Kissing the Demons

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.’

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?

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.

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.’

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.’