by Kate Ellis
Emily turned to Ian. ‘Can you think of anything at all that might help us? Did your father go out much, for instance?’ She had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Did he go to the railway museum at all?’ she asked. If he had done, it would establish a link between him and Wendal.
‘He used to go down to our local, the Drayman’s Arms, on a Friday night. That’s where he was going on the night he disappeared. But you know that already.’
It was true. They knew all about Harold Uckley’s regular visits to the Drayman’s Arms to meet his fishing friend, Barry Mere. He and Barry met most Fridays – Barry would have a pint while Harold, the teetotaller, would have a Coke – and on Sundays they went fishing, along with a few others. It was an uneventful life … until the Friday night when Harold Uckley didn’t turn up at the pub.
‘I believe your husband didn’t drive.’
Mrs Uckley looked uneasy and glanced at her son. ‘Er, no. He had an accident once … it put him off. He never drove again after that.’
Joe leaned forward. ‘What kind of accident?’
‘He ran someone over but it wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t have stopped in time. But it still put him off driving. He had nightmares about it for years.’
Ian squeezed his mother’s hand but she pulled it away.
‘Are you sure he’s never mentioned the Black Hen?’ Joe kept his eyes on Ian’s face but this time the young man was prepared.
‘No. Dad was a creature of habit. He went to the Drayman’s on Friday nights. And the rest of the time he was either at work, at home, or fishing. He wasn’t mixed up in anything illegal or—’
‘What makes you think the Black Hen’s connected with anything illegal?’ Emily snapped.
Ian looked uneasy. ‘I don’t … I’ve just heard it’s got a bit of a reputation, that’s all.’
‘Really?’ said Joe, sitting forward, looking Harold Uckley’s son in the eye. ‘What sort of a reputation would that be then?’
The young man squirmed in his seat. ‘Just things I’ve heard. I’ve never been in there. I heard someone at work say a load of Goths and weirdoes hung out there. If you think Dad would have gone to a place like that, it’s obvious you didn’t know him.’
‘So he’s never been interested in the occult or anything like that?’ He saw the shock on the widow’s face. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to ask.’
‘Never,’ Mrs Uckley said. ‘Harry would never have had anything to do with that sort of thing.’
‘No, of course not. I’m sorry.’ Joe looked at the wounded expression on the woman’s face and felt like a brute.
But Joe felt it was worth having one more go. He took out his a notebook and executed a rough sketch of the symbol they’d found in Jevons’s office and Gloria Simpson’s flat. ‘Do you recognise this at all?’ He held out the sketch so that mother and son could both see it.
But there was no reaction apart from a rather puzzled shaking of two heads. Joe looked carefully for some spark of recognition. But he saw nothing.
‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ he said to Emily as they walked down the neat front garden path. Both Uckleys had seen them off the premises, Ian hovering protectively at his mother’s side.
‘You win some, you lose some,’ said Emily as she climbed into the car. ‘I don’t think Harold Uckley was a Satanist any more than Carla Yates was.’
Joe started the car. ‘So what do you think?’
Emily thought for a moment. ‘I think our man selected his victims at random. Carla was walking home on her own after a night out with her work colleagues and Harold was on his way to his local for a quiet drink. And Janna Pyke … Well, who knows where she’d been? But there’s no sign of a break-in or struggle in her flat so it’s possible that she’d been out somewhere at night when there weren’t many people around and she was abducted off the street too.’
Joe frowned. ‘That’s all we need … a random killer taking people off the streets. What about Wendal?’
‘We only associated him with the case because he worked in the same place as Uckley. The Eborby Permanent’s a big employer. I’m beginning to think it’s a coincidence. The two cases might not be linked at all.’
‘Jevons had the symbol in his office.’
‘So Jevons is associated with whatever’s going on at the Black Hen So is Gloria … and possibly Janna Pyke. But there’s no evidence the other two were.’
‘Back to square one then.’
‘There’s always the Archaeology Centre connection. The carrier bags.’
‘And don’t forget the transit van,’ said Joe with a rueful smile. What they needed now was a bit of luck.
The message was still sitting on Joe’s desk. Call George Merryweather. He picked up the receiver but before he could dial the number Sunny Porter rushed in, looking as if he had news to impart.
‘Just had the hospital on the phone. John Wendal’s feeling better … says he wants to speak to someone. Do you want to go or …?’
Joe was on the verge of delegating the job to Sunny but his curiosity got the better of him. ‘Yeah. I’ll go. Fancy coming with me?’
Sunny shook his head. ‘Nah. I’ve got to get down to that archaeology place and get a list of people who might have got their hands on their carrier bags. I’m starting with staff and any customers who’ve made at least two large purchases with credit cards or cheques. No way of tracing anyone who’s paid in cash, unfortunately.’
‘Don’t forget the company who supply the bags.’ Sunny assumed a martyred expression. ‘Give us a chance.’
‘OK. Let us know how you get on.’
Joe put the receiver down. The call to George would have to wait until he returned from the hospital. The fact that Wendal wanted to talk to someone looked hopeful. Perhaps when they’d got this one out of the way things would become clearer.
When Joe arrived at the entrance to John Wendal’s ward, he didn’t know quite what to expect. Was he about to interview a rape suspect? Or maybe the Resurrection Man’s accomplice?
But his misgivings were soon put to rest. He found Wendal propped up on a hill of snowy hospital pillows, his eyes closed. His wife, Sue, was sitting by his side, flicking through a magazine. She looked up when Joe greeted her and gave him a shy smile.
‘How is he?’ Joe whispered.
‘He spends a lot of his time asleep but the doctors say he’s doing well.’ Her voice wavered between relief and a slight distrust of medical opinion. She leaned over and touched her husband’s arm, now free of tubes and drips. ‘Jack … Jack. It’s the inspector from the police. You said you wanted to talk to him. Jack.’
The man’s eyelids flickered open and he lay there for a few moments as though trying to familiarise himself with his surroundings. He turned his head towards Joe and attempted a smile.
‘Good to see you’re on the mend, Mr Wendal,’ Joe began. ‘Are you sure you feel up to talking?’
‘Might as well get it over,’ the man said in a hoarse whisper.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Sue Wendal, planting a soft kiss on her husband’s forehead. She looked as if she was relieved to have someone there to give her a break from her vigil.
Joe sat down in the chair she had vacated. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’ he asked gently. He took his notebook from his pocket and prepared to write.
He studied the man. In his weakened state he hardly looked capable of participating in the things that had allegedly taken place at the Black Hen. But in health …? Well, many harmless-looking people, in Joe’s experience, harboured dark secrets.
‘There’s not much to tell,’ Wendal began before indicating that he wanted a drink of water. Joe poured some from the jug on the bedside locker and put the glass to his lips. When he had drunk a little, Wendal continued. ‘I was driving along and this woman flagged me down. Her car was nearby and she said she’d run out of petrol and could I give her a lift to the nearest garage. I knew there was one a mile up the road so I said fine. Hop in.
There was a man there walking his dog. He spoke to her. He’ll be able to tell you what happened.’
‘We’ve already spoken to him. Go on.’
‘We were driving along and she seemed a bit edgy … a bit nervous. I thought I’d better put her at her ease so I said something like “my name’s Jack Wendal, by the way” …’ The man lay back on his pillows, staring at the ceiling.
Joe helped him take another drink of water. ‘And?’ he prompted.
‘I can’t rightly remember what happened but suddenly all hell broke loose. She started screaming. I couldn’t understand what she was saying but she was yelling in my ear, screaming like a banshee. I was bloody scared, I can tell you. Then she grabbed the wheel and I lost control of the car. The last thing I remember was hurtling towards some trees. After that it’s all a blank.’ He frowned and shook his head painfully. ‘What made her do that? Was she mad or what?’
Joe didn’t answer. ‘She escaped from the psychiatric unit here and tried to kill you. Do you remember anything about it?’
‘No, but they told me. I just can’t understand it. I’d done nothing to her … I’d not even seen her before that day. Why did she …?’
‘Ever seen this symbol before?’ Joe showed him the sketch in his notebook, the same one he’d shown to the Uckleys.
‘No. What is it?’ was the puzzled reaction.
‘Ever been to a pub called the Black Hen?’
‘No. Never.’
‘Ever heard the name Janna Pyke … or Terry Jevons?’
‘Can’t say I have.
‘You had a leaflet advertising the House of Terrors in your garage. Ever been there?’
He shook his head painfully. ‘I found one lying about at the museum … the railway museum where I’m a volunteer. I picked it up but I can’t remember why. Maybe I thought it looked interesting. Can’t remember what I did with it. I’m surprised I kept it.’
Something told Joe that the man was speaking the truth. ‘Did you know Harold Uckley, the man who died a few weeks ago?’
‘I knew he worked at the Permanent but I didn’t know him. It’s a big place … can’t know everyone. Mind you, it was the talk of the office … his murder. Dreadful. You’re not safe anywhere these days.’
Joe stood up. His instincts told him that he had learned all he was going to learn. And besides, Wendal was looking tired. ‘I’ll leave you to rest,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Wendal.’
The man sank back on to his mountainous pillows, exhausted, and Joe suspected that he’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Something had triggered Gloria Simpson’s violent behaviour; something that had made sense to her. But that something might not have made sense to anyone else.
When he arrived back at the incident room Jamilla Dal came rushing up to him.
‘You know I’ve been phoning round the names in Gloria Simpson’s address book? Well, there was one number with no name by it, just the letter M. I called it but there was no answer. Then I got someone to trace the address.’
‘And?’
‘You know that man who manages the House of Terrors?’
‘Terry Jevons? What about him?’
‘Well, it’s his number. Gloria Simpson knows him. But why did she list him under M, not T or J?’
Before Joe could reply the phone on his desk began to ring. He picked it up and heard Canon George Merryweather’s voice on the other end of the line. He mouthed his thanks to Jamilla who scurried away, back to her post.
‘Sorry I couldn’t get back to you, George. I’ve been out most of the day. What did you want to tell me?’
‘The name Jack Wendal. I was sure I’d come across it before but I couldn’t think where. I found an old history of Eborby and it turns out that he was rather better known by another name – Jack Devilhorn. He was the son of a respectable cleric called the Reverend Charles Wendal … rather the black sheep of the family and a great disappointment to his parents, I imagine. Anyway, Jack Devilhorn – né Wendal – was an eighteenth-century highwayman who raped and murdered his way through Yorkshire and was hanged for his crimes at the old gallows that stood near the racecourse. He was involved in Satanic rituals at the Black Hen. There was even talk that he sold his soul to the devil.’
‘Is it common knowledge that his real name was Wendal?’ Joe asked, curious.
‘I shouldn’t think so. Jack Devilhorn’s quite famous – or should I say notorious – but I think only aficionados of Eborby’s darker history would be aware of his true identity.’
‘Like the people who frequent the Black Hen?’
‘Precisely.’
Joe thanked George for sharing his discovery – it explained a lot. And when he’d put the phone down, Joe sat for a while, considering the implications of George’s revelation. Now it looked likely that the letters sent to Janna Pyke mentioning Jack Wendal had been threats from someone at the Black Hen. But threats about what? Perhaps someone wanted to ensure that Janna kept quiet about something she knew … or something she’d seen. And Gloria Simpson’s reaction to the name suggested that whatever had happened there was pretty terrible. Terrible enough to drive a vulnerable woman out of her mind. Maybe what she and Janna had witnessed was murder. Cold, brutal, slow and agonising murder.
The thought sent a shudder down Joe’s spine, but human depravity had long ceased to surprise him. He stood up and walked over to Emily’s office. She’d want to know about this development. But the office was empty and as Joe was about to close the door, his eyes were drawn to the child’s painting pinned on the wall, especially to the tall stick figure with yellow hair labelled ‘Daddy’. An innocent sight in a corrupt world. Emily had seemed to be under some strain lately and Joe wondered if it was something to do with her husband, Jeff – some marital difficulty perhaps.
But he hadn’t time for idle speculation; he returned to his desk and dialled the number he had for the psychiatric unit … for Dr Brian Oakley. The doctor in charge of Gloria Simpson’s case should be told of his new discovery about Jack Wendal, the possible trigger for her actions. And perhaps he’d be able to wheedle out of Gloria the truth about what actually happened to Carla Yates, Harold Uckley and Janna Pyke. Janna had been hiding, but now it seemed that whoever had been threatening her had finally caught up with her.
And all roads led to Terry Jevons and the Black Hen. Joe had been so busy that he hadn’t had time to organise a search of that particular pub. But he reckoned he should move it up to the top of his list of priorities.
Dr Oakley, he was told, wasn’t available. He was with a patient. Joe looked at his watch, disappointed. It would have to wait until tomorrow. And besides, he wanted to pick Maddy Owen’s brains about carrier bags.
As he turned the key in the door of the House of Terrors, Terry Jevons looked round. There was a white van directly outside the building, parked illegally, blocking his view of the shops opposite.
Jevons patted his trouser pocket, making sure he had the key to the special place. But he felt nothing. He must have left it inside. Cursing under his breath, he retraced his steps and unlocked the door, not bothering to lock it again behind him because he knew he’d only be a few seconds.
He didn’t hear the soft footsteps on the worn stone flags following him as he passed through the darkened torture chamber. He was too preoccupied with what he had to do – and what he anticipated doing that night – to sense that he wasn’t alone, that someone was behind him, breathing lightly, creeping on tiptoe.
The blow came unexpectedly. The sudden shock of a heavy object making contact with his skull knocked him forward then, after a few numb seconds, a searing pain engulfed him. He crumpled to the ground in a daze and, as he attempted to rise, he felt strong arms clawing at his clothes. Limbs flailing, he tried desperately to fight them off but his efforts were rewarded with another, harder blow, a blow that rendered him senseless.
When he surfaced into semi-consciousness, he felt the floor, hard and unforgiving against
his flesh. To his surprise he found that he was naked. And when he tried to push himself up he couldn’t move because he was bound, hand and foot, and there was a gag of some kind cutting into his mouth. His throat was sore and dry as sandpaper as he made a feeble attempt to summon help. But the noise he made was barely audible and he could only lie, trussed and helpless, awaiting his fate.
Then, through terrified, tearful eyes he saw the figure bending over him.
And the last thing he saw on this earth was his captor’s rapturous smile.
Chapter Fifteen
The house seemed curiously quiet as Emily Thwaite stepped into the hall. Only the muffled babble of the TV in the living room at the back of the house intruded into the silence. Jeff usually came out to meet her as soon as he heard her key in the door. Then he would switch on the microwave where her evening meal waited for her, congealing, while she tiptoed upstairs to say goodnight to the children.
Perhaps he hadn’t heard her, she thought as she pushed the living-room door open. Perhaps he was sitting there in his usual chair, engrossed in some documentary or other.
But as she stepped into the room she saw that Jeff wasn’t there. Instead their new next-door neighbour, Mrs Jenkins, rose from the sofa with a cautious smile of greeting.
‘You’re back then.’ Mrs Jenkins, a plump grandmother with the round, rosy-cheeked face of a nursery-rhyme farmer’s wife, gathered up the trio of women’s magazines she had brought with her to pass the time. ‘They’re in bed. Good as gold, they were. I said to your husband … any time you want me to pop in and look after them, I’m only too happy …’
‘Thanks, Mrs Jenkins. That’s really good of you,’ said Emily humbly. Willing babysitters were to be prized and nurtured like precious orchids. ‘Er … did Jeff say where he was going?’
‘He just said he had to go out and asked if I’d sit with the kiddies till you came in. Didn’t tell me where he was going and I didn’t ask.’
Emily, hoping she hadn’t given Mrs Jenkins the impression that all was not well in the marital home, smiled sweetly. ‘He’ll probably be back soon. Would you like a cup of tea?’ The strict laws of Yorkshire hospitality had to be observed.