in black who asked if he wanted a table. When he showed his warrant card she summoned over the manager. After a hushed conversation, he was led to the kitchen where he found the man he was looking for.

As he walked in Paolo Jones was berating some unfortunate young chef for ruining a sauce. The victim, overweight with ginger hair and freckles, hung his head miserably. He looked about twelve, Joe thought as he watched him hurry away to fetch fresh ingredients. And the omens weren't good for a blossoming career in the restaurant industry.

Paolo himself was around forty with dark brown eyes and jet black hair which showed slight smudges of grey around the temples. He was around five feet eight and wiry, as though he worked out at the gym. Joe had once heard it said that a fat cook was a good advert for his or her food; if this was the case, Paolo Jones certainly didn't fit the bill. As he introduced himself he noted that, unlike many people in the same situation, Jones didn't look in the least bit daunted; only mildly curious.

‘What can I do for you, Inspector?'

‘Sorry to trouble you at lunchtime.'

‘No problem. The rush is over.'

‘We're investigating the murder of Petulia Ferribie.' He didn't think it was worth mentioning the others just yet. ‘I believe you knew her mother.'

He looked round. ‘You'd better come into my office.'

‘Can they manage without you?'

‘The lad I was bollocking is on work experience. And he doesn't seem to be enjoying the experience.' He smiled, showing a row of perfect teeth. ‘And the feeling's mutual. Hang on a sec,' he said before calling to one of his colleagues to keep an eye on things. The reply was ‘Yes, chef,' barked in a manner that was almost military.

Paolo Jones led him to a utilitarian office and invited him to sit.

‘Did you ever meet Petulia?' he began.

‘Yes. She was an odd girl. Very pretty but . . . there was something about her. Something not quite right.'

Joe inclined his head, hoping for more. And he wasn't disappointed.

‘Her mother always used to say she was a fey child . . . hard to get close to. I never met her back then, of course . . . when I was with Helen. She got in touch with me a few weeks ago because she was trying to find out what happened to her mother.'

‘You must have heard about her death on the news. Why didn't you come forward?'

Paolo made a sweeping gesture with his arm. ‘I work bloody long hours and I just haven't had time. Besides, I haven't got anything useful to tell you. She came to see me and I told her I didn't know what happened to her mum. That's it.'

‘You lived with her mother.'

‘Me and Helen were shacked up together for a few weeks when she first came up to Eborby but once the initial bout of lust had worn off it became an arrangement of convenience.'

‘How did you meet?'

‘In a bar. She was older than me but she was a very attractive woman. She'd run away because she was sick of her boring husband and she came to Eborby because she'd lived here as a child. She didn't let on that she had a kid at first and when I found out she'd abandoned her daughter I must admit she went down in my estimation. It's one thing to get sick of a husband but to get sick of your own child . . . Not nice.'

‘So she wasn't a nice woman?'

‘I didn't say that. It's just that I didn't approve of what she'd done. Not that I'm a saint or anything. But a kid needs a mother, don't you think?'

‘When exactly did you meet Pet?'

‘About three weeks ago. She wanted me to tell her what had happened to her mother and I had to tell her I didn't know. After me and Helen had been together a few weeks we knew it wasn't working so she looked for somewhere else.'

‘Where did she move to?'

‘That's the strange thing. She moved all her stuff out . . . said she'd got this fantastic place and she'd invite me round once she got settled. We'd split up but we were still on friendly terms. Anyway, after that I never saw or heard from her again. It was as if she'd vanished off the face of the earth.'

‘Didn't you think that was odd?'

‘She was a free agent. I assumed she'd decided to leave Eborby. Or she might have had second thoughts about the boring husband and gone home. Now I know different.'

‘Do the names Ian Zepper or Dennis Harvey mean anything to you?'

Paolo shook his head.

‘Andy Cassidy?'

‘Yeah. Pet mentioned him.'

‘What did she say?'

Paolo frowned. ‘She said he was her landlord and she was sure he knew something. I asked her if he had any connection with Helen but she didn't answer. Then she asked me if I had anything of her mum's and I remembered I had a suitcase full of some old junk – papers and all that – up in my loft. Helen didn't leave much behind but I remember shoving some stuff of hers into the case to give to her later. I'd forgotten all about it till Pet started talking about her.'

‘Did you tell her about it?'

‘Yeah.' He hesitated. ‘She popped round to my place to have a look.'

‘Did she take anything?'

The chef thought for a few moments. ‘I don't think so. But she asked for a piece of paper to jot down some addresses.'

‘What exactly did Helen leave?'

‘Just a few old leaflets . . . about flats and houses and all that. I don't know why I didn't chuck them out at the time. I have now.'