NINE
Caro had no more lectures
that day but that didn’t mean she didn’t have work to do. She had
always been the conscientious sort, keeping up with her reading and
essays so that she didn’t get left behind. The truth was that she’d
never felt particularly confident about her abilities. While other
girls at her private school had floated effortlessly along on a sea
of good grades with minimum effort, Caro had had to strive for
every A and B she gained.
Since she’d moved into number thirteen her marks
had started to slip and she knew that if she didn’t do something
about it, it would all end in tears and ignominy. There had been
times when she’d thought that the house itself was making her
restless and unable to concentrate. She liked to be in control –
and that was something she was finding increasingly difficult in
Torland Place.
She looked down at the mobile phone she’d been
turning over and over in her hand and suddenly recalled that she’d
seen Matt taking pictures with it at the party on Friday night.
He’d found it on the mantelpiece and he’d been snapping away when
she’d seen him and snatched it back, making it quite clear that he
had no right to interfere with her private property. His riposte
was that she shouldn’t have left it there and he probably had a
point but she’d put it down during the preparations and forgotten
about it. The police had asked for pictures but she’d forgotten all
about the incident till now.
She began to flick through the pictures, viewing
the images of drunken revelry with increasing disapproval. Until
she came to a picture of Pet pouting at the camera. Teasing. She
stared for a while at the image of the dead girl. Strange, she
thought, how life can be so swiftly snuffed out.
It seemed hard to believe that there was nothing of
Pet left but a lifeless, rotting corpse. When she’d been alone in
her room last night, she’d been sure she’d smelled her dead
housemate’s distinctive perfume and heard a rustling over by the
door. Then she thought of the seance and shuddered. She should
never have allowed it. She knew that now.
She continued to scroll through the pictures until
she saw one that caught her attention. One of the detectives had
told her that Jason had seen somebody dressed as the Grim Reaper at
the party and she’d thought it was Jason’s idea of a joke. But here
he was, a figure draped in black with a half-hidden skeleton face,
leaning over the banisters at the top of the stairs, watching. She
suddenly went cold. Here was Death standing in the shadows, seeking
out someone to devour – and that someone had been Pet.
She put in a call to the number DCI Thwaite had
left before examining the picture more closely. Surely Death was
just a person in fancy dress, someone with a macabre sense of
humour. But there was something behind the anonymous figure, a
nebulous, vaguely human shape, faint and misty. But it was probably
something that had got on to the lens, a spot of liquid maybe.
There was always some rational explanation.
Petulia’s stepmother was being driven up to Eborby
to identify the body. Sally Sharpe was booked to do the post-mortem
at four thirty so, if Joe and Emily were to interview Mrs Ferribie
beforehand, time was tight and there was still a lot they didn’t
know about Pet Ferribie’s life.
‘Ma’am.’
Joe and Emily looked up and saw DC Jamilla Dal
standing at the door of Emily’s office.
‘We’ve looked through the CCTV footage of the Early
Music Festival on Stone Street. The victim’s there one minute and
then there’s nothing after that. She must have slipped away down a
side street or alley.’ She took a deep breath. This wasn’t all.
‘And we’ve got an ID on the musician she was watching.’
Joe tilted his head to one side. ‘Let me guess, is
it Ian Zepper?’
Jamilla’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘How did you
know?’
‘His name’s already come up.’ He looked at his
watch. ‘He was out this morning but he should be back at the
university by now.’
‘Do you want me to ring the university and find
out?’
Emily shook her head vigorously. ‘No. I prefer the
element of surprise.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘If we’re quick we
can get over there before Petulia’s stepmum arrives.’
Joe didn’t say much as they drove out to the
university campus, built in the 1960s just outside the far-flung
suburbs on the south side of the city. He drove on autopilot, the
problem of Kirsten still nagging at the back of his mind, although
he was trying his best to forget her and her poisonous words.
He parked the car in an area marked staff only and
they made straight for the administration block, walking beside the
large lake around which the University of Eborby had been built. It
was said that there were more geese and ducks there than students
and, from the squawking and quacking as they passed, Joe could
quite believe it.
When they reached the concrete admin block they
were greeted by a plump middle-aged woman who seemed to take a
visit from the police in her stride. She expressed no curiosity
when they asked whether Ian Zepper was on the premises, but told
them that Dr Zepper had just finished teaching and should be found
in his office in the music department. Joe thanked her and followed
her directions, Emily walking silently by his side.
The music department was housed in another concrete
block, no concession having been made by the 1960s’ planners for
artistic sensibilities. A student carrying a violin case directed
them to Dr Zepper’s office on the ground floor and Joe’s knock was
greeted by a weary ‘Come in if you must.’
Joe pushed open the door and stepped inside,
warrant card at the ready. He was conscious of Emily behind him and
he knew she’d be taking in the scene and making her usual snap
judgements . . . which usually turned out to be
right.
He recognized Zepper immediately from the TV
footage Emily had showed him earlier, although now he was dressed
in an open-necked striped shirt and corduroy trousers rather than
medieval costume. He had a mouth that naturally turned up at the
corners and Joe sensed that he possessed that most elusive of
qualities, charisma.
He stood up and shook hands, a concerned frown on
his face. ‘What can I do for you? If it’s about that speeding fine,
I assure you the cheque’s in the post.’ His lips twitched upwards
in a wary smile. ‘But I expect they all say that.’
‘It’s not about speeding, Dr Zepper. You were
playing with the Eborby Waits on Saturday morning, I
believe?’
‘That’s right. One of the Waits is away and I stood
in for him at the festival. Early music is a particular interest of
mine. The original Waits, of course, were employed by the city –
they were given livery and four pounds a year to play music during
the winter months and act as watchmen and announce the time around
the streets.’ He hesitated, aware that he was talking too much.
‘Look, what’s this about?’
‘Do you know a girl called Petulia Ferribie?’
‘She’s one of my students. Why?’
‘I’m afraid she’s dead, Dr Zepper.’ Joe watched the
man’s reaction carefully.
Ian Zepper looked genuinely shocked. ‘Dead? How?
When? Was it an accident or . . . ?’
‘Her body was found first thing this morning behind
Bearsley Leisure Centre.’ He paused. ‘She’d been murdered.’
Zepper slumped back into his chair, stunned. Then
he looked up at Joe accusingly, as though he suspected he was
playing some cruel joke. ‘Are you sure it’s Pet? Has anybody
identified her?’
‘We’ve identified her from a photograph and her
stepmother’s travelling up from Dorset to do a formal ID.’
‘You’ve got it wrong. It can’t be her.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Emily asked.
Zepper didn’t answer, he stood up and stared out of
the window which gave a view of the lake, as though seeking
inspiration.
‘Petulia was last seen on Saturday morning in the
crowd watching the concert given by the Waits. She appears on news
footage of the event watching your performance very intently. Then
she disappears, probably down some alley or side street.’
Zepper put his head in his hands. Then, after a few
moments he looked up. ‘There’s an old story that a beautiful woman
in white used to emerge from one of the city churchyards and follow
the Waits – always at a respectful distance – then she’d suddenly
disappear. It was said she was a ghost but . . .’ He
suddenly looked a little embarrassed. ‘I’m
sorry . . . but there was something a little
other-worldly about Pet. Sorry, I’m rambling, aren’t I, but it’s
come as a shock.’ He straightened his back and took a deep, calming
breath. ‘Look, I’d like to help you but I really don’t know how I
can.’
‘I take it you saw Pet at the concert?’
‘I noticed her in the audience at one point but I
didn’t have a chance to acknowledge her.’
‘Where did you go when the concert was over?’
‘We changed back into our normal clothes at the
Early Music Centre then we all went for lunch and a few pints at
the Swan on Ditchgate. I was with my fellow musicians till around
three o’clock. Look, like I said I saw her in the audience then I
never saw her again. And I certainly had nothing to do with her
death.’
‘We never said you did, Dr Zepper. We’re just
speaking to everyone who knew her.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry. Look if I can help in any
way . . .’
‘Were you at a party at Pet’s house in Torland
Place on Friday night by any chance?’
‘No. I’m not in the habit of going to student
parties.’
‘Do you know a man called Andy Cassidy?’ Joe
asked.
There was no mistaking it, Zepper had turned pale.
But he soon regained his composure.
‘I knew him when he was younger. I used to teach
his sister the piano.’
‘Why would he want to implicate you in Pet’s
disappearance?’
Zepper remained silent for a few seconds. Then he
shook his head, avoiding Joe’s gaze. ‘I’ve really no idea.’
Joe didn’t believe him but he let it
rest . . . for now.
‘Who were Pet’s special friends? Anybody she used
to hang round with. Anyone you can think of who might be able to
help us.’
‘You’d have to ask the students she lived
with.’
‘I believe she was planning to move into your house
next year.’
‘I have a self-contained flat that I let to
students. She was going to share with another girl from the
department.’
‘Was she close to this girl?’
‘I don’t think so. It was just an arrangement of
convenience as far as I know.’
‘We’ll need to speak to everyone who knew her in
the department.’
Zepper gave a resigned nod. ‘I’m sure nobody here
would be able to help you. Surely it was a mugging
or . . . ? Was she . . . you
know . . . sexually assaulted
or . . . ?’
‘We’re not sure yet, sir,’ said Joe quickly. There
had certainly been no sign of sexual violence but they would have
to wait for the post-mortem to learn more.
Joe had waited till the end to ask the next
question. ‘Were you close to Pet?’
‘There was nothing improper about our relationship,
if that’s what you’re getting at. She was an unusual girl; very
sensitive. And she would have made a very fine musician. Her
death’s a tragedy, Inspector, but I know nothing that might be
relevant to your investigation. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.’
The vehemence of his words almost convinced Joe
that he was telling the truth. Almost, but not quite.
‘Where were you at eleven thirty on Saturday
night?’
‘I was at home. And before you ask, I have no
witnesses. I did some work and had an early night.’
They took their leave with a warning that they
might be in touch. In Joe’s experience it was always best to leave
them a little on their guard.
‘What do you think?’ Joe asked as he climbed into
the driver’s seat.
‘I think he knows more than he’s letting on. Do you
agree?’
Before Joe could answer, his mobile phone began to
ring. When the call ended he turned to Emily. ‘Mrs Ferribie will be
here in half an hour.’
Emily did up her seat belt. Facing the relatives
of a murder victim was something she always dreaded.
Shame is a powerful emotion and it was one that
Barrington Jenks felt strongly as he boarded the later train to
London.
When he’d first met Jasmine in that bar he’d been
an up and coming estate agent in Eborby. He’d been ambitious and
single minded but he’d always found time for a spot of dalliance in
his spare time before politics took over his life completely. Then,
after that first encounter they’d lost touch – until she’d
contacted him again when he’d been elected for parliament eight
years ago. Until he’d put his head above the parapet and become a
public figure.
After that she kept in touch, a voicemail here, a
message at his constituency office there. She’d never asked to meet
but the hint had always been there. At times it frightened him. But
sometimes living dangerously makes you feel alive.
Jasmine had been surprising in that bland, worn
hotel room . . . surprising and dangerous. It had
been a thrilling reminder of his past. A past that would be the end
of his political career if anyone were to find out. Financial
scandal was one thing in the world of Westminster and sex was
another. But what he and Jasmine had done all those years ago would
surely ruin him. There would be no redemption after something so
terrible.
Jenks settled himself down in the first class
compartment, well away from anybody who might conceivably vote for
him, and opened his briefcase. It was time to get down to
business.
Like her stepdaughter, Jane Ferribie wore her silky
blonde hair long and straight. She was dressed in well fitting
jeans and a white shirt that Emily later said must have cost a
fortune. From behind she would have passed for a teenager and, even
face on, she had the unlined look of a woman in her mid thirties
who attended the gym each day. Maintaining looks like that tends to
demand a lot of single-minded effort. But Joe’s training for the
priesthood, although interrupted, had taught him never to make
judgements. Instead he wondered why she felt she had to go to so
much trouble to hold back the years.
As she talked to Emily, he soon learned the answer.
Jane was Pet’s father’s second wife and a year ago she’d abandoned
him to live with a much younger man. Her husband had been due to
move to Dubai with his work and, as she hadn’t wanted to live in
the Middle East, the decision had been easy. She’d left Paul and
moved in with Carl, and Pet had shown her disgust by never speaking
to her again. Keeping up with Carl was hard work, of course. And
she hadn’t told him about Pet’s murder . . . he
didn’t like illness and death.
Emily caught Joe’s eye. Jane might be on borrowed
time as far as Carl was concerned and probably deserved their
sympathy, with or without a step daughter in the mortuary.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs Ferribie,’ Joe
said after a long silence.
‘Thank you,’ she said with a weak smile. ‘I can’t
tell you anything about her life here, you know.’ Her tone was
almost defensive. ‘We were never what you’d call close. I only
married her dad when she was fifteen and after I left him she never
spoke to me again.’
‘What about Pet’s biological mother?’
There was a pause before Jane answered. ‘When Pet
was eleven she disappeared – walked out of the house one day and
never came back.’
‘It would have been natural for Pet to want to find
her,’ said Joe. ‘Do you know if she ever tried?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
Joe couldn’t help feeling a little sympathy for
this woman thrust into a family with a dark hole at its centre – a
mother who went out one day and never returned, leaving a damaged
child who was bound to give her successor a hard time. Perhaps she
couldn’t be blamed for seeking comfort in the arms of Carl or any
other available man. Who was he to judge?
‘We need to contact your husband,’ said Emily,
handing Jane a sheet of paper.
Jane took it and scribbled an address. ‘That’s the
only address I’ve got for him,’ she said, handing it back to
Emily.
‘Tell us about Pet,’ said Joe. He’d been leaning on
the edge of Emily’s desk but now he pulled up the spare chair and
made himself comfortable.
Jane looked at him. ‘I tried really hard at first
but she kept knocking me back, making sarcastic remarks,
deliberately excluding me. She made me feel as though I wasn’t
welcome . . . which I wasn’t, I suppose. She used to
call me the Wicked Stepmother.’
‘Was that to her friends?’
‘She never had many friends – or if she did she
never brought them home. She called me that to her father. And he
never told her off about it,’ she added as though this had caused
years of simmering resentment. ‘She just spent hours practising her
violin and piano. Hour after hour of scales and half finished
tunes. Used to drive me mad.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Joe. ‘So she never confided
in you at all?’
‘You’re joking. She was a little bitch if you must
know.’
‘So you don’t know if there was anyone she was
afraid of?’ Joe knew the question was futile. Pet had kept her
distance from the ‘Wicked Stepmother’ and she was probably the last
person who would learn her innermost secrets.
Jane shook her head. ‘And before you ask, I don’t
think her father would know any more than I do. Like I said, we
weren’t what you’d call a close family.’
Joe realized this was a considerable
understatement. He was starting to get a picture of Pet Ferribie
now and it wasn’t a happy one. She’d kept her distance from her
family and her housemates. She’d been beautiful but she’d had no
close friends.
‘Then she tried it on with Carl,’ Jane said
unexpectedly.
‘How do you mean?’ Emily asked.
‘She started ringing him, asking to meet.’
‘And did he?’
‘He met her for a drink once. He said it was best
to put her straight.’ She hesitated. ‘She said she’d go to bed with
him if he’d finish with me.’
‘What was his reaction?’ Joe asked with genuine
interest. The Ferribies’ family life seemed to contain all the
scandal and emotional excitement of a TV soap opera.
‘He told her to get lost. She was trying to get at
me and Carl wasn’t falling for it,’ she said confidently.
Emily glanced at Joe then she stood up. ‘Are you
ready to identify her?’
Jane stood up and brushed her hair away from her
face. ‘Yeah. OK. Let’s get it over with, shall we.’
They drove to the hospital in silence and Joe
watched as the sheet was drawn back to reveal Pet’s pale, beautiful
face. The mouth was closed now, the horror of the severed tongue
carefully concealed. He watched Jane, anticipating cool
indifference.
But he saw tears in her eyes which was the last
thing he expected.
Den Harvey left work early after telling Mr Darman
that he wasn’t feeling well. Discovering that girl’s body had
played havoc with his nerves. And his nerves were never good at the
best of times.
As he walked through the male changing rooms the
echoing voices of the swimmers drifted through on the
chlorine-scented air and suddenly he felt a little faint. It was
too hot in there, hot and damp like a tropical jungle. He had to
get out. He had to get home.
When he reached the staff room he put his key in
the battered metal locker in the corner. As the door creaked open
he looked at the photographs he had stuck inside. Some of the women
at the Leisure Centre would have objected . . . if
they knew. But he was careful not to let anybody into his private
world where women were naked and compliant and they didn’t put up a
fight or answer back. A world quite divorced from the reality of
his life.
He knew there was nobody watching him so he put out
a hand and lovingly brushed the glossy paper thighs of the girl who
was lying against his locker door, spreadeagled there in two
dimensions for his delight. Then he pulled out his rucksack, slung
it over his shoulder and turned the key in the door, knowing that
his paper girl would be waiting for him in the morning.
He left the leisure centre by the back door because
he wanted to avoid any awkward questions from Tracey on
reception . . . and also because he wanted to see
what was going on. The police were still there, of course. He knew
from all the true crime books he read that they always took their
time at a crime scene. He knew all about the search for tiny scraps
of evidence and the painstaking sifting of clues. And he knew what
they would do to the girl’s body on the post-mortem slab. He had
read about it so often.
And once he’d even experienced the reality of death
in all its inglorious horror. And it had changed him forever.
It wasn’t far to the red brick terraced house he
shared with his mother in Banff Street and when he opened the front
door he heard her voice from the room she always called the front
parlour. ‘Is that you?’
Silly question. He answered ‘yes’ automatically and
made his way upstairs, his footsteps muffled on the richly pattered
carpet.
Once inside his room, he leaned against the door
for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts. Then he turned the key
in the lock and sat down at the computer desk in the corner,
resting his bare feet on the floor.
When the computer screen flickered into life, Den
began to type. Three words.
Kissing the Demons.