‘Obviously.’
‘But he was all right, as pigs go. Easy on the eye. Nice arse.’
I almost choked with the need to laugh. Wigwam was a complicated man, that’s for sure.
‘I need to go Wigwam. I’ve got an appointment at the library.’
‘Books late back?’
‘Yeah, and those fines can be bastards. Also, your idiot thugs up front there owe me a new iPod. And a copy of Celine Dion’s greatest hits.’
‘No problem, queen. I’ll run you off a copy of mine.’
Chapter 14
I showered, changed, and walked to Liverpool Library in the city centre. It’s a beautiful old place, all domes and booming acoustics. Donated to the people of the city by one of those warm-hearted founding father-type families. A family like the Deerbornes, in fact, I thought, checking my phone to see if Francesca had called back. She hadn’t.
I was meeting Dan there, along with his blunt-speaking Yorkshire fishwife and the scarlet pimpernel. Adam – dreamboat – was expecting us.
I was running slightly late, following my peskily time-consuming abduction, and hadn’t had time to dry my hair or put any slap on. I was wearing a sweater that was proving far too heavy for the warmth of the day, and arrived feeling hassled, harassed, and looking far from my best.
Dan was waiting outside the entrance, standing next to an Amazonian goddess I presumed was Betty Batty. Not, I have to say, the image the name had conjured up.
Almost six foot in her flat ballet shoes, she was slim, elegant, and gorgeous. Her skin looked like deep brown velvet poured over fine bones, and she had one of those close-cropped hair-dos that only the very, very striking can carry off. Men were literally walking into lamp posts as they passed.
Predictably enough, Justin didn’t look like an eighteenth-century French fop either. He was of average height, but with the physique of a bodybuilder. He was wearing leather biker trousers and had on a short-sleeved black T-shirt that showed full jacket tattoos all over his arms. A straggling goatee was the only hair on his entire head. He looked like the kind of man who rode with the Hell’s Angels and kept boa constrictors as pets.
Dan introduced us, and there were firm handshakes all round. I had no idea what gifts they brought to the party, but I welcomed any help at all.
I led them through to the Reference Hall, where Adam Stone had his lair. He was sitting behind his desk, and I waved as we approached. Even in his uniform shirt, he looked good. In a bookish kind of way. He smiled and stood up. I saw him drink Betty in with his blue eyes, and was impressed he didn’t faint.
‘Hi! I’ll be with you in a minute. Just need to keep an eye on that lot in case they get rowdy.’
He gestured at a table full of silent young Muslim women, all dressed in full burqa and intently studying medical text books. Librarian humour.
We followed him to the cubicle that passed as an office, and tried to fit into it. As I seemed to be hanging round in the Land of the Giants these days, it was a tight squeeze.
I’d filled Adam in on the case the day before. He’d taken it all surprisingly well – a public library is a great training ground for handling the weirder elements of society.
‘So what do you need?’ he asked, speaking to me but looking at Betty. I had a feeling that was going to happen a lot while she was around.
‘We need a full history of Hart House,’ said Dan, perched next to a pile of French dictionaries on a desk. ‘Everything – when it was built, who built it, why, what it’s been used for, and in particular any folklore connected with it.
‘We’re looking for anything unusual,’ said Betty, ‘anything that could suggest violence, turbulence, or potential religious use. Paganism, Satanism, occultism of any kind. You might want to check for any unexplained disappearances or deaths around the time it was built, especially of children.’
‘Why do you say that?’ I asked, my eyes snapping up nervously. I hadn’t told Dan about the mysterious giggling and hand-clapping I’d heard. It all felt a bit too Hammer Horror to admit. But that, and the fact that Joy had mentioned nursery rhymes in her diary, was making me think it might be the right track. Dead, evil, ASBO kids. Marvellous. As if the living ones weren’t enough.
Betty looked at me, her deep brown eyes too perceptive by far.
‘I’ve heard of it before,’ she said, her tone gentle. ‘Cases where a murdered virgin, or the corpse of a newborn, has been buried beneath the foundation stone.’
I smiled. Kind of. What a lovely conversation.
‘I can stay and help you start now, if you have time,’ said Betty, turning her attention back to Adam, who was barely controlling his saliva glands.
‘Yes. That would be a big help,’ he said. ‘We can look at the newspaper archive and see if anything leaps out. And I can take you into the stacks where we keep the really interesting stuff.’
I choked back a snort. A few years ago Adam had taken me into the stacks to look at some really interesting stuff, and we’d ended up swapping notes with our pants down. My judgement was impaired; I’d been to a boozy lunch do. I’ve been worried ever since the CCTV footage was going to turn up on YouTube, despite him assuring me he knew all the blind spots.
‘Great,’ said Dan, standing up in am I’m-out-of-here way. ‘We’ll leave you to it.’
I looked back at Adam as we left. He was leaning very close to Betty and pointing out some vital architectural detail in the Hall. He noticed me watching, and gave me a thumbs-up behind her back. Oh well. I was sure Betty could cope – she must be used to grown men acting like spaniels around her by now. And if Adam was man enough to get her interested in a quickie while they were searching for centuries-old dead babies, he deserved all the fun he could get.
We emerged back into the sunshine, and I turned to Dan.
‘Justin’s off to Hart House,’ he said, ‘to do some temperature checks, and look for hotspots.’
‘Hotspots of what, and how is he going to get in? Is he dressing up as a priest too?’
I glanced at biker boy, who I’d yet to hear speak. In fact if he wasn’t so big, I could have forgotten he was there. I really couldn’t see him carrying off a dog collar. Carrying off a dog, in his teeth, maybe.
‘Hotspots of supernatural activity,’ Dan said, matter-of-factly. ‘We know what happened with Joy, and where, and Justin might be able to pick up a trace. Without getting too technical, it’s like a smell, and he might be able to follow it to other parts of the building. Demons don’t have any physical entity, they’re purely spiritual beings, but they leave a record if you know how to look for it.’
‘Like a signature scent?’ I suggested. Just as I didn’t think things could get any weirder, I could add demon-sniffing hell’s angels to the list. Dan nodded enthusiastically.
‘Yeah. You get a gold star. And he’s getting in as a gas fitter looking at the heating. I phoned up earlier and made him an appointment.’
‘He’s going disguised as a gas fitter?’ I repeated. These people were even sneakier than me.
‘No, not disguised as one. He is a gas fitter.’
Justin smiled at me, a hint of pride in his eyes. Now I knew who to call when the radiators made that weird gurgling sound in the winter.
‘Okay. Great. What about you? Could you do me a favour?’
‘Yes. Your wish is my command.’
If only, I thought, sneaking a look at Justin to see if he’d reacted to the flirtatious tone. Nothing. His face was about as expressive as a dead fish on a slab.
‘Could you do a kind of Catholic mafia thing for me? I’m looking for someone. She’s called Lorraine Connelly, and she’s Geneva’s mum. She’s off the radar, but I don’t think anyone’s looked too hard. I’m told she’s devout, and she has a lot on her mind, so…’
‘So you were wondering if the Catholic mafia – nice expression, by the way – could help you track her down? You know nobody will breach the rules of the confessional, don’t you?’
; ‘Of course I do! And I’m not asking that. What I’m asking is for you, and Father Kerrigan, and all the other God-botherers you know to look out for her. I’m guessing there’s a priest out there who sees a lot of Lorraine Connelly, and if he could pass on my phone number and the fact it’s about Geneva, she might come forward.’
‘You have a lovely way with words, Jayne,’ he said, ‘and I’ll see what the God-bothering Corleones can do for you. But first, I’ve got to see a man about a deer.’
I resisted the urge to ask. I was used to working on my own, and liked it that way. I wasn’t considered the best of team players when I was still on the Force, mainly because of that slight tendency to obsess I mentioned. When my colleagues were going home for barbecues or to walk their dogs or build model aeroplanes, I was still at my desk, going over case files. It made them look bad, and nobody likes that.
But here I was, part of Team Freaky. I had things to do I was better off doing without Dan, and I’m sure the same applied to him. We’d have to trust each other with the brushstrokes if we were going to paint the big picture.
‘Good. Let me know if anything comes up. See you, Justin.’
Justin gave me a very small nod.
I left them to it, and made my way to Stano’s Caf. Tucked away in Chinatown, Stano’s was the stuff of legend with the emergency services. It was open 24 hours a day, catering to the thirst and hunger of fire-fighters, police, paramedics and even the odd nurse looking for a hot date after a cold shift.
A lot of things started in Stano’s – drunken one-night stands, full-blown romance, arguments, fantasy football league teams, winning Lottery syndicates, plans for retiring and running a pub in Tenerife. Something about working with death makes you want to grab even harder onto life. It was home to some of the sickest jokes you’ll ever hear, told by people who see the darker side of life every day, and cope by taking the piss out of it. You could also eat whatever you wanted – as long as it was a bacon buttie.
It was nearing lunchtime. I was hot. I was bothered. I had a hangover. It was, in fact, the perfect time for a bacon buttie. I was about to go in when my phone beeped. A text: ‘Call now. Wigwam.’ Well, that was a lot more civilised than throwing me in the back of a van, but he could still wait.
I pushed open the door and the old-fashioned bell rang. Not that they needed security here – anybody dumb enough to try and rob a cafe full of off-duty law enforcement was probably too thick to figure out how to open the till. Some passing teenager chucked a can of Coke at the window once – you’ve never seen so many men in uniform chasing one kid down the street in your life. It was like a scene off ‘The Sweeney’.
It was blissfully dark and cool inside. It smelled of fresh coffee and sweat and dead pig. Balm for the soul.
I looked around for D.I Alec Jones. He’d agreed to meet me here, and said he’d be carrying a rolled up copy of the Times. He was. The Bootle Times.
I nodded and walked over to join him at his table, which was topped with the very finest Formica the seventies could offer.
‘Got you a coffee,’ he said, ‘and a bacon sandwich.’
‘Wow,’ I replied, ‘will you marry me?’
‘Don’t get too excited. You’re paying. Nice to meet you, Jayne. I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘None of it good, I hope,’ I said, sipping my coffee and getting a good look at D.I Jones. I couldn’t tell how nice his arse was, because he was sitting on it, but Wigwam was right – he was easy on the eye. Brown hair, even browner eyes, a rumpled smile. Yum.
‘So this is about Joy Middlemas,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think they’d let it rest. The parents. Can’t say that I blame them.’
That surprised me. Most police don’t react well when a client goes private. They tend to take it personally. I’d been expecting to have to charm Alec, convince him of my good intent and my genuine belief that he’d done everything he could. Which he had – it wasn’t within his remit to go searching out serial killer ghosts.
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Why don’t you blame them? There are things about this case that bother me, but I’d be interested to know what you think. And please, straight off, let me say it – I know you did everything right on this one.’
He nodded his thanks, his face set in a grim line. The rumpled smile was gone, and I knew D.I Jones hadn’t let this one rest either.
‘There was nothing to suggest it was anything but an accident. She’d been out the night before, got back just after midnight. I even tracked down the cabbie who brought her back, and you know what that’s like.’
I did. Like finding an invisible needle in a field full of super-sized haystacks.
‘Wasn’t worth it, in the end. He backed up what the others said – she’d had a few, but wasn’t drunk. Nice-mannered girl, he said, gave him a decent tip. Seemed a bit quiet, but he thought that might be down to boyfriend trouble. He had three daughters himself and said he could spot the signs.’
‘Did she? Have boyfriend trouble?’
‘Not that we know of. A few admirers, a few dates in her first year, and some prat who lived in the same building who seemed to think he might be in there but wasn’t. I suppose the parents told you their theory.’
‘Yes, they did. And they sent me the diary.’
‘Ah,’ he said, stirring sugar into his tea. It was his third spoonful. I think he’d stopped counting and was doing it on autopilot. ‘The diary. The only problem with that is there was no diary. Not when we looked anyway. There was no reason to take this case further – there was nothing criminal to investigate. But I had a look anyway, to make sure. Didn’t want to miss a big sign saying “I pushed her” or anything. No diary, anywhere in that room. Which is admittedly a mystery, but not proof of the existence of ghosts, is it? My beliefs are more based on what I can see and touch and ideally put in jail.’
‘Hallelujah, brother,’ I said, raising my hands in the air and waving my fingers. ‘I’m with you all the way. But… there is something not right, isn’t there, Alec? With this case, and with that place. Have you read the diary since? And what did you feel, when you were there at Hart House?’
I found myself whispering the last words, and leaning forward across the table to look him in the eye. It seemed a ridiculous thing to be asking against the backdrop of hissing water boilers and mugs clinking in the dishwasher.
‘Yes. I read it. Harrowing stuff, I’ll grant you. I can see why it pushed the parents over the edge. But there’s stuff you can put in a report, and stuff you can’t. And “it felt a bit spooky” is the latter. I did what I could. When the parents came back, I tried again. Nothing. They took the diary back and told me very politely that I was a waste of space. If you can find more, I’d love to know about it.’
‘Even if it’s the kind of thing you can’t put in a report?’
He rubbed his face with his hands, like he was washing himself clean of something. He had lovely pale skin, contrasting with his chocolate drop eyes. Very Celtic.
‘Yes. Even if.’
‘There are a few things already; I don’t know if you picked up on them,’ I said, noting with disgust that my bacon buttie had gone cold.
‘Go on.’
‘Well… the shoes. On the scene photos, she was wearing one shoe, and the other had flung off to the left. High heels. Why was she wearing high heels at 8.02 in the morning? Nobody does that. And she was wearing make-up. Early, while studying, alone in her room. It doesn’t make sense.’
I was most definitely the kind of woman who fell asleep in her make-up. As I’d proved just that morning. But Joy wasn’t – she’d been raised by Rose Middlemas, for God’s sake. Rose would probably rather face a firing squad than wake up with crusty eyes, and I was sure Joy had been the same.
Alec nodded in agreement. It wasn’t news to him.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘I noticed the shoes as well. Not the make-up in all honesty, but the shoes. Again, we found nothing to indicate any foul play, and wearing high heels in t
he morning isn’t a crime.’
It bloody well should be, I thought. It set unrealistic standards of glamour for the rest of us.
‘And the window being open? Is that likely? I mean, I’ve seen that window, and you have to unlock it with a key—’
‘How have you seen that window?’ he asked.
‘Erm. You don’t want to know. But it can’t be open by accident is what I’m saying. I read in the file that it was a summer’s day, perhaps she was cooling off as she revised. But I don’t think so. Not at 8.02 in the morning in Liverpool. It just wouldn’t have been that hot.’
‘It wasn’t,’ he said. ‘It was less than ten degrees. I checked. But the lock hadn’t been tampered with, and there were no unidentified fingerprints. No sign of a wipe down. The only explanation was that she’d opened it, and fell out. It was an accident.’
I stared at him. He was frowning, and looked like he had more to say.
‘But you don’t believe that, do you?’ I asked.
‘No. I don’t. But I’m just PC Plod – not Nancy Drew. So maybe you can do better. If you do, let me know. And if I can help, call me. In fact,’ he said, ‘call me anyway.’
It must be the smell of bacon fat, acting as an aphrodisiac. Or that old Stano’s magic: take your pleasure now, you could be dead by tomorrow. I was about to say something extremely forward in response, along the lines of ‘let’s go back to my place and fuck like bunnies’. I had my mouth open and was trying to remember whether I had any condoms in the house, when my phone rang. I was willing to ignore it if it was just my mother again, reminding me for the hundredth time that I had to buy a present for my nephew Kieran’s eighteenth birthday.
But it wasn’t my mum, and it couldn’t be ignored. It was Corky Corcoran. A body had turned up – and it had my business card in its trouser pocket.
Chapter 15
Fear No Evil (Debbie Johnson) Page 10