Playing with Bones

by Kate Ellis

  Sylvia Pledge was convincing, as was her husband Barry, when they stated that they hadn’t seen Gordon since they’d visited him at Wakefield two months ago. If he was on the run, they said, this was the last place he’d come because it was the first place the police would look. Barry let Sylvia do the talking and Joe suspected that in the Pledge household, it was always her who called the tune.

  ‘We haven’t actually come about your Gordon. But some officers will be here shortly to search the place,’ said Emily, sneaking a look at her watch. Uniform were taking their time. ‘I believe your mother lives with you. Her name’s Alice Meadows.’

  Sylvia’s face registered shock, swiftly concealed. ‘Yes, but you can’t see her. She’s bedridden. She had a stroke and she’s not up to receiving visitors.’

  Joe suspected they were going to have a fight on their hands. But he wasn’t going to give up easily. ‘We need to speak to her,’ he said. ‘We promise not to upset her.’

  Sylvia folded her arms defensively. ‘You’ll be lucky. She can’t speak. I told you, she had a stroke. A bad one.’

  Emily stepped forward. ‘We’d like to see for ourselves.’

  Joe could tell Sylvia was making a decision. ‘I’ll have to check how she is. Like I said, I don’t want her upset.’ She nodded towards a door to their left. ‘You can wait in there.’

  They were shown into a little sitting room while Sylvia and Barry disappeared upstairs. There was a photo album on the table by the sofa and Joe couldn’t resist picking it up and flicking through the pages out of casual curiosity. But then he suddenly froze, his eyes fixed on the open page.

  When he looked up he saw Emily staring at him. ‘What’s the matter, Joe? What’s up?’

  He felt his hand shaking slightly as he handed Emily the album. The resemblance to Kaitlin still had the power to shock, even when it was on photographic paper. ‘That’s Polly Myers from Singmass Close.’

  Kaitlin – or rather Polly – was standing next to Gordon Pledge whose image was familiar from a thousand TV reports. He was wearing a suit with a carnation in the buttonhole and she wore a long white gown and was carrying a bouquet.

  Emily opened her mouth to speak but before she could say anything the door opened. Joe hurriedly replaced the album. His heart was pounding and he took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm, professional. He tried to go over the implications of this new discovery in his head. No wonder Polly had been avoiding the police.

  Sylvia Pledge stood on the threshold, barring the way out. ‘Alice is asleep. I’m not going to have her disturbed. You’ll have to come back another time.’

  Joe knew Emily wasn’t going to take no for an answer. ‘We need to talk to her about something that happened to her in the nineteen fifties. It’s very important.’

  Sylvia smirked. ‘The nineteen fifties? She doesn’t even know what day it is. She won’t be able to tell you anything. This is police harassment and I’ll have no hesitation in making a complaint. I also know a journalist who’ll be very interested to know you’ve been coming here to harass an old lady.’

  The Emily Joe knew didn’t like being ordered about and she probably regarded Sylvia’s threats as a personal challenge. ‘It really is very important,’ she said reasonably. ‘I must insist on seeing her. It could be a matter of life and death.’

  Sylvia Pledge appeared to be considering the matter. In the face of Emily’s determination, she probably knew she had little choice but she was making them sweat.

  Joe picked up the photograph album and pointed to Polly’s photograph. ‘Is this Gordon’s wife?’

  Sylvia scowled. ‘You’ve no right to look at that. It’s private.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But now I’ve seen it, you might as well answer the question.’

  Sylvia gave him another scowl. ‘It’s Paula … or Polly as she calls herself. And before you ask, I’ve no idea where she is. She buggered off with the baby when our Gordon was arrested. Said she couldn’t face being married to a man who’d murder a kid and we haven’t seen her since. She had no loyalty, that girl. Our Gordon was far too good for her.’ She pressed her lips together as if that was all she was prepared to say about her errant daughter-in-law.

  Joe stared at the picture. The new revelation explained a lot. No wonder Polly had been on her guard. No wonder she’d left the close. Singmass Close was hardly a good place to lie low at the moment.

  ‘Could Gordon have gone looking for her?’ Emily asked. ‘Surely he’d want to see his child.’

  ‘I doubt it. Now if that’s all, I’m busy. I have to look after my mother, you know. And I suggest that you obtain a search warrant if you want to do any more prying.’

  Joe cut her off. ‘We’ve got one.’ Suddenly he heard the sound of sirens outside. The cavalry, in the form of two patrol cars, had arrived. ‘Our uniformed colleagues will be searching the premises but, like the chief inspector said, we really do need to talk to Alice now. It’s important.’

  With the arrival of the patrol cars, Sylvia seemed to recognise defeat. ‘OK. But don’t tire her,’ she said ungraciously and led the way upstairs. She progressed slowly, taking one step at a time as though her joints were stiff. Or perhaps to give somebody up there a chance to hide. Barry was hovering in the hall and Joe noted the look he gave his wife as she passed. These two were definitely concealing something. And that something could well be Gordon Pledge.

  There was a loud knock on the front door.

  ‘I suggest you answer that, Mr Pledge,’ said Emily. ‘And don’t forget about the search warrant. They’ll need to see everything.

  Barry obeyed without a word and when they reached the landing Sylvia stopped at the end door. Joe saw there was a key in the lock.

  ‘This is Mother’s room’ Sylvia said in a whisper. ‘We have to keep it locked in case she wanders.’

  ‘I thought she’d had a stroke,’ said Joe sharply.

  ‘She still tries to get out of bed,’ Sylvia replied. ‘I worry about her trying to get down the stairs and falling.’

  Sylvia craned her neck nervously to see what was happening downstairs. Half a dozen uniformed officers were swarming around the hall, starting their quest to recapture Gordon Pledge.

  But Joe and Emily had other preoccupations. ‘After you, Mrs Pledge,’ Emily said pointedly.

  Faced with Emily’s determination, Sylvia unlocked the door and entered the room. Joe and Emily followed her in and the first thing Joe noticed was the row of dolls on the shelf above the bed, staring down at the old woman who lay there, her bony arms resting on the floral duvet that was pulled up to her chin. Her cloud of pale grey hair was thin, revealing the scalp beneath, and her flesh was the colour of parchment. Joe glanced at Sylvia. She looked annoyed. Perhaps because her claims that Alice was asleep had been proved wrong. The old lady’s watery blue eyes were wide open and watchful.

  The dolls watched impassively as Emily stepped forward, smiling and perched herself on the edge of the bed. ‘Hello, Alice. My name’s Emily and I’m with the police. This is Joe.’

  Joe smiled and gave the old woman a little wave.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Emily continued. ‘We’d just like to ask you a few questions about something that happened a long time ago. Is that all right?’

  The old woman’s eyes flickered towards Sylvia, as though seeking approval.

  ‘I’m sure Alice won’t mind if you leave us alone, Mrs Pledge,’ said Emily. ‘And you’ll be wanting to make sure our officers aren’t doing any damage,’ she added, making the words sound like a thinly veiled threat. ‘We’ll call you when we’re ready.’

  Joe watched as Sylvia opened her mouth to protest then shut it again, unable to think of a valid excuse for staying that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. She addressed her mother. ‘Is that all right, Mum?’ She sounded as though she hoped the answer would be no … that her mother would become distressed and beg her to stay.

  But Alice gave a barely discernible nod and Joe noti
ced something that looked like defiance in the old woman’s eyes. One look at the expression on Sylvia’s face told him that this wasn’t meant to happen. Sylvia had lost control of the situation and now he and Emily held the balance of power. Emily sat on the edge of the bed and gave Alice a reassuring smile as Sylvia hovered in the doorway, uncertain what to do next. But Joe made her mind up for her, shutting the door gently on her, leaving her outside on the landing.

  When he returned to the bedside, Emily had already begun to question Alice gently, chatting about the old days when she used to live in Singmass Close. The old woman’s eyes had lost their glassy look. She was interested … alive. Reliving her youth.

  Joe could tell from the thin, birdlike hand clutching at Emily’s sleeve that she was anxious to communicate something. As Emily seemed to have established a rapport with Alice, he left her to it.

  Because of her stroke, Alice’s speech was slurred and it must have taken some effort to tell her story. But it emerged slowly and Joe knew from watching the old woman’s face that it had been something she’d been longing to share with someone who’d understand.

  She’d been walking home one night and someone came up behind her and slipped something around her neck. Next thing she remembered was waking up in Eborby General Hospital, her foot heavily bandaged and her throat so sore that she couldn’t speak. It was a couple of days before she was told that she had lost a toe. This was in the days when doctors tended to keep information to themselves.

  Alice had no longer felt safe in Singmass Close so as soon as she was well, she and her husband had moved out to the suburbs. Then, a year later, the Doll Strangler claimed his first victim, but the police never came to question her. It was almost as if they’d forgotten about her. And for some reason best known to herself, she’d never tried to contact them to point out the similarities.

  ‘Have you any idea who attacked you?’ Joe asked quietly. As soon as the words had left his lips he realised it was a stupid question. If she’d had any suspicions, she would surely have told with the police at the time. So he was surprised when she spoke again. ‘I told the lass … the lass who looks after me. I told her.’

  ‘You mean you do know who attacked you?’ Emily said. She was trying to keep her questioning gentle and calm but Joe could sense her suppressed excitement.

  ‘Aye. I saw him when I went there with our Sylvia.’

  ‘Went where?’

  ‘The dolls’ hospital. He were there. He smelled of this cheap scent and the man who tried to kill me smelled the same. And his hands. I saw them when he had that stocking. And I saw those same hands fixing a doll. They were all warty and I’d felt the warts all rough on me skin. I’m sure it were him. I’d been at a dance and he’d asked me for a waltz and I said no. Maybe I were a bit cruel in them days … maybe I told him I wouldn’t fancy dancing with the likes of him. He wasn’t pleased but I never thought owt about it until …’

  ‘So why didn’t you tell the police who you thought it was?’

  She pressed her lips together. ‘Well I’d not got any real proof, had I? And my Harry said I should just forget about it … not get involved. He said I’d be up there in court and they might lock me up for telling lies. He never liked the police much did Harry.’

  Joe caught Emily’s eye. ‘So you kept quiet because your husband said so … even when you heard about the murders?’ Joe said, trying to keep the disapproval out of his voice. They needed to get at the truth here and antagon-ising Alice wasn’t the way to do it. He stood looking down at her. Her cheeks were pink now, as though the life blood was flowing back into her.

  ‘Aye. That’s right. My Harry knew him, you see. Drank with him sometimes. He said I was a lying bitch.’

  ‘So who attacked you, Alice? What was his name?’ Joe glanced up at the dolls who seemed to be leaning forward on their shelf, listening intently, waiting for the answer just as he was.

  Alice closed her eyes and for a few moments Joe thought she’d lapsed into unconsciousness. He saw disappointment on Emily’s face. Just when they were so near.

  Then suddenly the watery blue eyes snapped open. ‘I never told no one … not until my little lass asked me and I told her. But I couldn’t swear it were him, like. Not in a court of law.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell us who you think it was, Alice?’ Emily said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. ‘It might make sure no more girls get hurt.’

  Alice hesitated then she beckoned Emily to come closer with a claw-like finger. Emily leaned over until she could feel the old woman’s hot breath on her cheek. Joe stood behind, straining to hear.

  He couldn’t quite make out the name Alice had spoken so softly. But he saw Emily straighten herself up, a satisfied smile on her lips. ‘You’ve done the right thing, Alice,’ he heard her say. ‘Thanks.’

  Her eyes met Joe’s. ‘It’s about time we made a move.’ She turned back to Alice and smiled. ‘We might want to speak to you again, Alice. Is that all right?’

  Alice nodded although Joe could see that the effort tired her. ‘Aye. You come when my little lass is here. She looks after me, you know. She’s a good lass.’

  Joe wouldn’t have thought of Sylvia Pledge as a little lass … but mothers look at their children through different eyes.

  ‘Well, who was it?’ he whispered as they left the room.

  When she mouthed the name he smiled. At last it looked as if they were getting somewhere.

  CHAPTER 22

  Polly was frightened. That was why she’d changed her name. And that was why she was staying in Yolanda’s flat above the antique warehouse, sleeping on the spare bed with the broken springs.

  Before she’d met Yolanda she’d visited a clergyman at the cathedral – Canon Merryweather, whose job it was to deal with anything of a supernatural nature. She usually avoided churches and she didn’t know why she’d sought his help but it had seemed a good idea at the time. Or perhaps she’d just been desperate and didn’t know where to turn.

  George Merryweather had been kind and he’d listened patiently, even offering to visit her house if she was still worried. But after she’d met Yolanda she hadn’t contacted George again. Yolanda disapproved of clergymen and organised religion and Yolanda’s disapproval had been so strong that Polly hadn’t had the heart to argue with her.

  Polly sat there watching Daisy play with her dolls, going over things in her mind. She’d married a man who’d turned out to be a child killer. At first she hadn’t believed Gordon capable of murder but then the evidence against him had stacked up like weights on old-fashioned scales until they’d tipped one way to the inevitable confirmation of his guilt. For a while she’d not been able to come to terms with it but, little by little, she had had to accept the truth. Her life with Gordon had been a lie and he had deceived her.

  She’d remembered his parents’ odd ways and his mother’s almost pathological obsession with status and money. She dressed like an assistant at a high-class cosmetics counter, spending a fortune on clothes and manicures, and somehow she’d managed to coax Polly and Gordon into doing most of her household chores while her ineffectual husband simpered in the background. Sylvia Pledge used people and there had even been times when Polly had been a little afraid of her. But perhaps the Pledges had known all along that Gordon was a potential pervert or killer. Perhaps living with that burden had made them strange and set them apart from the rest of humanity.

  After Gordon’s conviction Polly had changed her name and rented the house in Singmass Close, determined that she would have no more contact with her husband or his family. He’d murdered a child. He was the lowest of the low. And she suppressed those minuscule doubts about his guilt that rose to the surface from time to time like bubbles in a stagnant pond. Gordon was a murderer and his escape seemed to confirm it more than ever.

  Daisy never asked about her father these days. He had just become a dim memory – not as real to her as Mary. Mary had appeared soon after the move to Singmass Close – in Da
isy’s mind if not in the flesh. At first Polly assumed that Mary was an imaginary friend made up by a lonely, confused child. Daisy talked about Mary as though she was real and she even insisted on leaving food for Mary because she was hungry. The food was never touched, of course. Imaginary friends don’t eat.

  But there were times when Polly herself thought she glimpsed a little girl in a dirty white dress with matted hair out of the corner of her eye, and sometimes she’d been sure she felt the light touch of a little hand in hers. But she must have been imagining things. It was probably the stress of her situation.

  Yolanda, however, was convinced that Mary was real. The children of Singmass Close, she said, had been seen often over the years. Poor little souls wandering about the area of the close, seeking the human comfort they hadn’t experienced in life. The city’s ghost tours stopped there and sometimes one of the tourists would feel a small hand in theirs. Or someone would discover the shape of a child on a photograph taken there. And an archaeologist digging there in preparation for the new development had felt a small hand tapping her shoulder as she worked away with her trowel … and had found red finger marks on her flesh that evening when she undressed. The children couldn’t hurt them, Yolanda said. They might be mischievous like earthly children but they meant no harm. And Polly had dismissed all this until the murders started … and the dolls had been left by the bodies.

  The thing that really frightened Polly was the fact that the first girl had died shortly after Gordon’s escape. She had a dreadful feeling that it had been some sort of message to her; that prison had twisted Gordon’s mind making him kill again in that horrific way. If she’d gone to stay with her mother he might have come looking for her there so she was grateful to Yolanda for offering them a refuge where Gordon would never think to look.

  The local papers were full of the Doll Strangler murders in the 1950s. Four women had died back then and it looked as if someone was copying the original killer. Gordon had been in prison. High security. What if he had shared a cell at some stage with that killer – now elderly of course – who had reminisced about his past crimes? What if Gordon had acquired the taste for death when he’d murdered Francesca Putney? What if he had killed the girls in Singmass Close? Polly kept turning these questions over in her mind. In a moment of panic she’d toyed with the idea of getting in touch with Joe Plantagenet and asking for police protection. But she knew the wives of child murderers shouldn’t trust the police. She would have to deal with it on her own.