Kissing the Demons (7 page)

He balanced his laptop on his knee and stared at the text. Obediah Shrowton had been an upright citizen of Eborby, employed in the City Treasury. He went to work in the Town Hall each day and was respected by the small army of clerks under his command.

In 1889 at the age of thirty-two he had married a girl called Violet Nicksen. Violet was the daughter of a clergyman from near Sheffield and she had been working as a governess in Eborby when the couple had met at a church event. They settled in the Bearsley district and Violet gave birth to five children, only two of whom survived infancy. The children who hadn't survived were buried in St Aiden's churchyard, their little graves marked by the most costly headstones their parents could afford.

Then one day – an apparently normal day in April 1896 – Obediah had come home from work and proceeded to slaughter his wife, his two young children, the nursemaid and the cook. He had taken an axe from the garden store – probably like the crumbling brick outbuilding that stood near their back door – and hacked his victims to pieces. Newspapers at the time had called it a scene of butchery and carnage. This was probably an understatement.

Obediah had denied any involvement, claiming that he'd returned home and been greeted by a scene of unimaginable horror. A postman who had been delivering the evening post investigated the open front door and discovered the gruesome tableau of dismembered bodies and Shrowton sobbing on the hall floor with a bloody axe in his hand. Later Shrowton had claimed he'd been too shocked to report the deaths immediately to the authorities and this went against him at his trial. The jury hadn't believed his story and he was hanged for his alleged crime at Eborby jail in October 1896.

Matt picked up his mobile phone and tried Pet's number again. Somehow he felt a little better now that the police were aware that she might be in danger – almost as if the burden was now shared – although he hadn't felt that the pair they sent had taken her disappearance seriously enough. They'd seemed more interested in someone called Jasmine who'd lived in the house many years ago. Still, they had both been senior detectives. At least they hadn't sent a brace of probationers.

He knew he had work to do for university but he found it hard to concentrate. He typed Torland Place into the search engine. A number of sites came up and his eyes scanned the results. Then one in particular caught his eye and he clicked on it.

Valediction Street, it said, was renamed Torland Place after the gruesome murders of five people at number thirteen.

‘Shit,' he whispered, his heart beating so fast that he could almost hear it in the heavy silence.

FIVE

T
he landlord, Andy Cassidy, lived near the centre of Eborby in an elegantly proportioned Georgian house just off Boothgate. The original Georgian sash windows were freshly painted and the swagged drapes at the windows were the sort that cost a fortune. The front door, flanked by a pair of healthy bay trees, was painted sage green. All in the best possible taste. Joe wondered how much he charged the students for the privilege of living in the relative squalor of Torland Place – probably too much.

After Joe had raised the lion head knocker and let it fall twice, they both waited, ID in hand, to interrupt Andy Cassidy's Sunday. After half a minute the door opened slowly. The man in the doorway wore a black T-shirt, jeans and an impatient expression as he folded his tattooed arms defensively. ‘I'm in the middle of something. What is it?'

But when he glanced down at the warrant cards and realized they weren't there to convert him or sell him something, his manner changed and a worried frown appeared on his face. Joe had seen the transformation hundreds of times before and it almost made him pity Jehovah's Witnesses and door to door salesmen. ‘Sorry. I thought you were . . . Is something the matter?'

‘Nothing to worry about, Mr Cassidy,' said Emily. ‘May we come in?'

‘Yeah, sure. Come in.' Cassidy sounded a little distracted, as though he was going through all the possible reasons they could be calling in his mind.

He led them through to an elegant drawing room. A tempting smell of Sunday roast hung in the air and it made Joe feel hungry. He made himself comfortable on a soft leather sofa and Emily sat opposite him. She caught his eye – she wanted to do the talking.

‘Which property is it? I've got fifteen properties in Eborby. And nine in Leeds.' As he sat back in his seat Joe thought he looked rather pleased with himself.

‘It's thirteen Torland Place,' said Emily.

‘What about it?' There was a wariness in his voice. ‘Actually that's one of the places I'm getting rid of. With the recession there's quite a few bargains to be had so I'm buying some apartments in the new Gungate development which means that I need to release a bit of capital.'

Joe sensed Cassidy was comfortable talking about business – and it meant he was putting off the moment when the conversation turned to more sensitive matters. But Emily came straight to the point.

‘You have a tenant called Petulia Ferribie at Torland Place.'

He frowned, as if trying to recall the name. ‘I can't be sure without looking at my records, of course, and they're all in my office.'

Joe didn't believe a word of it. Cassidy knew the name alright. There had been a momentary flash of recognition in his eyes when Emily had said it. Recognition and something else perhaps.

He took the photograph Caro had given him from his wallet and handed it to Cassidy. ‘That's her on the left.'

‘Yeah. I've seen her around.'

‘It seems she's gone missing.'

‘I was round there yesterday and nobody mentioned it.' For the first time during the interview he looked uncomfortable.

‘So you've no idea where Petulia Ferribie might be?'

Cassidy shook his head. ‘Sorry. Wish I could help.'

‘Were you at the party they had on Friday night?' Joe asked.

‘People don't tend to invite their landlords to parties, more's the pity,' he said with a smile, more relaxed now.

Suddenly the smell of roasting meat seemed stronger and, as Joe visualized the succulent joint, crispy roast potatoes and fluffy Yorkshire pudding, he wondered about the cook. He heard clattering dishes in the distance but, in his experience, most wives and partners can't resist seeing who's at their door. Unless Cassidy had so many business visitors that curiosity had died years ago.

‘That smells good,' he said.

‘Anna's from Poland but makes a mean Sunday roast.'

Joe saw Emily frown at this sudden display of overt sexism. ‘You're married?'

‘Not exactly,' Cassidy said with a sly grin. Somehow Joe suspected that the arrangement might not altogether be to Anna's advantage.

‘Can you tell me who owned the house before you? We're trying to trace the whereabouts of a student who lived there twelve years ago.'

‘Good luck,' said Cassidy with a dismissive grunt. ‘I bought the place three years ago from an old guy called Quillan who lived next door. He owned both houses and rented out number thirteen. He's sold up since. Probably wanted to ensure a bit of comfort in his old age.'

‘What can you tell us about Mr Quillan?' Emily asked.

‘Not much. He was an old bloke like I said. Kept himself to himself.'

‘Married?'

‘He lived alone as far as I could see.' He stood up. ‘Look, much as I'd love to sit and chat all day, my dinner'll be ready soon and I'm meeting some friends later.'

Joe saw that Emily was pushing herself out of her seat reluctantly. Andy Cassidy's sofas were uncommonly comfortable. You get what you pay for.

Cassidy began to make for the front door and they followed. There was probably little more they could learn here. Although Joe suspected that he knew more than he was saying.

If Pet didn't turn up safe and well soon, they might just have to pay her landlord another visit.

Emily sat in the lounge bar of the Star and examined her watch. Two o'clock. She'd promised to be back by two thirty at the latest and she knew she should really ring Jeff to tell him she'd be late. But somehow she couldn't face listening to a catalogue of domestic woes.

She kept telling herself that Jeff was great with the kids and she couldn't possibly survive the job without him. But there were times she needed to think, unencumbered by the realities of everyday life, of lost school-books and sibling squabbles. And now was one of those times.

After draining a large glass of red wine she looked at Joe. ‘I'd better call Jeff and tell him I won't be back for lunch.'

‘Don't feel too bad. It's a while since we've been on the Sunday shift.'

Emily tried to smile. Joe's words hadn't done anything to make her feel less of a rat. And the fact that she was sitting in one of Eborby's historic city centre pubs, waiting for Sunday lunch with all the trimmings with a good looking colleague added to her weight of guilt.

‘Can't be helped,' said Joe. ‘The Super wants this Barrington Jenks business dealt with at the highest level and apparently that means us. Another drink?'

‘Thanks, Joe. I bloody need one.'

When he'd gone to the bar she fished her phone out of her handbag and called home. Jeff didn't sound pleased. Sarah was asking for her and he had to take the boys to football that afternoon which would mean dragging his reluctant daughter there too. Emily said she'd be back as soon as she could, careful to make no firm promises.

Joe returned bearing drinks and the news that the food wouldn't be long. Emily was glad because the smell from the kitchens was starting to tantalize her empty stomach. She'd tried to lose weight so many times but her hearty appetite was her greatest enemy, always waiting to tempt her like her own personal demon.

When the dinners arrived the young waiter set the plates down in front of them with an exhortation to ‘enjoy'. Emily clasped her knife and fork and tucked in and it wasn't until she was half way through that she looked up at Joe and noticed that he seemed a little preoccupied with a faraway look in his blue eyes.

‘Something the matter?' she said, her mouth still half full.

He hadn't intended to mention the letter he'd received but he suddenly felt a need to share his dilemma with someone. He took it from his pocket and pushed it over the table towards her. ‘This came in the post yesterday.'

Emily put her knife and fork down and peered at the letter. ‘Who's K?'

‘I've no idea. I've been going through all the people I know but I can't think . . .'

Emily watched his face. ‘But you've got your suspicions?'

He shook his head.

‘Come on, Joe. You're a lousy liar – must be all that time you spent in that Seminary.' For some reason she could never forget that he had once started training to be a priest. Perhaps, she thought, it set him apart from all the other men she knew. Perhaps it intrigued her, although she would never have admitted it.

He looked up at her. ‘If you must know the writing's very like Kaitlin's . . . my late wife's.'

Emily stared at him in silence for a few moments. The words had shocked her. She knew the bare bones of the story about how Joe had lost his wife but he never mentioned her. She had always assumed that her loss was something he'd rather forget.

‘You think someone's playing a joke? If they are, it's a bloody unfunny one, if you ask me.' She had been about to use the word cruel but on second thoughts that sounded a little overdramatic. ‘Are you going to keep the appointment?'

‘Have you a better suggestion?'

‘Do you want some moral support?' She didn't know why she offered but it seemed like the right thing to do.

He smiled. ‘You haven't seen your kids all day. I think going out tonight would be pushing things a bit with Jeff, don't you agree?'

Emily didn't reply.

‘Thanks for the offer anyway,' he said flashing her a smile. ‘Do you think we've got any chance of finding this Jasmine?'

Emily shrugged. ‘Jasmine might not even be her real name.'

‘We need to talk to Norman Quillan. And hope he was the kind of landlord who did more than just collect the rent.'

‘The interfering type, you mean?'

‘Keep your fingers crossed,' Joe said, turning his attention to the meal in front of him.

Matt needed to share his unsettling discovery with his housemates. He needed them to know that Torland Place had once been known as Valediction Street and its name had been changed because of the notoriety of the very house they lived in. Maybe sharing the knowledge would render it harmless. Or, on the other hand, it might give the horror fresh life.

He knew Jason was out busking – or earning a crust as he put it – and Caro was working in her room upstairs so when he heard a crash downstairs the sudden noise made him jump. Then he took a few deep breaths. Perhaps Pet had returned. Perhaps she was down there safe and sound. But somehow he didn't feel inclined to investigate.

He felt annoyed with himself for letting the house affect him like this. He needed a distraction and he was almost glad when he looked up and saw Caro standing in the doorway.

‘You OK, Matt? You look stressed.'

Matt turned his face away. ‘I'm alright.'

‘You're an idiot calling the police, you know. Pet'll be furious when she comes back.'

‘They had this address anyway,' Matt said defensively. ‘They were looking for someone who used to live here.' He hesitated. Maybe Caro would understand after all. ‘I've been doing more research on the Internet. This place was . . .'