Playing with Bones

by Kate Ellis

  She looked down at Daisy who was still playing on the floor with her dolls. The child looked up with solemn eyes. ‘I want to go home, Mummy. I want to see Mary. Mary’s scared because she saw the lady fall over.’

  Polly’s heart started to pound. ‘What lady?’

  ‘The murder lady. Mary saw her. She told me.’

  ‘Did she, dear,’ said Yolanda who was reading quietly in the corner.

  Polly’s head began to ache. Mary again. Would they never escape from Mary? Perhaps staying with Yolanda had been a mistake. She only encouraged Daisy’s obsession.

  Yolanda turned her smile on Polly as if she could read her mind. ‘You should tell the police what Mary saw, Polly. Until you do, you’re both in danger.’

  Polly stared at the woman. Yolanda treated Daisy’s fantasies as the truth. ‘I don’t want Daisy involved,’ she heard herself saying. ‘It’s better this way. Honestly. If we just keep our heads down we’ll be fine. Look, Yolanda, I left my mobile at the shop. I’ve got to go out. And I’ll tell them I won’t be in for a while. You don’t mind looking after Daisy, do you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Yolanda replied. ‘But take care, won’t you. He’s out there. And he’s waiting.’

  Polly’s heart began to pound. ‘There’ll be lots of people around. Gordon wouldn’t dare to do anything in the street, surely.’

  Yolanda shook her head, a sympathetic smile playing on her lips.

  ‘Not Gordon, dear. The danger doesn’t come from Gordon.’

  Gordon Pledge knew the perfect hiding place in case of emergencies. As soon as he’d heard the police arrive he’d moved aside the three loose boards behind the cupboard in the attic room where Michele slept. Behind the boards was a hidden space about 6 feet square; probably some sort of storage area, forgotten over the years.

  He’d removed the boards and then replaced them carefully as soon as he was inside. And once he’d made himself comfortable there, he was almost tempted to stay, to creep out in the night and surprise Michele as she slept – he was, after all, a frustrated man, starved of female company. In prison, he’d been treated as a nonce – a child killer. The lowest among the low. But he hadn’t deserved it and there was no way he was going to become a rapist now – he’d met enough of them inside and even being near them made him feel dirty. Michele would be safe – unless she was willing, of course, that would be different. Perhaps he’d try his luck if he ever got a chance.

  He wondered where his mother had found her; the stunning, willowy girl who was willing to endure domestic slavery for her keep and possibly a bit of pocket money. He guessed she was a drug addict or something because she looked spaced out most of the time and he’d noticed the way his mother locked her in at night. Sylvia had done some stupid things in her time but taking on a girl like that to avoid using his grandmother’s money to pay for a care home must take the cake. Anyway, a girl like Michele was hardly likely to stay there indefinitely. She would disappear into the wide blue yonder one day leaving his parents with Alice on their hands. And God knows what would happen then.

  But his mother’s domestic arrangements weren’t really his problem. He had plans of his own.

  Once he’d heard the police drive away, Gordon had found his mother in his grandmother’s room, giving the old woman a drink, and when he’d entered, she’d looked up guiltily as Alice lolled back on the pillows.

  ‘What’s going on, Mum? What did the police say? Did they find anything I’d left round? Did they say they’d be coming back?’

  Sylvia looked up and scowled. ‘I think you’re safe. The two detectives just wanted to talk to your gran. Spent a long time with her, they did.’ Gordon saw her look down at the old woman with distaste. ‘God knows what she told ’em.’

  He came up to the bed and took his grandmother’s hand. ‘Hi, Gran. You all right?’ He smiled at her but she closed her eyes as though she hadn’t seen. Gordon felt a prick of sadness. He’d always been fond of his gran and he didn’t like to see her like this. He looked up at his mother. ‘Where’s Michele?’

  ‘Outside somewhere,’ she answered, avoiding his gaze.

  ‘I just hope you’re paying her well.’

  Sylvia looked away.

  ‘Is she on something? She looks really out of it sometimes and she always looks scared stiff when you’re around. Where did you say you found her? Which agency was it?’

  ‘I told you before, it’s none of your business,’ Sylvia answered quickly.

  He looked down at Alice. Her eyes were closed now, as though she was in a deep sleep. ‘I’m moving on,’ he said.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Gordon hesitated. He supposed his mother was owed some sort of explanation, as long as he wasn’t too specific. ‘I’m going to try and find him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man who should be serving life instead of me. I met someone inside who knows him. He said he’s drinking heavily; falling to pieces. So I reckon with a bit of persuasion, he’ll admit what he did and clear my name.’

  Sylvia looked at him, exasperated. ‘Prison’s given you too much time to think. And what are you going to do about Polly … and your daughter? What about Daisy?’

  He looked down at the old lady on the bed, now unconscious and snoring softly. ‘Polly’s my problem, not yours,’ he said, clenching his fists.

  He swept out of the room, ignoring his mother’s pleas to come back and talk. And not to do anything stupid.

  It was almost eight-thirty when Emily Thwaite swept into the incident room like a ship in full sail with Joe following in her wake. It had been a long day but discovering the identity of Alice’s attacker had lifted their spirits.

  ‘Caleb Selly’s our man,’ Emily announced triumphantly as everyone stopped whatever they were doing and turned to look at her. ‘We’ve just spoken to a woman he attacked in the nineteen fifties. Apparently he took offence when she refused to dance with him. He attempted to strangle her and he took a knife to her foot – she lost a toe. We need to talk to him as soon as possible.’

  Joe looked round the room and saw that several mouths had fallen open. Such a positive identification was a rare and precious thing, even if the case was over fifty years old.

  Joe felt his heart beating a little faster. All along he’d suspected that Polly knew something about the Singmass Close murders but now it seemed likely that she’d been concealing something altogether different. Perhaps he was losing his touch.

  But he couldn’t dismiss the possibility that, if Pledge had discovered Polly’s new address, he might have come looking for her. But had Gordon Pledge really killed two women in the vicinity of his wife’s house, perhaps as an awful warning? He could certainly have learned about the Doll Strangler’s methods from his grandmother, even down to the amputation of the toe.

  The sound of Emily’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘So if Pledge’s ex-wife lives in Singmass Close, it means that he has a connection with our case and he’s still high on our list of suspects. We need to find him.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I suggest we get ourselves an early night. It’ll be a big day tomorrow. We’ll call on Caleb Selly first thing. Seven in the morning suit you, Joe?’

  Joe didn’t answer. He heard Emily give a deep sigh as she swung her handbag over her shoulder and looked at him expectantly. ‘What do you reckon to Gordon Pledge as our killer?’

  He thought for a few moments. ‘I suppose it’s a possibility. But, like you said, we need to find him first. If we’re seeing Caleb first thing, what about Brian Selly?’

  ‘We’ll send someone along to bring him in while we’re seeing his dad. I don’t know about you but I need to catch up on some sleep and remind my kids what I look like. Caleb and Brian aren’t going anywhere within the next few hours and they certainly won’t be expecting the knock on the door first thing.’

  Emily was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat politely behind her. A young DC had come to impart the news that one of A
bigail Emson’s fellow students had rung in while they were out. He wanted a word with the person in charge of the case. Something was worrying him but he wasn’t sure whether it was important.

  ‘Got the address?’ Joe saw Emily’s eyes light up with the excitement of the chase. She looked at Joe. ‘If he’s a student he won’t be tucked up in bed yet. We can pay him a visit on our way home, eh, Joe.’

  Joe’s shoulder began to ache a little but he nodded bravely. At least it would delay his return to his empty flat.

  Half an hour later they reached Hasledon and parked outside a large Victorian house a couple of streets away from Christopher Strange’s place. Like Christopher’s, the house bore the tell-tale signs of student occupation. The weed-filled front garden, the unwashed windows decorated with garish stickers. They could see a light shining in the front-room window. Someone was in.

  A fair-haired young man answered the door. He’d been expecting them and, for once, someone looked happy to see the police. He introduced himself as Harry Wilde and invited them in.

  Joe sat beside Emily on the saggy sofa and watched as she moved to put her bag on the beer-sticky coffee table but hugged it on her knee when she thought better of it. ‘You want to tell us something about Abigail Emson?’ he said.

  Wilde shuffled his large feet, encased in boat-like trainers. ‘I was really gutted when I found out what happened to her. She was really nice. Sweet, you know. Never had a bad word to say about anyone.’

  ‘You liked her?’ Joe asked, watching the young man carefully.

  ‘Yeah. But we were just friends. She had a boyfriend back home.’

  ‘So what do you want to tell us?’

  Wilde thought for a few moments. ‘It might not be important.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell us and let us decide for ourselves?’ Emily said, sneaking a surreptitious glance at her watch.

  Wilde took a deep breath. ‘It was just that for our group work she contacted this author who’d written a book on wartime Eborby. It was published by a small press specialising in local interest books so it was easy to get in touch with the author. She went to see him and interviewed him about his research. When she came back she said he’d been very helpful … but then he kept ringing her. He said these friends of his had parties. In the end she had to be quite firm.’

  ‘Did he give up?’

  ‘Well, this was only about three weeks ago and last time I saw her she didn’t mention it … so I presumed he hadn’t been giving her any more hassle. That was the trouble with Abi … she could be too nice.’

  ‘What was the author’s name?’ Joe asked.

  Wilde sighed with frustration. ‘I can’t remember. Oh, hang on. I think it might have been something to do with horse racing.’

  ‘Derby? Philip Derby?’

  Harry Wilde looked surprised, as though Joe had just done a particularly amazing conjuring trick. ‘That’s it. How did you know?’

  ‘He’s psychic,’ said Emily, standing up.

  It looked as if Philip Derby had just been added to their visiting list.

  As soon as the police had arrived at Windy Hill Farm, a drowsy Michele had been bundled into the boot of the car parked round the back of the house. As her head had started to spin, she realised that she shouldn’t had drunk the orange juice Sylvia had given her as soon as the car had been spotted coming up the drive. The juice had been doped, of course, she knew that now and felt stupid. It could have been her chance to catch the visitors’ attention and she’d blown it without thinking. Because she felt thirsty.

  She’d slept like the dead for what seemed like hours and now she’d awoken, cramped and dry-mouthed in the stuffy darkness of the car boot. She had no idea how long she’d been there. But she could hear the sound of birdsong outside, the joyous clamour of the dawn chorus, and she wondered whether she’d been there all night.

  She hadn’t expected the car to start and the movement and the smell of the exhaust fumes made her feel sick. Her head ached and her mouth felt like sandpaper as she wondered where she was being taken.

  She didn’t even know who was driving the car. Was it Barry? Or Sylvia herself ? There was always a chance it could be the son called Gordon. But whoever it was was taking her somewhere. Possibly to kill her … like they’d killed the girl in the freezer.

  The car had been driving fast for a while – travelling down some motorway perhaps. Then it had stopped and she’d heard the door slam. Then, after the slammed door, there had been silence and she’d drifted into unconsciousness again.

  When she awoke again she could make out the faint rumble of distant traffic. But there was no sound of human voices – no chance of rescue. She breathed in deeply. She was hot now in that metal prison and she could feel sweat pouring down her face. The boot was stuffy as though the air was running out. Perhaps that’s how they intended to kill her. Suffocation left no marks.

  She closed her eyes in the darkness and prayed. Then she heard footsteps and the car door opening and they were off again.

  Joe rose early the next morning after a restless night. He climbed out of bed, wolfed down some cereal and made himself a strong coffee to wake him up.

  He felt rather down as he walked to work through the empty streets. There was a low mist over the city, giving everywhere a monochrome look, like a 1950s photograph.

  He arrived in the incident room a couple of minutes before Emily and watched her march in with a determined look on her face before following her into her office.

  ‘Ready to pay Caleb a visit?’ he asked.

  ‘Too right. We’re going to crack this today,’ she said with a confidence Joe found he couldn’t share. Then she grinned at him. ‘Positive thinking, Joe. I want both Sellys, dad and lad, and I want Philip Derby. He knew Abigail as well as Natalie so he’s right back on our list.’ She shuffled some papers on her desk.

  ‘There’s still no sign of Gordon Pledge. And we don’t know where the wife’s gone.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re together. Perhaps the estrangement was all an act.’

  Before Joe could answer Sunny entered the office after a perfunctory knock. He looked as though he had news to impart.

  ‘You know those DVDs we found doing the search of Derby’s flat? Well, I’ve just been looking through the last ones.’

  ‘That’s true dedication to duty, facing that sort of thing at this hour in the morning,’ Emily said with a twinkle in her eye.

  Sunny’s face turned red. ‘Natalie Parkes is on some of them and I’ve found some new faces … I’m trying to get an ID on them.’

  Joe caught Emily’s eye. Natalie’s killer could have got to know her through Derby’s parties and arranged to meet her on the night she died. Every lead had to be followed. Joe and Emily followed Sunny into the cramped AV room where he’d been viewing the DVDs.

  ‘Hope all this hasn’t corrupted your morals,’ Joe quipped as Sunny set the disc running.

  ‘Not so you’d notice,’ Sunny replied, shooting Emily a coy look. Back at the time of the first Doll Strangler murders in the 1950s, a policewoman wouldn’t have been expected to view material like this. But the world had changed and Joe saw that Emily Thwaite looked quite unconcerned as the bodies writhed on the screen … Benjamin Cassidy’s naked form amongst them.

  ‘I hear Cassidy’s resigned,’ said Joe, tilting his head to get a better view of the action.

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ said Emily. ‘I bet the PTA would pay good money to see this. Hey up. Who’s that … just joined in the fray?’

  Sunny pressed the pause button and they all leaned forward. Then Joe saw a wide smile spread across Emily’s face. ‘I think we’ve got ourselves another suspect, gentlemen,’ she said as Brian Selly’s naked body flickered, frozen for posterity on the screen. ‘What’s the betting he’s followed in his daddy’s footsteps. I want him brought in now.’

  CHAPTER 23

  With this new development Joe and Emily reasoned that their visit to Caleb could wait until th
ey’d spoken to his son, Brian and to Philip Derby. After all, Caleb wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

  Half an hour later Sunny Porter had run a half-dressed Derby to ground at his flat above the bookshop and brought him in, protesting.

  But Joe decided to keep him waiting. A period of uncertainty would soften him up and he wanted him in a co-operative frame of mind when he asked him about his harassment of Abigail Emson. Abigail had contacted him about her university work and Natalie had attended the parties. Derby had known both victims. And that made him a suspect.

  While Derby was being brought in someone had been sent to Abbotsthorpe to fetch Brian Selly – Derby and Cassidy’s co-star in their nasty little movie productions. Selly looked nervous as he was led into the interview room and his fingers kept moving towards his lips as though he was smoking an imaginary cigarette. But as the police station was a no smoking area, he had to make do with a cup of tea from the machine.

  Joe and Emily were waiting for Selly, Emily’s fingers lingering impatiently over the tape machine. He sat down opposite them, feigning indifference but failing. They could see the anxiety in his eyes. So far he had refused the services of a solicitor but Joe suspected that would soon change.

  ‘Do you know why you’re here, Mr Selly?’ Joe asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

  ‘No idea. I presume it’s something to do with why you came to the house before. But I don’t know anything. Honest.’

  Emily smiled sweetly. She was usually at her most dangerous, Joe thought, when she smiled like that.