TWENTY-ONE

Emily put the phone down. Jeff had had a hard day entertaining the kids after a week spent teaching a class of adolescents who weren’t particularly interested in the history of the Industrial Revolution but he seemed to take the news that his wife wouldn’t be home until after midnight philosophically. She’d told him it couldn’t be helped. This new lead might well come to nothing but all her instincts were telling her to follow it.

She’d arranged to meet Joe in the car park and as she left the office she glanced at herself in the small mirror that hung on the wall, her one concession to vanity. She saw dark smudges beneath her bloodshot eyes and she knew she looked a wreck; but then she always seemed to look that way when there was a major murder enquiry on.

Joe drove them to Carla Vernon’s address in Bacombe, a new block of flats on the main road out of Eborby. Just as he was about to press the button with the name ‘Vernon’ printed neatly below it, his mobile phone began to ring and he answered it quickly.

Emily listened to the conversation. Joe rarely sounded angry and her curiosity was aroused.

‘You’re drunk,’ she heard him saying. ‘Just leave me alone, will you?’ Then he seemed to change tack. ‘OK, you can stay at mine tonight. But only one night. My neighbour’s got a key. Number five. Let yourself in and have a black coffee. I’ll see you later.’

When he ended the call, Emily couldn’t resist asking the obvious question. ‘Who was that?’

Joe seethed for a couple of seconds before answering. ‘Kirsten. My sister-in-law. She arrived back in Eborby this afternoon and she claims she’s lost her credit cards so she can’t book a hotel room. She says she’s got nowhere to stay.’

‘That’s not your problem.’

‘She sounds as though she’s been drowning her sorrows all afternoon. I felt I had to offer her a bed for the night, the state she’s in.’

‘I hope you’re not giving her yours.’ Emily was beginning to feel rather indignant on Joe’s behalf. In her opinion, the Sister-in-Law from Hell was taking advantage.

‘I can hardly let her sleep on a park bench, can I,’ Joe replied.

‘You’re too bloody soft. I’d tell her where to go. Go on. Ring the bell.’

Joe did as he was told and after a few moments a breathless voice answered and they were buzzed in. The flat was on the third floor and Carla Vernon met them at the door, her arms folded defensively. When Emily had last seen her at the offices of McNeil and Dutton, she had been dressed for the world of business in formal suit and high heels. Now she wore jeans and a black long-sleeved T-shirt and her feet were bare. Emily noticed a pair of muddy trainers in the corner of the hallway as they followed her in. The mud looked fresh.

‘Have you been out?’ Emily asked, trying to sound friendly.

‘I went out for a walk. Why?’

‘You got a car?’

‘Yes,’ was the wary answer.

‘You’ll have needed a car to transport the carpet, I suppose,’ Joe said.

‘What carpet?’

‘The roll end you bought from the Cosy Carpet Warehouse. Where is it now?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘You can’t just lose a roll of carpet.’ She smiled, trying to hide her impatience. ‘Do you mean you bought it for someone else?’

‘It was for Ethan’s office. He knows someone who’s going to lay it for him.

‘Is it still in the office?’

She hesitated. ‘I think he might have taken it home. I’m not sure.’ She didn’t sound convincing.

‘Have you got a key to the office?’

‘No. Ethan keeps the keys.’

‘What’s his address?’

Carla hesitated. ‘I don’t know if he’d like . . .’

‘His address.’

Carla thought for a few moments. Then she went over to the telephone and picked up a tattered address book. ‘Thirty-four Bamford Road, Hassledon.’ She looked at her watch.

‘Anxious to be somewhere?’ Emily asked sharply.

‘No. It’s just that I planned to go out later and . . .’

‘Well we won’t keep you.’ She looked at the phone. ‘And I’d be grateful if you didn’t contact Mr McNeil to tell him we’re on our way. We like to surprise people and there’s an offence called obstructing the police.’

Carla stood there with her arms folded and her expression gave nothing away. As Emily left she glanced through into the kitchen. The light was on, reflecting off a set of lethal looking knives arrayed against a magnetic strip on the wall. There was a space in the middle as though one was missing. But she dismissed the idea – for all she knew it could be in the washing up.

Kirsten’s head was thumping. She’d thought a few drinks would take her pain away but she’d been so wrong.

She’d lied about losing her credit cards but he’d believed every word, so now she’d have him there alone and she’d get him to slip up and admit his guilt. And even if he didn’t, there might be some evidence there in his flat, something that would give him away. She’d had no real luck in Devon but she was determined to prove somehow that her sister’s death had been no accident.

Although her last drink had been a while ago and the effects had started to wear off, she still felt a little unsteady. Getting the key from Joe’s neighbour as instructed hadn’t been easy. She’d had to concentrate hard on getting the words out without slurring and betraying the state she was in. The neighbour had looked at her suspiciously at first but it seemed that Joe had rung on ahead to warn of her arrival. She had hardly expected him to be so cooperative. Perhaps he was up to something. She’d have to be on her guard.

She had aimed the key carefully at the lock and opened the door of his flat. It was dark and still in there and she didn’t like the way the small block of flats stood so close to the grey, oppressive walls that guarded the old city.

After helping herself to several glasses of water to slake her raging thirst, Kirsten lay on the sofa and switched off the light. She kept her eyes open because whenever she closed them the room started to spin round and she felt a little sick. But after a while she couldn’t fight sleep any longer and she lay there, unconscious and snoring, unaware that the front door she had left slightly ajar was being pushed gently open.

The small detached houses in Bamford Road had been built in the 1960s in the nadir of house building and no effort had been made to blend in with North Yorkshire’s vernacular building style. Somehow Joe had expected an estate agent to have chosen something more architecturally inspiring.

There was no reply at number thirty-four although a light was on behind the closed blinds in the front room downstairs. Joe hoped Carla Vernon hadn’t ignored Emily’s warning and called to warn of their arrival.

After the third attempt he decided to try the neighbours.

With Emily by his side, he walked up to the front door of the neighbouring house and their knock was answered by a middle-aged woman dressed from head to toe in beige who gave them a glare that would have stopped a charging lion in its tracks. ‘Before you start I don’t buy anything at the door.’

‘Quite right,’ said Joe as he presented his warrant card. ‘We’re trying to get hold of your neighbour at number thirty-four and there’s no answer. Do you know when he’ll be home?’

‘I don’t, I’m afraid. His car’s not there.’

‘There’s a light on. Is his wife likely to be in, do you know? She might not like to answer the door to strangers after dark . . . some people don’t. But if you know her . . .’

‘Oh I never see her. They keep themselves to themselves.’ She leaned towards him and lowered her voice. ‘They’ve got a baby but it never seems to cry. But some babies are like that, aren’t they? Not that mine ever were.’

Emily stepped forward. ‘You’ve seen Mr McNeil with the baby?’

‘I see him taking it out in a pram from time to time. When they moved in he said the baby was a girl but I’ve not had a proper look at her and you can’t see their garden from our house ’cos it’s surrounded by that huge leylandii hedge. I asked him to get it trimmed and he said he’d do it. But nothing’s happened yet.’

‘You wouldn’t have a key to the place by any chance?’

The woman shook her head. Then her round face lit up as though she’d just remembered something. ‘Hang on.’ She disappeared into the house and returned a few minutes later with a Yale key in her hand. ‘I used to look after it for the Gibsons who lived there before and I forgot to give it back when they moved out.’

‘May we borrow it?’

There was mischief in her eyes as she handed over the key, as though she was enjoying being part of a conspiracy against her stand-offish neighbour. ‘Go on. But you’d better let me have it back.’

‘We’re a bit worried about the family. We’ll just have a quick look to make sure everything’s OK,’ said Joe, taking the key. That was the official line and, from the ghost of a wink the woman gave him, she understood the situation.

‘I wonder if she’s had a look round the place already,’ Emily whispered as they made for number thirty-four.

‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’ He paused. ‘But if she has she might have been playing a dangerous game.’

Emily inserted the key into the lock and the door swung open silently as she called out ‘hello’ in a confident voice.

When there was no answer she stepped into the cramped hallway and flicked on the light switch.

Joe looked around. The hall was painted in bland magnolia and there were no pictures on the wall, or anything else that marked it out as someone’s personal space. If he hadn’t been told that Ethan McNeil had a wife, he would have said it lacked the feminine touch. A baby’s pushchair was folded up in the space under the stairs but this was the only sign of youthful life.

‘So we’re looking for a roll of carpet?’ Emily said as she began to wander from room to room.

‘If it was still in the office, surely Carla would have known. I think he took it home for some reason.’

‘Or she did,’ said Emily quietly. ‘There was something odd about her, don’t you think?’

Joe didn’t answer.

The living room was sparsely furnished and lit by a standard lamp in the corner of the room. There were oatmeal coloured vertical blinds at the windows which gave the place an institutional look.

Even the pile of brightly coloured plastic toys in the corner of the room looked wrong somehow. Too neatly arranged, perhaps or too shiny and new.

After a swift look in the kitchen, noting the bare worktops, Emily led the way upstairs. The wardrobe in the master bedroom contained men’s and women’s clothes but Emily observed that she’d never known a woman to have so little clothing . . . or so few shoes.

In the smallest room a night light glowed in the distant corner and Joe could see a mobile hanging over a cot. This was where the unusually quiet baby slept. He crept over to the cot and looked inside. But what he saw there made his heart almost miss a beat. A baby lay there on its side, its little face hidden in shadow. It lay quite still and seemingly fast asleep. He tiptoed out and found Emily on the landing. ‘The baby’s asleep in there. McNeil and his wife have left it on its own.’

‘We’d better call Social Services then,’ she said as she pushed past him into the small nursery. She bent over the cot and Joe saw her touch the baby’s head with gentle fingers. When she swung round to face him he knew something was wrong. ‘She’s cold, Joe. Put the light on.’

Joe obeyed and hurried over to the cot, hovering anxiously behind Emily who had stripped the bedding off the tiny body.

‘Oh God no,’ he murmured as he watched Emily’s fingers work quickly, feeling for a pulse, searching for signs of life.

Then suddenly she let the baby go and Joe saw her lips form a grim smile.

‘Is she alive?’

Emily didn’t answer. Then, to his alarm, she picked the baby up by its left foot and when she threw it to him he caught the small body in his outstretched hands and stared down at it in horror.

‘Creepy or what?’

It took Joe a second or so to realize the truth. What they’d both assumed was a baby was in reality a very lifelike doll. It would fool most people at a distance and it had certainly fooled them in the dim glow of the night light.

Emily took the doll from him and flung it back into the cot. ‘Good job we didn’t make fools of ourselves by getting social services out. But what I want to know is why.’

Suddenly Joe’s mobile rang and he fumbled to answer it. After a quick conversation he turned to Emily. ‘That was Jamilla. She’s just been round to Den Harvey’s and he identified the boy on the photo as Ethan McNeil. He said he used to hang around with him and Cassidy sometimes – trailed after them, was how he put it. And he reckoned there was something odd about him. He used to act oddly around girls and Sharon Bell thought he was creepy.’

‘That figures,’ Emily said, looking down at the doll. ‘When I saw McNeil he talked about his wife and baby – even had a photo of them on his desk. The family man. Is that what’s behind all this, Joe? Is he playing a part so women will trust him? And if there is a wife where is she now?’

‘Where is he for that matter?’

When they got downstairs Joe looked round again. This time he spotted something he’d missed the first time. A photograph on a shelf at the far end of the room amongst an assortment of paperbacks that looked unread.

Joe picked it up and looked at it. It was of a woman in a wedding dress but she wasn’t the woman whose picture had stood on the desk in McNeil’s office. When he examined it carefully he could tell that the picture had been folded over so that whoever was next to her – the bridegroom – had been cut out of the picture. Joe took the picture out of its frame and spread it out so he could see the whole image.

Paul Ferribie was instantly recognizable as the hidden bridegroom, even though the photo had been taken when he was in his twenties. And if Paul had been the groom it meant that the bride in the picture was Helen, Pet’s missing mother. But why did Ethan McNeil have a photograph of her in his house? He showed it to Emily and she gave a puzzled frown. It didn’t make sense. Yet.

‘Get the crime scene people to give this place a going over. And I want that office searched as soon as possible. We’d better keep looking for that carpet and we’ll get Carla Vernon down to the station for questioning while we’re at it. She knows something, I’m sure of it.’

But there was no sign of the carpet in the house or the shed and a search of the office drew a blank. Carla Vernon claimed she had no idea where it was. Not that Joe trusted a word she said. In his opinion she was more than capable of lying to put them off the scent.

But he knew one thing for certain: once they found that carpet they’d find the killing place.

Kirsten opened her eyes. She felt as if someone was hacking pieces out of her brain and her mouth was dry. She needed more water. But at least now she’d sobered up. She didn’t know why she’d got herself into that state and she swore it wouldn’t happen again. Maybe once she’d avenged her sister she would start to live again.

After their parents died she’d neglected her sister, Kaitlin, to lead a life of arid selfishness. Men and drugs had been her priority when she and Kaitlin should have been a comfort to each other. She’d gone away and left Kaitlin to her fate; to a man who, in spite of an impressive royal name, came from a large Catholic family crammed into a small terraced house in a Liverpool street. He’d tried the priesthood but that hadn’t lasted. Then after Kaitlin died he’d joined the police – a fine career for someone like that, a man who had let her sister die.

The thoughts swirled in her head as she tried to justify her actions and convince herself that she was in the right. When the doubts sometimes crept in she suppressed them rapidly. She wasn’t falling for Joe Plantagenet’s lies like her sister had done.

She heard a door open and close somewhere in the flat. He was back. She closed her eyes for a few seconds and sighed. She had intended to speak to him, to discover the truth, but her mind was fuzzy and there was no way she could muster the concentration to catch him out. She cursed herself for being so stupid. But intoxication of one kind or another had always been her weakness. She hadn’t even grasped the opportunity to search for evidence as she’d intended to do.

She closed her eyes tight when she heard footsteps coming down the hall. There was no way she wanted to talk to him now as she knew that he might take advantage of her vulnerability to convince her of his innocence and that was something she couldn’t face.

She thought he’d just peep in, see that she was asleep and go. But she heard his footsteps creeping towards her muffled by the carpet. She kept her eyes shut. She was in no state for conversation, polite or otherwise.

Then she felt something on her face. Something heavy and sticky sealing her eyelids together. And her mouth. She tried to scream but it was impossible to get the sound out. Her arms were pinioned behind her back and she felt herself being dragged off the sofa. But the more she struggled to resist, the tighter she was bound. Then she felt herself being flung on the ground and rolled over into something that smelled of damp and mothballs. Then she heard a zip being fastened and felt herself being moved at crazy angles so that her bruised limbs hit the floor. She felt as if she was being wheeled in some sort of large holdall, bound and disorientated.

Joe Plantagenet had gone too far this time, exposing her to a terror she hadn’t experienced since childhood when the bad demons came to her in nightmares.

A few phone calls lured the team from the Saturday evening comfort of their homes and a thorough search was being made of McNeil and Dutton’s offices. The motive behind the murders still baffled Joe. Why had the killer deprived each of his victims of one of their five senses? Maybe he’d explain when he was caught.

A patrol car had been sent to pick up Carla Vernon. Joe needed her to make a list of all the properties on McNeil and Dutton’s books. Then it would be a matter of waiting for the search teams to do their bit.

Emily was pacing up and down the office gnawing at her nails and Joe knew how she felt.

Cassidy had been out when they’d tried him earlier but Joe tried his number again and this time he was in luck.

‘You’re a friend of Ethan McNeil’s . . .’ he began as soon as he heard Cassidy’s voice.

‘More of an acquaintance really. Ethan’s a family man and he doesn’t go in for male bonding.’

‘You said he was with you on the night of Pet’s murder?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What time did he leave? And I want the truth this time. Think carefully.’

There was silence at the other end of the line. ‘I said midnight, didn’t I?’

‘If you tell us it was earlier, you won’t be incriminating yourself. I promise.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes. We need the truth now. The exact time he left.’

Cassidy hesitated. ‘I might have exaggerated a bit because I knew I needed an alibi. I wasn’t watching the clock but I think he left around ten thirty. Why?’

This was a question Joe didn’t want to answer just at that moment. ‘I need to know if he owns any properties in Eborby.’

‘He’s got a house in Hassledon. Bamford Road.’

‘Have you been there?’

‘Once.’

‘Was his wife there?’

‘She was away at her mum’s. She spends a lot of time there. He met her down in London and they only came back to Eborby eighteen months ago. Come to think of it, I’ve never actually met her.’

Somehow this was what Joe had been expecting to hear. ‘Does he own any other properties? Please think carefully.

‘I don’t know whether he’s got rid of his parents’ place. I came across it recently when I was looking for properties to develop – it was in a bit of a state so it was perfect for what I wanted. I contacted the Land Registry to find out who owned it and when I discovered that it was Ethan I was a bit surprised ‘cos he’d never mentioned it. When I asked him he said he’d inherited it from his parents and he hadn’t decided whether to sell it or not.’

‘I take it his parents are dead?’

‘His mum died years ago and I think his dad died just before he came back to Eborby but I couldn’t swear to it. Why are you asking all these questions?’

‘Where is this house?’

‘Flower Street, just south of the city centre. It’s a detached Victorian place – looks a bit “house of horrors” ‘cos nobody lives there. But with a full refurbishment . . .’ Cassidy hesitated for a moment. ‘Does this mean I’m in the clear?’

‘Thanks for your help, Mr Cassidy,’ Joe said.

As he ended the call Jamilla hurried up to him. ‘Carla Vernon’s been taken to McNeil and Dutton’s office. Want me to come with you?’

‘Yes. But I’ve got a call to make first. McNeil owns a property in Flower Street and I want to get someone over there.’

Once he’d informed Emily about the Flower Street development and arranged for a patrol car to check the house for signs of life, he left the police station with Jamilla. Carla was waiting for them in her office, sitting at the desk she normally used, arms folded defiantly. ‘It’s all nonsense,’ she said. ‘Ethan wouldn’t hurt anyone.’ There was aggression in her voice. And something else – uncertainty perhaps.

Joe pushed her in tray to one side and perched on the edge of the desk, his eyes fixed on her face as though he didn’t want to miss any telltale change of expression. ‘You seem very loyal.’ He saw her blush. ‘Are you having an affair with Ethan?’

She looked away but Joe continued. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong but I think he’s promised to leave his wife for you when the time’s right.’

‘They have a young baby so he won’t leave her in the lurch. I know that’s no good for me but it shows that he’s a decent man. He hasn’t done anything. You’re making a big mistake.’

Someone had to break the news and he reasoned it might as well be him . . . especially as a dose of truth might make her more willing to talk. ‘We don’t think Ethan’s wife exists, Carla . . . and there’s certainly no baby. It’s all a charade.’

She shook her head violently. ‘You’re lying.’

‘When one of our officers went to Ethan’s address to confirm Andrew Cassidy’s alibi for the time of Pet Ferribie’s murder, he spoke to a woman who said she was his wife. Was that woman you, Carla?’

‘His wife was away at her mother’s with the baby so he asked me to stand in for her because he really couldn’t afford the time to cope with all the intrusive questions the police ask people. He was at home but he didn’t have anyone to vouch for him so I stepped in. You do understand, don’t you? I was helping him.’ She looked at him with pleading eyes and Joe couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for her.

‘Did Pet Ferribie visit Ethan?’ He took Pet’s photo from his pocket and pushed it towards her. ‘She was trying to trace her mother who disappeared in Eborby some years ago.’

Carla hesitated. ‘Yes. She came to the office. She was going round all the estate agents. We couldn’t help her.’

‘She saw Ethan?’

As Carla nodded Joe was sure that he now knew the identity of Suit Man.

‘We need a list of any properties he has access to in or near the Fleshambles area.’

For a moment Carla looked as though she was about to refuse. But after a few seconds she stood up and walked over to a filing cabinet near the door. She took out a file and handed it to Joe. ‘These are details of all the office premises we’re handling round there.’

Joe handed the file back to her. She’d be able to do this quicker than he would. ‘Just make a list.’

As she began work Joe’s mobile rang.

When he answered it he heard Sunny’s voice on the other end of the line. ‘We’re at that house in Flower Street. He’s not here but a window was open round the back so we let ourselves in . . . just to check that all was well of course.’ Joe could imagine Sunny giving a meaningful wink as he said the words. ‘You should come down here and see the place. It’s seriously weird.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You’ll have to see for yourself. I’ve let the boss know and she’s on her way.’

‘Any sign of McNeil?’

‘A neighbour saw him driving up in a van earlier. He went into the house then came straight out again, as though he’d changed his mind.’

‘Thanks, Sunny. Get the place sealed off and I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

As he ended the call he heard Carla’s voice. ‘There are only two places. One in Queen’s Square and one on the Market Square.’

‘Are you sure that’s all?’

He suspected that she was lying so he took the file from her but when he looked through it, it seemed that she was right. Only two office properties fitted the bill.

His mobile rang and this time it was his neighbour, Shirley; a sensible and rotund woman in her sixties and owner of several cats. He’d told Kirsten to ask her for his spare key and he assumed that was the reason for her call.

‘Sorry to bother you, Joe, but I found your flat door wide open. I gave that lady the key like you said and I went inside to check she was alright but . . .’

He realized that Shirley sounded worried. ‘What is it, Shirley? What’s the matter?’

‘When I went in there was nobody there. And it looked as though there’d been some sort of struggle. I really think you should come back and have a look.’

He turned to Jamilla. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go. You see what else you can find out here and get someone to check out those premises.’

Jamilla followed him to the door. ‘Everything OK?’ she asked, lowering her voice.

‘My neighbour’s just called to say there’s a problem at my flat. I’ll get round there then I’ll join Sunny at Flower Street. You OK here?’

Jamilla nodded, glancing at Carla who was sitting at her desk staring ahead, her lips set in a stubborn line. ‘I’ll try and get her talking.’

Joe thanked her and rushed off. If Kirsten was playing silly games at a time like this he’d be very angry.

As Kirsten was driven away she felt as though she was about to suffocate. She was trapped in what she assumed was a large case or holdall with soft canvas sides and her whole body felt as though she’d been thrown from a great height. She tried to call out but her mouth was taped shut. There was tape over her eyes too, and over her ears, and she couldn’t move her limbs. She was in a dark unsteady world without sensation. When she’d accused Joe Plantagenet of killing her sister, she’d never thought for one moment that he was capable of anything so cruel, so calculating. It took a lot of hatred to take revenge like this.

She hadn’t seen her assailant’s face but she’d had the impression of someone tall, probably somebody Joe had paid to get rid of her. It must have been organized by her brother-in-law; nobody else knew she’d be there in his flat.

Everything she knew about Joe came from what Kaitlin had told her . . . and that had all been good because Kaitlin had been blinkered by infatuation. Kirsten, however, had built up an alternative picture as she’d constructed the case against him. She’d persuaded herself that he was a deceiver – a failed priest on the make, ready to take advantage of a wealthy and unworldly young woman. But when she’d met him the contrast between her expectation and the reality had shocked her and she’d had to struggle to convince herself that Joe was a good actor: a purveyor of lies wearing a false mask of honesty. There was no way that the man she’d found in Eborby was the real Joe Plantagenet.

The vehicle she was in had come to a sudden stop and when she tried to struggle in the confines of her trap she found movement impossible. She was at somebody else’s mercy and for the first time doubts began to creep in and she hoped she was right about the identity of her captor. If Joe had organized it to teach her a lesson and get her off his back, then he wouldn’t go any further. He’d given her a shock and that would be that. Surely.

Joe found Shirley flapping around like a worried hen.

‘I didn’t hear anything,’ she said, full of apology. ‘But then I had Strictly Come Dancing on rather loud and . . .’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Joe said, placing a reassuring hand on her arm before venturing inside his flat.

Shirley was right about the disturbance. The sofa had been pushed to one side and a lamp, still lit, lay on its side next to a pool of cold tea from an upturned mug on the wooden floor. Joe looked round, taking in the scene. Then he knelt down and picked something up from the floor. A tiny piece of fluff, possibly from a newish carpet. He couldn’t be sure from such a small sample but it seemed to be red, maybe with a fleck of blue. He rushed out into the passage where Shirley was still standing.

‘Did you see anyone come in or out this evening?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Or anybody hanging around the flats?’

Shirley thought for a while. Then she raised a finger. ‘I did have a peep out of the window just before Strictly started. A van was parked outside. I saw the driver get out and go round to the back. He took out one of those big wheelie holdalls and wheeled it towards the front door.’

‘Was it big enough to hold a person?’

Shirley looked a little shocked. ‘I suppose so, yes.’

‘Did you see this person enter the flats?’

‘Sorry. I didn’t see anything else after that because Strictly started.’

Joe bent forward and gave her a quick kiss. Shirley looked rather gratified and touched her cheek. ‘What kind of van was it? Can you remember?’

‘It wasn’t as big as a Transit. It was more the size of an estate car . . . only with no windows at the back if you know what I mean.

Joe knew alright. He called in the details. Soon all police patrols would be on the lookout for small dark-coloured vans.

‘And the driver? Did you get a look at him?’

‘No. He had his hood up – I thought it was a bit odd because it wasn’t raining.’

It was as Joe expected. Whoever had abducted Kirsten – if she had been abducted – would have been careful not to be identified. Joe thanked his neighbour, locked up his flat and rushed out into the night air.

He’d promised to join Sunny and Emily at Flower Street. There was always a possibility that McNeil would return there with his prey – if indeed he had got Kirsten. There was a strong chance that she’d made a mess and gone of her own accord as some kind of twisted joke. However, Shirley’s sighting of the van, the tiny shred of carpet fluff and the hooded figure with the holdall, big enough to hold a human body, indicated otherwise. But he wondered why, amongst all the women in Eborby, McNeil had picked on Kirsten.

He drove too fast to Flower Street and as soon as he turned the corner he saw an unmarked car and a patrol car parked outside the house at the end of the cul-de-sac.

He climbed from the car and looked up at the house. It was an ugly building, set on its own and separated from its neighbours by tall laurel hedges each side. There were lights on inside and he could see the old-fashioned interior through dirty, uncurtained windows. The front door was ajar and when he pushed it open he saw Emily standing in a narrow hallway with nicotine coloured walls. He thought she looked a little shocked, not her usual self.

‘What have you found?’ he asked.

‘Come and see for yourself.’

As Joe followed her upstairs he outlined what had just happened; Kirsten’s disappearance and the state of his flat. At first Emily made sceptical comments – until he told her about the holdall and the carpet fluff. Then she looked worried.

‘Why target Kirsten?’ she asked, puzzled, as they stood on the landing.

‘Perhaps he’s been watching my place.’

‘And if he’s been watching your place, he’s probably been watching mine,’ she said softly. He saw her suppress a shudder.

The thought that a killer had been spying on him made Joe uncomfortable. And Emily was right. If he was playing a game of cat and mouse with the police why wasn’t she a target?

‘Perhaps I should warn Jeff . . . The kids . . .’

‘If he’s just interested in young women they hardly qualify.’

‘Oh God, Joe, I hope you’re right.’ It was nine o’clock now but she made a quick call to Jeff, just to tell him not to let the kids out of his sight at any time. She finished the call and touched his arm gently. ‘Joe, you’d better see this.’

She opened the door to the back bedroom slowly and carefully. He could see she was wearing her crime scene gloves and he fished in his pocket and put on his own before following her into the room. There was no bed in there, just a large mahogany desk standing on a threadbare rug and a chest of drawers in the corner. The curtains were thick and half eaten by moths. The room smelled of decay and death and Joe had the uneasy feeling that he was being watched from the shadows by unseen, malevolent eyes.

There were sheets of paper around the walls, stuck to the faded flowered wallpaper with rusty drawing pins and, on close examination, he found that they were pages from old newspapers, yellowed with age. As he began to read he discovered that they dated from the eighteen nineties, the far off days before papers carried photographs. On each sheet an article was circled. The Shrowton murders.

‘There’s a book on the desk,’ said Emily. ‘A kind of diary.’

Joe walked slowly over to the desk and picked up a book that was lying in its centre. It was heavy and seemed to be bound in some sort of leather – pig skin perhaps. Joe opened it up.

‘Good job you’ve got those gloves on, Joe. Read the first page.’

He did as she suggested and instinctively dropped the thing back on the desk.

‘This book is made from the skin of Obediah Shrowton, hanged at Eborby prison thirteenth October 1896.’

He could see the pores in the tanned flesh and it made him feel a little nauseous. But he forced himself to open it again. He had to know what was written inside. In the light of the bare bulb dangling overhead he began to read.

‘I Jacob Caddy have the power over life and death. I am Death. The Reaper of souls. I have kissed the Demon and she urges me to kill.’

He turned to Emily. ‘Have you read this?’

She nodded. ‘I talked to the neighbours before you arrived. They’ve been here for years and they remember Ethan McNeil’s parents . . . said they “kept themselves to themselves”, which I took to be a coded way of saying they were odd. They hardly saw Ethan when he was growing up but they often heard him crying and they said he was unusually quiet. I suppose these days someone would have called in Social Services.’

‘Anything else?’

‘The house has been in the same family since it was built in the 1880s so if that’s true it means that McNeil’s a descendant of Jacob Caddy.’

‘Keeping up the family business,’ Joe said almost in a whisper as he began to read the next page of the horrible journal.

It was an account of the murders of Obediah Shrowton’s family and servants. A cold-blooded narrative outlining each blow. The fact that he had split the skull of Obediah’s wife open so that he could see her brain seeping out of the broken skin. And there was more about demons. The demons Caddy embraced who urged him on to terrible acts. He wrote dispassionately about how he despised Shrowton whose high-handed attitude to him as a tradesman had rankled. As Joe turned the pages he discovered that other people who had offended Caddy, either in reality or his imagination, had died too. Some of these murders went unsolved, others blamed on somebody amongst the victim’s family or close associates. Caddy himself, he wrote, had never come under suspicion. His demons had protected him . . . and the fact that he wore the mask of the harmless, jolly butcher. Caddy’s business had prospered and he had settled in this house. His demons had seen him right.

‘Was his demon real, do you think?’ Emily asked unexpectedly.

This possibility had never occurred to Joe. He had assumed that the demons were in Caddy’s head. ‘He refers to the demon as “she” and talks about kissing it. Maybe it was a woman urging him on. But why? It doesn’t make sense.’

He moved slowly round the room. There was a dusty bookcase filled with notebooks. He picked one out but the lists of times, numbers and scribbled notes they contained didn’t make much sense. The name written neatly on the covers was Prof. G. McNeil. Presumably a relative.

Suddenly he heard a voice shouting from downstairs. ‘Ma’am, we’ve got that door open.’

‘They’ve been trying to open the door to the cellar,’ Emily explained. ‘It was locked and it seemed to be reinforced with something. I’m not looking forward to seeing what’s down there.’

They made their way down the stairs in silence. When they reached the hall Joe saw that the door under the stairs was ajar and the uniformed constable was standing next to it with a solemn expression on his face.

Joe knew the question had to be asked. ‘Has somebody had a look down there?’

The constable nodded but he said nothing. As Joe descended the narrow stairs he expected to see more dust and cobwebs but it looked as though the stairs had been recently cleaned and when he reached the bottom he found himself in the cellar with brick walls and a roughly cobbled floor. The bare bulb overhead was lit but there was darkness in the corners.

‘There’s nothing here,’ he heard Emily say. He had almost forgotten she was there behind him.

‘There’s another door.’ Joe strode across the cobbled floor and when he tried the door he found it locked and swore softly under his breath.

‘Is this any good?’

He turned and saw that Emily was holding a large iron key. ‘It was hanging on that hook over there,’ she said, pointing to an old rusty hook protruding from the wall.

Joe took it from her and put it in the lock. It was stiff but it turned eventually. ‘Go on,’ Emily said impatiently as the door creaked open.

He took his torch from his coat pocket, glad she was close behind him. No outside light penetrated into that small, brick-lined room, empty apart from a filthy mattress against the far wall and a bucket in the corner. The place smelled dank and musty. And it smelled, Joe thought, of suffering.

‘Oh God,’ Emily muttered. ‘This must be where he brought them.

Joe shook his head. ‘That door hasn’t been opened in years. He doesn’t bring them here, I’m sure of that. He uses this house but this isn’t where he takes his victims.’

‘So what’s this room for? Oh bloody hell, Joe, it makes my flesh creep.’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Joe said quietly. ‘But I’m sure it’s been used to imprison someone at one time.’

‘Who?’

‘It’s an old house. It could have been used at any time.’

He walked forward into the dank little chamber, eight foot square. The mattress looked ancient, as did the old enamel bucket with the nasty stains in the base. On the wall next to the door was something Joe hadn’t noticed at first glance. A pair of hooks, rusty like the one in the main cellar. From one hung a length of fraying rope. From the other dangled something that looked like part of a medieval helmet. But this was no protection for a human head, just a cage with a piece of iron protruding inwards where the tongue should be. Both the rope and the metal contraption were encased in cobwebs and once the door was shut, the place would be completely dark.

He heard Emily draw in a sharp breath. ‘I’ve seen one of those before in a museum. It’s a scold’s bridle.’

‘It’s rusty. And look at the cobwebs – it hasn’t been used for years.’

‘Certainly not on our victims but there’s a theme here, Joe. No light, soundproof room, hands tied together with the rope so you can’t feel your way around the walls. And that thing to imprison your tongue.’ Joe saw her shudder in the torchlight. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Joe followed Emily out of the cellar, leaving the door to that dreadful room wide open. Being in there had disturbed him, as though demons had been concealed there in the shadowy corners. Something terrible had happened in there. But none of the evidence pointed to it being the scene of the murders of Pet Ferribie or Anna Padowski. They had died in another place.

When they reached the hall Emily addressed the half dozen officers who’d been waiting there in case McNeil returned. ‘Right, I want a couple of you to get this place sealed off so the Crime Scene people can have a good look round . . . with particular attention to the cellar. Everyone else I want out looking for McNeil’s van. He might be somewhere in the city centre.’

Joe saw one of the newer detective constables looking at her curiously. ‘Am I right in thinking, ma’am, that he’s got another victim?’

Emily gave the lad an appreciative look. ‘Let’s just say we need to find him urgently. There is a possibility he might have picked up someone else.’

‘Who, ma’am?’

‘Just let’s find him, eh.’

As they left the house Joe whispered in her ear. ‘You don’t reckon Kirsten could have arranged all this? If she had a look at my case notes and . . .’

‘Bit of an elaborate charade just to get back at you. But from what you say . . .’

Emily didn’t have a chance to finish her sentence before her mobile rang. After a short conversation she caught hold of Joe’s arm. She looked excited, as if the breakthrough they’d been waiting for might just be in view.

‘That was Jamilla. She decided to use her initiative and compare the list Carla provided with the details on the office computer. She found another address – an empty office on the Fleshambles that belongs to McNeil and Dutton. When she asked Carla why she hadn’t included it on her list she claimed that it wasn’t a property they rent out on behalf of clients so she’d completely forgotten about it. The bitch was lying, of course. Come on.’

Joe drove, switching on the blue flashing lights built into the unmarked car, while Emily sat in the passenger seat calling for back up.

It took ten minutes to get to the heart of the city and when they neared their destination Joe drove down Coopergate and turned left down a pedestrianized street, making for the market square behind the Fleshambles. He drove slowly, receiving curious stares as the wandering tourists parted to let him through. He negotiated the narrow street leading on to the square and brought the car to a halt in a space next to a small navy blue van parked well away from the nearest street lamp.

‘Do you reckon that’s his van?’ he asked as they got out of the car.

Emily didn’t answer. Then, as if by mutual agreement, they dashed towards the narrow snickleway that led on to the Fleshambles. The passage was too cramped for them to walk two abreast so Joe, the faster runner, went first.

‘What number?’ Emily snapped, following close behind.

‘Fifteen.’

They reached the street and rushed along its length. Most of the little shops weren’t numbered but finally they found a souvenir shop that bore the number nine. They counted along. Nine, eleven, thirteen. Fifteen was a jeweller’s shop and any other time Emily would have taken an interest in the expensive items glinting in the window. But when she could see no obvious way up to the jutting storey above the shop, Joe saw her clench her fists and ram her right hand down on the wide windowsill.

‘Round the back.’ Joe sensed that their quarry was near.

As they rushed back down the snickleway towards the jumble of back yards behind the shops, a maze of rickety gates, fire escapes and outbuildings, Joe stopped running and tried to get his bearings, suddenly plunged into despair. Then he felt Emily’s guiding hand on his arm.

‘Come on,’ she said as she rushed along the row, counting to herself as Joe followed. Then she stopped abruptly and he almost cannoned into her. ‘This is it.’

Joe saw a battered wooden gate, half falling off its hinges, bearing the number fifteen scrawled in faded white paint.

Emily gave it a hefty push and when it gave way they both stumbled into a back yard full of junk: defunct office chairs, wooden crates and even an antiquated desk top computer. Half the yard was sheltered from the elements by a corrugated roof but this hadn’t protected the items dumped there from damp. They picked their way through a narrow gap and found themselves facing a half glazed back door.

‘Do we go in or do we wait for back up?’ Joe whispered.

Emily froze, listening for the sound of approaching sirens on the night air. ‘Let’s go in.’

Joe put his hand on the door and to his surprise it opened silently. They stepped inside a small lobby, dimly lit by the tall street-light standing just outside the yard. On one side Joe could see a solid steel door which, presumably, led into the jeweller’s shop. Ahead of them was a narrow staircase. He took his torch from his pocket and shone it upwards. In the torch beam he could see a white painted door at the top so he began to climb, Emily following behind. When they reached the small landing at the top he doused the torch. The last thing they wanted was for whoever was in there to see the light under the door.

They stood there listening for any telltale noises but all they could hear was the sound of sirens, distant at first then getting nearer. Then very near as though they’d burst into the market square. ‘Now,’ Emily hissed.

Joe put a tentative hand on the door handle and felt a frisson of satisfaction when he discovered that, like the back door, it was unlocked. He gave the door an almighty shove and it banged open. He fumbled for a light switch by the entrance and the cramped hallway was flooded with light, revealing three closed doors.

Emily gave the first door a kick and when it burst open they saw a tiny, shabby kitchen. ‘Stay there,’ she hissed to Joe as she opened the second door. Joe watched her, tensing his body in case he needed to rugby tackle a fleeing murderer. Emily switched on the light but all he could see in the watery light of the overhead bulb was an empty, unremarkable office, carpeted in grey.

He marched towards the third door, their last option, kicked it open and reached for the light. But again the room was empty. Joe swore under his breath.

‘What do we do now?’ Emily muttered.

Joe didn’t answer. The van was outside and McNeil owned the premises, a fact which Carla had gone to some trouble to conceal from Jamilla. He wasn’t going to give up yet.

He stepped into the first office and looked around. But he saw nothing that might conceal a hiding place. The second office was the same.

‘He’s not here, Joe.’ Emily sounded despondent. ‘The back up’s arrived so I’ll get them to seal off the area.’

Joe didn’t reply. He made for the tiny kitchen and switched on the light. It too was empty, the stained worktops bare of even the most basic equipment. Joe began to shut the door when he spotted something: another door that had been hidden when the door was wide open. Emily had come up behind him to investigate and when she saw it their eyes met.

‘It’ll be a cupboard,’ she said in a whisper. ‘But we’d better have a look.’

Joe counted to three before he put his shoulder to the door and it gave way with a crash.

Instead of the expected cupboard or larder, the door opened on to a large, low-ceilinged room with a subdued light in the corner. There was no tell tale glow of a window to the outside world and he guessed that it might once have been part of an attic in the higgledy-piggledy building. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw a figure crouching at the far end like a wild beast guarding its prey.

‘Hello, Ethan,’ Joe said quietly, watching the figure as he felt for a light switch. But the wall was bare.

‘We’ve got back up downstairs. You can’t get away now.’ As the killer straightened himself up, Joe spotted a shape on the floor, lying quite still. And he could make out something in Ethan’s right hand. Something long and slim. A knife.

As Joe crept closer, he could hear Emily breathing behind him and he was strengthened by the knowledge that he wasn’t alone.

‘Is that Kirsten?’

There was no answer and the shape on the floor didn’t stir.

‘I’ve seen the cellar in Flower Street, Ethan. I know why you’re doing this.’

Joe could almost feel the killer’s body tensing.

‘They kept you in there, didn’t they?’

Joe heard a strangled cry of pain, swiftly cut off. He thought it came from the killer rather than his victim.

‘Why don’t you come outside? We’ll look after Kirsten.’ He couldn’t be absolutely sure it was Kirsten but he thought he’d take a chance.

All of a sudden he heard a howl, the desperate sound of a cornered, wounded beast, and the figure dropped to his knees, shifting Kirsten’s body on to his lap. He sat there quite still, forming a shadowy tableau that reminded Joe of the carved Pietas he had seen during his years when he’d thought of giving his life to the church. But this was no mother mourning her son: this was a killer mourning, if not his victim, then his own damaged life.

Joe shook off Emily’s restraining hand and began to walk slowly towards him, bowing his head because of the lowness of the ceiling. He could hear the killer sobbing as he held Kirsten close. But he wasn’t sobbing for her. He was sobbing for himself.

Joe had reached him now. He knelt down on the square of carpet – thick piled and still smelling of fresh wool – and took Kirsten in his arms, hardly daring to check whether or not she was still alive. He could hear a commotion downstairs. Their back up had arrived.

There was little resistance when he took the knife from Ethan’s hand and flung it away into a far corner of the room. Emily had been hovering by the door but now she moved swiftly to summon help.

Joe didn’t take his eyes off Ethan but he was aware of Emily returning a minute or so later with more officers who entered almost silently, as if they were unwilling to break the spell.

‘Take her out till the ambulance arrives,’ he said in a loud whisper, his eyes still fixed on the killer who was kneeling, perfectly still, on the carpet in front of him. Before a large uniformed officer took Kirsten’s dead weight from him with surprising gentleness, Joe felt on her neck for a pulse. He couldn’t find one but he was no expert. All he could do was to say a swift prayer that she’d live; that she wouldn’t die cursing him as her sister’s murderer. He had felt blood, warm and sticky on his hands, but he hadn’t dared to look too closely. That horror could wait.

Then finally he found himself alone with the killer. Facing him there in the semi darkness.

‘Tell me about the room in the cellar, Ethan.’

He waited but Ethan said nothing. If the room in the cellar had anything to do with why he’d killed all those women, he was keeping his secret to himself.

‘You’ll have to come with me now,’ Joe said softly.

To his surprise the man struggled to his feet and stood there with his head bowed. Joe took his arm, ready to lead him out of that low attic room. But as he touched the sleeve of his shirt he felt it was damp and sticky. He led him out into the light of the small kitchen and then into the hallway where the others were waiting. Emily was there and he saw her eyes widen in horror as she stared at the prisoner.

He had been so concerned with getting Kirsten and the killer out of that room safely that he hadn’t bothered to look at Ethan’s face. But now he did he saw to his horror that blood was bubbling from the man’s mouth and that his clothes were covered in sticky, shiny red. And when Ethan McNeil opened his mouth to speak the only sound that emerged was a low animal moan.

He had cut out his own tongue.