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.