“That was quick,” Riddle said. He knew that there was only one way such a speedy identification could be achieved.
“We had her details on file,” Davis said, confirming Riddle’s assumption.
“So she had a record?” Newbold said. “What for?”
Miller was shaking his head. There was sadness in his eyes that Newbold found difficult to witness.
“That’s not why we had her details,” Miller said. “We had her dental records on file in case…” he trailed off.
“In case we ever found her body,” Davis said, completing the sentence.
Miller stood up and walked to the window. He turned around to face the room, resting the palms of his hands on the radiator. He felt very cold.
“The body,” Miller said, “is that of Jocasta Heath.”
Riddle’s brow creased as he tried to place the name.
“Just before your time,” Miller said. “But you probably heard about it anyway. One of the biggest manhunts in the Force’s history.”
“Of course,” Riddle said, realisation smoothing his features. “The English student who went missing.”
“Theology,” Miller said, “not English.”
“Right,” Riddle said. He had heard about the case, everyone had. It had been one or two years before he had moved to the area, but it had been national news over the summer.
Davis shifted uncomfortably. He was beginning to wish he had sat behind his desk. “Why don’t you fill DS Riddle and PC Newbold in with the details?”
Miller nodded. “Jocasta Heath was an 18-year-old student at Whitby University. She had just finished the first year of a theology degree. It was during the summer vacation when she disappeared.”
“But she’d have been 18,” Newbold said. “Was there any reason to believe she had not just moved away?”
Miller smiled bitterly. “That’s what many on the Force thought,” he said, managing not to look in Davis’s direction. “She was legally an adult, so there was only so much we could do.”
Riddle was looking puzzled. “So why do I remember it so well?”
It was a reasonable question. Once someone reached the age of legal adulthood, there was pretty much nothing the police could do if they went missing, unless there was evidence of foul play. “She was very beautiful,” Miller said wearily. “The press got hold of the story. It just sort of mushroomed.”
“In what way?” Riddle asked.
“Think about it,” Miller said, sounding angrier than he intended. “Here was this beautiful young girl from a religious family who was studying theology. The press loved it. They did all but compare her to the Virgin Bloody Mary. There were all sorts of hints at dark forces – and I’m quoting here – “that were out to get her”. They turned her into some symbol for all that was wrong – is wrong – with the world. The public pressure was massive, especially here.”
“Because she had been at the university?” Newbold asked.
“Because she was born in Whitby,” Miller said. “The Whitby Telegraph made a great deal out of the fact that with all her talents – by which they meant looks – she had stayed loyal to her beloved home town and chosen to stay.” He all but spat out the last words.
“Her family had moved here in the 1970s,” Davis said, taking over from Miller. “Her mother was a good-looking woman as well, something the press were all too happy to pick up on. Not that it did her any good. She split from her husband after Jocasta disappeared.”
Something had been bothering Riddle for the last few minutes. “Sorry,” he said, “but you mentioned “dark forces” in the newspaper reports. What did they mean?”
Davis and Miller exchanged a glance. Riddle was beginning to get the feeling that there was something he wasn’t being let in on.
“There were hints, strong hints,” Miller said, “that there might be an occult angle to the disappearance. The theory being that this shining virtuous example of modern Christianity had been too much for these so-called dark forces to stand.”
“Bloody hell,” Riddle said.
“It was all nonsense,” Miller said. “They were just trying to sell papers in the middle of the silly season. They had nothing to back up the hints and innuendos except the over-active imagination of their chief reporter.”
“Tim Brown?” Riddle asked. He had never been as fond of the journalist as Miller was, but it still didn’t sound like him.
“Before his time,” Miller said. “In fact it was the journalist Tim replaced. The story helped him get a job in Fleet Street.”
“The point is,” Davis said, obviously thinking the conversation was going off at a tangent, “it seems her parents and the press were right. Jocasta Heath hadn’t run away, she had been murdered.”
Riddle looked from Davis to Miller. “You think there’s a link, don’t you?”
Miller looked up at Davis, but didn’t answer. It was Davis who spoke. “Two murders – albeit four years apart – but two murders where the bodies were found in close proximity to one another is a big coincidence. And then there’s the occult link…” He let the final sentence hang in the air.
“Oh, God.” Riddle said. “If the press went to town before, imagine what they’re going to do when they learn the identity of the body.”
“Which is why we have no time to lose,” Davis said. “As far as I’m concerned this is now a double murder inquiry. I’m cancelling all leave until we have caught the killer. So what are you waiting for?” With that he stood and opened his office door.
Miller didn’t move. For a moment Davis thought that he had not heard him, but then the detective turned slowly to face his boss. “We’re going to have to talk to the mother again,” he said.
Davis looked momentarily stunned. “Well, of course you’re going to have to talk to Mrs. Heath. Is that a problem?”
Miller stood up, as if he had found the answer to a question no one else had heard. “Not at all,” he said. “Riddle, come with me.”
With that, Miller led a bemused Riddle from the Chief Constable’s office and down the corridor in the direction of the car park.
As the two detectives walked along the corridor, Miller’s speed steadily increased until Riddle thought his boss was going to break into a run. Finally, Miller thrust the double doors open and stood in the cold taking deep breaths.
“Sir?” Riddle said, imbuing the single word with as much question as he dared.
Miller turned slowly around. “The poor woman,” he said.
“The victim?” Riddle asked.
“The mother,” Miller replied.
“What’s she like?”
Miller thought for a moment. “I can tell you what she was like. She was a deeply religious woman whose faith was tested beyond endurance. By the last time I saw her, she was broken.”
“What did she think had happened to her daughter?”
Miller turned to face Riddle. “That’s the thing,” he said. “Throughout the whole terrible case, she was convinced her daughter hadn’t run away. It wasn’t that she feared the worst, it was more that she was convinced that her daughter would not put her family through the pain of not letting them know where she was.”
“So she believed the press reports?” Riddle asked in the tone of voice he always reserved for the fifth estate.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Miller said. “But she was convinced something terrible had happened to Jocasta. And it turns out she was right.”
“In which case we better see her before the press find out about her daughter. Where does she live?”
“That’s the thing,” Miller said. “She left Whitby two years ago.”
“Really?” Riddle said in a way that left little doubt how strange he thought it was for anyone to leave the North Yorkshire town.
“She came to see me before she left,” Miller said, slowly shaking his head. “She wanted me to tell me she knew I had done everything within my power to find her daughter.”
“That was kind
of her.”
“Was it?” Miller said. He had no idea if it was kindness or spite. “Those were her exact words – everything within my power.”
“I’m sure you had,” Riddle said, not understanding the point Miller was trying to make.
“It was obvious that she thought there was a whole lot more I could have done.”
“But she said…”
“When she said within my power, she was alluding to the fact that because her daughter was eighteen there was very little legally I could do. And she was right. But she always thought I could have done more. As far as she was concerned, the life of her daughter was at stake. The formalities and legalities of the situation didn’t mean a thing to her. And who could say she was wrong?”
Riddle thought for a moment. He could see her point, but what did she expect Miller to have done? There was no proof that anything had happened to Jocasta. But then again, if it had been Riddle’s child… “So where does she live now?” he asked.
“Sheffield,” Miller said.
“Sheffield?” Riddle repeated, finally beginning to understand his boss’s strange mood.
“It seems I’m unable to escape my home city,” Miller said.
Riddle decided it was best he didn’t refer to the fact that Dr Alice Laine was currently in Sheffield and his boss had been in a strange mood ever since he had returned.
“She thought I had let her down,” Miller said.
Riddle didn’t know if he was referring to Jocasta Heath’s mother or the Whitby academic.
*
Fifteen minutes later, Miller, Riddle and PC Newbold were sitting in Tiffany’s cafe in what felt very much like a crisis meeting. Outside, early morning shoppers were picking their way along Baxtergate, trying to avoid the vans that were unloading before the 10am cut off.
Miller had ordered three milky coffees. Riddle was wondering if he had time for the full English breakfast, while Newbold was vainly looking for a plug to charge her laptop.
As the waitress deposited the three drinks on the table, Miller began to speak.
“There’s no way we can keep this out of the papers after Christmas, so we’re all going to have to act quickly. One of us is going to have to drive to Sheffield this morning.”
“I could go,” Riddle said. Sheffield was around a hundred miles south west of Whitby, but was still within the Yorkshire border.
“Thank you, sergeant,” Miller said. “But I think it should be me.”
Riddle nodded. If he was honest, he hadn’t wanted to go. Sheffield might still be within the Yorkshire border, but it was dangerously close to the Midlands.
“It was me who dealt with Jocasta’s mother,” Miller said. “It’s the right thing to do and besides,” he added, “you’ve taken the lead so far on the Samantha Thompson case. You may as well carry on, just be aware that we’re now looking for a link between the two cases.” He turned to face PC Newbold. “Have you forwarded the Jocasta Heath notes to DS Riddle?’
“Just sent, sir,” Newbold said, an undercurrent of pride unmistakable in her voice.
Miller took a sip of his hot coffee. “Good. Any questions?”
“Yes,” Newbold said. “What do you want me to do?”
“You?” Miller asked. “You’re coming to Sheffield with me.”
Chapter 12
Miller had fallen into a sullen silence during the drive to Sheffield, so PC Lisa Newbold did most of the talking. She explained to Miller the importance she placed in extensive list making and how she had always believed that a tidy desk led to a tidy mind. Miller had responded politely at the appropriate moments, but he was barely listening. He was thinking of four years ago and the disappearance of Jocasta Heath. And he was thinking of four months ago and the appearance of Dr Alice Laine.
It was not until Miller steered the car though the dark Satanic wasteland of Rotherham’s ravaged industrial south that he began to talk.
“Jocasta’s mother – Martha – works in a book shop in the city centre. I called her boss to say we’re on our way, but I asked him not to let her know we’re coming.”
“Why not?” Newbold asked.
“Because I want to be the person who breaks the news,” Miller said. He felt a duty to be the one to divulge such terrible news. What he didn’t add was that he wanted to make sure Martha Heath didn’t disappear before he got there. It was selfish, he knew, but if there was even the smallest chance that she may be able to think of some link between her daughter’s murder and that of Samantha Thompson, then it would be worthwhile.
A few minutes later, they passed a sign that read Welcome to the City of Sheffield. “Have you ever been here before?” Miller asked as he navigated a large roundabout that was dissected by the Tinsley viaduct as it carried the M1 motorway to the east of the city.
“Just the once,” Newbold said. As the car waited at a set of traffic lights she peered through the window of a mosque where pairs of shoes stood in a long, neat line. “A friend took me to the shopping centre.”
“Meadowhall?” Miller said in horror. “And you said she was a friend?”
“He’s not a friend anymore.”
“I see,” Miller said, clearly thinking no other reason for the end of a friendship was required.
As the car cleared the roundabout, Miller took a duel carriage way signed City Centre. “This is where all the steel factories used to be,” he said. “They’ve almost all gone now. Just there,” he gestured to the left, “is where they’re going to build an IKEA store. Some would say that was progress.”
“And what about you?” Newbold asked. It was rare to hear Miller talk about anything that wasn’t work related and she was keen to learn more about her boss.
Miller shrugged. “This area used to make things that went around the world,” he said. “Now it sells things that are made across the planet. It seems a little sad. But,” he added, “many people seem to like it.”
Fifteen minutes later after navigating a seemingly endless series of one-way streets and traffic lights, Miller parked the car on Campo Lane outside the Sheffield Newspaper building. “It’s pretty much pedestrian precincts from here,” Miller said as he and Newbold got out of the car and headed up York Street.
The bookshop was located within Orchard Square, an open-air shopping centre that is dominated by a chiming clock tower. The store was extremely busy with Christmas shoppers queuing the full length of the ground floor.
Miller was thinking that finding the manager could prove almost impossible when they were approached by a tall, slim man who held out his hand, smiling amiably at Miller and Newbold. “Hello. I’m Paul. You must be DCI Miller and…”
“PC Newbold,” Newbold said returning the smile.
“I thought I’d keep an eye out for you,” the manager said.
“Thank you,” Miller said looking around the store. Tables were piled high with the latest releases and books aimed at the Christmas market. Miller spotted a solitary copy of that year’s Private Eye annual. He bought one every year.
“It’s almost sold out,” the manager said, “but I could put it to one side for you.”
“Thanks, that would be great.”
The manager caught the eye of one of the members of staff and issued instructions. “Right, follow me.”
He led Miller and Newbold up a wide staircase, his long legs taking two steps at a time, before he suddenly stopped and turned around. “Sorry,” he said to Newbold whose short legs were laboriously following. “Force of habit.”
“That’s fine,” Newbold said, slightly out of breath.
The manager resumed his assent, but at a slower pace. At the top of the stairs, he turned right and led them through the first floor, which was dominated by non-fiction titles. Miller spotted a poetry section, a table filled with hardback history titles and a display of music books. He made a mental note to look some of the titles up later.
The bookstore manager stopped at a door to key in a four-digit code. To the right w
as a selection of framed cartoons that Miller recognised. “It’s up more stairs, I’m afraid.”
Once away from the shop floor, the decor changed to whitewashed breezeblocks and exposed cables. After climbing another set of stairs, the manager stooped outside a grey door. “I asked Martha to wait in my office. I did as you asked and didn’t mention your name.”
Miller shook the manager’s hand, took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Hello, Martha.”
Martha Heath stood up, sat down and stood up again. Her mouth opened and closed. Finally, she slumped back into the chair.
“You?” was all she could manage to say.
Jocasta’s mother had obviously once been a very attractive woman, but the deep set bags under her eyes and the lank red hair that framed a pale and lifeless face had aged her beyond what Newbold knew were her 44 years.
She was wearing a black cardigan over a black shirt, which had the effect of further draining the colour from her face. Her pale blue eyes looked haunted.
Slowly, her eyes seemed to focus on Miller. “It’s Jocasta. You’ve found her haven’t you?”
Miller and Newbold exchanged a quick glance. She pulled over a chair and sat next to Martha, taking her hand.
“Yes, Martha. We’ve found Jocasta.”
“Thank God,” Martha said.
Miller shook his head. “I don’t think you understand.”
The sadness in her eyes was almost more than Miller could bear. He only just managed to resist the urge to look away.
“I’m so very sorry,” he said. Why the hell did this never get any easier? “I’m so very sorry, but your daughter – Jocasta – Jocasta is dead.”
Miller braced himself for the outburst of grief or the stubborn denial that were the normal responses at a moment like this, but neither came.
“Of course she is,” Martha said.
Newbold was so surprised by the response that she took her hand away.
“Sorry?” Miller said.
“Of course she is,” Martha repeated.
Her gaze shifted from Miller to Newbold and then around the office. Books were stacked in one corner next to a wall chart with staff holidays and memos from head office.
Better the Devil You Know Page 9