Kissing the Demons Kate Ellis

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FIFTEEN

Thursday morning was dull with an icy chill in the air, which wasn’t unusual March weather in that part of North Yorkshire. As Joe had been unable to sleep, he’d arrived in the office at six thirty, reasoning that he might as well make use of the early hour to go through reported sightings of Pet Ferribie between the time of her disappearance and her death. Not that he believed any of them. He was as sure as he could be that she’d been abducted shortly after she was last caught on CCTV and kept somewhere until her killer was ready to dispose of her.

Den Harvey had been released late the previous day after a spate of fruitless questioning and Joe now seized the chance to familiarize himself further with the murder of Sharon Bell. Because of the similarities to Pet’s murder, he was as sure as he could be that the same killer was responsible. And there was always the possibility that there had been more than two victims.

By the time Emily arrived at work he had discovered one nugget of gold buried in the mountain of paperwork. The team investigating the murder of Sharon Bell had interviewed a friend of Den Harvey’s – one Andrew Cassidy. As Joe entered Emily’s office to break the news of this unexpected connection, he noticed that she looked tired, as though she’d dragged herself out of bed with considerable effort.

‘We’d better have another word with Cassidy,’ she said. ‘He knew both dead girls, Pet and Sharon. And his sister, Grace Cassidy, was stabbed like the others.’

‘But her hand was mutilated instead of her face.’

‘If it had been her face we might have made a connection sooner.’

‘Pet was found at Harvey’s place of work so he’s not off the hook yet. Cassidy might have introduced him to her.’

‘OK. We’ll talk to Harvey then we’ll give Cassidy another grilling.’

They walked down the corridor side by side and Joe noticed Emily give the stairs to the upper floors a quick, fearful glance as she passed.

He knew what was on her mind. ‘Has the Super mentioned Barrington Jenks recently?’

‘No. Jenks is in London for the week.’

‘So when are we going to break the news to him that this Jasmine doesn’t exist?’

‘She might exist, Joe. She might not have told him her real name. She might have chosen something more exotic to create the right impression.’

‘I think old Quillan, the ex-landlord, recognized the name.’

Emily gave him a knowing look. ‘Perhaps our Jasmine paid her rent in kind.’

‘Mmm. There’s something odd about the Jasmine story and we need to get to the bottom of it. I want to have another word with the families of Nerys and Jade.’

Emily rolled her eyes. ‘Must we, Joe? It’ll only get their hopes up.’

‘We don’t know for sure that those girls are dead. No bodies have ever been found.’

Emily didn’t answer and Joe knew that years of experience had taught her to be pessimistic. But he still preferred to cling to a scrap of hope, however tiny.

They drove to Bearsley and Joe parked the car outside Den Harvey’s terraced house. The pavement was filled with overflowing wheelie bins and as they emerged from the car Joe could hear the low growl of a bin lorry somewhere in the distance, the next street perhaps.

They’d already checked that Den was on a late shift so, with any luck, they’d find him – and his mother – at home.

Den himself answered the door and it was hard to read his expression as he stepped aside to let them in. It might have been bored resignation but Joe didn’t think it looked like guilt.

Den led them into the front parlour; a room untouched by time. There was no TV here; this was a room kept for best and for visitors. When Den had been interviewed about Sharon Bell’s murder this was no doubt where the initial questioning had taken place. Now history was repeating itself as it often seemed to.

Den closed the door behind him and invited them to sit. ‘I can’t tell you any more than I did yesterday,’ he said, sounding a little defensive.

‘We’ve been looking at the Sharon Bell case and we’ve come across something we’d like to ask you about,’ Joe began.

Den looked wary. ‘What’s that?’

At that moment the door burst open and an elderly woman stepped into the room. She was tall and the old-fashioned crossover apron she wore emphasized her barrel-like figure. It was a long time since Joe had seen an apron like that and on Mrs Harvey it looked as formidable as armour.

‘Why can’t you leave him alone?’ she said. ‘You had him at that police station for hours yesterday. I’ve already said he was here with me. Are you calling me a liar?’ She put her hands on her hips, a mother defending her young.

‘No, of course not, Mrs Harvey,’ said Emily sweetly. ‘We just think Dennis might be able to help us, that’s all. He’s not under arrest.’ The word ‘yet’ hung in the air unsaid.

Mrs Harvey sat down beside her son who looked rather embarrassed. But it was her house and unless they took Den down to the station again for questioning, there was nothing much they could do to get rid of her.

On the other hand, Joe thought, she might be useful. Mothers often remembered the most surprising things about their sons’ friends.

‘Do you know a man called Andrew Cassidy?’

Joe saw Den glance at his mother, as though seeking permission to reply. In the end it was Mrs Harvey who got in first.

‘Andy. You remember Andy, Dennis. He got put away for killing his sister. And I’d thought he was such a nice boy. Always very polite. His family lived in a big house in Bacombe. And he went to St William’s School.’ She looked at Emily as though she expected her to be impressed. ‘I were right pleased when our Dennis started to go round with him. He weren’t like some of the lads round here.’

Joe smiled to himself. This woman was a snob and, to her, the big house in Bacombe and the place at a private school seemed to trump the inescapable fact that the boy had murdered his own sister and spent time in a secure hospital.

‘How did you come to know Andy?’ Emily addressed the question directly to the son.

‘It were at that camp, weren’t it, Dennis?’

‘Is that right, Den?’ said Emily. ‘Which camp was this?’

‘It was held once a year in the summer holidays,’ said Mrs Harvey answered. ‘Yorkshire Schools and Youth camp. YSY. Isn’t that right, Dennis? I didn’t want you to go but your teacher said it would do you good.’

Den nodded meekly.

‘So you met Andy at this camp?’ said Emily.

This time Den got in first. ‘Aye. We were in the same dormitory. We found out we were both from Eborby so we stayed in touch when we got home.’

‘And you saw each other often?’

‘There was a time when Andrew was always round here, wasn’t there, Dennis?’ the mother butted in proudly. ‘And you went to see him. You stayed over sometimes.’

‘Was that around the time his sister was murdered?’

Mrs Harvey’s expression changed. She opened her mouth to speak but no sound came out.

‘Yeah. Mum wouldn’t let me go round there after that,’ said Den matter-of-factly.

‘You knew his sister?’

‘Yeah. She was very good at the piano and she let me have a go once.’

‘Did you ever meet her piano teacher – Ian Zepper his name was?’

Den nodded earnestly. ‘Aye.’ He hesitated. ‘When he was there, she was different . . . all flirty with him, like. They used to be locked away in that room for hours on end.’

‘You think there was something going on?’

Den shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Might have been.’

‘Have you seen Andy since he was released?’

Den wavered for a few moments. ‘Once or twice.’ He glanced at his mother.

‘Do you mind if we talk to Dennis alone, Mrs Harvey?’ said Emily in a tone that brooked no argument.

Mrs Harvey stayed put for a few seconds but eventually she hauled herself out of her armchair with some difficulty, telling Den that she’d only be in the next room if he needed her. Joe watched her shuffle slowly from the room, each painful movement exaggerated for their benefit.

Once his mother had gone Den seemed to relax and Joe found himself feeling a little sorry for him. But he wouldn’t let pity influence his judgement.

‘We’ve not had a look at your computer yet, have we, Den?’ Joe said.

‘You can’t. Not without a search warrant.’ He sounded nervous, as though there was something on that computer he didn’t want them to see.

‘We can get one but it’ll be much easier if you just let our technical people have a look at it. They’ll take good care of it.’

Den’s face turned an unpleasant shade of red. ‘I need it.’

‘We won’t keep it long,’ Joe said by way of reassurance as Emily made a quick call to Scientific Support. ‘Where was Andy when Sharon was killed?’

‘He’d just got out of prison . . . or hospital or whatever they called it.’

Joe had been wondering whether Sharon had died while Cassidy was behind bars but now it looked as though he was still in the frame.

‘Did you kill Sharon, Den?’

The man’s face twisted with anguish. ‘Of course not. I loved her. She was fantastic.’ There was a long pause. Then ‘I haven’t always been like this. I used to want to be a teacher . . . go to uni. But after she died I just went to pieces.’

‘I thought you’d had a row on the night she died.’

‘That wasn’t serious. I wouldn’t have harmed a hair on her head. Anyway, I was with Mum when it happened. I wish to God I’d gone to the pictures with Sharon like she asked but Mum wanted me to help with . . . That’s what we rowed about, if you must know. Me being so bloody weak.’

‘Any chance Sharon went to the pictures with someone else?’

‘No. She wasn’t two-timing me . . . that was a lie.’

‘Andy Cassidy was the landlord of the girl whose body was found at the leisure centre. If you and he were friends you might have met her.’

Den shook his head vigorously. ‘I never met her.’

‘You seem very sure.’

‘I am. I never saw her till . . .’

‘Did Andy ever mention her?’

Den took a deep breath. ‘He might have done.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Just that he was helping her with something. And before you ask I don’t know what it was.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘A few days ago.’

‘Where did you see him?’

‘At his house. I went there.’

‘When?’

He thought for a moment. ‘Monday night.’

‘After you’d found Petulia’s body?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah. I needed to talk to him but she said he was busy.’

‘She? Do you mean Anna, the Polish girl he lives with?’

‘She wasn’t very nice to me. She told me he was busy but when he came to see who was at the door he asked me in,’ he said with a hint of triumph.

‘And what did you want to see him about?’

‘That’s private.’

‘Nothing’s private to us,’ said Emily sharply.

‘It’s got nothing to do with the police.’

‘You’re not doing yourself any favours being obstructive like this.’

‘I’m not being obstructive. Some things are private, that’s all.’

Joe decided on a new approach. ‘Have you seen Grace Cassidy’s piano teacher, Ian Zepper, since she died?’

‘No.’

Emily touched Joe’s arm and he followed her out into the hall. Mrs Harvey was doing something noisy in the kitchen and she had the door open, watching them intently. Emily whispered to Joe that Scientific Support said they’d be over right away and she didn’t want to leave Den alone with his computer so that he had a chance to delete anything relevant. When they returned to the front parlour and sat down Den was looking increasingly nervous. There was definitely something he was holding back.

‘Perhaps it would be best if you came back to the police station with us to answer some more questions,’ said Emily.

‘Why? I’ve already told you that I don’t know nothing about that girl’s murder. I haven’t done nothing.’

‘You were a suspect in Sharon’s murder and now you’re connected with another girl murdered in a similar way.’

‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Get out of this house.’

Mrs Harvey was standing by the door, arms folded. ‘He had nothing to do with Sharon’s murder . . . or this latest one. You asked him where he was on Saturday night . . . well he was here with me. And I’ll swear to that in any court in the land. Now get out.’

At that moment the doorbell rang and Joe could see the relief in Emily’s eyes. The cavalry in the shape of Scientific Support had arrived.

‘We’ll need to take your computer away, Den. We’ll let you have it back as soon as we can.’

Den Harvey looked distraught. But he knew better than to argue.

When Joe returned to the office there was a message waiting on his desk. Please ring Steve Portright. It took Joe a few seconds to place the name before he realized that Steve Portright was Jade’s father.

He looked at his watch. Cassidy hadn’t been answering his phone and it would be a while before Scientific Support came up with anything on Den Harvey’s computer so he made the call.

Portright sounded agitated and said he needed to talk urgently. Joe told him he’d be round as soon as he could.

When he told Emily where he was off to, she asked if he wanted company but he reckoned that Portright would be more forthcoming if they talked man to man.

‘I just hope Jamilla’s visit hasn’t raised their hopes,’ Emily said as he turned to leave.

He drove out to the Portrights’ address in a neat cul-de-sac of small red-brick, semi-detached houses about half a mile from where their daughter was last seen. The houses had been built for workers in the nearby chocolate factory by their benevolent employer but the chocolate factory was now owned by a multinational company and many of the houses had been sold on the open market.

He knew from the files that Steve Portright and his wife both worked in the factory. But today they were home. And this made Joe suspect that something had happened.

Mrs Portright – Sue – answered the door and invited him in. She was a small, thin woman with short, bottle blonde hair. Her face was heavily lined and she smelled of tobacco. She had the look of someone who lived on her nerves.

She led Joe into a small living room where there wasn’t a thing out of place; not a spot of fluff on the pale carpet or a cushion dented by human form. Joe wondered how anybody could live like that.

‘Your husband said he had something important to tell us.’

The door opened and the man who stood there was below average height with the pugnacious look of a fighting dog. His head was shaved and he wore a T-shirt that showed off a pair of tattooed arms. Joe couldn’t see much resemblance between Jade and either of her parents. But he’d never had a chance to see her in the flesh; film and photograph can deceive.

Joe shook hands with the man and sat down. ‘You said you had something important to tell us.’

‘I’ve seen her. I’ve seen our Jade.’

‘Seen her? Where?’

‘In town. Coming out of Boots on Coopergate at eleven thirty this morning. I’ve taken a bit of time off work and I got the bus into town to pick up a fishing rod I’d ordered and I just saw her coming out of the shop. Then when I called out to her she disappeared.’

‘Do you think she heard you?’ Joe didn’t think for one moment that Portright had really spotted his daughter. It was probably a case of wishful thinking.

‘She sort of half looked round and . . . she heard me alright.’

‘And you were sure it was her, weren’t you, love?’ It was Mrs Portright who spoke. She sounded as though she was trying to convince herself that her husband’s story was true.

Joe sat in silence for a few moments. This couple wanted to believe in their own personal miracle but it was up to him to play devil’s advocate.

‘How come you’re so certain that it was her? If she is . . . if she is still alive then she’ll have changed a lot in twelve years.’

Steve Portright leaned forward and jabbed an accusing finger at Joe. ‘I’d recognize my own daughter anywhere.’

‘Perhaps it was someone who looked like her. Look, I’m sorry to seem so negative but we have to be sure before we take any action.’

‘She looked round and I saw her eyes. One was slightly lighter than the other – only slightly, most people wouldn’t notice. It must be in your files.’

‘So you got quite near to her?’

‘About twelve feet away.’

‘If it was Jade, why didn’t she acknowledge you?’

Steve Portright shifted awkwardly in his seat. ‘We had a row before she . . . Maybe she feels awkward about it. Look, we only want a chance to make things right.’

‘Remind me what the row was about.’ Joe had read it in the file but he wanted to hear it from the parents’ lips.

‘She wanted to go to this club in town and stay out late and . . . just the usual teenage stuff.’

Joe nodded. To the teenage mind that might have been worth a token protest, maybe even staying away for a couple of nights. But twelve years of making your parents think you’re dead? Somehow he couldn’t quite see it.

Joe stood up. ‘I’ll get someone to go through any CCTV footage we can find of the Coopergate area at that time. We might need you to point out the woman you think is your daughter.’

‘It was my daughter. We’ll find her. I know we will.’

Joe glanced at Mrs Portright who was sucking on a freshly lit cigarette. She didn’t look as confident as her husband.

In fact Joe thought she looked a little frightened.

When Andy Cassidy had returned from Leeds the previous night before it had been late. Normally Anna would have been there waiting for him but the house had been in total darkness and there was no sign of her.

He’d checked her wardrobe but he could see nothing missing apart from her handbag and the coat she usually wore. Then, feeling exhausted, he’d undressed and climbed into bed.

When he awoke the next day and realized that she still hadn’t come home, he wondered whether he should report her missing. But involving the police would only draw attention to himself. And that was the last thing he wanted.

He spent the morning in a meeting at the Council offices near the library, his mind still on Anna, and at two o’clock he called in to his house, only to find that everything was just as he’d left it that morning.

He saw the light blinking on his answering machine and he rushed to listen to the messages. But his heart sank when he heard it was Inspector Plantagenet. He wanted another word.

Cassidy sat for a while, contemplating the best course of action. He had to get the police off his back somehow.

As he was just about to go into the kitchen and make himself a drink, the doorbell rang and he stood there, statue still, torn between pretending he wasn’t in and facing whatever the police had in store for him. Eventually he walked slowly out into the hall and when he peeped through the spy hole in the front door, he saw Joe Plantagenet standing on his doorstep beside the plump blonde DCI.

‘We’d like to talk to you about Den Harvey,’ Joe said as they stepped inside.

Cassidy led them through to the drawing room and invited them to sit.

‘You know Den Harvey?’

‘I know him.’

‘You met at a school camp when you were teenagers.’

‘That’s right. YSY. The aim was to bring different social classes together from schools all over Yorkshire. I was at St William’s and Den was at the local comp. We got on pretty well for a while so I suppose we were one of YSY’s successes.’ He looked the Inspector in the eye, the model of cooperation.

‘And you stayed friends after you were convicted of killing your sister.’

‘We lost touch for a while. But recently we’ve met up a few times.’

‘Den was there when Pet Ferribie’s body was found,’ said Emily. ‘Now I’ve never really believed in coincidences like that.’

‘Eborby’s not a huge city, Chief Inspector.’

Emily leaned forward until Cassidy could almost feel her warm breath on his cheek. ‘He seems an unlikely friend for someone like you to cultivate.’

‘Den’s brighter than he looks. And he hasn’t always been such a slob. He was OK before he let himself go and put on all that weight, although he was always a bit of a mummy’s boy. If Sharon hadn’t died I reckon it would have been a different story: he’d have cut the apron strings and flown the nest. Instead he turned into a sad loser. I feel sorry for him, if you must know. He’s had a raw deal.’

‘You knew Sharon?’

‘She was a nice kid. Bit wary of me though.’

‘Hardly surprising.’

‘I was innocent so she had no reason to be worried.’

‘What’s your relationship with Den now?’

‘Like I said, we meet up sometimes.’

‘So what do you have in common?’ she paused. ‘Adventurous sexual tastes? You admitted yourself that you’re a bit of a ladies’ man.’

Cassidy could feel his face burning and hoped it wouldn’t be noticed. ‘My tastes are pretty tame really.’

‘Did you ask Pet to join in with any adventurous activities?’

Cassidy shook his head vigorously, annoyed at the implication of the question. ‘No way. What do you think I am?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said Joe. ‘I can’t help feeling there’s something we’re missing.’

Cassidy gave him a guarded smile, sensing they were moving on to dangerous ground.

‘Have you any photographs of that YSY camp you were at?’ the DCI asked sweetly.

Cassidy thought for a moment. Then he remembered the box of keepsakes he’d brought from his childhood home; the box he’d put in the back of a cupboard and never opened because he knew it contained pictures of his sister. He hauled himself out of his seat, suddenly feeling like an old man. The weight of memory was a heavy burden.

He left the room and returned five minutes later with a photograph – a group picture in faded colour of adolescent boys, casually posed in front of what looked like a log cabin. There were some boys in the background too but they obviously weren’t meant to be included in the picture. He handed it to the DCI.

‘This is some of the Eborby contingent. That’s Den there.’

He saw the two officers peer at the picture as though they hoped it contained the answer to all their problems. But eventually they gave up.

‘Do you mind if we borrow this picture?’

Cassidy nodded.

‘Where’s Anna?’ Joe asked.

‘I’m not sure. She didn’t say where she was going.’

This seemed to satisfy them. But as they were making for the door Joe turned to face him. ‘We’ve spoken to Ian Zepper.’

Cassidy felt his heart begin to thump against his chest.

‘I understand that his relationship with Grace was close.’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘You think it was . . . inappropriate?’

Cassidy walked over to the window and stared out for a few moments, considering his reply. ‘She was only fifteen and she was infatuated with him. And yes, I think they were having sex.’

‘Did your parents suspect?’

‘My dad was on his own . . . too busy to bother much. And Zepper talked the talk – how Grace was so talented and he wanted to develop that talent and all that crap. He and Grace had a row about a piece of music she wanted to play for an exam. He had a temper.’ He paused. ‘And whoever killed her hacked off her fingers.’ He saw the two police officers look at each other. ‘Zepper said it was just a difference of opinion about a piece of music. He said it didn’t really matter that much and the police believed him.’

‘Did you?’

‘I’d like to prove he was lying. I’d like to clear my name.’

‘Thank you, Mr Cassidy. You’ve been very helpful.’

They were words Andy Cassidy had never expected to hear from a police officer and he couldn’t help smiling to himself as he shut the door.

When Joe returned to the incident room there was a message from George Merryweather waiting on his desk. Could Joe ring him back? Joe dialled George’s number and the phone was picked up after three rings.

‘Joe, I’m glad it’s you. I’m worried about something . . . and it involves a murder victim.’

Joe sat back in his seat, picked up a pen and began to doodle on a blank sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Go on.’

‘Have you eaten?’

Joe looked at his watch. It was two o’clock already and he’d had nothing since breakfast. ‘I’ll see you at the National Trust café in fifteen minutes.’

He thought he’d better let Emily know where he was going and as he entered her office she put phone down with a sigh.

‘Pet’s dad’s arrived from Dubai. He’ll be here about four.’

‘I’m going to have a word with George Merryweather. He says he has some information for me.’

She smirked. ‘The Exorcist. Has he got a message from the other side?’

Joe rolled his eyes. He’d heard it all before. ‘He’s been talking to Pet’s housemates. Maybe they told him things they wouldn’t tell the police. I won’t be long.’

‘You’d better not be.’ She paused. ‘Do you think Jade is alive?’

‘Do you?’

‘The poor bloke’s probably clutching at straws.’

Joe raised his eyebrows. ‘I know it sounds awful to say this but I didn’t like Steve Portright.’

Emily gave him a conspiratorial smile. ‘Tell you the truth, Joe, neither did I. But none of the parents were suspected at the time. Off you go then,’ she said with a wink.

Joe hurried out of the building and walked quickly through the streets to the cathedral, weaving in and out of ambling tourists. He reached Vicars Green and saw the National Trust café on the corner where the Green meets Gallowgate. George was waiting for him as promised at a corner table and they ordered sandwiches and a pot of tea to keep body and soul together.

They lowered their voices, which was probably unnecessary as the young woman on the table next to them was preoccupied with keeping her two young children entertained and under control. Joe found himself watching her. He would have liked children himself but life hadn’t worked out that way. He caught the young woman’s eye and smiled but she shot him a suspicious look.

‘Now then, George, what did you want to tell me?’

‘I had a phone call from Matt Bawtry last night. He was in a bit of a state. He’s been hearing odd noises. And he had a fight with Jason last night because he wanted to hold a seance to contact the murdered girl.’

‘I’m surprised Caro didn’t put a stop to it.’

‘In spite of appearances I think it’s Jason who controls that house.’

Joe didn’t reply. The social dynamics of thirteen Torland Place wasn’t something he’d really given much thought to.

‘According to Matt he arranged the fancy dress party they had.’

‘And he was one of the last people to see Pet alive.’

‘I called round to see Matt this morning. Jason was there and he gave me a bit of a hard time. Asked me how I could believe such nonsense and all that. I told him that there’s an earthly and often mundane cause for nine out of ten of supposed psychic phenomena but there are always things that can’t be explained. I invited him to share his opinion of what had been going on.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘Nothing. And I don’t think he was comfortable with that.’

‘With the place possibly being haunted?’

‘With there being something beyond his control.’

‘What did Matt have to say?’

‘He’s frightened, Joe. He thinks that whatever’s in that house is responsible for Pet’s death. He’s convinced there’s some kind of curse on the place.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘I’m going there tomorrow.’

‘To do an exorcism?’

‘To pray. In the meantime a theology student I know is finding out all he can about the Obediah Shrowton case using primary sources that might tell us something the Internet can’t.’

Joe took the last bite of his sandwich. ‘You should have my job,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘I’ll have to go, George. Let me know how it goes tomorrow, won’t you?’

‘Heard from Kirsten?’

Joe shook his head. ‘She’s gone down in Devon. Let’s hope she decides to stay there.’ He stood up to leave.

‘Take care, Joe,’ George said as a parting shot after they’d said their farewells. He sounded concerned and Joe wondered why.

He got back to the incident room at ten past three and made straight for Emily’s office. As he passed Jamilla’s desk he saw that she was studying her computer screen intently and making notes. Intrigued, he stopped and spoke to her.

‘Found anything interesting?’

Jamilla hesitated for a few moments before answering. ‘A young woman was found stabbed in London seven years ago.’ She hesitated. ‘The killer had tried to hack off her nose. I’m waiting for the Met to get back to me with the details.’

Joe’s brain was racing. ‘Think it could be our man?’

‘There do seem to be similarities. Her name was Roni Jasper, aged twenty-one and she was found in an alleyway not far from the House of Commons.’

He told Jamilla to keep up the good work and hurried to Emily’s lair.

‘Has Jamilla told you about the murder in London?’

‘Yes. But don’t get too excited, Joe. It might be nothing to do with our case.’

He sat down on the visitor’s chair. Emily was right; they really shouldn’t be making connections that might not exist.

‘It’s coming up to half three,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we both go and meet Mr Ferribie off his train and we can take him to the pub for a chat. Let’s face it, he’ll be miserable enough without making him suffer the interview room.’

Emily was right. The police station was no place for a grieving relative. Especially one with the cast iron alibi of being over a thousand miles away at the relevant time.

They both put on their coats before leaving the office; rain was forecast and the clouds looked ominous. But Joe sensed that Emily was glad to get out of the incident room into the fresh air.

They walked slowly and it wasn’t long before they reached the rather grand entrance to Eborby station. The place was bustling as usual but it didn’t take them long to cross the ornate bridge over the tracks and reach the draughty platform where the London train was due to arrive.

After waiting expectantly for five minutes they saw the train in the distance, approaching at a stately pace. Soon the sleek engine glided past with a shrieking of brakes and the carriages drew to a halt in front of them. They stood back and watched the passengers disembark, searching the sea of faces for lone men of a certain age.

Suddenly Joe felt Emily grab his sleeve and haul him backwards. ‘There’s Jenks,’ she hissed.

‘Four-day week,’ said Joe in a loud whisper. ‘Can’t be bad. Do we have a word or . . .’

‘No. But we could pay him a call sometime – ruin his weekend.’

‘The Super won’t be pleased.’

‘The Super can take a running jump off the city walls. Jenks is in something up to his neck . . . if only we knew what that something was.’ She released her grip on his sleeve. ‘Any sign of Mr Ferribie?’

‘That could be him.’ Joe pointed at a tall man in his late forties with a small wheelie case. He was tanned with grey, well cut hair and he wore chinos and an open necked shirt that seemed unsuitable for the chilly northern spring.

Emily stepped forward. ‘Mr Ferribie?’ The man nodded warily and Emily thrust out her hand. ‘I’m DCI Emily Thwaite and this is DI Joe Plantagenet. We could go back to the police station and have some disgusting tea from the machine or there’s a good pub nearby . . .’

‘The pub would be fine.’ He sounded grateful. ‘It’s a bit colder here than where I’ve been.’ He opened up the case and took out a cagoule which wouldn’t keep out the Yorkshire breeze, but it would keep him dry if the heavens decided to open.

Joe took charge of the wheelie case as they made their way out of the station and crossed the busy road. Ferribie looked rather lost and Joe felt sorry for him. A pint of Black Sheep would do him the world of good.

Once in the pub Emily found a free table and Joe went to the bar. When he returned he found the pair deep in conversation.

‘I was just saying to Paul here that we’re doing our best to find out who killed Pet,’ Emily said as he put the drinks down.

Paul Ferribie nodded. He looked as though the reality had started to dawn on him. Back in Dubai it had probably seemed like a bad dream.

‘Paul tells me that Pet chose Eborby University because her mother was last heard of here.’

Joe caught Emily’s eye. This was something new. ‘Have you met Pet’s housemates?’

Paul shook his head. ‘I haven’t seen my daughter for over a year. Maybe if I’d stayed in England to look after her . . .’

‘Don’t blame yourself,’ said Emily.

But Joe knew her words were futile. The man would be blaming himself until his dying day.

‘I left her with her stepmother. I thought everything was OK between them until Jane took it into her head to go off with some . . . Pet was upset about it, what with her mum vanishing like that and . . . I should have come back and tried to sort things out but we were busy with a new contract. I offered to pay for her to come out to stay with me but she had her university work and her music and . . .’

Joe put a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘If you don’t feel like talking now . . .’

Paul drained his pint. Joe got him another. After taking a couple of sips from the new glass, he took a deep, shuddering breath.

‘What do you need to know? If there’s anything I can do to help . . .’

‘Tell us about your first wife,’ said Emily gently.

‘Her name was Helen and she looked just like Pet . . . a beautiful, fragile blonde. She was what they used to call a free spirit.’

‘Go on.’

‘She started taking art classes. She had no talent but I never said anything. You don’t like to trample on people’s dreams, do you? She began to hang around with artists – or rather people who liked to call themselves artists.’

‘She had affairs?’

‘I never asked. Looking back, I can see that she only stayed with me for the financial security. I don’t think she’d have enjoyed starving in a garret whatever she might have said.’

‘Was this after Pet was born?’

‘Oh yes. Pet must have been about eleven. I suppose all this art business started as a way of filling the time once Pet was at school.’

‘What happened when she left?’

‘She came from Eborby originally and she said she fancied going back. I thought it would just be for a few weeks but then she wrote to me to say that she’d met someone else – a chef. She said she was staying and not to bother looking for her.’ He bowed his head. ‘I wondered how she could do that to Pet. But some people are just selfish; they say they want to find themselves and sod everyone else.’

‘You never tried to look for her?’

‘After about ten months I came up here. I didn’t have an address but I checked if she was on the electoral register and I even made enquiries at the police station but nobody had heard of her. Then I traced a man she’d shacked up with for a while. He was a chef like she said. Paolo Jones his name was.’

Joe caught Emily’s eye. It looked as if the mystery of Paolo had been solved.

‘He told me she’d stayed with him for a few weeks but then she’d gone looking for a place of her own. He swore he didn’t know where she was and I believed him. As a last resort I went to the police and they asked me if I wanted to report her missing but she’d gone of her own free will and what’s to say she hadn’t moved on somewhere else?’

‘You say Pet was hoping to find her. Do you know if she made any progress?’

‘She called me to say she’d met someone who’d offered to help. She said he owned property around here and he had useful contacts.’

‘Did she tell you his name?’

‘Sorry.’

But Joe thought that Cassidy fitted the bill perfectly and it would explain their secretive meeting. However, if that was the case, why hadn’t Cassidy been open with them?

‘Do you mind if we talk some more tomorrow? I’d like to get to the hotel and have a lie down before . . .’

Joe nodded. He’d almost forgotten that Ferribie was due to identify his daughter’s body later that afternoon. ‘If there’s anything you need . . .’ he said.

‘Only my daughter back,’ Pet’s father replied as he drained his glass.

Nurses never liked to cross the railway bridge next to the General Hospital alone after dark. Many years ago a girl had been attacked there and the area’s reputation for danger had lingered long after the event like an unpleasant odour.

The only source of light was a tall street lamp overhead which cast a sickly yellow glow on the scene. But it was a short cut and the perils of the night were pretty low on Mrs Ackroyd’s list of priorities that Thursday evening. She had other things on her mind as she began to climb the litter-strewn concrete steps up to the bridge, such as how she was going to cope when her elderly mother came out of hospital.

As she placed her sensible shoe on the bridge she looked around, suddenly aware of the loneliness of the place. It was then that she noticed something pale, lying half hidden by the bushes. And when she realized that it was a bare and beautifully shaped human arm – a female arm extended out as if its owner was deep in carefree sleep – she retraced her steps and pushed the bush aside a little, muttering a tentative ‘hello’.

But the owner of the arm couldn’t have heard because her ears had been severed leaving a bloody mess on each side of her head. And she was dead so she was in no position to say anything ever again as Mrs Ackroyd’s scream rang through the evening air.

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