EIGHT
Joe wasn’t sure what was making him feel so bad; whether it was the change in the weather or the memory of his meeting with Kirsten the night before. She had his address so he’d half expected her to turn up at the flat. She hadn’t, but he knew that it would only be a matter of time before he saw her again.
When he arrived at Police Headquarters he made straight for Emily’s office, raising his hand in greeting to his colleagues as he went. DS Sunny Porter was looking glum as usual; Sunny by name but definitely not by nature.
‘How did it go last night?’ Emily asked as he walked through her office door.
‘Not well.’
‘Sorry about that. Look, Joe, sit yourself down.’
He obeyed. Something had happened.
‘A body’s been found at the leisure centre. Young woman. Blonde. No ID. The Crime Scene team are down there now. Once we know what we’re dealing with, I can get things organized. Tell everyone the state of play, will you, Joe? I’m off to tell the Super.’
‘Is it Petulia Ferribie?’
Emily stopped in the doorway and turned to face him. ‘Like I said, no ID on the body but she fits the description.’
‘Only I had a call yesterday evening from Andy Cassidy.’
Emily’s eyes lit up with sudden interest. ‘Oh aye? What did he want?’
‘He said we should have a word with Petulia’s tutor at the university – an Ian Zepper.’
‘Well, if it’s her, we’ll be doing that anyway. Come on.’
When Emily hurried away Joe stood for a few moments gathering his thoughts before marching out into the main office, shouting above the hum of Monday morning conversation – the sharing of weekend memories – to make himself heard.
As he outlined the situation he left out the name of Barrington Jenks, mindful of the Super’s emphasis on discretion. Then he broke the news about the body at the leisure centre and told them to prepare for a full scale enquiry. It was best to start with a worst case scenario: if it turned out to be accident, suicide or natural causes, they’d think all their birthdays had come at once.
He met Emily in reception and they walked out to the car park. At least if the morning turned out to be eventful he’d have no time to dwell on Kirsten.
Their destination was a short drive away through the thick morning traffic. When they arrived the leisure centre entrance was festooned with crime scene tape and a crowd of curious onlookers had gathered outside the sealed off area, craning their necks to see the action. As Joe emerged from the car he looked up at the sky. The rain had stopped but probably not for long.
They were directed to the rear of the modern box-like building where a row of huge waste bins stood by a back door. Opposite, on a patch of scrubland, a white tent had been erected to protect the body and any available evidence from the elements.
After they’d donned protective overalls they walked slowly towards the tent where the photographer’s flash bulbs lit the shadows like forks of lightning.
Inside the tent Dr Sally Sharpe squatted by the body on the ground going about her gruesome business. As soon as she saw Emily she gave her a friendly smile. Then she spotted Joe and the smile became shyer.
‘So what have we got, Sally?’ Emily asked. She kept her professional distance and avoided looking at the body.
‘Young woman. Late teens, early twenties. Natural blonde. Five foot five.’
‘How long has she been there?’
‘I’d say she’s been dead roughly thirty-six hours. That means some time on Saturday night. Sorry I can’t be more accurate.’
‘That fits with what Matt heard on the phone,’ said Joe quietly. ‘He might have heard her being killed.’
Emily nodded. ‘Possibly. Has the body been moved?’
‘I’d put money on it.’ She gave Joe a nervous smile. ‘But I can’t say for definite yet.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘She’s been stabbed twice in the heart. But there’s no sign of a weapon.’ Sally hesitated. ‘And whoever killed her cut her tongue out.’
Emily swore softly. The news of the mutilation had come as a shock.
As Sally stepped back so they could get a proper look Joe took his wallet from his pocket and extracted the photograph of the four residents of number thirteen Torland Place. He looked at the body sprawled on the ground, half concealed by dusty shrubs with scraps of litter hanging from their twisted branches. Then he looked at the photograph again and handed it to Emily.
‘It’s her alright. It’s Petulia Ferribie.’
Emily sighed. ‘At least we’ve got an ID. What about the next of kin?’
‘We don’t know much about the next of kin except that there’s a stepmother and her father’s abroad. The university should have more information. We should go and see the housemates . . . break the news.’
Emily turned to Sally. ‘The tongue – would you say it was removed after death?’
Sally nodded. ‘Yes. That’s one thing I’m pretty sure of. I can do the post-mortem this afternoon. That OK?’
‘Fine,’ said Emily absent-mindedly. Joe knew she was thinking of all the procedures that had to be set in motion. The incident room. The interviews. Informing the next of kin. And subjecting her housemates to more questions – not quite so gently this time. Someone must know why she died. And the best place to start was at home.
‘Who found her?’ Joe asked.
‘The leisure centre manager,’ Sally answered. ‘He came out to look for one of the maintenance men who was supposed to be on duty but he was round the back having a crafty fag. He spotted the body and dialled nine nine nine.’
Emily caught Joe’s eye. The person who finds the body is usually the first port of call. And, presumably, this one would be on the premises waiting for them like a good citizen.
They left Sally and the Forensic team to it and made their way to the building where the staff were gathered in the foyer. A couple of the young women were sobbing, others looked stunned. A young man in a tracksuit with the self-consciously athletic look of a sports instructor had a comforting arm around the shoulders of a pretty black girl who looked more bored than upset.
The man behind the reception desk was small and wiry with a shaved head and a vaguely military look. He was wearing a red polo shirt but he had a natural air of authority that some required a business suit to achieve. As soon as he saw Emily and Joe enter through the automatic doors, ID at the ready, he came out from behind his desk to greet them, hand outstretched.
‘Peter Darman, Manager. Bad business. We’re all shocked; that goes without saying.’
‘Of course,’ said Joe. ‘Is there somewhere private we can . . . ?’
‘We’ll need to speak to all the staff,’ said Emily as Darman led them behind the front desk into a small office bearing the legend ‘Manager’ on the door. ‘Someone might have seen or heard something suspicious. And I presume you have CCTV here?’
Peter Darman’s well scrubbed cheeks turned a delicate shade of red. ‘Well . . . er . . . actually it hasn’t been working for the past few weeks. I’ve put a request in to the Council for it to be fixed but these things take time.’
‘Your maintenance staff couldn’t deal with it then?’ said Joe.
‘No. It’s a specialist job, or so they say at the council offices. Please sit down.’
Joe and Emily made themselves comfortable.
‘Is there anywhere I can conduct interviews?’ Emily asked sweetly.
‘Of course, Chief Inspector. You can use this office if you like.’
This was what Joe knew she was hoping for. She nodded a gracious acknowledgement of the manager’s selfless generosity with his personal space and got down to business.
Darman didn’t need much encouragement to launch into a detailed account of how he discovered the body. He spoke as though he had gone over the story time and time again in his head, which he probably had. Joe always liked a thorough witness.
Soon it was Darman’s turn to give up his seat behind the desk to Emily and call in his staff one by one.
The story was the same each time. It had been an ordinary Monday morning and nobody had seen or heard anything unusual. The clichés were trotted out again and again. Nobody could believe that such a thing could happen and the general consensus of opinion was that it was either ‘terrible’, ‘shocking’ or ‘awful’.
The sixth member of staff to be interviewed was the man who had been with Peter Darman when the body was found. Den Harvey, in contrast to his boss, was somewhat overweight. His well-worn tracksuit bottoms had a tendency to slip down over his bulging middle and he kept hauling them up for decency’s sake. He had a round, unhealthy-looking face and Joe caught a strong whiff of sweat as the man sat down reluctantly in front of them.
As Harvey gave them the account of the discovery in his own words, Joe noted that it varied a little from Peter Darman’s. Harvey reckoned she was probably a student at the university. You could tell them a mile off, he said. And he seemed to know that she’d been stabbed. When Emily asked him how he knew, he merely shrugged and said it was simple. He took a special interest in murder, he said almost proudly. He liked reading true crime books and, if you knew what you were looking for, these things were obvious.
Joe was about to ask more questions but Emily gave his knee a warning nudge under the desk. They watched the man leave in silence. But as soon as he was out of the room Emily spoke.
‘I’d like to find out more about our Mr Harvey.’
‘So he’s on our list?’ Joe said with a conspiratorial smile.
‘Oh I think that goes without saying, Joe, don’t you?’
Matt was alone in the house. But as he tried to concentrate on his work, he kept hearing sounds, muffled thuds and shuffles as if someone was downstairs. But he knew the others were out. At first he tried to ignore it. But eventually he put his music on. The house was getting to him. And however many times he tried to tell himself that it was all in his head, he still felt like an unwelcome visitor in the place. It wasn’t something he could put into words but he knew there was something there that didn’t want him . . . or any of the others for that matter. It watched from the shadows, hostile and full of resentment. It wished them ill. He’d always prided himself on being level headed – a man of science. But since he’d found out about the history of the house, the place frightened him.
He sat at his desk for a while staring at the notes in front of him, his eyes hardly focusing. Then he remembered that a couple of days ago he had seen an article in the local paper about a clergyman who worked at the cathedral. The journalist had portrayed this George Merryweather as a pleasant, down-to-earth man, even though his role was the Diocesan exorcist – or, Deliverance Minister as he preferred to be called. Matt had torn the piece from the paper and kept it, not quite knowing why. Perhaps it was the thought that Obediah Shrowton or his victims hadn’t quite gone away. He wasn’t sure but he kept hold of that newspaper cutting like a talisman. If things got really bad in the house, George Merryweather seemed the type who wouldn’t laugh at his fears.
He spread his notes out on the desk in front of him and turned up the volume on his iPod. Then he heard something behind the thumping rhythm of the music. The doorbell. Someone was at the door.
He switched the music off and made his way downstairs. The sight of DI Plantagenet and DCI Thwaite standing on the doorstep with solemn faces told him something was wrong. When they’d come before they’d been friendly and smiling. But now they looked like the bearers of bad news. He stood aside to let them in.
‘Let’s go and sit down, shall we,’ Joe said gently.
Matt allowed himself to be shepherded into the living room where he sat on the sagging sofa.
‘We’ve found a body,’ Joe said softly. ‘And I’m afraid we think it’s Petulia. We’ll need to talk to you and everyone else in the house. And we’ll need to contact her next of kin.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Emily said. ‘It must be a shock.’
Matt felt numb, as though his body didn’t quite belong to him. He’d been worried about Pet but somehow he hadn’t expected this brutal finality.
‘Her family . . . do you know where they live?’
‘No. I only know her dad’s in Dubai and she didn’t get on with her stepmother.’ He took a deep breath. ‘How . . . how did she die?’
‘We think she was murdered.’
Matt could hear his heart thumping as if it was trying to escape the cage of his chest. ‘Where was she found?’
‘Behind Bearsley Leisure Centre. Do you know of any reason why she should be there?’
Matt shook his head vigorously. Pet had never been one for sweaty gyms or early morning swims and he said as much to Joe and Emily.
‘Is anybody else in?’ Joe asked.
Before Matt could answer he heard the sound of the front door opening and they all looked round as Jason entered the room, wearing his combat jacket, buttoned up against the cold of the morning.
‘This is starting to feel like police harassment.’
Matt turned round. ‘Shut up, Jason. Pet’s dead.’
Jason froze. ‘You’re joking,’ he said after a few long seconds.
‘It’s hardly the sort of thing I’d joke about,’ Matt said. ‘They found her body this morning. At the leisure centre.’
Jason opened his mouth to say something then shut it again. He looked shocked but not particularly upset.
‘They need to ask us some questions . . . and they’ve got to trace her family.’
‘She didn’t get on with them.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ said Emily. ‘But they still need to be told.’
Jason bowed his head, his first gesture of sorrow. ‘How did she die?’
‘She was murdered . . . stabbed,’ said Emily bluntly.
‘I expect it was a mugging gone wrong.’ He looked round. ‘I’m bloody starving. Hope there’s some bread left.’
Matt felt anger rise like bile in his throat and he almost forgot the presence of the two detectives. All he saw was Jason, mocking and uncaring, smearing Pet’s memory.
He flung himself at his housemate, fists clenched, and tried to aim a punch at his face. But before he could make contact he felt a pair of strong arms pulling him away. DI Plantagenet had him in a restraining hold, muttering calming words in his ear. After a few moments Matt shrugged him off. ‘OK, OK, I’ll leave it.’
He looked at Joe and saw sympathy in his eyes, as though he understood. Then he felt the tears coming.
Barrington Jenks climbed into the first class carriage of the London train, thankfully separated from the crowd of less privileged humanity who were being herded into the overflowing second class carriages.
The attendant smiled to greet him. ‘Good morning, sir.’
He gave the man a gracious nod in return before making for his seat. Once he was settled, he took out his official briefcase, preparing to make a pretence of working. He laid the documents out on the table before him but he didn’t see the words on the paper. He had other things on his mind.
His wife was expecting him at their London flat for lunch then he intended to put in an appearance at the House. What he didn’t know was that his well-planned day was about to be disrupted.
When his mobile phone rang he looked at the calling number and answered swiftly, aware that his hand had begun to shake.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve booked a room at the Turpin. Be there in an hour.’
‘I’m on my way to London. I can’t just . . .’
‘Suit yourself.’ There was a pause. ‘But the police might be interested in . . .’
‘OK. I’ll be there.’
The train wasn’t due to set off for ten minutes and he had to make a decision. After a few moments’ consideration, he gathered his papers together, spilling some on to the carriage floor. He knelt to retrieve them, hardly aware, in his agitated state, that the position was undignified, hardly worthy of a Member of Parliament and an Under Secretary of State in the Department of Justice. At last, when the papers had been rounded up and corralled into his briefcase, he looked up and saw that a woman in a grey business suit was watching him with detached interest. He gave her an apologetic smile and hurried off the train.
He had little choice. Jasmine had summoned him. And disobedience wasn’t really an option.
Emily had organized a detailed search of Petulia’s room and contacted the university for details of her next of kin: a father in Dubai and a stepmother in Dorset who would have to be told the bad news. When she’d enquired about Pet’s tutor, Ian Zepper, she’d been told that he was at a meeting in Sheffield that morning but he’d be back after lunch.
As the father wouldn’t be easy to reach, Joe arranged for the Dorset police to inform the stepmother and then sort out a car to bring her up to Yorkshire. He couldn’t help recalling how two police officers, one a young rookie the other a sergeant who had seen it all before, had come to the hotel to break the news that Kaitlin’s body had been found at the foot of some nearby cliffs. He knew how it felt to be on the receiving end of something like that and the memory made him feel slightly sick, especially when he thought of Kirsten trying to rake the whole thing up again.
But he couldn’t dwell on his sister-in-law’s thoughtlessness. He needed to discover everything he could about Pet Ferribie.
He couldn’t forget the fact that Andy Cassidy had made the effort to call him with Ian Zepper’s name. He needed to know more about Pet’s relationships and perhaps another go at her housemates would pay off.
Matt had already given his statement and somehow Joe thought he seemed the straightforward, reliable type who may have been a little in love with Pet. And if this was the case he seemed to have accepted her lack of reciprocal affection philosophically.
Matt reckoned that Pet might have had a bit of a crush – a delightfully old-fashioned term, in Joe’s opinion – on her tutor, Ian Zepper. She’d been planning to move into a flat in Zepper’s house the following year so maybe they were close – but she’d never said much about their relationship.
Matt had called Caro at the university and she’d returned as soon as her lecture was over. She was downstairs now, still apparently cool and businesslike after uttering the obligatory expressions of shock. Only her clenched hands and nervous eyes betrayed that she felt Pet’s death more than she cared to let on.
Jason had retreated to his room like a sulky child after his spat with Matt and hadn’t come down again. When Joe went up there he could hear music drifting from the room. Thomas Tallis Mass for Four Voices. It seemed Jason shared his musical tastes. He knocked and when there was no answer, he turned the handle but he found the door was locked.
‘It’s DI Plantagenet. Can I have a word?’
‘I’ve nothing to say. No comment.’
Joe took a deep breath. ‘I can break this door down and then you can answer some questions down at Police Headquarters if you’d prefer.’ He stood waiting for the threat to have the desired effect.
Eventually the door opened and Jason Petrie stood there in front of him. ‘I would have thought all this would be a bit beneath you with a name like yours,’ he said with a smirk.
Joe, who had heard it all before, didn’t dignify the remark with a reply.
‘Like the music,’ Joe said as he entered the room. It was tidier than most student rooms he’d seen. And the audio equipment was top of the range.
‘It’s Thomas Tallis. Sixteenth century.’
‘I know.’
Jason raised his eyebrows and looked at Joe as though he suspected he was lying. ‘I studied music for a year in Manchester. Then I got sick of it and decided to switch to English, which I’ve since dropped . . . hence my visit to the dole office first thing this morning.’
‘If you studied music, you and Pet must have had a lot in common?’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ he said quickly. ‘I like to live dangerously. How did Pet put it? I like kissing the demons.’
‘Kissing the demons. Was that something she made up?’
‘No idea. But it was something she accused me of doing. When I asked her what it meant, she said it was flirting with dangerous situations . . . or people.’
‘And did she kiss the demons?’
‘I really couldn’t say. Mind you, I always thought that she had secrets that she didn’t share with us mere mortals.’
‘What secrets would they be?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘Was Matt close to her?’
‘He never stood a chance. Born to be mild, that one. And besides, I reckon she liked her men much older . . . and with more money.’
‘Did she ever mention her tutor, Ian Zepper?’
Jason grinned. ‘I heard from a friend of a friend that they’d been seen huddled together sharing secrets and sweet nothings. Very furtive. I’ve heard that he plays in an early music group.’
Joe thought for a few moments. ‘She was last seen on Saturday on her way to the Early Music Festival. Could she have been meeting him there, do you think?’
Jason gave an inscrutable smile and Joe sensed that he was enjoying himself, tantalizing the police, letting out tiny drips of information. ‘You’ll have to ask him yourself.’
‘We will. Is there anyone else you can think of who knew her well – friends or lovers?’
Jason shook his head. Then he looked straight at Joe, his expression serious. ‘She was very beautiful.’
‘I’ve seen her.’
‘Yes, but she was dead. That’s different.’
There was something cold in the way Jason said the words, almost as if he knew that her lovely face had been desecrated, and Joe felt a shiver travel up his spine. ‘Did you have a relationship with her?’
‘That depends what you mean by a relationship.’
Joe leaned forward, man to man. ‘Did you sleep with her?’
‘Unfortunately I wasn’t her type. She didn’t sleep with students.’
‘Do you know of any students who took exception to that?’
Jason shook his head. ‘I expect a lot of men – or maybe even women – were disappointed but I’m not aware of any who took it badly. Even our little Matt accepted his rejection.’
‘Was Pet with anyone at the party last Friday?’
‘No. She was just drifting round looking bored and lovely.’
‘Was there anyone at the party you didn’t recognize?’
‘There were people from Caro’s and Matt’s departments but . . . Hang on, there was someone who didn’t seem to be with anyone. Not that I could describe him – or it might even have been a her. All got up as the Grim Reaper; skeleton mask, black cloak; even carried a scythe.’
‘Go on.’
‘I never saw him take his mask off, not even to have a drink. And he was standing on the landing . . . watching, if you know what I mean. It seemed a bit odd at the time but . . . Well, we’d all had a few drinks and . . . Like I said, I only caught a glimpse – and I never saw his face.’
‘Are there any photos of the party?’
‘I don’t know but I can ask around.’
Joe stood up and thanked Jason. After an inauspicious start, he’d turned out to be quite helpful. Now all he had to do was to see if any of the other housemates had spotted the Grim Reaper. And if any of them knew his identity.
The Turpin Hotel stood just outside the city walls on the south side of the river. It was modern and in need of refurbishment. But it was cheap, anonymous and used by penny pinching tourists and adulterous couples alike.
The automatic door swished open as Jenks walked in and he bowed his head as he hurried forward into the foyer. The young receptionist wore a cheap navy suit, too much make-up and a bored expression and she hardly looked at Jenks as he approached, which suited him fine.
‘Room for Torland. I believe my wife’s already here.’
The young woman typed fast into a computer keyboard before handing Jenks a plastic swipe card. ‘Room three twenty-five. Third floor. Lift’s over to your right. Have a nice day.’
Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Jenks resisted the temptation to make a sarcastic riposte. He picked up his briefcase, covering it carefully with his coat to obscure the official lettering, and as he made for the lift he found himself looking round for watching eyes like an inexperienced shop lifter.
He was relieved when nobody shared the lift with him. His biggest fear was being recognized – the possibility that few people are familiar with the face of their local MP never occurred to him – and he dreaded the prospect of making polite grunts to a fellow traveller. When the lift door opened a corridor lined with anonymous doors stretched in front of him and he walked until he arrived at room three twenty-five.
He hesitated for a second then he swiped his plastic key and when he saw the tiny light turn from red to green, he pushed the door open.
She was sitting on the bed and Barrington Jenks’s first thought was that time had been kind to her.
‘Hello, Jasmine,’ he said quietly.
Then she raised the knife to her painted lips and smiled.
Cassidy worked from home, which had its advantages. And its disadvantages. It cut commuting to a minimum. But on the other hand you could never really escape the office. Or the police.
They had come calling that morning to break the news about Pet. He had made noises of shock and regret, adding the words ‘not that I knew her well, of course,’ to allay any suspicion on the part of the two Detective Constables, one a lad in his twenties with a crew cut, the other a young Asian woman.
They had asked questions, taken a brief statement, asked where he was at eleven thirty on Saturday night, thanked him and left. And they had seemed to accept his story that he’d spent Saturday night with an estate agent friend who’d called round with some papers for him to look at.
He picked up his mobile phone again. Each time he’d dialled the number he needed, it had gone straight to voice mail. He clenched his fist and brought it down on the desk, unable to control his frustration.
‘What is the matter, Andy? Is there something I can get you? Coffee?’
He dropped the phone on to the desk as though it was red hot and swivelled round in his chair. ‘Piss off, Anna.’
The young woman in the doorway looked at him, a hurt expression on her face.
‘I’m sorry.’ He held out his arms. ‘Come here.’
She walked towards him slowly and when she came within reach he pulled her towards him with a violence that made her gasp. Then, as she slumped on to his knee, he kissed her, his hands exploring her slim body and encountering no resistance.
He whispered something in her ear and she pulled away. ‘But that is a lie.’
‘Not really. It’s the truth. I just need you to back me up. If it’s a lie, it’s only a tiny white one. And the police probably won’t ask you anyway, but if they do . . .’
She nodded. ‘Very well.’
He put his hands under her armpits and hoisted her upright. ‘Off you go now. I’ve got work to do.’
He watched with a glow of satisfaction as she left the room reluctantly. And once she was out of earshot he picked up his mobile and dialled the number again.
This time it was answered.
‘Ethan. Look, the police might be in touch with you. If anyone asks, when you called round here on Saturday night with those papers, we had a drink and you stayed till midnight. OK?’
When he heard the answer he smiled. It was all fixed. Sorted. And maybe now Ian Zepper would get what he deserved.