Kissing the Demons (32 page)

Joe saw one of the newer detective constables looking at her curiously. ‘Am I right in thinking, ma'am, that he's got another victim?'

Emily gave the lad an appreciative look. ‘Let's just say we need to find him urgently. There is a possibility he might have picked up someone else.'

‘Who, ma'am?'

‘Just let's find him, eh.'

As they left the house Joe whispered in her ear. ‘You don't reckon Kirsten could have arranged all this? If she had a look at my case notes and . . .'

‘Bit of an elaborate charade just to get back at you. But from what you say . . .'

Emily didn't have a chance to finish her sentence before her mobile rang. After a short conversation she caught hold of Joe's arm. She looked excited, as if the breakthrough they'd been waiting for might just be in view.

‘That was Jamilla. She decided to use her initiative and compare the list Carla provided with the details on the office computer. She found another address – an empty office on the Fleshambles that belongs to McNeil and Dutton. When she asked Carla why she hadn't included it on her list she claimed that it wasn't a property they rent out on behalf of clients so she'd completely forgotten about it. The bitch was lying, of course. Come on.'

Joe drove, switching on the blue flashing lights built into the unmarked car, while Emily sat in the passenger seat calling for back up.

It took ten minutes to get to the heart of the city and when they neared their destination Joe drove down Coopergate and turned left down a pedestrianized street, making for the market square behind the Fleshambles. He drove slowly, receiving curious stares as the wandering tourists parted to let him through. He negotiated the narrow street leading on to the square and brought the car to a halt in a space next to a small navy blue van parked well away from the nearest street lamp.

‘Do you reckon that's his van?' he asked as they got out of the car.

Emily didn't answer. Then, as if by mutual agreement, they dashed towards the narrow snickleway that led on to the Fleshambles. The passage was too cramped for them to walk two abreast so Joe, the faster runner, went first.

‘What number?' Emily snapped, following close behind.

‘Fifteen.'

They reached the street and rushed along its length. Most of the little shops weren't numbered but finally they found a souvenir shop that bore the number nine. They counted along. Nine, eleven, thirteen. Fifteen was a jeweller's shop and any other time Emily would have taken an interest in the expensive items glinting in the window. But when she could see no obvious way up to the jutting storey above the shop, Joe saw her clench her fists and ram her right hand down on the wide windowsill.

‘Round the back.' Joe sensed that their quarry was near.

As they rushed back down the snickleway towards the jumble of back yards behind the shops, a maze of rickety gates, fire escapes and outbuildings, Joe stopped running and tried to get his bearings, suddenly plunged into despair. Then he felt Emily's guiding hand on his arm.

‘Come on,' she said as she rushed along the row, counting to herself as Joe followed. Then she stopped abruptly and he almost cannoned into her. ‘This is it.'

Joe saw a battered wooden gate, half falling off its hinges, bearing the number fifteen scrawled in faded white paint.

Emily gave it a hefty push and when it gave way they both stumbled into a back yard full of junk: defunct office chairs, wooden crates and even an antiquated desk top computer. Half the yard was sheltered from the elements by a corrugated roof but this hadn't protected the items dumped there from damp. They picked their way through a narrow gap and found themselves facing a half glazed back door.

‘Do we go in or do we wait for back up?' Joe whispered.

Emily froze, listening for the sound of approaching sirens on the night air. ‘Let's go in.'

Joe put his hand on the door and to his surprise it opened silently. They stepped inside a small lobby, dimly lit by the tall street-light standing just outside the yard. On one side Joe could see a solid steel door which, presumably, led into the jeweller's shop. Ahead of them was a narrow staircase. He took his torch from his pocket and shone it upwards. In the torch beam he could see a white painted door at the top so he began to climb, Emily following behind. When they reached the small landing at the top he doused the torch. The last thing they wanted was for whoever was in there to see the light under the door.

They stood there listening for any telltale noises but all they could hear was the sound of sirens, distant at first then getting nearer. Then very near as though they'd burst into the market square. ‘Now,' Emily hissed.

Joe put a tentative hand on the door handle and felt a frisson of satisfaction when he discovered that, like the back door, it was unlocked. He gave the door an almighty shove and it banged open. He fumbled for a light switch by the entrance and the cramped hallway was flooded with light, revealing three closed doors.

Emily gave the first door a kick and when it burst open they saw a tiny, shabby kitchen. ‘Stay there,' she hissed to Joe as she opened the second door. Joe watched her, tensing his body in case he needed to rugby tackle a fleeing murderer. Emily switched on the light but all he could see in the watery light of the overhead bulb was an empty, unremarkable office, carpeted in grey.

He marched towards the third door, their last option, kicked it open and reached for the light. But again the room was empty. Joe swore under his breath.

‘What do we do now?' Emily muttered.

Joe didn't answer. The van was outside and McNeil owned the premises, a fact which Carla had gone to some trouble to conceal from Jamilla. He wasn't going to give up yet.

He stepped into the first office and looked around. But he saw nothing that might conceal a hiding place. The second office was the same.

‘He's not here, Joe.' Emily sounded despondent. ‘The back up's arrived so I'll get them to seal off the area.'

Joe didn't reply. He made for the tiny kitchen and switched on the light. It too was empty, the stained worktops bare of even the most basic equipment. Joe began to shut the door when he spotted something: another door that had been hidden when the door was wide open. Emily had come up behind him to investigate and when she saw it their eyes met.

‘It'll be a cupboard,' she said in a whisper. ‘But we'd better have a look.'

Joe counted to three before he put his shoulder to the door and it gave way with a crash.

Instead of the expected cupboard or larder, the door opened on to a large, low-ceilinged room with a subdued light in the corner. There was no tell tale glow of a window to the outside world and he guessed that it might once have been part of an attic in the higgledy-piggledy building. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw a figure crouching at the far end like a wild beast guarding its prey.

‘Hello, Ethan,' Joe said quietly, watching the figure as he felt for a light switch. But the wall was bare.

‘We've got back up downstairs. You can't get away now.' As the killer straightened himself up, Joe spotted a shape on the floor, lying quite still. And he could make out something in Ethan's right hand. Something long and slim. A knife.

As Joe crept closer, he could hear Emily breathing behind him and he was strengthened by the knowledge that he wasn't alone.

‘Is that Kirsten?'

There was no answer and the shape on the floor didn't stir.

‘I've seen the cellar in Flower Street, Ethan. I know why you're doing this.'

Joe could almost feel the killer's body tensing.

‘They kept you in there, didn't they?'

Joe heard a strangled cry of pain, swiftly cut off. He thought it came from the killer rather than his victim.

‘Why don't you come outside? We'll look after Kirsten.' He couldn't be absolutely sure it was Kirsten but he thought he'd take a chance.

All of a sudden he heard a howl, the desperate sound of a cornered, wounded beast, and the figure dropped to his knees, shifting Kirsten's body on to his lap. He sat there quite still, forming a shadowy tableau that reminded Joe of the carved Pietas he had seen during his years when he'd thought of giving his life to the church. But this was no mother mourning her son: this was a killer mourning, if not his victim, then his own damaged life.

Joe shook off Emily's restraining hand and began to walk slowly towards him, bowing his head because of the lowness of the ceiling. He could hear the killer sobbing as he held Kirsten close. But he wasn't sobbing for her. He was sobbing for himself.

Joe had reached him now. He knelt down on the square of carpet – thick piled and still smelling of fresh wool – and took Kirsten in his arms, hardly daring to check whether or not she was still alive. He could hear a commotion downstairs. Their back up had arrived.

There was little resistance when he took the knife from Ethan's hand and flung it away into a far corner of the room. Emily had been hovering by the door but now she moved swiftly to summon help.

Joe didn't take his eyes off Ethan but he was aware of Emily returning a minute or so later with more officers who entered almost silently, as if they were unwilling to break the spell.

‘Take her out till the ambulance arrives,' he said in a loud whisper, his eyes still fixed on the killer who was kneeling, perfectly still, on the carpet in front of him. Before a large uniformed officer took Kirsten's dead weight from him with surprising gentleness, Joe felt on her neck for a pulse. He couldn't find one but he was no expert. All he could do was to say a swift prayer that she'd live; that she wouldn't die cursing him as her sister's murderer. He had felt blood, warm and sticky on his hands, but he hadn't dared to look too closely. That horror could wait.

Then finally he found himself alone with the killer. Facing him there in the semi darkness.

‘Tell me about the room in the cellar, Ethan.'

He waited but Ethan said nothing. If the room in the cellar had anything to do with why he'd killed all those women, he was keeping his secret to himself.

‘You'll have to come with me now,' Joe said softly.

To his surprise the man struggled to his feet and stood there with his head bowed. Joe took his arm, ready to lead him out of that low attic room. But as he touched the sleeve of his shirt he felt it was damp and sticky. He led him out into the light of the small kitchen and then into the hallway where the others were waiting. Emily was there and he saw her eyes widen in horror as she stared at the prisoner.

He had been so concerned with getting Kirsten and the killer out of that room safely that he hadn't bothered to look at Ethan's face. But now he did he saw to his horror that blood was bubbling from the man's mouth and that his clothes were covered in sticky, shiny red. And when Ethan McNeil opened his mouth to speak the only sound that emerged was a low animal moan.

He had cut out his own tongue.

TWENTY-TWO

T
here was no way McNeil was in any state to give any sort of statement and Kirsten was still in surgery. The knife had just missed her heart but she was still in danger. Joe tried to pray for her but it was difficult. The woman had accused him of murder and made his life a misery. But forgiveness takes more guts than loathing and he still felt some obligation to her. She was Kaitlin's closest relative after all.

When they returned to the police station through the quiet streets it was almost midnight and the first thing Emily did was to hurry to her office to ring Jeff – to let him know I'm still alive, she joked. But if things had gone differently it might not have been a joking matter.

He waited for her in the incident room. There was somebody they needed to talk to. Jamilla had questioned Carla Vernon and, according to her report, the woman knew more than she was telling. Now that Ethan had been caught, there was a chance that Carla would understand that she couldn't protect him any more.

There was a hush over the whole building as he walked down the dimly lit corridors to the interview room with Emily at his side. Even though they'd caught the killer, nobody felt much like celebrating. Maybe things would be different in a couple of days.

Carla was waiting for them. During their absence she'd acquired a solicitor, a slim, horse-faced young woman in a grey trouser suit who looked as though she'd rather be somewhere else.

Carla looked exhausted. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was a mess; she looked so different from the businesslike woman they'd first encountered at the offices of McNeil and Dutton.

Joe sat down beside Emily and switched on the tape machine that sat at the end of the table. He outlined everything that had happened that evening at the office above the Fleshambles jewellers, leaving nothing out. Then he gave a vivid account of Ethan's injuries, telling her he would be charged with the murders of at least three women, probably more, and the attempted murder of Kirsten . . . if she pulled through.

Carla bowed her head but there was still a hint of spirit, of defiance, in her eyes.

‘Is there anything you want to tell me, Carla? Did you know what he'd done?'

She shook her head vigorously.

Then he told her about their visit to the house in Flower Street and Carla looked up.

‘He took me there once,' she said, almost in a whisper. ‘He told me about his stepfather. He told me what he did to him.'

‘What did he do?' Joe thought he knew the answer but he wanted it confirmed.

Carla was silent for a few moments and when she spoke her voice shook a little. ‘Ethan's real father died when he was three. His mother married again but the man she married liked to experiment. It was just trivial things at first. Cutting his hair and seeing how long it took to grow back. Then finding out how well he could see in the dark after he'd eaten certain foods.'