Kissing the Demons (9 page)

One person he hadn't met yet was Quillan's nephew, Rory. The man had, allegedly, duped his own uncle so he might be worth having a word with. But a lack of family feeling didn't necessarily mean he had anything to do with the two missing girls or Petulia Ferribie's disappearance. If, indeed, she had disappeared and not gone off somewhere of her own accord.

He left the pool car at the police station and walked back to his flat. A spell of early spring sunshine had brought people out in force and as he passed the Museum Gardens he could see families and young couples making the most of the fair but chilly weather.

He walked past the library and turned left past a row of elegant Georgian houses, now transformed into offices by the City Council. He saw the theatre on his right and made a mental note to get tickets for the latest production. But he'd have to see whether Pet Ferribie turned up before he made any firm arrangements. If the worst happened there'd be no time for theatres or much else for that matter.

The insistent ringing of his mobile phone interrupted his thoughts. He stopped walking and fished the thing from his jacket pocket.

‘Is that DI Plantagenet?' said a male voice on the other end of the line. ‘It's Andy Cassidy. We spoke earlier.'

‘How can I help you, Mr Cassidy?'

Joe looked at his watch, hoping that whatever Cassidy had to tell him didn't require urgent action. He was to be at the King's Head by the river at seven to keep his appointment with the mysterious K, and before that he had things to do – all the routine things that he'd had to put off when the Super decided to ruin his weekend.

‘I've got some information.'

Joe waited for him to continue.

‘Pet's tutor is a man called Ian Zepper. I think you should have a word with him.'

‘You think he might know where she is?'

Cassidy hesitated. ‘You should just have a word with him, that's all.'

Joe was left listening to the dialling tone. He stared at the phone for a few moments before dropping it in his pocket and walking on.

As he reached his flat grey clouds had begun to gather. Soon the darkness would come.

‘So what did you have for lunch?'

Emily's husband, Jeff, was standing in the kitchen doorway. She looked at him and felt a little guilty.

‘I just grabbed a sandwich,' she said. For some reason she couldn't quite fathom, she was reluctant to admit that she'd enjoyed a large Sunday roast in a pleasant pub in the company of Joe Plantagenet. Perhaps she wanted a bit of sympathy. Or perhaps she wanted Jeff to feel that his wrecked family Sunday had been worth it because of the sacrifices she was making to keep the streets of Eborby safe for law abiding citizens. Any hint that she had actually indulged herself in the process might have caused awkward questions to be asked.

Jeff stepped forward and kissed her cheek. ‘You must be starving. We had pasta for lunch and there's still some left in the fridge.'

Emily forced herself to smile, but his noble attempts at being the supportive husband to a high-flying wife were just making her feel like the lowest form of rat. ‘I'll help myself later. Everything OK?'

‘Yeah. No problem.'

‘How did Sarah get on at Sunday School?'

‘Loved it. If we don't watch out she'll be signing up to become a nun.'

Emily began to laugh. ‘No self-respecting convent would have her.'

She squeezed Jeff's arm. He had been the best looking lad in their hall of residence when they'd met at Leeds University. Time and the stresses of life had taken their toll, but he was still an attractive man. Looking in the mirror each morning, Emily always reckoned she'd come off far worse in the Anno Domini stakes.

‘What about you? You've been called in all weekend so I presume it's something serious. But there haven't been any murders in the local paper.'

‘Two teenage girls went missing twelve years ago and there's just been a new development.'

‘What sort of new development?'

Emily hesitated. The mention of an MP would be bound to arouse Jeff's interest and, until they had investigated further, discretion might be wise. ‘Nothing definite yet,' she said. ‘We're still working on it.'

‘Is there a chance the girls are still alive?'

‘To be honest, love, I haven't a clue.' A wave of tiredness suddenly overwhelmed her and she stifled a wide yawn. ‘I'm just going to have five minutes to myself. Be an angel and bring us a cup of tea.'

Jeff hurried off to put the kettle on. The kids were watching TV in the playroom but it was almost time for their stomachs to be refuelled so she knew her precious interval of peace would be short lived.

She made her way into the living room, kicked off her work shoes and sat down heavily on the sofa, pulling the footstool towards her and wriggling her body until she was sitting in complete comfort. She reached for the remote control and flicked on the tail end of the news.

TV companies traditionally reserve their cheerful or quirky stories for the end and today was no exception. For some reason the twentieth anniversary of the Eborby Music Festival had earned a place today and Emily leaned forward, interested to see something local for a change. The footage was of Saturday morning's parade along Stone Street. The City Waits were there at the head of the procession, dressed in medieval costumes, playing for an enthusiastic audience who were following them along the street, half walking, half dancing to the infectious beat of the tabor.

Then the camera panned through the crowd and came to rest on one face. A beautiful face. A willowy blonde girl with a slightly other-worldly aura tripping along at the edge of the crowd.

Emily's heart began to beat fast and she hardly noticed Jeff enter the room and place a mug of tea on the coffee table in front of her. She reached for the remote control and paused the picture, thankful that Jeff's love of new technology allowed her to do so.

‘What's up?' asked Jeff. ‘You look like you've seen a ghost.'

‘She's supposed to be missing,' she said pointing at the screen.'

Before Jeff could answer, she reached for the phone on the side table. Joe would want to know that Petulia Ferribie had been caught on camera following the City Waits on Saturday morning.

Joe had switched his mobile off. Somehow he felt like being out of touch with the world, isolated from work and the demands of his distant family. He had put in the time over the weekend and now he was off duty and there was nothing so important that it couldn't wait till first thing on Monday.

Cassidy's call had intrigued him and, if Pet Ferribie didn't turn up before morning, he would follow it up. Although he couldn't help wondering what Cassidy's motive was for bringing that particular name to his attention. He hadn't mentioned it during their visit so it was clearly something he'd given some thought to since.

However, he still had a mystery of his own to solve. The identity of K. Ever since he'd received the letter he'd felt uneasy. For some reason, maybe the initial, maybe the similarity of the writing, it had reminded him of Kaitlin. And whenever he thought of Kaitlin he experienced the empty pain of loss, not as acute as it once was but there all the same.

He left his flat at six thirty, reasoning that if he arrived early and positioned himself in a corner of the pub to watch the comings and goings unobserved, he would hold the advantage.

He knew the Kings Head served Sam Smiths, which was one blessing. He had heated a bowl of tinned soup for himself as soon as he'd arrived home because even though he'd eaten a substantial lunch with Emily, he didn't want to drink on an empty stomach. Especially as he didn't know who or what he would encounter during the course of the evening.

It began to drizzle as he walked through the narrow streets to the river, sending the tourists scurrying inside the many pubs and restaurants that lined the way. Soon Joe had left the tight medieval streets for the wider thoroughfares lined with chain stores and bright shop windows. As he headed for the river the castle suddenly came into view, a single round keep on a steep mound. The rest of the fortress built by the Norman invaders to subdue the North of England had been demolished long ago to be replaced in the eighteenth century by a rather elegant prison which now housed a museum of everyday life.

Before reaching the castle, he turned down a small street to his right and saw the river at the end, grey and churning in the fading light. Another right turn brought him to the Kings Head perched on the river bank. In the summer all the outside tables would have been full but the chill air had driven even the hardiest drinkers indoors. The pub was filled with a blend of tourists, students and locals, united in their search for a quiet drink. Joe bought a pint of Sam Smiths bitter and found himself a seat in the far corner with an excellent view of the door. Each time someone came in, he watched the newcomer intently, trawling his memory for any hint of familiarity.

The pub was filling up fast and a group of standing drinkers blocked his view of the entrance and as seven fifteen came and went Joe wondered whether he should pay another visit to the bar. He had drunk as slowly as humanly possible when you're sitting there with nobody to talk to and now he only had an inch of beer left in his glass.

Then he looked up and saw her weaving her way through the drinkers, her eyes scanning the crowd for one familiar face. He shrank back into his seat, trying to look inconspicuous and he could feel his heart pounding like a hammer in his chest.

When she saw him her eyes widened. Her brown hair was shorter than it had been when he'd last seen her and her expensive belted raincoat flattered her slim, almost bony, body.

There was no escape now. She was marching towards him, pushing her way past a couple of men in deep conversation, almost spilling their beer and earning herself a ‘steady on, love' and a dirty look. But she was unaware of her social faux pas. Her attention was focused on Joe. And she looked angry.

He drained his glass and stood up, uncertain how to greet her. In the end he managed to utter the only words that came into his head. ‘It's been a long time.'

For a few seconds she said nothing. She just stared at him with bitter loathing. Then she spoke. One word spoken in a low hiss.

‘Murderer.'

SEVEN

T
he King's Head had never struck Joe as a place for dramatic confrontations and somehow it seemed inappropriate in the midst of people whose sole desire is a quiet pint and a friendly chat. Other pubs he'd visited in the course of his work might have fitted the bill better.

He took her arm and shepherded her outside. All the way, he could feel her resisting, ready to throw off his guiding hand at any moment. But when he'd first joined the police Joe had been taught how to deal with unwilling suspects so he succeeded in tightening his grip and marching her to the door.

They were outside now amongst the empty chairs and tables set out overlooking the river. The chairs were damp and the tables were covered with little pools of water but Joe pulled out a chair and sat down – a wet backside seemed the least of his problems at that moment. Kirsten looked at the neighbouring chair with distaste before pulling a tissue from her handbag and wiping it carefully.

‘To what do I owe the honour of this visit,' Joe began, trying to keep the sarcasm from his voice. Kirsten was Kaitlin's younger sister, spoiled and indulged. She had gone travelling in Europe shortly after the wedding and hadn't even bothered turning up for her sister's funeral. Kaitlin had heard rumours that she'd become involved with some Italian aristocrat but Kirsten had never bothered to keep her sister up to date with her movements. At the time of Kaitlin's death she hadn't heard from Kirsten for over six months, not since she'd made it so obvious that she regarded her wedding to Joe as tawdry, suburban and a big mistake. A former trainee priest from a large Liverpool family with an Irish mother and a down-to-earth Yorkshire father was far beneath her. And the fact that Joe had joined the police made it even worse.

The sisters' parents had died when they were in their teens so Kaitlin and Kirsten were alone in the world. Alone and fairly wealthy. At the wedding Kirsten had accused Joe of being after Kaitlin's money. It wasn't true, of course, and when he had inherited her money on her death he'd been too grief-stricken to touch it so he'd given most of it away to charity. There were times he thought he should have kept hold of it in case times became hard, that his first impulse not to benefit from Kaitlin's death had been a little hasty. But he supposed it had done some good to someone.

‘I've been finding out about my sister's death. I know what was said at the inquest.'

‘You've taken your bloody time. You ignored Kaitlin after we got married and you didn't even bother coming to her funeral. What is it you want?'

‘Justice.' She almost spat the word.

‘I tried to contact you when she died but nobody knew where to find you.'

‘I was travelling. Then I settled in the States for a while.'

‘I take it you've only just found out that Kaitlin's dead?'

‘I found out three months ago actually. It's taken me all this time to find out exactly what happened and get my head round it. Then I had to find you.'

‘How did you do that?'

‘Through my cousin Jenny.'

Joe nodded. He and Jenny exchanged cards and a letter at Christmas. Jenny was a nice woman, unlike the Kirsten he remembered.

‘I told her not to tell you I was here. I said I wanted to surprise you.'

‘You've certainly done that. How did you know about the King's Head?'