by Kate Ellis
‘That’s right. Look, I’m late for work and …’
Jamilla smiled sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry. I won’t keep you. I just wondered if we could have access to her belongings.’
‘I put them in the loft in case she came back for them. They’re packed in two black bin bags.’ Peta thought for a moment. ‘Look, if I give you the keys, you will let me have them back, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’ Jamilla was pleasantly surprised that Janna Pyke’s former landlady was being so cooperative.
Peta disappeared into the house for a few seconds and returned with a set of keys. ‘That’s the front door key. Let yourself in and go up the stairs. The loft entrance is on the landing. There’s a pole you hook through and …’
Jamilla smiled reassuringly. ‘It’s OK, Mrs Thewlis. We’ve got something similar at home. I’ll let you have the keys back as soon as possible. Thanks for your cooperation.’
‘It’s the least I can do,’ said Peta half-heartedly as she watched Jamilla retreat down the garden path.
The Resurrection Man’s first victim, Carla Yates, had lived alone. She was divorced and her ex-husband had displayed little grief when officers had called to break the news of his former wife’s horrendous death. Carla had disappeared from his life years ago, he said, and he had built up a new home with a new, much younger, wife who was now expecting their second child.
Emily Thwaite looked through the file. He had probably traded Carla in for a new model, she thought, her lips taut with disapproval. He had, no doubt, left his first wife for some floozie from the office fifteen years his junior and poor Carla had had to build up a new existence. Start again with a new, much smaller, home and a new job in the travel agency to earn her keep. She had had to make new friends and grab a social life with them where she could. Drinks with the girls, dressing younger than her age, always on the look out for available men. Until a girls’ night out turned into a nightmare and she became the prey of a killer.
Emily thought of Jeff and the kids and counted her fragile blessings. They had overcome their troubles … even though they’d nearly torn them apart. Even though they were now returning to haunt them.
Tucking the file under her arm, she left her office and went in search of Joe Plantagenet. She wanted him with her on this one. She was new to the case … and she’d noted in the file the fact that Joe had met Carla’s ex-husband once before when her body was first found. It was always best to have some continuity if possible and Joe seemed to be good at gaining people’s confidence.
She found Joe in his office, trawling through some witness statements.
‘What’s new?’ she asked, perching on the edge of his desk.
‘Jamilla’s just gone to arrange access to the things Janna Pyke left in the loft at Vicars Green.’
Emily experienced a sudden sting of panic. ‘I wanted to go with her and have a look at the place for myself.’ She took a deep breath. She had to stay calm, in complete control. ‘Still, it can’t be helped. Tell her to bring the things straight back here, will you? I want to have a look through them.’
‘OK, if you wish. But Jamilla’s quite capable …’
‘I want to see them. Is that a problem?’ she snapped, suddenly regretting her impatience. The strain was getting to her. She gave Joe a small apologetic smile. ‘Sorry. I didn’t get much sleep last night. What else is there?’
‘I sent someone round to the charity shop where Carla Yates’s clothes were dumped in the hope that whoever dumped them was caught on any nearby CCTV cameras but I’m not holding my breath. I’ve also sent a couple of DCs to the university to interview any students who knew Janna and someone’s gone over to the House of Terrors to reinterview some of the staff there. And Jevons of course. I think we should make his life a little uncomfortable for a while, don’t you?’
Emily nodded. ‘I want to have a word with Carla Yates’s ex … Show him the clothes. Watch his reaction.’
‘You can’t think he has anything to do with it?’
‘Stranger things have happened. And there’s always a chance there’s something he’s not told us.’
‘You mean she might have dabbled in the occult?’
‘Have you any better suggestions?’
Joe had to admit he hadn’t. He stood up. Carla’s ex worked from home these days so they knew exactly where to find him.
Lawrence Yates lived in a small place called Nearland, halfway between Eborby and Thirsk. Nearland was a typical north Yorkshire village with a cluster of stone houses, a village hall and a pub, all huddled around an ancient church. Just the sort of place the Resurrection Man liked to dump the bodies of his victims, Joe thought as he passed the sign welcoming visitors to the village and exhorting then to drive carefully. This part of Yorkshire was stunningly beautiful with its ruined abbeys, rolling, sheep-strewn fields and mellow stone villages but the juxta-position of beauty and gruesome death chilled Joe’s heart.
He glanced across at Emily who was sitting silently in the passenger seat, her eyes fixed on the passing landscape.
‘Nice,’ he said.
‘Mmm. We sometimes come up this way on days out … the kids love the countryside. My youngest has a thing about sheep.’
‘Is that why you moved to Eborby? To be nearer to all this?’
‘Something like that.’ She fell silent until Joe brought the car to a halt outside a house that had obviously once been the old village school.
‘Is this it?’ she asked.
‘You sound surprised.’
‘It doesn’t seem the sort of place I’d associate with Carla Yates, that’s all.’
‘Perhaps Lawrence Yates’s new wife has different tastes.’
‘Expensive tastes,’ Emily mumbled, sizing up the gleaming arched hardwood windows, and the pair of bushy bay trees in chunky ceramic pots flanking the front door.
The door was answered by Lawrence himself. At just under six foot, he was a well-preserved forty-five with a thick head of hair, slightly greying at the temples. Emily found him attractive and the well-cut jeans and collarless shirt he wore gave him a youthful look. He would have outgrown Carla’s tawdry charms quite early on, she guessed. The new wife would be young, svelte, dressed with immaculate simplicity and would drive a large SUV – probably a BMW or a Mercedes.
But sometimes Emily despaired of her abilities as a detective. The second Mrs Yates, when she appeared, turned out to be around ten years younger than her husband, small and plump with brown hair caught up in an untidy ponytail and no make-up on her face. Obviously pregnant, she held a grizzling toddler on her hip. Emily, her assumptions shattered, found herself chatting to the woman, asking how old the child was and when the new addition was due while Joe stood by patiently and waited for the maternal chat to end.
When Mrs Yates – whose Christian name turned out to be Bridget – hurried out to make the tea, Lawrence Yates invited them to sit on the soft leather sofa that stood in the space once occupied by the teacher’s desk when the building had been a small, single-class-roomed school.
Emily was carrying the plastic bag containing Carla Yates’s clothes in a large briefcase. She pulled it out and presented it to Lawrence. ‘These clothes were found in Eborby. They fit the description of the ones Carla was wearing when she was last seen.’
She watched his face for any sort of reaction. But he stared at the bag, impassive, giving nothing away.
After a few seconds he broke his silence. ‘How can you be so sure they’re hers? They could belong to anyone.’
‘There was a cash and carry card in the handbag found with the clothes and it had her name on it. Pretty conclusive, I’m afraid.’
‘If you say so. Look, I don’t recognise the clothes, but then that’s hardly surprising because I haven’t seen Carla for a couple of years. It’s terrible the way she died but I don’t know how I can help you. She was killed by some maniac … this Resurrection Man. He’s killed other people. I …’
‘You�
��re quite right, Mr Yates,’ Emily said with a sympathetic smile. ‘But you do understand that we have to talk to you. You were married to her for … how long was it?’
‘Three years,’ was the weary reply. He sounded as though he regretted every minute of it.
Bridget Yates bustled in with tea at that point and Emily waited till she’d gone before carrying on with her questions. There was no point in upsetting a pregnant woman, she thought. If Lawrence wanted to give her chapter and verse after they’d gone, that was up to him.
‘Tell us about her?’ Joe asked gently.
‘I gave a statement when she was found.’
‘Please, Mr Yates. You see, we don’t know much about her. We’ve spoken to her friends but there didn’t seem anyone she was really close to.’
Lawrence Yates nodded, resigned to going over it all again. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘What sort of a person was Carla?’
He inclined his head to one side in a show of thought. ‘Fun loving, I suppose you could call it. I was working all the hours God sends and she wanted to be out on the town. Not that Eborby was her ideal town. She used to talk about moving to Leeds. In fact I’m surprised she didn’t when we split up.’
‘She worked for the Eborby Permanent Building Society, I believe.’
‘At one time, yes. Not for long though.’
‘Do the names Harold Uckley and John Wendal mean anything to you?’
Lawrence swallowed hard. ‘Harold Uckley. He was killed like … I haven’t heard of the other one.’
‘Janna Pyke … or possibly Jane Pyke?’
‘I heard it on the news last night. She’s the latest one, isn’t she?’
‘That’s right. When your ex-wife worked at the building society did she mention anything unusual? Anything she was worried about or anyone …?’
‘She said it was boring. She got out as soon as she could because she wanted to get a job in the travel industry.’
‘Was she interested in the occult at all?’
Lawrence looked surprised. ‘Not that I know of. I think she had her tarot cards read once but apart from that … Mind you, she’d do anything for a laugh … for a bit of excitement.’ He smiled. ‘We weren’t really suited, Inspector. That’s why the marriage didn’t last long. We wanted different things out of life. That and …’ He stopped himself in mid-sentence, as though he was afraid of giving too much away.
Joe leaned forward. ‘And what?’
‘She had an affair. That’s what brought things to a head. She started working in a travel agent’s on Sheepgate. Not the one she was working in when she died. This was another one nearby – a small family firm. When she was younger Carla was very …’ He searched for the word. ‘Vivacious. Attractive to men. I was working hard as I said, trying to build up my business – I’m a computer consultant. She used to tease me. She used to say I was boring … getting old before my time. Then the teasing became more vicious.’
Lawrence looked down and seemed to be studying his hands intently. Joe sensed he was remembering a painful period of his life and he needed a bit of gentle encouragement. ‘Go on,’ he prompted, almost in a whisper.
‘There was a married man at work. The boss … he owned the business. I should have known something was going on because she started getting home later and later. After a while she didn’t even bother pretending. She used to go away with him for the weekend. I found out later that he’d told his wife he was going to conferences or to check out hotels. I felt sorry for the wife actually … they’d had a child but it had died.’
‘So what happened?’
‘He finally left his wife and Carla moved in with him.’ Lawrence gave a bitter laugh. ‘Then came the ultimate irony. He died of a heart attack three months after they moved in together. Of course his wife got the lot – house, business and everything in his bank account – and Carla was left high and dry. Homeless and broke when the wife sacked her from her job.’
‘What was the man’s name?’ Joe asked, thinking it might be worth checking out.
Lawrence thought for a few moments. ‘Hill … no, Hale … Peter Hale.’
‘So what did Carla do then?’
‘I suppose you have to admire her in a way. She picked herself up and started again. Got herself a new job and a place of her own and I was only too pleased to give her a divorce. I knew it wasn’t worth trying again even if she’d wanted to. I put it down to experience.’
‘You had every reason to resent your ex-wife. She made a fool of you,’ Emily said bluntly, fishing for a reaction.
‘Look, I’ve moved on. I’ve got Bridget now. A lovely house, a lovely wife, a lovely kid and one on the way. What is it they say? All’s well that ends well.’
Joe nodded. He was right of course. He had no reason to kill his ex-wife and even less to kill the others. Their visit had been a waste of time. But he had a couple more questions to ask. Casting his bread upon the waters to see if anything came back.
‘Do you know anything about Carla’s recent life? Did she have a boyfriend?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t really care. If she’d got herself someone new I would have wished her luck but, as far as I can gather, she lived on her own and she used to go round to pubs and clubs with a gaggle of women much younger than herself trying to pick up men. Who she picked up and whether one of them was a serial killer, I can’t tell you, I’m afraid. But it does seem rather likely that that’s what happened, don’t you think?’
Joe nodded. It seemed as good an explanation as any. Apart from the fact that Carla’s friends had claimed that she hadn’t talked to anyone when they were out that night. And Harold Uckley hardly fitted into the scenario Lawrence had described.
When they left they said goodbye to Bridget and Emily wished her good luck with the new baby.
‘They seem a nice couple,’ she commented absentmindedly to Joe as they drove back to Eborby.
‘Yes. Do you think we should try and track down the wronged wife? Shouldn’t be difficult if she owns a travel agent’s.’
‘If you think it’s worth it,’ said Emily, her mind still on other things.
Doris and Ethel, stalwart volunteers of the Mirebridge Hospice Charity Shop on Little Marygate a few streets away from the cathedral, regarded each new bag of donated clothes as potential treasure.
That morning’s crop of unattended bags, deposited on the doorstep overnight, had been taken upstairs to the sorting room to await the attention of the ladies. The task of opening the bags – although usually a delight – sometimes held potential hazards. A boiled sweet wrongly placed or a piece of chewing gum could ruin an otherwise desirable garment. Once Doris had discovered something unmentionable in a pocket and it had taken her a week to recover from the shock.
After sorting out the very satisfactory contents of a large Selfridge’s bag, Ethel turned her attentions to the smaller bag bearing the name of the Archaeology Centre Shop. She emptied the contents out on to a large table and wrinkled her nose. Trousers – well worn. Shirt with perspiration stains in the armpits. Tie. Shoes – rather scuffed. Socks – obviously unwashed. Underpants – she picked them up with the end of her pen and wrinkled her nose in disgust. She moved the shirt to one side and saw a square of leather peeping out. She picked it up. A wallet.
Ethel hesitated, longing to call down to Doris. She would know what to do. But the shop couldn’t be left unattended so Ethel had to take the initiative for once. With trembling fingers she flicked the wallet open and the first thing she saw was a wad of ten pound notes. There was a credit card too. And a bus pass – a seven-day saver ticket with the user’s photograph on it. The face seemed familiar. And when she looked at the name she realised why.
She called Doris’s name, still staring at the wallet in her hand as though it were a ticking bomb. It was Harold Uckley’s wallet. And Harold Uckley had been murdered by the Resurrection Man.
Jamilla hurried up to Emily and Joe as soon as they’d set f
oot in the incident room. ‘There’s been a call from the Mirebridge Hospice Shop on Little Marygate,’ she said, breathless. ‘Harold Uckley’s clothes have turned up. Left outside the shop. They found them when they opened up this morning.’
Joe raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps Mickey Friday was telling the truth about finding Carla Yates’s things outside the charity shop.’
‘There’s another thing,’ Jamilla continued. ‘Uckley’s things were found in an Archaeology Centre shop bag just like Carla Yates’s.’
Joe looked at Emily. ‘That can’t be a coincidence.’
‘Is there a CCTV camera covering the shop?’ Emily asked.
‘The charity shop? Unfortunately no. We checked it out before.’
‘What about the shop in the Archaeology Centre? Surely they’ve got a CCTV camera?’
Joe thought it was highly likely and he said as much to Emily. It occurred to him that he could give Maddy Owen a call and find out for sure. It would be a good excuse to talk to her again. He sat there for a minute or so wondering if he should call her anyway – maybe ask her out for a drink if work permitted. But his thoughts were interrupted by a booming voice.
‘The hospital’s just been on, boss,’ Sunny called across the room. ‘Know that John Wendal you’re interested in? Well, someone tried to kill him last night. Pulled his tubes out.’
This got Joe’s attention. ‘Is he OK?’
‘Yeah. It was that mad woman …’
‘Gloria Simpson?’ asked Emily.
‘Yeah. She’s back in the psychiatric ward. Apparently she’d been hiding the pills they gave her. She managed to escape and made straight for Wendal. I don’t know what he did to her but it must have been something really bad to …’
‘Let’s hope they keep a better eye on her in future,’ said Joe. Gloria had been sly. She’d clearly planned her attack with almost military precision. But he guessed that it was too late to question her now. She’d be sedated: the staff wouldn’t fall for the same trick twice.