Kissing the Demons (8 page)

But Caro interrupted, rolling her eyes. ‘Just because of that stupid seance? Jason was pushing the glass.'

‘Obediah Shrowton used to live here . . . in this house. This is where he murdered all those people.'

Caro gaped at him for a moment before she spoke. ‘You are joking?'

‘They changed the name of the road because of the notoriety. Torland Place used to be Valediction Street. It was this house, Caro. It happened here. Can't you feel it? Since we moved in we've been at each other's throats. There's something bad here.'

He'd expected a sarcastic response but Caro stood there staring ahead. ‘You're making it up,' she said half-heartedly.

‘Look it up yourself.'

She swore under her breath and Matt watched her face, satisfied for once that she was taking him seriously. This was the first time Matt had seen the normally cool Caro show any emotion. He found it rather unsettling. But it confirmed that the whole thing wasn't in his head.

He heard the front door open and bang shut and a few seconds later Jason was standing there, guitar case in hand. ‘What's up?'

‘Matt's been doing some research.' Caro said softly. ‘Torland Place used to be Valediction Street. Obediah Shrowton lived here. This is where he murdered all those people. Did you know about this?'

‘No way. I had no idea. How could I?' His mouth widened into a grin. ‘This is great. We can open up the place to ghoulish tourists. People love that sort of thing. The Jack the Ripper tours in London are huge business. We're sitting on a gold mine, my friends.'

‘Piss off, Jason,' said Caro, looking as though she was on the verge of tears. ‘Its not funny.'

Jason shrugged his shoulders. ‘I'm going to check out Pet's room,' he said.

Caro straightened herself up. ‘What the hell for? You've no right to go poking around in her room. Even if she isn't here, she's got a right to privacy.'

‘Keep you knickers on, Caro. There might be something that'll tell us where she is.' Jason began to make for the door.

But Matt blocked his exit. He didn't like the thought of him going through Pet's things any more than Caro did.

‘We should leave it to the police.'

‘They were more interested in that previous tenant . . . Jasmine or whatever her name was. Maybe Pet is Jasmine. Maybe she's been living under a false name.'

Matt picked up his phone and tried Pet's number again. Sometimes Jason pushed things too far.

Barrington Jenks put the phone down and poured himself a single malt. He deserved it. Needed it. Since that visit from the two police officers yesterday he had felt under a considerable amount of strain and stress was something he could do without. His wife, Tamsin, was down in London. They had agreed long ago not to interfere too much in each other's lives. But Tamsin would be angry that he'd been so indiscreet.

Damage limitation was the only way forward. But first he had to know how far the police had progressed in their investigation. He sank back into the armchair and the velvet cushions moulded themselves to his body as he sipped the golden liquid which slid down his gullet like smooth fire, relaxing and warming.

Closing his eyes, he took his mind back to that evening twelve years before. It had been one of those typical summer days of sunshine and sharp showers. He had stopped for a drink in a bar and he'd seen her with her short skirt and silky hair. Their eyes had met and she'd given him the come on. So obvious. The speed with which he'd responded to the invitation almost suggested that he'd been looking for such an encounter. Maybe he had but it was something he hadn't acknowledged at the time.

Perhaps he'd found it odd that Jasmine was studying at the university until he'd remembered stories in the newspapers about students selling their bodies to make ends meet. Some, apparently, almost saw it as a blow for feminism – using men's weaknesses as a means to make some money. Jenks had always thought these women were deluding themselves but when he recalled that encounter twelve years ago, he began to wonder. Jasmine had certainly been in control back then.

He yawned. He had been up late the night before at the Lord Lieutenant's dinner, going through the motions of polite conversation like an actor on a stage. He was used to such occasions and the games people played – the thin veneer of warmth and the subtle jostling for position – but last night he had found the pretence exhausting.

He took another sip of whisky and pressed his stomach with his free hand. Sometimes the discomfort was almost unbearable but he was reluctant to consult a doctor. He had to maintain the illusion of youth. He had to appear invincible . . . even to himself.

With a groan he put the glass down on the side table, missing the coaster. Just when he thought it was all over, it had started again. And now he had to sort it out and ensure Jasmine's discretion.

He hauled himself out of the armchair and as he straightened up his body he felt like an old man. The ache in his stomach was growing worse. Perhaps it was an ulcer, he thought. Or something more serious. As he made his way upstairs he caught sight of himself in the mirror on the landing, saw that his face had a grey look and he suddenly felt afraid. Sickness had never featured in his life to that point. When his mother had become infirm he had put her in an expensive nursing home and never visited her again. He had never had time for weakness.

He stumbled into his bedroom and sat on the bed for a while, staring at the telephone. Then he stood up and opened the drawer where he kept his old diaries and address books. After rummaging for a while he found what he was looking for: the number without a name beside it. Her number. He picked up the telephone receiver and dialled, and as the ringing tone droned in his ear, he could hear his heart pounding against his ribs. This was something he had vowed never to do. But it was necessary. If the police found her first it could ruin everything. They had to get their story straight.

He heard a breathless voice on the other end of the line. Either Jasmine had been hurrying to answer the phone or he had caught her in the throes of passion. His mind supplied all sorts of scenarios in those few moments, some mundane, some exotic. Somehow, knowing Jasmine, the exotic or erotic seemed more likely.

‘Hello.' The deep, throaty voice sent an unexpected thrill of excitement shooting through his body.

‘Jasmine? It's me. Barrington.' He closed his eyes, imagining her reaction. ‘Look, I've had a visit from the police.'

SIX

S
unday afternoon is the traditional time for visiting relatives and Joe wondered whether they would have to battle with an army of Norman Quillan's devoted family to gain his attention. Perhaps, Joe thought, his nephew and his wife would be there, doing their familial duty. But ideally he wanted to talk to the old man alone without any distractions.

Emily was uncharacteristically quiet as they drove. Joe wasn't sure whether she was thinking about the case or wallowing in guilt about abandoning her children on a Sunday. He knew it was the aspect of the job she found hardest to deal with. But she usually managed fine.

‘Let's hope he remembers something about this Jasmine,' she said as he swung the car into a tree-lined drive. ‘The sooner we can confirm Jenks's story, the better.'

‘Did you believe him?'

‘He was very convincing. But then a lot of people would say that he tells lies for a living so he's bound to be good at it by now. What do you think?'

Joe parked the car and they got out. Viking Court was a fairly new development of sheltered retirement flats, low-rise and neat. Emily observed that the flats here probably didn't come cheap. And she was probably right.

Norman Quillan was a little man, slightly built, with thinning grey hair and a small moustache that gave him the look of a worried rodent. He looked a little nervous as he invited them to sit but many people did when the police came to call.

The flat was small but pleasingly decorated in shades of subtle green and the first thing Joe noticed was that there were no family photographs around the place. Emily sat down opposite the old man, smiling to put him at his ease. There were times when her down-to-earth bluntness worked wonders with the elderly.

‘Now then, Mr Quillan,' she began. ‘You'll remember those two lasses who went missing in Dead Man's Woods twelve years back?'

‘You don't forget something like that in a hurry,' he muttered, avoiding Emily's eyes.

‘Can you tell us what you told the officers at the time?'

‘It's a long time ago. Haven't you got it on record or something?'

‘Maybe there's something you've remembered since then,' said Emily.

‘Well I haven't. I didn't see owt then and I don't remember owt more now.'

‘Let me make a nice cup of tea,' said Emily, standing up. She looked at Joe as if to say ‘you try'. Sometimes the one-to-one approach worked better.

Joe gave the old man a friendly smile. ‘We called at your old house . . . met your nephew's wife, Jackie.'

The old man gave a dismissive grunt. ‘That little tart,' he said with a surprising amount of venom.

‘You don't like her?' Joe held his breath and awaited the answer.

‘I don't like either of them. They conned me over that house. Only gave me half of what it was worth. Bloody stupid I was. But my wife had just passed away and I wasn't thinking straight.'

Joe gave him a sympathetic smile. The business of the house might have been in Norman Quillan's imagination or perhaps number fifteen needed a lot of renovation. Or maybe Rory Quillan was a sharp operator who did the dirty on his recently widowed uncle. He was keeping an open mind.

‘Let's go back twelve years to the time when these two girls disappeared. Can you tell me what happened?'

‘Nowt happened as far as I was concerned. We were away in Scarborough.'

‘That's not far for a holiday.'

‘It always suited me and the missus. I've never gone in for all this travelling. And what's wrong with Scarborough anyroad? Nowt.'

Joe nodded. ‘You're right there, Mr Quillan. There's nothing wrong with Scarborough.'

Quillan met his eyes and gave a tiny smile of agreement.

‘So how long were you away for? You're right about it being somewhere in the files but it'll save us a lot of time if you can remember.'

‘I went on the Wednesday and stayed exactly a week. The Sea Breezes Guest House. Very nice.'

‘Bet they did good breakfasts,' said Emily, entering the room with a tray of steaming mugs. She handed them round before sitting in the armchair next to Joe, wriggling her ample backside to make herself comfortable.

‘They did that,' said Quillan, licking his lips at the memory of the generous Yorkshire breakfasts – full English and then some more.

‘So your house was empty on the Saturday night?'

Norman Quillan hesitated. ‘It were meant to be empty. Aye.'

‘You were away so why shouldn't it be empty?'

‘No reason.'

But Joe saw a flicker of uncertainty in the old man's bloodshot grey eyes.

‘Do you remember the students at number thirteen at the time?' Emily asked. ‘You were their landlord so you must have seen a lot of them.'

‘They'd come round to pay their rent and tell me about anything that were wrong in the house but I can't say I knew any of them. None of them seemed to stay very long. Certainly no more than a year – some a lot less.'

‘Why was that?'

He looked away. ‘How should I know?'

‘You must have had an inkling.'

‘They only talked to me when they had a leaking tap or the fridge weren't working. I were their landlord, not their friend. They had their own concerns.'

‘Did any of them mention if there was anything wrong with the house?'

‘Aye, I've just told you. Always on about broken furniture and hot water and that. Did nothing but moan, some of 'em. Got too much in the end, all the fussing and griping. Some even tried to make out the place was haunted. I ask you . . . anything to get a reduction on the rent. But I wasn't falling for it.'

‘Do you remember a girl called Jasmine who lived there twelve years ago?' asked Emily as she put down her half full mug of tea.

Quillan made a great show of thinking. ‘Can't say I do. But, like I said, there were a lot of them.'

‘She was tall and blonde,' said Emily. ‘Probably the sort of girl you'd remember.'

‘A lot of the girls were like that. Little whores, some of ‘em.'

Joe caught Emily's eye. Had Quillan tried it on with some of his female tenants? It was hardly the sort of thing they'd get him to admit. But he'd have a try.

‘I know the sort of thing,' he said. ‘Bet some of them liked to flirt with you . . . persuade you to let them off the rent.' He leaned forward with a knowing smile. Man to man.

‘Oh aye. Teasers I called them. Not that I ever . . .'

‘From what I've heard about Jasmine, I bet she was one of them.'

‘I don't remember no Jasmine.'

‘That might not have been her real name. Do you remember any girl fitting that description living there around the time the two girls disappeared.'

As Quillan shook his head, avoiding their eyes, Joe knew that he had something to hide.

It was four o'clock when Joe dropped Emily off at police headquarters where she'd parked her car.

He was sure Quillan had been hiding something but not everything people hide from the police is necessarily sinister. However he was sure that Quillan had known the mysterious Jasmine. But was it some distant shameful memory that had led him to deny it? Or something else?