Kissing the Demons

When they returned to the police station through the quiet streets it was almost midnight and the first thing Emily did was to hurry to her office to ring Jeff – to let him know I’m still alive, she joked. But if things had gone differently it might not have been a joking matter.

He waited for her in the incident room. There was somebody they needed to talk to. Jamilla had questioned Carla Vernon and, according to her report, the woman knew more than she was telling. Now that Ethan had been caught, there was a chance that Carla would understand that she couldn’t protect him any more.

There was a hush over the whole building as he walked down the dimly lit corridors to the interview room with Emily at his side. Even though they’d caught the killer, nobody felt much like celebrating. Maybe things would be different in a couple of days.

Carla was waiting for them. During their absence she’d acquired a solicitor, a slim, horse-faced young woman in a grey trouser suit who looked as though she’d rather be somewhere else.

Carla looked exhausted. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was a mess; she looked so different from the businesslike woman they’d first encountered at the offices of McNeil and Dutton.

Joe sat down beside Emily and switched on the tape machine that sat at the end of the table. He outlined everything that had happened that evening at the office above the Fleshambles jewellers, leaving nothing out. Then he gave a vivid account of Ethan’s injuries, telling her he would be charged with the murders of at least three women, probably more, and the attempted murder of Kirsten . . . if she pulled through.

Carla bowed her head but there was still a hint of spirit, of defiance, in her eyes.

‘Is there anything you want to tell me, Carla? Did you know what he’d done?’

She shook her head vigorously.

Then he told her about their visit to the house in Flower Street and Carla looked up.

‘He took me there once,’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘He told me about his stepfather. He told me what he did to him.’

‘What did he do?’ Joe thought he knew the answer but he wanted it confirmed.

Carla was silent for a few moments and when she spoke her voice shook a little. ‘Ethan’s real father died when he was three. His mother married again but the man she married liked to experiment. It was just trivial things at first. Cutting his hair and seeing how long it took to grow back. Then finding out how well he could see in the dark after he’d eaten certain foods.’

She hesitated.

‘Go on.’

‘Then his mother died and that’s when the tests got really cruel.’

‘He imprisoned him in the cellar?’

There was no reply. Joe repeated the question.

‘He told him he wanted to see what would happen if he couldn’t see. He said he was interested in what would happen when he was let out. Then it was hearing. He tied earphones on him and transmitted white noise so he couldn’t hear. Then he put padded gloves on him and tied his hands behind his back so he’d be deprived of the sense of touch. And he had a horrible bridle he put on him so that he couldn’t move his tongue to stop him making a noise or even taste anything. And he recorded it all. He wrote it all down.’

‘Who was this stepfather? What did he do for a living?’

‘He was a professor at the university. He was researching the effects of sensory deprivation. He published papers on it. Ethan showed them to me.’

‘Professor G McNeil. I think I found his notebooks at the house.’

Joe looked at Emily, imagining the terrified child in the darkness. ‘I presume this man is dead?’

She nodded. ‘He died a couple of years ago. That’s when Ethan inherited the house. He came back from London and bought Dutton out.’

‘In an upstairs room there’s a lot of material about a Victorian murder case – a man called Obediah Shrowton who was supposed to have murdered his family.’

Carla nodded again. ‘That was another of Professor McNeil’s interests. He’d found stuff up in the attic. There was even a diary covered in Shrowton’s skin. Ethan showed it to me. Professor McNeil discovered that the real killer actually lived in that house . . . His name was Jacob Caddy and Ethan was his direct descendant. His real name’s Caddy, you know, but his stepfather made him take his name. McNeil used to tell Ethan that he had bad blood. Evil blood. That there were demons inside him. How can someone say that to a child?’

Joe sat quiet for a while. It disgusted him that a grown man could treat a child with such icy, sadistic cruelty. When people thought of abuse these days, they tended to think of the sexual kind. But the calculated torture of a child for supposedly scientific purposes was just as evil.

‘Weren’t the neighbours ever suspicious?’ Emily asked.

‘Professor McNeil was a highly respected man, an academic. Nobody asks questions of respected men, do they?’

The face of Barrington Jenks leapt unbidden into Joe’s mind. Carla was right. The mask of respectability can conceal many dark sins.

‘Why do you think Ethan told you all this?’ he asked.

Carla looked up at him, suddenly defiant. ‘Because he loves me and he wanted me to know everything about him. Because he was going to leave his wife for me. I can’t believe he killed those women. He’d been through hell when he was a kid and he’d been hurt so much himself that he’d never put anybody else through that.’

Joe was reluctant to tell her that it often didn’t work like that. Carla was deluding herself. But she wouldn’t be the first woman to do so and she, no doubt, wouldn’t be the last.

Emily gave him a gentle nudge with her elbow and he announced that the interview was over for the benefit of the tape.

‘I’ll send someone along to take a formal statement,’ he said to Carla. ‘Then you’ll be able to go home.’ He looked at the solicitor who seemed anxious to be on her way to salvage what remained of her ruined Saturday night. ‘I’m afraid there may be charges . . .’

‘I need to see Ethan,’ Carla said pathetically.

It was Sunday but this Sunday wouldn’t be a day of rest. They had interviews to conduct and they would have to see Kirsten and McNeil if the doctors judged them well enough to receive visitors.

After the swiftest of showers Joe was about to put on the clothes he’d been wearing the night before but he noticed that they bore smears of blood. He rushed into his small kitchen wearing only his boxer shorts and threw the clothes straight into the washing machine. He’d see to them later.

He put on the only shirt that wasn’t in his ironing pile and a pair of trousers he found hiding in the dark depths of his wardrobe, before leaving and making for the police station. As he walked he called Emily’s number on his mobile. Although it was nine o’clock she was already at her desk. Somehow he knew she would be.

She told him that the doctors hadn’t given the go-ahead for either Kirsten or McNeil to be interviewed but they were going to review the situation later in the day. Joe felt a pang of disappointment because he’d been looking forward to getting the whole affair cleared up. Then he had an idea. There was something he wanted to do. And this might be the right time to do it.

‘I’m going to see Pet Ferribie’s housemates. Then I think I should have another word with her father.’

Emily considered the suggestion for a few moments before saying ‘fine’. Soon they’d be fully occupied with tying up all the loose ends of the investigation so he should grab the opportunity to give the victims’ friends and relatives some police attention while he had the chance. He borrowed a pool car from the car park and drove to Bearsley through deserted streets.

Thirteen Torland Place had been on Joe’s mind and he wondered whether the gaping hole in the ceiling above Matt Bawtry’s bedroom had been fixed. He’d been a little concerned about Matt and how the traumatic experience of having a mummified corpse landing on his bed had affected him.

The curtains at number fifteen next door were all shut against the feverish press attention of the past couple of days. But with the advent of more dramatic fare in the form of last night’s police activity, it seemed that the fourth estate had lost interest in the tale of the MP and the schoolgirls; a story which would surely have provided front page material for days in happier times.

The curtains at number thirteen were closed too but that didn’t stop Joe ringing the doorbell twice. He wasn’t surprised when he had a long wait. But eventually his patience was rewarded when Caro, wrapped cosily in a long towelling dressing gown, answered the door. As she stood aside to let him in he thought she seemed more friendly today, more relaxed.

‘The news said you’ve arrested someone for Pet’s murder?’

‘That’s right.’

‘It wasn’t Cassidy, was it?’

Joe shook his head. He was about to say that it was nobody they knew but then he remembered that Cassidy had called in Ethan when he needed a valuation on number thirteen. He had been there, in the sanctuary of Pet’s house, probably after marking her out as a victim when she’d visited his office in search of her mother. He had infiltrated the party dressed as the Grim Reaper to watch his prey and the thought made him shudder.

When he told Caro the identity of the killer, she nodded as though she’d known it all along. Then he asked her whether Matt was in and she said she’d heard sounds from his room – now cleaned out and repaired by Cassidy – and when she offered to go upstairs and chivvy him out, Joe thanked her.

He entered the living room and was surprised to find that it no longer felt oppressive, almost as though some sort of curse had been lifted. But Joe told himself not to be so imaginative.

He waited there five minutes before Matt appeared in the doorway fully dressed in jeans and a T-shirt proclaiming the virtues of a certain local brew.

‘Hi, Matt. You OK?’

Matt nodded.

‘Recovered from your shock?’

‘Suppose so.’ Matt gave a coy grin. ‘I went out last night and I’m finding it rather a good chat up line.’

Joe looked round, wondering what had changed since his last visit. ‘I get the feeling there’s something different about this place. I can’t think what but . . .’

Matt sat down heavily on one of the old wooden chairs arranged around the table. ‘Even Jason commented on it last night. It’s like . . . like there was a sort of atmosphere of misery but now it feels normal. Does that sound really stupid?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘It seemed to happen all of a sudden. When we got back last night the place seemed different – like it wasn’t the same house. Do you think it was something to do with that girl in the loft? I feel stupid thinking about presences and all that . . .’

Joe hesitated, wondering if what he was about to say would sound foolish. But he said it anyway. ‘Last night we discovered for certain that Obediah Shrowton was framed for the murders that happened here. He didn’t do it and we’ve proved his innocence once and for all.’

Matt looked astonished. Then he smiled. ‘Maybe that’s it. Old Obediah’s cleared his name.’ He glanced upwards. ‘Caro said you’ve caught him . . . the man who killed Pet. She said it was that mate of Cassidy’s who came round to view the place. Do you think Cassidy knew?’

Joe shook his head. ‘I think he was as fooled as anyone.’

Then someone else spoke. ‘If I get my hands on the bastard I’d rip his throat out.’ Jason was standing in the doorway, his fists clenched by his side. He looked angry. And Joe could hardly blame him.

Matt frowned. ‘Why did he have to go and kill Pet?’ He bowed his head. ‘She was lovely. Like an angel.’

Joe stood up. He’d broken the news and his job was done. ‘Never forget her, will you,’ he said quietly.

Matt shook his head. ‘I won’t forget. She’ll stay with me forever.