Seeking the Dead

by Kate Ellis

  Joe’s heart rate increased a little, as it always did when he stepped into the unknown. He pulled a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket and put them on. It was always possible that the killer had left some trace in the flat, that he had called on Janna and abducted her. Or perhaps he had lured her away somehow.

  Their shoes clattered loudly as they climbed a flight of steep, uncarpeted stairs. The door at the top was shut and Joe turned the handle and pushed it open.

  ‘After you,’ Emily whispered.

  Joe stepped inside. Keith Webster had been right when he’d described the state of the room. It was furnished with a combination of cheap chipboard furniture and junk-shop cast-offs and the walls were plain magnolia woodchip.

  The flat was in a highly desirable location in the heart of the medieval city and, if Webster had taken the trouble to do the place up, he might have earned himself a decent rent from some prosperous young professional. But as it was, only a penurious student or someone very desperate would be willing to endure its spartan conditions. Joe found himself wondering why Webster hadn’t made the most of this potentially lucrative asset. But perhaps he had his reasons. A love nest away from his wife’s prying eyes might be worth more to him than hard cash.

  The debris of a meal lay on the 1970s tiled coffee table in the centre of the room: a takeaway pizza box, empty; a rotting banana skin; and a mug with the dregs of tea or coffee, now turning to penicillin. Magazines and books were scattered about the floor and the threadbare settee was strewn with files and papers. It looked as if Janna Pyke had stepped out for half an hour, intending to return. But she hadn’t come back. Instead she had gone to her death and ended up, cold and naked, in a country churchyard.

  ‘I’ll have a look in the bedroom,’ Emily said.

  Joe started to follow her. He wanted to see everything, to glean the slightest clue about the victim’s life. But Emily stopped him. ‘You do the kitchen and bathroom, will you?’

  Joe said nothing. He made for the small kitchen but found nothing of interest to anyone but a microbiologist, who would probably have been fascinated by the contents of the fridge and the condition of the uncleaned oven.

  The bathroom also revealed very little about its last user, apart from the fact that she wore heavy, pale make-up – and they’d known that already. The cupboard contained nothing of interest apart from a packet of paracetamol tablets and a bottle of indigestion salts. The sink was grubby and there was a dark tide mark around the bath. Domesticity hadn’t been one of Janna Pyke’s virtues.

  Emily emerged from the bedroom, her face solemn.

  ‘Well?’ Joe asked, looking beyond her through the open bedroom door. He could see an unmade double bed, the grey bedding – pristine white in an earlier existence – crumpled and creased as if she had just risen from an afternoon of hot passion. ‘Found anything?’

  ‘Her clothes are all there – some in the wardrobe, some on the floor. There’s a large packet of condoms in the bedside drawer.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘And some used ones in the waste bin.’

  ‘We’ll have to get Forensic over. Anything the matter?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She spoke with a vehemence that surprised Joe. ‘You’re quite right, we’d better call Forensic. And get this place searched from top to bottom.’

  ‘Yes. There might be a diary or an address book. There’s no sign of one but she might have kept it hidden somewhere. Or maybe it’s in a bag she had with her when she disappeared … there’s no sign of a handbag, is there?’ he said, looking around.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Emily. ‘You go and summon reinforcements and I’ll have a search round.’ She smiled sweetly, as though she expected him to obey instantly. But she avoided looking him in the eye.

  Joe took his mobile phone from his pocket, still watching her. He could sense something wasn’t right. And he wondered what it was.

  ‘I’ll leave it with you then,’ Emily said quickly before disappearing back into the bedroom, letting the door swing closed behind her.

  As soon as she was certain she wasn’t being watched, Emily began to make a methodical search of all the hidden places she could think of. The top of the cheap pine wardrobe, in the lumps of dust underneath the bed, at the backs of the drawers. She found old magazines, an unopened bank statement and various lost items of underwear but there was nothing else; nothing that mentioned Janna Pyke’s days in Leeds and nothing that provided any clue to the identity of her killer.

  Emily looked down at her hands and saw that they were shaking. She’d have to get a grip on herself before she faced Joe. She took a deep breath and counted to ten.

  ‘It looks like she travelled light,’ Joe observed as she emerged from the bedroom. ‘There isn’t much personal stuff here at all but there’s a laptop. We can get someone to have a look at that.’

  ‘Probably just her university work.’

  ‘According to Keith Webster she was researching some people called the Seekers of the Dead. Something to do with the plague.’

  ‘I don’t see how that can be relevant.’ Emily turned away. Going through Janna’s work, she thought, would be a complete waste of time. ‘Judging by the used condoms in the bedroom, I think she was doing more with our Dr Webster than a spot of historical research.’

  ‘We don’t know it’s him. She could have been involved with someone else. Someone we need to find.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps it would be best if I ask Webster. Man to man.’

  For the first time since they’d arrived at the flat, Emily smiled. ‘You do that, Joe. I’ll wait here for the reinforcements.’

  ‘I’ll go and have a word with him then. I still think there’s a lot he hasn’t been sharing with us.’

  As he left the flat he turned and caught a glimpse of Emily’s face. She looked haggard … and worried. But he was hardly surprised. The case was taking its toll on everyone.

  Once he was back on the street, he popped his head round the door of the shop and told the proprietor he’d pick up his painting later. Then he hurried off towards the university. Business before pleasure.

  *

  Canon George Merryweather left the ordered chaos of his office and strolled into the cathedral. He needed to think, to pray, but the great church was too crammed with meandering, chattering tourists for the pursuit of God’s guidance so he wandered back to his office again and sat down at his desk. He put his head in his hands in an attempt to block out the secular world and tried desperately to concentrate.

  The girl, Amy, was in urgent need of his prayers. When he’d called on her the previous evening, her condition had much improved. According to her mother, she seemed a lot calmer and she’d stopped having the nightmares. But George could tell that she was still traumatised, afraid of her own shadow.

  He was glad to see that Amy’s mother, Anne, had a friend there with her to provide support. Elizabeth worked at the hospital and she seemed a pleasant, sensible sort of woman. George had hardly exchanged more than a few words with her but he sensed that she had been through tragedy herself and that she understood what Anne was going through. Perhaps, when he met her again, he’d find out more about her.

  According to Anne, the psychiatrist, Dr Oakley, who was also Elizabeth’s boss, was pleased with Amy’s progress. He was uncovering the story of what had happened to her little by little, drawing it out of her gently, and he thought he was getting near the truth. Anne had blushed when she’d told George, almost in a whisper, that Amy had been raped. But George had already guessed that rape had been part of the poor girl’s ordeal.

  According to Anne, what had happened to Amy had taken place at the Black Hen but she knew no more. George hadn’t yet worked out the significance of the strange symbol Amy had kept drawing in the early days. Now she’d stopped drawing it and George’s naturally optimistic nature took this as a sign that whatever power had been possessing Amy no longer had any hold over her. George had told Anne that this was a Good Thing – progress – trying to provide
her with some comfort, some hope.

  George wasn’t sure whether to tell Joe Plantagenet what he’d discovered. All his instincts told him that a rape should be reported and investigated. That justice should be done in this world as well as in the next. But Anne had refused to involve the police, even though her friend, Elizabeth, agreed with George that Amy’s attacker should be prevented from doing the same again to some other naïve young girl. Anne was adamant that she wanted to forget it. She wanted Amy to have a new start, she said, without dragging up the horrors of the past. If vulnerable, fragile Amy was made to testify against her attacker in a court of law, who knows what damage it would do to her. Let sleeping dogs lie, she’d said. And she claimed that Dr Oakley agreed with her. Amy’s wellbeing was to be their only consideration.

  When George had finished his prayers for the unfortunate girl, he began a search of his chaotic desk. He knew the book was somewhere buried in the depths of his paperwork. He had borrowed it from the cathedral library and he knew he had to return it before it went right out of his mind.

  He searched through the stratified papers and eventually ran the book to ground in the middle drawer of his desk. It was a Victorian history of Eborby, a dull brown volume easily overlooked. But it had told him a lot about Amy’s case. It had told him how, in the eighteenth century, a vicious highwayman known as Jack Devilhorn had been landlord of the Black Hen, then a notorious drinking den reputedly on the site of a Viking burial ground. As well as his lengthy catalogue of serious crimes, this man was reputed to have practised black magic rituals on the premises, plumbing the depths of human depravity and, according to rumour, raising the devil himself – although, in the absence of evidence, George tended to keep an open mind on such matters as the majority of the cases he investigated turned out to have a rational and earthly explanation.

  George opened the book and as he flicked through the pages he noticed something, a name that caused him to smile. That was it. He had the answer. He knew where he’d come across the name Jack Wendal before.

  He picked up the phone and dialled Joe’s Plantagenet’s number. He’d want to know about this.

  ‘So what did Webster have to say for himself? Was he screwing his students?’ Emily’s enquiry sounded more than casual.

  ‘In a word, yes. I had to assure him that his wife wouldn’t get to hear about it before he’d talk but he admitted it eventually.’

  ‘I don’t know how the university authorities would view it.’

  ‘I don’t think they’d be too happy. That’s another reason for Webster’s reticence. His job and his marriage are on the line.’

  ‘The things some men risk for a quick grope,’ Emily said with feeling. Joe looked at her, curious, and saw that her mouth was set in a determined line.

  When they arrived back at the police station they made for the incident room, both longing for a cup of tea. The Forensic team was going over the flat Janna Pyke had occupied during the last weeks of her life, although, as far as Joe could see, there was no indication that anything violent had taken place there. He was as sure as he could be that she had been killed elsewhere – stripped and imprisoned in a confined space until the air ran out and she gasped her final breath. But where had she died? And where were her things? Would they too turn up eventually outside the Mirebridge Hospice shop? Only time would tell.

  They had their tea in Emily’s office, sitting sipping the hot, liquid in amicable silence. Although Joe sensed that something was on the DCI’s mind, he was reluctant to pry. It might be something to do with her private life, he thought, and if she wanted to tell him, she’d do so in her own good time. He suppressed his natural curiosity and tried to concentrate on the case.

  Emily looked at her watch. ‘I need to take Harold Uckley’s clothes to his widow … get her to identify them. Coming with me?’

  Joe nodded. Revived by the tea, he wanted to be out on the trail again. And it would do no harm to find out more about the Resurrection Man’s second victim, Harold Uckley. At the moment he seemed to be a respectable enigma.

  As they were about to leave the office, Jamilla Dal burst in, brimming with untold news. ‘Those house-to-house enquiries I set up in Evanshaw,’ she began breathlessly. ‘A vet lives opposite the church. On the night Janna Pyke’s body was dumped he was called out to an emergency at a farm at three in the morning. As he drove off he noticed a van parked by the lych gate leading to the graveyard.’

  Joe suddenly felt excited. This was the best news they’d had in ages. ‘Has he given us a description of the van?’

  ‘Something the size of a transit van, he said.’

  Joe’s heart sank. ‘There must be thousands of transit vans in Yorkshire.’ He looked at Jamilla, pleading. ‘What colour was it?’

  ‘Light coloured, he said. Possibly white. He couldn’t be more specific.’

  ‘Not a bloody white van … they’re everywhere. Please tell me he took the registration number, Jamilla. Please.’

  Jamilla smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry. He’s a busy vet, not an old lady who has nothing to do but spy on the neighbours from behind her net curtains.

  Joe sighed. Jamilla was right. But if they had to trace and interview the owner of every light-coloured transit van in the area, the killer would have plenty of time to strike again. And that’s what he was afraid of. ‘I don’t suppose anyone else saw anything?’

  ‘Sorry. No.’

  ‘And the van didn’t have any distinguishing features … like a name on the side or damage to the bodywork?’

  Jamilla shook her head. ‘Sorry. Like I said, his mind was on other things.’ She made to leave the office then she turned back. ‘I almost forgot, there was a call for you. A George Merryweather. He asked if you could call him back.’

  ‘Thanks, Jamilla. I’ll give him a call when I have a moment.’ Jamilla gave him a shy parting smile and hurried away.

  ‘Come on, let’s go and face Mrs Uckley … get it over with,’ Emily said, sounding a little impatient. Joe sensed that she wasn’t looking forward to their visit. But then neither was he particularly.

  As they drove to Uckley’s semi-detached house, not that far from Emily’s own, Joe found himself wondering again about his new boss’s home life. Perhaps as they were so near, she’d invite him back for a cup of tea. But somehow he doubted it. He had the vague feeling that all wasn’t well. He had picked up undercurrents and he wondered whether the Thwaite marriage was foundering because of Emily’s antisocial working hours. However, he hoped he was wrong.

  It was Emily who carried the plastic evidence bags containing the clothes and wallet and another containing the Archaeology Centre carrier bag with its large black and white AC logo. Joe knew the visit wasn’t going to be easy. He’d met Mrs Uckley before and had found her uncommunicative. Of course her prickly manner might have been due to the circumstances of their meeting. On the other hand, Joe had a nagging suspicion that she was always like that.

  Uckley’s widow answered the door almost as soon as they’d rung the bell and she stood there staring at them for a few seconds before inviting them in. She was a tall woman, dressed from top to toe in an unflattering grey that gave her flesh a sallow look which suggested some underlying illness. Her hair matched her clothes and was scraped back into a makeshift bun. Perhaps, Joe thought, her monochrome appearance was intended to symbolise that the colour had drained from her life … or, more likely, that she just didn’t care any more.

  She led the way through into the living room and invited them to sit. No tea was offered and she stared ahead, waiting for them to say what they’d come to say. She had the air of one resigned to her fate. The worst had happened. Nothing they could say or do could touch her.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Uckley,’ Emily began gently. ‘But I have to ask you to look at these clothes. Do they belong to your husband? You see, his wallet was found with them and …’

  The woman took the plastic bag and examined it briefly. ‘They’re Harry’s. Wher
e did you …?’

  ‘They were found outside a charity shop on Little Marygate. The Mirebridge Hospice shop. They were in this carrier bag.’ Emily handed her the Archaeology Centre bag but Mrs Uckley looked at it blankly, no recognition in her eyes. ‘Your husband’s wallet was found too. As far as we can see his money and credit cards haven’t been touched so we’re ruling out robbery as a motive.’ She took a deep breath and looked the woman in the eye. ‘I know you’ve been asked this question before, but can you think of anybody at all who’d want to harm your husband?’

  Mrs Uckley shook her head. ‘No one. Harry was the most gentle …’ A tear trickled down her cheek and she took a tissue out of her pocket to blow her nose.

  ‘He never mentioned anything unusual going on at work?’

  Another shake of the head.

  ‘And did he ever mention a man called John Wendal?’

  ‘No. Who is he?’

  ‘He works at the Eborby Permanent. He was attacked a few days ago.’

  ‘I’ve not heard the name before.’

  ‘Did Harold ever mention a place called the House of Terrors?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or a pub called the Black Hen?’

  She shook her head vigorously.

  The door burst open. ‘What’s going on?’ A muscular young man with cropped fair hair stood in the doorway, his fists clenched. ‘Are you OK, mum?’

  Joe stood up. ‘Ian? We’ve met before … DI Plantagenet and DCI Thwaite.’

  The young man’s eyes lit up. ‘You’ve got someone? You’ve got the bastard who killed Dad?’

  Joe avoided his eyes, guilty at having raised false hope. ‘Not yet. I’m sorry. But we’re following some new leads.’

  Ian Uckley sat himself down by his mother and touched her hand, a gesture of support. Joe watched his face as he asked him the same questions he had asked his mother. The answers came in the negative. Apart from the one about the Black Hen which produced a slight flicker of recognition in the young man’s eyes, easy to miss unless you were looking for it … as Joe was.