Kissing the Demons

Emily had arrived home in time for dinner after taking Ferribie to view his daughter’s body. She’d watched Jeff and the children at the kitchen table, listened to their banter and their childish whingeing and listened to Jeff talking about a colleague’s coming wedding. But her mind was still there in that mortuary with Paul Ferribie.

She was sitting on the sofa, pretending to be engrossed in Coronation Street, when her mobile phone rang and she rushed out of the room to take the call. The body of another woman had been found near the hospital, next to a bridge over the railway line.

She walked back into the living room where Jeff had been sitting in his favourite armchair. But now he was standing up, looking at her with a mixture of expectation and disappointment.

Emily gave her usual reply of ‘as soon as I can’ and left the house. Another dead woman. Just what she needed on a cold Thursday night.

As she drove towards the hospital, she was suddenly struck by the thought that Den Harvey didn’t live too far away from the scene. His mother had sworn he’d been with her on the night of Pet Ferribie’s murder but, in Emily’s opinion, an alibi from a doting mother is no alibi at all.

She drove along Boothgate, turning right into the road that ran parallel to the railway line, and when she saw people milling about in white crime scene suits under the harsh glow of arc lights she knew she had reached the right place. She parked the car and sat there for a while, summoning the will to face whatever was up there, before clambering out of the car. When she reached the steps of the railway footbridge, the scene manager handed her a white crime scene suit which she struggled into with as much dignity as she could muster.

She ventured on to the bridge and saw Joe standing in the light spilling from the arc lamps, blocking her way. He looked upset; not like some coppers she’d known who’d been hardened by years of dealing with death at the sharp end.

They had reached the white tent that had been erected over the body. It reminded Emily of a garden party gazebo but this was no jolly gathering. Inside the tent Sally Sharpe was kneeling by the body of the young woman she’d last seen at Cassidy’s house. The corpse lay amongst dusty shrubbery which had been pushed back to enable the crime scene people to do their work. The officers went about their business quietly, as though they didn’t wish to disturb the young woman who’d sunk into the sleep of death.

Sally looked up. ‘Two stab wounds to the heart. Same as the girl at the leisure centre. If I was a betting woman, I’d put money on it being the same killer.’

It was Joe who answered. ‘I’ve been thinking. Pet’s tongue was cut out. Sharon Bell’s eyes were gouged out and Anna’s ears were cut off. I know we’re waiting for the Met to send the crime scene photos of that woman down in London but the report did mention damage to her nose. Do you see a pattern emerging?’

The tiny notebook lay at the back of the desk drawer and Ian Zepper took it out and opened it carefully. He wasn’t sure how Pet had found out that his relationship with Grace Cassidy hadn’t been purely that of teacher and student but she had. And she’d used her knowledge to extract promises he hadn’t really felt inclined to keep. Grace was fifteen but she’d been so full of life. A unique girl with a unique gift and the body of a woman. Strange how some unions can seem almost spiritual; a meeting of two souls. Abelard and Eloise. Master and pupil. Zepper had always been able to justify even his basest actions.

Andy had suspected but he’d had no proof. It had been their secret, kept from Grace’s unsuspecting father; kept from Andy and his gawky adolescent friends. One of those friends – the one Grace said was always watching her, the one who gave her the creeps – had walked in on them once but nothing had been said. Pet knew all about it, of course, and now she was dead like Grace. Beautiful Grace, the golden girl who would never grow old.

He hadn’t remembered Pet’s notebook was still in his drawer until a couple of days after her death. It was the little pink notebook she habitually kept in her shoulder bag and she’d left it on his desk accidentally after a tutorial. He’d tell the police about it, of course, but first he needed to ensure that there was nothing in it that would reflect badly on him. He read it through closely, taking in every word.

And as he did, one sentence in particular caught his eye. ‘Mum certainly liked kissing the demons,’ she wrote. ‘The trouble is the kiss of a demon can be fatal.’

It was raining that Friday morning and the weather reflected Joe’s mood. He had spent most of the previous night questioning Cassidy who had seemed genuinely shocked at Anna’s death. But in Joe’s experience, some of the most sincere and elaborate displays of grief had come from the person responsible for the crime.

He didn’t know why he’d connected the death of Cassidy’s sister with the other killings. But once he’d hit on the five senses theory it had seemed to fit perfectly. However, he knew that he could be wrong.

Emily had ordered everyone to attend a briefing at eight o’clock sharp and he thought she looked tired. But that was hardly surprising; he felt pretty shattered himself.

He recalled that George was due to visit thirteen Torland Place that morning. But unless it turned out to have something to do with Pet’s death, it was none of his concern now.

‘Cassidy claims he got home on Thursday night and found Anna had gone,’ she began. ‘He says he didn’t bother reporting it because he thought she’d be back. We’ve had people searching through her things. They’ve found her passport. Her name’s Anna Padowski and she’s from Kraków. Her family are being notified.’

Joe cleared his throat. ‘There are also a couple of people we need to talk to again. Den Harvey and Pet’s tutor, Ian Zepper who, incidentally, also taught Cassidy’s sister the piano. Cassidy was convicted of his sister’s murder but now I think he’s trying to implicate Zepper.’

He saw Emily give a nod of approval, just as a uniformed policewoman rushed in and handed her a note. She opened it and after a few seconds she looked up.

‘On the night Anna disappeared she received a call from a pay as you go mobile which has been traced to the Fleshambles or Queen’s Square area; the same location as Pet’s phone when Matt Bawtry made that last call to her. Cassidy claims that he was in Leeds last night and the call definitely wasn’t from his number.’

‘There was nothing to stop him buying an anonymous pay as you go phone and using that to lure her to wherever she was killed. Same goes for any of our suspects.’

‘A murder phone,’ said Sunny from the audience. ‘I’ve heard of that before. Takes some forethought and organization, mind.’

‘We’re looking for an organized killer,’ said Joe quietly. ‘I think he chooses his victims carefully. And he might even get them to trust him.’ He frowned. ‘We never did identify who was dressed as the Grim Reaper at the Torland Place party, did we?’

‘So the Grim Reaper’s our prime suspect,’ Emily said, rolling her eyes to heaven. ‘Very appropriate. Or alternatively he or she might have nothing to do with it. Anyone got anything else to share with us?’

One of the newer Detective Constables, a red-haired lad in his twenties, raised a tentative hand. ‘A report’s come in from Forensic, ma’am. Traces of red and blue fibres were found on Pet Ferribie’s clothes. Blend of wool and nylon. The report says they come from good quality carpet, probably fairly new . . . hence the loose fibres.’

‘So get on to all carpet firms in the area and see if they’ve laid a carpet fitting that description anywhere over the past few months.’

Emily continued. ‘It seems the victims are bound with tape and kept somewhere until he kills them. We need to find out where. And the killer moves them somehow so I want all CCTV footage between the Queen’s Square area and the spot where Anna was found gone through, as well as anything from near the leisure centre at the time Pet’s body was dumped.’

Emily clapped her hands. ‘Come on, get it done and there’s a drink for whoever finds something.’ She turned to Joe. ‘How does the killer move the bodies about, eh?’

Emily marched off but no sooner had she gone than Jamilla tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Sir, Lee’s been going through footage of Coopergate. He’s found Steve Portright. He’s walking towards Boots then he stops suddenly, as if he’s spotted someone.’

It was an offer he couldn’t refuse. He followed Jamilla to the AV room, confident that he’d be able to pick out Jade Portright in any crowd. After all, her face had been imprinted on his memory for almost a week now. But that had been her teenaged face, as yet unformed by time and experience; if Jade was still alive, she might have changed quite a bit during the intervening years.

In a while the AV room would become rather crowded with junior officers anxious to win themselves a pint from the DCI, all huddled around TV screens staring at CCTV footage of varying quality from the relevant hours. But at the moment those tapes were still being gathered together so he and Jamilla had the room to themselves.

Spotting Steve Portright was easy but scanning the street for someone who might or might not be his missing daughter proved more difficult. Eventually he fixed on one possibility. She was slim with straight fair hair and she was certainly the right age to be Jade, but he couldn’t see her face as she had her back to the camera.

But the more he rewound the tape and watched the young woman, the more convinced Joe became that he’d seen her somewhere before . . . if only he could remember where it was.

Barrington Jenks had spent a restless night alone in his king size bed. For one dangerous moment he had feared that his wife would insist on returning to Eborby with him. But he had persuaded her to stay in London saying that he’d be involved in meetings with his constituency staff most of the weekend so life up in the north would be cold and tedious. She was a southerner by birth so she’d believed him.

He had lied about the meetings of course. He had a surgery for his constituents on Saturday afternoon but, apart from that, his time was his own. Which was good because he had things to see to that he wouldn’t want his colleagues or constituents to know about.

As he drove from Colforth to the Bearsley district of Eborby, he was uncomfortably aware of all the cameras tracking his journey. CCTV, traffic cameras with number plate recognition software; as a politician he’d supported them all enthusiastically but now he was starting to regret it. It would be far too easy for the police to trace his movements if they were so inclined. However, he lacked the skills of a professional criminal who could secure anonymity by stealing a car or using false number plates so he would just have to trust in the police’s inefficiency. According to some of his constituents, there was never a bobby about when you needed one.

When he reached Torland Place, he drove past the house slowly. For the first time his large black BMW seemed to be a liability rather than something to impress the lower orders. It was far too noticeable and he needed to be inconspicuous.

When he’d passed the house Jasmine had been looking out of the window as arranged. And now he parked a little way down the road and waited for her to join him, his heart beating fast.

He could see her in the rear view mirror, walking casually down the street. Nearer and nearer. When she drew level with the car he leaned over and opened the door. She got in.

‘You squeamish?’ Jasmine’s voice was mocking and Jenks suddenly felt like lashing out. ‘You’ll see for yourself tonight.’

Jenks sat there, his hands still fixed to the wheel. As Jasmine disappeared down the road he was surprised to see a chubby clergyman with a bald head walking towards her house.