Kissing the Demons

The 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?’

‘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.

‘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.

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.

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

‘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.

‘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.’

‘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.

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.’

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?’

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.

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.’

‘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.

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?’

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?’

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

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

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.

‘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 . . .’

‘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.

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.’

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.

‘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.’

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.

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