by Kate Ellis
If his new idea held water, there might just be a connection between Harold Uckley and Carla Yates, but it still very much a tentative theory. He might be completely wrong and, anyway, it still wouldn’t explain why Janna Pyke and Terry Jevons were targeted.
He’d ask Jamilla to check it out tomorrow but he wasn’t getting his hopes up. Perhaps some things were destined to remain a mystery.
It was meant to be. He would be like a cat, trapped in a cage with a helpless bird. It would be so easy.
The killer scratched his head. He was hot, even down there in the cellar, but it didn’t matter. He ran a finger over the pile of large carrier bags. He didn’t really know what they were doing there but they had certainly come in useful.
He put on a pair of disposable latex gloves and picked the top bag off the pile. Terry Jevons’s clothes were still in the mausoleum, neatly folded beside one of the rotting coffins which lay on the shelves arranged around the walls. They would be donated to the Mirebridge Hospice shop as usual. Terry Jevons wouldn’t be needing them any more, the killer thought, suppressing a giggle. He might have done more harm than good in life but at least his clothes might be of help to someone. He had kept hold of Carla Yates’s clothes for a while, wondering what to do with them. Until he had had the idea of putting them to good use. The hospice needed all the funds it could get – he’d learned that the hard way when he had watched someone he loved dying there, his life ebbing away as the cancer triumphed over his weakened body. Every little bit helped.
Once he’d dealt with the clothes, he would be free to concentrate on his next assignment. Free to concentrate on Carmel Hennessy.
He thrust his hand into his trouser pocket and felt the key there. It would be easy this time. There would be no risk whatsoever.
Chapter Twenty
Keith Webster stared at the file containing Janna Pyke’s dissertation notes and took a sip of whisky, feeling a glow of temporary comfort as the warming liquid slipped down his throat.
Earlier he’d flicked through the little denim diary he’d found with the notes in Janna’s locker but he’d left it in his office – it wasn’t something he would risk bringing home. It’s contents had made him realise how little he’d actually known about Janna. He’d had no idea what she’d been involved in – she’d always been careful to keep that side of her life from him – but he’d certainly had no reason to suspect that it was anything quite so dramatic. He had always assumed that Janna, with her change of name, was just another self-dramatising post-adolescent. And perhaps she was. Perhaps all the black magic and the rape had been figments of an over-excited imagination.
Did things like that really go on in Eborby? If they did, Keith had never heard of them. Maybe he led a sheltered life, he thought with a twinge of regret as he glanced at his wife who was sitting on the sofa reading an improving biography with an expression of earnest concentration on her plump, pale, once pretty face.
He opened the file and turned the pages until he came to a particular account that Janna had copied out carefully and underlined in red pen.
Mistress Eleanor Buckby did report that the house on the Vicars Green, lately afflicted by the pestilence, was searched most diligently and six bodies examined. One man, one woman, a boy aged twelve years and a girl aged about sixteen were found there with a manservant and a maidservant. The bodies bore no swellings or sores and the corpse of the girl was like unto that of a starved dog. The girl had called from the window many days ago saying that her kin had all died of the pestilence and begging to be allowed from the house. But she was ordered to stay for there was fear she would spread the contagion, and it seems that she died for want of sustenance.
Keith Webster sighed and his wife looked up. Maybe tomorrow he’d treat himself to the vicarious thrill of reading more of Janna Pyke’s diary.
Carmel had told Tavy McNair that she couldn’t see him that evening. He had asked if he could call round when he’d finished the ghost tour but she had been firm. She had things to do: phone calls to her mother and a couple of friends; catching up with washing and housework and then a long, relaxing bath. Keeping Tavy at a distance for a while would do no harm, she thought. And besides, she suspected he wanted more from their budding relationship than she was willing to give and she wasn’t sure how she felt about the situation.
Maybe she should have asked Joe Plantagenet for his advice. But then her feelings for Joe were ambiguous. He was too near her own age to be regarded as a father figure and, although she was reluctant to admit it to herself, she found him rather sexy. Her mother had asked him to keep an eye on her, and Carmel felt some resentment about being made to look like a helpless child in front of a man like Joe. On the other hand, she was glad he was there on the other end of the phone.
Her quiet night in – so attractive in theory – had been fine at first when she had been busy; when she was cleaning the flat, putting the washing in the machine and making her long, chatty phone calls. But when she’d finished her bath and settled down on the sofa in her dressing gown, cleansed and relaxed, to watch TV, the girl had started to make her presence felt.
It wasn’t much at first, just a faint scrabbling sound in the bedroom – the room where she was supposed to have been found, starved to death. Carmel hauled herself up from the sofa, walked over to the door and stood listening for a few seconds before pushing it open. But as soon as she stepped over the threshold the noise ceased, leaving a thick silence, as though somebody was watching her from the shadows, breathing very softly.
‘What do you want?’
Her whispered question hung in the air for a few seconds before the answering crash came. Something in the room had fallen over. She flicked on the light switch and saw that a box of books had toppled from the wardrobe, strewing its contents on to the floor.
She busied herself, shoving the books back into their box unceremoniously and once the box was back in its place on top of the wardrobe she returned to the living room, leaving the bedroom door open. She turned down the TV and listened. There was another noise, distant yet somewhere in the house. Downstairs. A key in the lock.
But Conrad Peace had moved out and he was staying with Elizabeth while his new kitchen was being fitted. The ground floor was empty.
She held her breath. Someone was opening the front door. She grabbed her keys, rushed to her own door and deadlocked it.
She picked up the phone and dialled the number of Joe’s mobile but it was switched off. Then, after a few moments’ thought, she tried Tavy’s number, listening to the soft footsteps on the stairs getting nearer. She froze, straining to hear, imagining she heard the sound of faint electronic music in the distance. Then, after what seemed like an age, she heard Tavy’s voice on the other end of the line.
‘Get over here quickly,’ she shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Someone’s trying to get into the flat.’
She heard Tavy saying that he’d be right there. Then she heard the footsteps retreating down the stairs and the front door slamming followed by the thud of running feet and a diesel engine starting up. Her heart pounding, she dashed over to the window just in time to see a white van driving away.
And when Tavy arrived ten minutes later, she still hadn’t stopped shaking.
The next morning Joe Plantagenet had just asked Jamilla to check out the idea he’d had the night before about the link between Carla Yates and Harold Uckley, when his telephone rang. After a few minutes he put the receiver down and scratched his head. When Jamilla had hurried off, he stood up and made his way to Emily’s office. And as he opened the door she looked up at him expectantly.
‘How are things?’ he asked. ‘How’s Jeff?’
‘He’s OK. Look, Joe, I want to thank you for—’
‘Don’t thank me. Let’s forget it, shall we?’
She shuffled some papers on her desk – something to occupy her restless hands. Then she looked him in the eye, doing her best to put on a mask of confidence. But Joe could see behind it.
The Jeff incident had shaken her more than she was ever going to admit to him or to anyone else.
‘Anything new come in?’ she said after a few seconds, breaking an awkward silence.
‘I’ve just had a call from Carmel Hennessy, the girl who’s living in Janna Pyke’s old flat. Someone tried to break in last night. Carmel was there alone and she heard footsteps on the stairs. She reckoned whoever it was heard her phoning for help and gave up.’
Emily looked sceptical. ‘So they never actually got round to breaking in. She might have been letting her imagination run away with her. Let’s face it, with this killer about, it’s hardly surprising. Everyone’s jumpy. Could she have just heard the other people in the building?’
‘There’s only one other flat downstairs and that’s empty at the moment. The old boy who lives there was taken ill and he’s convalescing with his niece. Carmel says that whoever was there let himself in with a key and was coming upstairs. Carmel locked her door and called this Tavy McNair … the one who …’
‘I remember. The ghost tour man.’
‘That’s right. He went straight round but by the time he got there the intruder had gone.’ He paused, saving he most important bit till last. ‘Carmel looked out of the window and saw a white van driving away.’
This caught Emily’s attention. ‘I don’t suppose she saw the registration number.’
‘Sadly we don’t live in an ideal world,’ Joe replied, looking round as Sunny Porter entered the office without his usual perfunctory knock.
Sunny looked excited, which was probably a first for Sunny. ‘I’ve just been out to Mabworth. The door-to-door boys found a witness who saw a white van driving slowly towards Mabworth church on the night Terry Jevons’s body was dumped.
‘He got the registration number?’ The expression on Sunny’s face had brought on a sudden attack of optimism.
‘No but … we’ve got something almost as good. The witness was a boy of ten. It was the early hours and he couldn’t sleep so he decided to look out of his bedroom window. Apparently he makes a habit of it. Likes to look out for owls. There are a lot in the trees round the church, so he told me.’
Emily smiled. ‘So what exactly did our budding naturalist see?’
‘He saw the van driving past. He said there was something attached to the side that had broken away and was flapping about. Remember on the CCTV footage it looked as if some sort of name or logo had been covered up with plastic. Only this time it wasn’t stuck on properly.’
‘And?’
‘He drew me a picture.’
Sunny had been holding a piece of paper in his hand, half behind his back like a surprise present. He grinned as he held it out to Emily, who took it and studied the clumsily executed black-felt-tip sketch of three intertwining letter Ks.
A triumphant grin lit up Emily’s face. ‘I recognise it,’ she said, handing the paper to Joe. We’ve been getting quotes from local firms for a new kitchen. This one came round to give us a price last week and this logo’s on their brochures. Kathwell’s Kreative Kitchens – pardon the spelling. They operate from the industrial estate near the northern park and ride.’
This revelation was followed by a few seconds of appreciative silence. Nobody had expected it to be this easy.
‘We’d better pay them a call,’ said Joe. ‘You didn’t ask them to fit your new kitchen, did you?’
‘No. One of the other firms was cheaper.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps it’s a good job, otherwise I might have found myself …’ She didn’t finish her sentence. Somehow flip-pancy didn’t seem appropriate. She turned to Sunny. ‘Check whether any of the victims had dealings with this firm, will you? If we find they’ve all had kitchens installed by Kathwell’s we’ve got our link. In the meantime, Joe and I will visit their extensive showrooms, as it says in the brochure.’ She paused, deep in thought.
‘Wood shavings,’ she announced triumphantly after a few moments.
‘Pardon?’
‘Traces of wood shavings were found on the bodies. Oak. Kathwell’s do a range of solid oak units.’
But before Joe could answer, Jamilla gave a token knock on the office door and stepped inside
‘I’m afraid whatever it is will have to wait, Jamilla,’ said Emily as she touched Joe’s hand lightly. ‘DI Plantagenet and I are just off to look at kitchens.’
She picked up her handbag and swept out of the office, as Jamilla watched her open-mouthed.
The northern industrial estate stood on the unlovely edge of Eborby’s conurbation, next to a multiscreen cinema complex, a bowling alley, a municipal sports centre and one of the city’s four park and rides. There was car parking space in abundance here along with a variety of fast food outlets. Across the newly built and complex traffic roundabout stood a large estate of new houses targeted at the cheaper end of the market. It was only two miles out of town but the contrast with Eborby’s historic heart was a stark one. This was the city’s backside … the part the tourists would rather not see.
Compared to the entertainment facilities, the industrial estate didn’t look too bad. Emily and Joe drove slowly through its wide, treeless roads and eventually found what they were looking for. The three Ks entwined on the side of a grey building with a glass showroom front. Kathwell’s Kreative Kitchens. It was a fairly large unit, but then Kathwell’s literature boasted that all its kitchens were made on the premises by master craftsmen. To Emily these words had conjured a mental picture of the likes of Thomas Chippendale or a medieval master woodcarver, lovingly planing each plank of fine wood by flickering candlelight. But she knew the reality would be far more mundane.
The showroom was virtually empty, but then it was a weekday. At the weekend it would be full of eager wives and sulking husbands who’d rather be watching the football on TV and had only allowed themselves to be dragged out to a kitchen showroom to keep the peace.
The man sitting behind the cluttered desk in the office, engrossed in his paperwork, looked rather alarmed when they flashed their warrant cards and asked where all the company’s vans had been the night before last. The man, who introduced himself as Baz Teal, senior salesman, seemed anxious to assure them that, as far as he knew, the vans had all been accounted for, parked in the yard outside. However, any of the employees could have got hold of the keys and borrowed one. It wasn’t unheard of for such things to happen and the management were pretty easygoing about it. After all, he said, vans were useful for shifting furniture and picking things up from shops to save on delivery charges. Sometimes it did no harm to turn a blind eye as long as the van was returned undamaged in the morning and they paid for their own diesel.
They made themselves comfortable and asked the usual questions before showing Teal the picture taken by the CCTV camera of the man with long blond hair. Teal shook his head: the picture was so poor that the man’s own mother probably wouldn’t have recognised him and nobody in Kathwell’s employ had hair like that.
When Emily asked if anybody was off work that day, Teal rolled his bulging eyes to heaven. ‘Only Tim,’ he said. ‘But then Tim has a lot of time off. He’s not been well.’
Joe leaned forward, watching Teal intently, like a cat watching a mouse hole.
‘To tell you the truth,’ Teal continued, ‘His mum’s a friend of Mr Bell’s, the boss … or a cousin, something like that. He did her a favour taking Tim on. He can do the job all right … he’s not stupid and building kitchens is a doddle to him but …’
‘But what?’
‘He’s been in and out of hospital … he has problems.’
‘What sort of problems?’
Teal shrugged. ‘Nerves, something like that. You don’t like to pry, do you?’
Joe and Emily exchanged glances. ‘Could I have a list of your employees? Especially those with access to the vans.’
Teal produced a neatly typed list of names and addresses from the top drawer of his desk and handed it to Joe, who read through it, holding it so that Emily could see.
It was Emily who spotted it. ‘McNair – Octavius McNair.’
‘Tavy, yeah. He just does weekends in the showroom. He’s an out of work actor.’ He grinned. ‘He’s not a bad salesman actually. Got the gift of the gab.’
‘And he has access to the vans?’ Emily asked.
‘Everyone has, I suppose,’ Teal replied. ‘I think he’s been known to borrow one on occasions … to move stuff and that.’
Joe read from the list. ‘Thewlis. Tim Thewlis. And the address. Isn’t that the same as …?’
‘Peta Thewlis. Carmel’s boss at the Archaeology Centre.’
‘And Janna Pyke’s landlady. Maddy said Peta had a son who wasn’t well.’ He looked at Teal. ‘Is that the Tim who …?’
Teal nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘Does Tim have access to the vans as well?’
‘Like I said, we all do.’
‘Did either Thewlis or Tavy McNair borrow one last night?’
‘I couldn’t tell you. They might have done but they were all present and correct this morning.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve noticed whether any of the logos on the vans have been covered over? If there have been any traces of tape or …?’
Teal smiled. ‘They’ve all got hooks on the side that take plastic sheets to cover the KKK logo. The boss has this arrangement: he loans vans to his brother’s company but he doesn’t like advertising the fact.’
Emily turned to Joe. ‘I think we should get a few DCs down here to question the staff and examine the vans while we pay McNair and Tim Thewlis a call, don’t you?’
‘Most of the vans are out,’ Teal chipped in.
Joe nodded. He should have known things wouldn’t be that easy. He turned to Emily. ‘I’d like to speak to Peta Thewlis first … tell her what we’re doing.’
‘Suit yourself,’ was Emily’s reply. ‘And while you’re at it you can ask her if she ever takes any carrier bags home from work.’
Joe called Carmel at work, just to make sure she was all right. He didn’t mention Tavy’s new connection with the case. Perhaps he should have done. Perhaps he should have warned her to be careful. But he didn’t want her to panic. He just told her to call him if there was anything worrying her … anything at all, however slight.