by Kate Ellis
Alone in her office, she checked her appearance in the mirror before facing the world … and facing Joe Plantagenet, the only one who knew about her sin of omission – the problem she couldn’t get out of her mind. Then, like an actor stepping on to the stage, Emily Thwaite left her office and strode into the incident room. The curtain was up.
After a great deal of thought, before going home the previous night she had obtained a warrant to search the Black Hen. She had a feeling Joe was right about the place – there was every reason to suspect that there was some connection between the pub and the Resurrection Man murders. She wanted to introduce an element of surprise and she thought an early morning visit was the best course of action, taking whoever was there unawares. Everybody is vulnerable when they answer the door in their night attire.
So at eight forty precisely, Joe and Emily, with three uniformed officers as back-up, arrived at the front door of the Black Hen. She noticed that Joe was watching her intently as one of the constables banged on the pub door with his fist. And she felt her cheeks flushing as he sidled over to her and whispered in her ear. ‘Well?’
‘I haven’t had a chance to talk to Jeff yet. I’ll do it soon. Promise.’ She turned to face him and lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Look, Joe, the real reason I’m taking this slowly is that I’m scared for Jeff. He had a bad breakdown once because of Jane Pyke and if he’s brought in for questioning …’
Joe looked into her eyes and knew she was telling the truth. Her concern wasn’t so much for her career as for her husband’s mental health and he could sympathise with that. But he still couldn’t ignore it. ‘OK. But I can’t stay quiet much longer. I can’t be implicated.’
‘You won’t be,’ she whispered. She saw one of the other officers looking at her and suddenly assumed a confident expression – once more the professional. She pretended to study the name of the licensee above the door. ‘Barry George Smyth licensed to sell …’ The name wasn’t familiar. But then she was new to the city. Perhaps in the future it would be … if she had a future in CID.
It was a full five minutes before they heard the sound of heavy bolts being drawn back, a sound that reminded Emily of the times she had had to visit prisons in the course of her work. Ominous and chilling. She glanced at Joe standing beside her. He was staring at the door, his face solemn. She drew herself up to her full height and clutched her shoulder bag.
The door opened a foot or so and a bald head appeared. ‘What is it?’ The man held on to the door firmly with one tattooed hand.
‘Barry George Smyth?’ Emily asked sweetly.
‘Who wants him?’ he grunted with undisguised hostility.
Emily introduced herself and held out the warrant. When he saw it, the man’s resolve seemed to crumble and he stood aside to let them in, humble as a Victorian footman in the presence of his ‘betters’. Emily was delighted to see that some people still knew when to give in.
All three constables went about their search with gusto but they reported back that they’d found nothing that wouldn’t be found in most pubs in the land. Stocks of drinks and crisps; kegs of beer and lager in the ancient cellar; the landlord’s surprisingly neat bachelor flat upstairs. The Black Hen, they announced, was clean. Either people had been making up stories or whatever had happened had happened elsewhere.
Emily looked at Joe and shook her head. They were wasting their time. But Joe avoided her eyes and stared ahead, lost in his own thoughts.
‘That’s it then,’ she said. ‘Another dead end.’
Joe said nothing. Sometimes his calm manner irritated Emily. She opened her mouth to say something mildly cutting but then she decided against it. She had to keep him on her side. There were so many who’d have already taken advantage of the situation, of having something on their boss, and she wondered if Joe Plantagenet, for all his talk about training for the priesthood, might still turn out to be one of them. Temptation was such a difficult thing to resist.
The landlord was watching them from behind the bar. He had said very little during their visit: he’d just let them get on with it while he stood there, arms folded and a smug expression on his face. He’d known they would find nothing and he looked as if he was enjoying seeing them make fools of themselves.
‘Come on then,’ Emily said to the three officers. ‘We’ve finished here. She turned to the landlord. ‘Thank you for your time,’ she said, a note of sarcasm in her voice.
But as she started to make for the door, Joe touched her arm. ‘I want to take another look in the cellar if that’s OK.’
Emily turned to face him. ‘We’ve searched the place from top to bottom,’ she whispered. ‘We’d better not push it.’
But Joe had already started to retrace his steps, walking quickly towards the door beside the bar that led down to the cellar. Emily watched him for a few moments, exasperated.
Then something made her follow.
Joe was already charging down the cellar steps and she caught up with him as he came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. ‘See anything unusual?’ he asked.
Emily looked round the cellar, taking in each detail. Then she pointed to the cellar’s far wall. There was a cupboard pushed against the dirty, whitewashed bricks, a battered piece of dark wood furniture that looked as if it had probably begun life as a wardrobe. ‘Those cobbles in front of the wardrobe aren’t as dirty as the others. Something’s been dragged over them.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
Emily suddenly felt a stab of irritation that he’d been the one to spot it first. ‘Well, are you going to help me shift that cupboard or what?’
Without a word Joe opened the cupboard door and found that it was empty. And when they began to shift the thing together they found that it moved smoothly away from the wall as though it was on some hidden castors.
‘Get everyone else down here, Joe,’ she said as a dark opening, a doorway, came into view.
As he climbed the cellar steps, Joe allowed himself a rare moment of smug satisfaction. He’d been right.
Emily Thwaite didn’t say much on the journey back to the station. She was still annoyed with herself for not spotting the possibility of a hidden room down in the cellar of the Black Hen before Joe had. Maybe she was losing her touch, she thought. Resting on the laurels she had earned during her time in Leeds. But she had to face the uncomfortable truth that her mind had been on other things. She had been distracted by her worries about Jeff; she’d taken her eye off the ball and had missed the obvious. Missed the fact that if terrible things were indeed going on at the Black Hen, then they would hardly have happened where outsiders might see or hear.
The room they’d found behind the cupboard had made her shudder. She hadn’t realised she’d be so sensitive to atmosphere, but the stale air in that dark-draped, dim-lit chamber had seemed to hang laden with evil. She had smelled blood. Smyth had claimed it was the blood of chickens but Emily had sent round a forensic team … just in case.
Smyth was denying everything. He was saying there was nothing illegal in a group of like-minded people getting together and enacting Satanic rituals. He had even attempted to plead that his religious freedom was being violated. If the RSPCA wished to prosecute him regarding the chickens, he said, they could go ahead. He was saying nothing more … and he knew nothing about anything else. As she made her way up to the incident room, Emily felt unclean, tainted by association. Barry George Smyth was a creep and she was only too glad to get out of his company.
Joe had gone off to talk to a witness, a schoolgirl who had allegedly become involved with the goings-on at the Black Hen. Emily had told him to take Jamilla with him. In her opinion these things needed a woman’s touch.
On reaching the incident room Emily was greeted by Sunny Porter, who wore an uncharacteristically eager expression on his face, as though he had some important news to relay.
‘Janna Pyke’s things have turned up, ma’am. Same place. Left outside the Mirebridge Hospice charity shop
some time last night. And they were in one of them carrier bags and all. The Archaeology Centre.’
All Emily could think of was the fact that Jeff had been at home with her all last night and she could prove it – there was no way he could have dumped Jane Pyke’s clothes anywhere. But her face gave nothing away. ‘Where are they now?’
Sunny jerked his head towards a side office. ‘I sent someone to fetch them. The old biddies there are getting jumpy. But one of them had the sense to put gloves on before she handled the bag so there’s a chance we might get some prints. I thought you’d want to see the things before they went over to Forensic.’
Her heart was beating a little faster as she walked to the office, resisting the temptation to break into a run. Once there, she found an array of items, neatly bagged in clear plastic and arranged on the long table that occupied the far side of the room. There were dusty black clothes and a pair of down-at-heel ankle boots – also black. Then there was a well-worn shoulder bag – the brightest item in the ensemble with its purple embroidery and its tiny round mirrors set into the material. It was the sort of comfortable bag that held a lot – all the necessities of a woman’s life – and its contents were laid out beside it.
A purse containing two ten-pound notes, some loose change and a book of stamps. A student identity card and a library card. Tissues – new and used. Pens. A small diary and a battered address book. Two Yale keys lay beside a smaller key. Emily stared at them, wondering. The Yale keys would surely belong to Keith Webster’s flat in Boargate. But the smaller one looked like a locker key. Perhaps she had a locker at the university.
Emily put on a pair of plastic gloves, picked up the diary and flicked through the pages, her hands shaking. But all it contained were scribbled reminders about which shifts she was working and the times of her meetings with Keith Webster at the university. The initials BH featured every so often, presumably the Black Hen.
As she replaced the diary, Emily’s eyes were drawn to the address book. She took it out of its bag and began turning the pages. T for Timmons. There was nothing there. Then she turned to J for Jeff, her palms sweating. It was there. His name beside their old Leeds phone number. She closed her eyes for a few seconds. Then when she opened them again she looked underneath the original number. Written there in Janna Pyke’s spidery handwriting was her new address and her new Eborby number. The shock almost knocked the breath out of her and she stood there dazed, her heart pounding, nausea rising in her stomach.
Did she dare? She took a few deep, calming breaths and popped her head round the door. ‘Er … has anyone recorded this lot yet?’
It was Sunny who answered. ‘I was just going to get someone on to it, ma’am.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Emily, trying to sound casual. ‘As long as it gets done in the next half hour or so before it goes down to Forensic.’
She went back into the room, leaned against the wall and closed her eyes for a second. Joe Plantagenet already knew what had happened in Leeds but this was far, far worse. Jane Pyke had their new address which meant that she must have had some contact with Jeff since they arrived in Eborby. Tampering with evidence was serious. But so was your husband being involved with a murdered woman when you were in charge of the case.
She hesitated, turning the implications over in her mind, before slipping the bag containing the address book into her pocket. She needed time to think.
Then, after a few minutes, she called Joe’s mobile number. His phone was switched off but she left a message on his voice mail. Could he meet her for lunch? She had something she wanted to discuss with him.
Chapter Eighteen
Joe Plantagenet thought it was about time they stopped pussyfooting around. He knew that if they were to get anywhere with the investigation, the girl who had been traumatised by whatever had happened at the Black Hen would have to be questioned. Gently, of course, with the help of Canon George Merryweather and in her mother’s presence.
He had found George at the cathedral and, after a bit of gentle persuasion, he agreed to call the girl’s mother and ask if Joe and Jamilla could come round for an informal chat. The mother had agreed … providing George was there too. Half an hour later they found themselves sitting in the garden of a neat detached house in one of Eborby’s more prosperous suburbs.
It was a beautiful day, the sort of blue-sky day when darkness seems to be a distant memory, and the girl’s mother, whose name was Anne, insisted on sitting in the shade. She had fair skin, she explained, and burned easily – even in a Yorkshire summer.
She told them that her daughter, Amy, was making good progress and had even mentioned the possibility of going to university again. She wouldn’t, of course, be well enough to go the following September as originally planned but, with time and care, she might consider going a year late. She was still very fragile, very vulnerable. And she still had the nightmares, though less frequently now. Anne spoke cautiously as though she feared that the edifice of normality might come crashing down again, just as it had done a few weeks before.
Joe was beginning to wonder whether he’d actually get a chance to see Amy. Her mother seemed to have taken on the role of the guardian at the gate, denying access to all she feared might upset her precious charge. This was quite understandable, of course, but it wasn’t much help to his investigation.
Just when he was starting to give up hope, a girl appeared at the French windows, hovering there, as though uncertain what to do. She spotted George and raised a hand in greeting, a shy smile on her face. George waved back and motioned her to come out to join them. The girl opened the glass door and took a tentative step out, like a shy animal emerging, blinking, into the light after a long period of captivity in a dark, narrow cage.
The first thing Joe noticed was how thin she was. Her long fair hair swung forward, half hiding her pale face, as she walked slowly towards them.
George stood up. ‘Amy, my dear, come and sit down,’ he said gently. ‘I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine. This is Joe.’ He smiled. ‘He’s a policeman but he’s a very nice one. And this lady is Jamilla. She’s with the police as well.’
Joe switched off his mobile phone – this wasn’t something he wanted interrupted. Then he gave Amy what he hoped was a reassuring smile and held out his hand. He could feel Amy’s mother’s eyes on him as the girl took the offered hand and shook it limply. He’d passed the first test.
‘George has mentioned you,’ she said. Her voice was quiet but more confident, than he’d expected.
‘If you don’t want to talk about what happened, I quite understand, Amy. Or if you’d prefer to speak to Jamilla alone …’ He glanced at Jamilla who had assumed a sympathetic expression. ‘But if you do feel up to …’
Amy looked at her mother. ‘I’ve told Dr Oakley everything and he says … he says I should tell the police but I couldn’t face … giving statements and going to court and …’ There was a tremor in her voice and tears began to cloud her eyes.
‘Honestly, Amy, if you don’t want that, nobody’s going to make you do it,’ said Jamilla. ‘If you’d prefer just to have a chat with us now, that’s fine … really. Or we can leave it till later if you …’
Amy’s mother leaned forward to push a strand of hair off her daughter’s face. Amy had become her baby again. Dependent and helpless.
Suddenly the girl straightened her back, as though she’d come to a decision. ‘It’s OK, Mum, you can go.’
Her mother looked shocked. ‘No, darling. I think it’s best if …’
‘I’ll be all right, Mum. Honestly. I’d rather speak to them on my own.’ Amy pressed her mouth into a determined line.
‘If you’re sure …’
‘We’ll call you if …’ Joe didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t like to put the possibility of Amy not being able to cope into words and dent her fragile confidence.
But the woman still stood her ground. Until the telephone began to ring and she shifted, torn between insti
nct and necessity.
‘That might be my friend, Elizabeth. She said she’d ring to see how Amy was. Will you be all right …?’
‘Of course we will,’ said George. ‘Amy’s quite safe with us.’
Still apprehensive, Anne gave in to the telephone’s insistent ringing and made her way inside, glancing back over her shoulder anxiously as she stepped into the house through the French windows.
There was a long silence. Amy sat, studying her fingers. Then suddenly she looked up. ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard …,’ she began, looking Joe in the eye.
‘We know that you went to the Black Hen and that something bad happened there. We went there this morning.’ He watched her face. ‘We found the room in the cellar.’
The girl’s face clouded and she gave an almost imperceptible nod.
‘Is that where it happened?’
Another nod.
Jamilla leaned forward. ‘Did someone rape you?’ she asked softly.
Another nod.
‘Who was it? You see, I’d like to put this person away where he can’t do anything like that to anyone else ever again.’
Amy covered her face with her hands and sat head bowed for a few seconds. Then she looked up. ‘It was the Master,’ she muttered as though the words were difficult to speak.
‘Do you know the Master’s real name, Amy?’
There was a long silence and Joe feared they’d pushed her too far. He looked at George and saw that he was sitting on the edge of his seat, waiting patiently for the answer.
Then Amy spoke. ‘He works at the House of Terrors. He’s in charge. His name’s Jevons.’
When the girl’s body began to shake, Joe was relieved to see her mother emerging from the house. She rushed over to the girl and took her in her arms, holding her close, whispering words of comfort in her ear.