Seeking the Dead

by Kate Ellis

  As she entered the flat, she saw that, although it was old fashioned, it was tidy and spotlessly clean. Carmel asked him how long he’d lived there.

  ‘I moved in when I retired,’ he replied. ‘About four years ago. I was a verger at the cathedral: there was a house that went with the job but I had to move on when I left. I still have family in Eborby and I wanted to stay near the cathedral. And my wife had passed away by then so I didn’t need anywhere big.’

  Carmel noticed a photograph standing on the chest of drawers – a smiling girl, aged around six, with blond curls. ‘Is that your granddaughter?’ she asked, thinking she was bound to be on safe ground. She’d never met a grandparent yet who hadn’t wanted to talk about their grandchildren.

  But the old man’s face clouded and Carmel knew instantly that something was wrong. ‘It’s my great-niece.’ He hesitated. ‘She died.’

  Carmel cursed herself for her tactlessness. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could think of to say. But it seemed inadequate.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ Conrad Peace said sadly. Then, after a short silence, he gave her a small, sad smile. ‘Please don’t worry. You weren’t to know. Tell me about yourself. You’re not local, are you?’

  Carmel blushed. ‘I’m from Liverpool.’

  ‘I thought so. The accent … faint but unmistakable. What brought you across the Pennines?’

  ‘When my dad died, my mum married again and we moved down south … Milton Keynes.’

  ‘But you weren’t happy?’ The old man was perceptive.

  She thought it best to stick to facts. ‘When I left university I worked in the Midlands for a year. Then I looked for a job up north and I ended up in Eborby. I’ve just started at the new Archaeology Centre. I work with our landlady, Mrs Thewlis. That’s how I came to know about the flat. She said the last tenant had moved out suddenly.’

  ‘Oh yes. She left without paying the rent.’ A glint of mischief appeared in his watery blue eyes. ‘I believe they used to call it a moonlight flit. Mind you, I can’t understand why Mrs Thewlis let the flat to someone like that in the first place. Then someone tried to break in a few days after she’d left. They smashed the lock.’

  ‘I thought that was the last tenant – I thought she’d come back for something she’d left behind.’

  ‘As far as I know she never returned the key to Mrs Thewlis so I doubt if it was her. It must have been someone else. I was out at the time – a concert at the cathedral. Fortunately, they didn’t attempt to break into my flat.’

  Carmel suddenly felt uneasy. It was always said that once a thief has broken into your home, they’re more likely to return than to seek pastures new. No wonder Peta Thewlis had evaded the question.

  ‘How well did you know the last tenant?’

  ‘I can’t say I knew her. I only spoke to her when I had to complain about the noise. She had very odd taste in music. Not very nice, in my opinion,’ he added, his lips forming a purse of disapproval.

  Carmel was suddenly curious. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve no idea what it was. It just sounded rather … I don’t know. And some of the people who used to call … Elizabeth, my niece, said they looked like something out of a horror film … all in black and with their noses pierced and goodness knows what else.’

  Carmel flicked her dark hair in front of her ears as discreetly as she could, having a number of piercings herself. She smiled sympathetically, hoping they wouldn’t be noticed.

  ‘Was her name Janna Pyke?’

  A flicker of unease passed across Conrad Peace’s pale face for a split second. ‘I think so, yes. You do ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘My father was a policeman. Must be in the blood,’ she said quickly, the mention of her father producing a sudden, overwhelming feeling of emptiness.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he asked, suddenly concerned as though he sensed her pain.

  ‘That would be nice. Thanks.’ She smiled, searching desperately for something to say. ‘Do you know much about the history of this house?’ she asked, thinking the past was a safe topic of conversation.

  Peace shuffled over to the window and looked out, concealed from the world beyond the glass by snowy net curtains. ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘Nothing. I just noticed that the ghost tour stops outside. I wondered whether there was …’

  ‘No,’ the old man said quickly. ‘There’s nothing. It’s all nonsense.’

  There was an awkward silence. Perhaps, she thought, he’d felt the strange atmosphere in the house as well. She decided to change the subject and asked him about his days at the cathedral. He sat down again and visibly relaxed.

  As she sipped her tea, listening politely as he warmed to his subject, she was aware of the buzz of voices outside on the green. The ghost tour had arrived again.

  She excused herself, promising to call again, and went upstairs to watch from her window, wondering about Janna Pyke. And her strange friends.

  ‘RTA. Eborby bypass. Two miles east of Noyby. Ford Mondeo driven into a bloody great tree. No other vehicle involved. Driver unconscious. Looks in a bad way. Woman passenger hysterical but doesn’t appear to be badly hurt. Ambulance on its way but I reckon we need the fire service with some cutting equipment to get the driver out. And get a bloody move on, will you.’

  The constable scratched his head and surveyed the scene. He could make out the noise of an ambulance siren in the distance but it was drowned out by the woman passenger’s shouts and screams. He and the young policewoman with him had thought she was screaming in pain when they’d first arrived on the scene but they soon realised things weren’t that straightforward.

  The woman was blonde, probably in her thirties, slightly overweight and dressed in casual designer clothes. She was out of the car and appeared to be unhurt but she was shouting, screeching, non-stop at the top of her voice, keeping up the constant barrage of high-pitched noise even though her throat must have been killing her. In the constable’s opinion his colleague was showing remarkable self control in not slapping her across the face. But then they were all only too aware these days of how easy it was for an accusation of police brutality to stick.

  He could hear the policewoman’s calm, soothing voice, a drone beneath the soprano screams. ‘Just calm down, love. Take a deep breath. Can you tell me your name? Where does it hurt? What happened? Just try and breathe deeply. The ambulance is on its way.’

  The radio crackled into life. ‘That car number you gave us. It’s registered to a Mr John Wendal, fifteen Yarmton Close, Hasledon.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Two ambulances were now in sight, approaching fast, sirens and lights blazing. A fire engine followed in their wake. Mr John Wendal – if it was indeed the registered owner who’d been driving – needed to be cut out of the car if he was to stand a chance.

  Suddenly the woman screamed. Her words much clearer this time. ‘Keep him away from me. Don’t let him near me. He wants my soul.’

  The two officers’ eyes met. There were a lot of nutcases around these days. Then, as the ambulance screeched to a halt, the woman picked up a large branch that was lying by the side of the road, knocked off by the collision, and ran to the car.

  It took two police officers and two paramedics to stop her from sending the unconscious driver to his final resting place.

  The constable had seen some domestics in his time but this one beat the lot.

  The killer knew that he had to be patient, to bide his time and wait.

  He had watched from the front room window for the paperboy to come up the path and he had sprinted into the hall, snatching the paper before it reached the floor. He fell to his knees and felt the hard chill of the tiles through the fabric of his jeans as he unfolded the paper and scanned the headlines.

  It was on the front page again: the Resurrection Man. He didn’t understand why they called him that. Didn’t they know that he had to leave them in churchyards because they were the proper
places for the dead? Proper and fitting.

  His hands began to shake and he told himself that he had to stay cool, calm. Nobody must know about the turmoil inside his head – if they did they might guess his secret. He had to put on a show to the world.

  She was calling from downstairs. Dinner was ready. But was it true? Perhaps the devil had assumed her voice and was trying to lure him into a trap.

  Nothing was ever as it seemed.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Police investigating the murders of a man and a woman in the Eborby area by the so-called Resurrection Man have issued a fresh appeal to the public.’ The young, dark-haired woman in a pinstriped suit was reading the local evening news with a frown she probably thought gave her gravitas.

  ‘They would like to speak to anyone who knew Carla Yates, aged forty-five, or Harold Uckley, aged fifty-six, and they are urging anybody with information to come forward.’ Two photographs were flashed on the screen, a balding man in formal passport pose and a laughing holiday snap of a woman with tousled dark hair, taken in an anonymous bar on some Costa or other. ‘Carla Yates was last seen …’

  Joe Plantagenet picked up the remote control and pressed the red button to silence the TV. Somehow he couldn’t face hearing about the deaths of Carla Yates and Harold Uckley just at that moment. He needed a break.

  The telephone rang, the sound ripping through the empty peace that had fallen on the room. Joe looked at it for a few moments before answering it, sending up a quick prayer. Please, God, don’t let it be another one. He was surprised to feel his hand shaking slightly as he picked up the receiver. But the voice on the other end of the line sounded more apprehensive than he did.

  ‘Joe, is that you? It’s Sandra. Sandra Hennessy.’

  Joe had recognised the voice at once. Sandra, Kevin’s widow. Sandra who’d leaned on him as they followed Kevin’s coffin into the church. Sandra who’d cried on his shoulder all those years ago. Kevin and Sandra had been a lot older than Joe, who had only been twenty-three when it happened; a raw young detective constable visiting a Liverpool tower block with his sergeant as part of an armed robbery investigation. Routine. Just to ask a petty villain a few pertinent questions. Routine until the world exploded and Kevin Hennessy hit the damp pavement like a felled tree, blood gushing over the glistening grey concrete like a flowing, scarlet tide.

  A few seconds later Joe had felt a sickening pain, looked down at his shoulder and saw the blood where the bullet had hit him. He’d survived but Kevin hadn’t. Maybe that was why he’d always kept in touch with Sandra, because he felt responsible for her and her teenage daughter, Carmel … even after Sandra had remarried so soon after Kevin’s death and moved to Milton Keynes. Responsible and a little guilty. The psychologist he’d seen afterwards had told him these emotions were quite normal. But they didn’t feel it.

  ‘Sandra. How are you?’ It was a while since he’d spoken to her. The contact had diminished gradually over the years.

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘How’s Steve?’ He asked the question out of politeness. He hardly knew the man who’d replaced Kevin with almost indecent haste.

  ‘He’s OK. Look, Joe, I’ve been meaning to call you. Carmel’s got a job in Eborby.’

  Joe remembered Carmel. Kevin’s daughter had been a shy teenager when he’d last seen her. Gawky and thin with a steel brace on her teeth, she had scuttled away to her bedroom like a frightened crab whenever Joe had visited.

  ‘Good. Where’s she working?’ Joe dredged his memory. He recalled that Carmel had done well at school and had returned to Liverpool to study archaeology at the university. He knew she’d managed to get a museum job in the Midlands but there’d been no mention of Eborby.

  ‘She’s working in some new archaeology centre. Look, Joe, I’m worried.’

  He had sensed anxiety in her voice but had hoped it had just been his imagination. ‘What about?’

  There was a short silence then ‘I know I’m being silly … It’s these Resurrection Man murders. Did the victims know each other or …’

  Now Joe knew why she had called. Her only daughter might be at risk. This was enough to send any mother reaching for the panic button and Sandra had already lost a husband to murder. She was vulnerable – terrified that lightning could strike twice – so it would reassure her to know that the Resurrection Man’s victims had been killed for some logical reason by somebody they knew. If it was random, everyone was at risk. Including Carmel.

  Joe thought for a moment. He knew he could lie to make her feel better. But he believed that, in the long run, honesty was preferable. ‘As far as we know the victims weren’t connected in any way. But I hope we do find a connection.’

  ‘So it’s a random killer?’

  ‘Come on, Sandra … statistically …’

  ‘Sod statistics. Will you get in touch with her? Make sure she’s all right. See that her flat’s secure and …’

  He could hear the rising panic in Sandra’s voice. It would do no harm to put her mind at rest. And he was the one who’d survived on that rainy night in Liverpool nine years ago. He owed it to her. He told her to give Carmel his mobile number – she was to ring him if she was worried about anything … anything at all. And if he hadn’t heard from Carmel within the next few days he’d try to find time to call her himself, just to check she was OK.

  And warn her to take care.

  Carmel Hennessy had slept a little better. Somehow she’d found her meeting with Conrad Peace reassuring. The knowledge that there was another human being in the same building – a gentle elderly man who’d once been a verger at the cathedral – had brought her back to normality when she’d been in danger of letting her imagination run away with her. Although there was something about her bedroom – something in the atmosphere she couldn’t quite put her finger on – that made her restless and unable to relax. She often felt an all-consuming sadness when she was lying there in the early hours which usually seemed to lift when she got up and began the day. She told herself it was probably the move to a new city. But she wondered whether Janna Pyke – the ill-behaved last tenant – had felt it too.

  She walked to work – something she had never been able to do in her previous job working at a small museum some fifteen miles from the flat she’d shared with two other girls in a large Midlands conurbation. She loved the walk through Eborby’s early morning streets; loved the smell of coffee drifting from the little cafés and the clatter as the shop shutters opened. It had rained during the night and, where the sun managed to shine in over the tangled pantile rooftops, the damp ground sparkled in the shafts of golden light. At this time the streets belonged to the people of Eborby rather than the tourists who roamed, sheeplike, along their worn flagstones later on in the day.

  She arrived at the Archaeology Centre at eight forty-five. It was a modern building – tucked between a stone-built medieval merchant’s house and a handsome Georgian building that now housed a firm of accountants – so tastefully designed to blend in with the city’s architectural heritage that it had won numerous awards. Inside there was a hands-on education centre designed to encourage public involvement in the city’s archaeology and much loved by local schools who provided a constant stream of visitors in term time. The other half of the building housed the offices and laboratories of the city’s archaeological service but Carmel had little to do with this side of the operation. She was there to deal with the visitors and give demonstrations.

  As she put her handbag in her locker, Peta Thewlis entered the cloakroom, her arms folded around her defensively, making a beeline for the toilets. Peta, tall and slim with a helmet of glossy brown hair, had an almost Gallic elegance that Carmel envied and when she spotted Carmel she gave her a cool smile.

  ‘How’s the flat? Is everything all right?’

  Carmel wondered whether there was something behind her new landlady’s question. Then she told herself not to be so foolish. It was an innocent enquiry. Friendly. But Peta was the typ
e of capable, authoritative woman who always made her nervous. And she was her boss as well as her landlady so Carmel always felt obliged to make a good impression: to mind her Ps and Qs.

  ‘It’s fine. I met the gentleman in the downstairs flat last night. Mr Peace.’

  ‘Ah yes. Mr Peace.’ Peta’s expression gave nothing away.

  ‘Er … a letter arrived addressed to a Janna Pyke and I wondered if you had a forwarding address.’

  ‘No. She left suddenly and she didn’t say where she was going … which is hardly surprising as she owes me a month’s rent.’

  ‘So what should I do with the letter?’

  The older woman gave a bored shrug. ‘That’s up to you.’

  Peta turned and marched towards the toilet cubicles, leaving Carmel no wiser. Carmel hurried out of the cloakroom towards the interactive education centre where she was to entertain visitors until lunchtime.

  She sensed that the subject of the previous tenant wasn’t a welcome one. Perhaps there had been some row she didn’t know about. Or perhaps there was something Peta wanted to hide, although she couldn’t for the life of her think of what it could be.

  When Carmel reached the education centre she was relieved to see that Maddy Owen was already there. Maddy had taken her out to lunch on her first day and had showed her the ropes, fussing over her like a mother hen. She liked Maddy. Maddy was OK.

  It was Maddy who first told her about the Resurrection Man murders. She seemed worried that there was a killer on the loose in Eborby and every so often she’d bring up the subject, as though it was hovering in her mind like a persistent wasp. Maddy lived on her own and she’d admitted to Carmel that the murders were making her nervous. But that morning Maddy seemed unusually happy. Perhaps the Resurrection Man had been caught.