Seeking the Dead

by Kate Ellis

  Tavy McNair’s address turned out to be a rambling Victorian villa in one of the more salubrious streets near to the university campus. The house was swathed in Virginia creeper and the paint on the window frames and doors was flaking off, revealing the grey wood beneath. The place had an air of neglect, of faded grandeur, Joe thought as he pressed the plastic doorbell.

  On returning from Kathwell’s, Joe and Emily had paid a flying visit to headquarters. This time Jamilla managed to pass on the information she’d been trying to give them as they’d rushed out. She’d obtained a list of patients from Mirebridge Hospice and there was one familiar name on the list: that of Professor Julian McNair, who had died at the hospice just over two years ago. This discovery added a dash of urgency to their visit. But they hid their impatience from the woman who answered the front door.

  The professor’s widow was tall, thin and probably in her fifties, and her grey-peppered brown hair was scraped back into a ponytail. She wore a long skirt and bright beads that hinted at Bohemian inclinations.

  ‘Is your son, Octavius, at home by any chance?’ Joe asked after the introductions had been made.

  ‘I’m afraid not. Can I help?’

  ‘He works at Kathwell’s Kitchens, I believe?’

  ‘Only at weekends. He’s an actor, you see.’ She said the word ‘actor’ with obvious pride. ‘He has to take part-time work where he can. He has a job leading ghost tours as well.’

  ‘We know. Do you mind if we come in?’

  For the first time Mrs McNair looked worried. ‘I presume it’s about that incident the other night. I’m glad he’s reported it at last – I told him he should. It was an unprovoked attack, you know. I’m sure the girl he was with will tell you …’

  Emily made sympathetic noises but gave nothing away. It would be counter-productive to set the mother on her guard.

  Mrs McNair led them through to a once grand, but now rather shabby, drawing room. Joe suspected money was in short supply in the McNair household – but he was sure it hadn’t always been that way. As they asked their questions, Mrs McNair sat stiffly on the edge of a threadbare armchair, puzzled at first as to why they weren’t concerning themselves with the attack on her son. But she was an intelligent woman and she soon realised that they were there for another reason. As she endured their gentle interrogation, her expression became increasingly strained.

  Yes, Tavy was out a lot in the evening but then his job demanded it. Yes, he could drive but he couldn’t afford his own vehicle and he sometimes borrowed vans from Kathwell’s. No, as far as she knew he wasn’t acquainted with any of the Resurrection Man’s victims … apart from Janna Pyke whom she’d never met. From what Tavy had said, she hadn’t seemed a very suitable girlfriend – maybe that’s why he’d never brought her home to meet his mother.

  When Emily asked as gently as she could if they could see his room, Mrs McNair hesitated, as though she were about to refuse. But then she stood up and said that she was sure he had nothing to hide, before leading them up a flight of sweeping, uncarpeted stairs to a large bedroom at the front of the house.

  Sunlight flooded in through two tall sash windows, illuminating a neat room with stripped floorboards, a monumental antique pine wardrobe and a double bed covered by a frayed patchwork quilt.

  The walls were adorned with posters advertising various local theatrical productions. ‘Tavy had parts in all of them,’ Mrs McNair said proudly when she saw that they had caught Joe’s attention. ‘He’s very good. He’s just waiting for a lucky break.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ Joe thought, but he didn’t put his thoughts into words.

  They conducted a perfunctory search under Mrs McNair’s watchful eye until Emily lifted the lid of a large oak chest at the end of the bed and summoned Joe over to see what she’d found. Inside the chest there was an assortment of boxes containing make-up and wigs. Joe stared at them for a while, puzzled.

  ‘From his drama school days,’ Tavy’s mother said, trying to sound casual but unable to keep the anxiety from her voice. ‘Look, what exactly is it you’re looking for?’

  Emily and Joe exchanged glances. ‘We need to talk to your son, Mrs McNair. Will you ask him to call us as soon as he gets in?’ Joe looked into her worried eyes. ‘Your late husband was in Mirebridge Hospice, I believe.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Does Tavy have any connection with the hospice charity shop?’

  ‘If we have any donations, that’s where we take them but …’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs McNair. We’ll be in touch.’

  When they were in the car Joe turned to Emily. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think we should check out this Tim Thewlis next. But we need to talk to Tavy McNair and the sooner the better.’

  ‘I’ll arrange to have the house watched so he can’t do a runner.’

  Emily couldn’t argue with that. She too wanted to make sure that Tavy McNair didn’t disappear into the night.

  *

  Peta Thewlis had gone home early to catch up on some paperwork away from the distractions of the office. When she opened her front door and saw Joe Plantagenet and his female companion, DCI Thwaite, standing on the doorstep, she tried to hide her irritation. She’d answered all their questions; cooperated when they’d wanted access to the attic in Vicars Green. Why were they bothering her again?

  Joe Plantagenet smiled and apologised for disturbing her. She’d heard that he had some connection with the new girl at work, Carmel Hennessy, although she was vague as to the exact nature of the relationship. This link made her feel awkward as she didn’t know what Carmel might have said about her. She was uncomfortably aware that some people at the centre thought her cold and hard. She’d heard the names they called her – Frosty Thewlis, the Ice Maiden. But they didn’t know that if she bent, even a little, she knew she would break. Hiding her emotions was the only way she could cope.

  Emily did her best to sound casual. ‘We’d like a word with your son, Timothy, Mrs Thewlis. Is he at home?’

  ‘Timothy isn’t here. I think he’s at work,’ Peta said quickly.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Yes. He’ll be at work.’

  Emily, as a mother, could sense worry behind the bald statement.

  ‘Was he here when you left for work this morning?’

  ‘Yes. He had a headache. I thought he’d still be here when I got back but he must have felt better and gone in.’ Tim had woken with a headache and she’d rung into work for him, saying that he’d be there later if he was feeling better. When she’d arrived home she’d expected to hear his music playing loud so that it drowned the thoughts and the voices in his head. But he hadn’t been there so she’d presumed he’d gone to Kathwell’s after all.

  ‘May we have a look at his room?’ said Joe. Then he noticed a framed photograph standing on a shelf. Two men – one young, one old – with their arms around each other, laughing for the camera. The old man had long thick blond hair that looked artificial – a wig perhaps – and the drawn, pale look of the very sick. The young man’s hair stood up in dark spikes but last time Joe had seen him he’d been waiting to see Dr Oakley and his head had been shaved.

  He pointed at the photograph. ‘Is that Timothy?’

  ‘Yes. He’s with his grandfather – my father. It was taken shortly before Dad died. His death affected Timothy very badly. They were very close, you see.’

  ‘And your son’s been having treatment at the hospital?’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘I saw him there,’ he said gently. ‘He was waiting to see Dr Oakley.’

  Peta looked Emily in the eye as though appealing to her, woman to woman, mother to mother. ‘He suffers from schizophrenia but I try to help him lead as normal a life as possible.’

  Despite the hint of defiance of her words, it was clear that she was worried.

  ‘He’s been having problems with his medication recently but he doesn’t want to go back in. Dr Oakley’s try
ing to find the right balance of drugs. He’s very concerned but we can handle it.’

  Joe spoke gently. ‘At the hospital I noticed that he had a tattoo on his arm and the skin around it was swollen as if he’d tried to … It was circular with …’

  Peta looked exasperated. ‘He did that to himself, stabbing at his arm with a pair of scissors. I was quite upset about it. I was afraid it would get infected and …’

  ‘Had the tattoo any significance?’

  Peta hesitated, her cool defiance thawing like snow in sunlight. ‘He’d … started going to this pub,’ she said, her voice quavering slightly. ‘He met some people who put ideas into his head.’

  Emily caught Joe’s eye. ‘The Black Hen?’

  ‘I think that’s it. Whenever he went there he became very disturbed and I had to insist that he didn’t go again. And before you ask, as far as I know he hasn’t. I think that’s why he tried to obliterate the tattoo … to end his connection with that place.’

  ‘So he hasn’t been there for a while?’

  ‘No. I think something happened there that frightened him and I was just relieved when he stopped going.’ She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Look, I do my best to give him a calm environment. He has a job that suits him … working with his hands. It seems to calm him and it gives him a reason to get up in the morning. Can you understand that?’

  Emily waited for a couple of seconds before she asked the next question. ‘Where was he last night, around ten o’clock?’

  Peta’s eyes widened for a split second. ‘Here. He was here in his room.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  No answer.

  ‘Would you mind if we had a look at his room?’

  The defiance returned. She pressed her lips together and stood her ground. ‘Yes, I do mind.’

  ‘We can get a warrant,’ said Emily. Suddenly she saw a flash of pain in the woman’s eyes and found it only too easy to imagine herself in that situation, a mother protecting her young.

  Peta hesitated for a few moments. Then she nodded. ‘All right, but leave everything as you find it, won’t you. Tim doesn’t like things out of place and it would upset him to think that someone’s been searching through his things.’

  After assuring Peta that Tim would never know that his privacy had been invaded, Joe allowed her to lead the way upstairs. She pushed open the door to the back bedroom. It was a large room, carpeted in deep blue with walls to match. The walls were plain and looked as though they’d been freshly painted.

  ‘He used to have a picture of the devil on that wall above the bed,’ said Peta as though she’d read their thoughts. ‘And a symbol like the one he tattooed on his arm over there. A few weeks ago he painted over them … thank God,’ she added in a whisper.

  It was Joe who began the search. He started on one side of the room in the wardrobe while Emily took the chest of drawers near the window.

  Peta Thewlis had been standing in the doorway, arms folded, while they conducted their search but now she stepped into the room, chewing her nails. She avoided looking at the walls, at the places where he had painted the terrifying images. Tim had always been such a talented painter. If he hadn’t been ill he could have gone to art college. But the world was full of what-might-have-beens.

  As Peta watched the search she began to sob. The cool facade crumbled to nothing, revealing the mother beneath. The mother who carried her son’s illness on her back like a heavy burden. Emily was just surprised that she’d managed to keep up the act for so long.

  Emily found a wheeled box beneath the bed. She pulled it out, lifted the lid and looked inside, pulling on a pair of plastic gloves before examining the contents. But all she found was a collection of CDs – heavy rock. They continued their search under Peta’s beseeching eyes but found nothing in Timothy Thewlis’s bedroom to link him with the Resurrection Man.

  They had drawn a blank. And, for Peta Thewlis’s sake, Joe was glad.

  Carmel Hennessy looked at her watch. It was seven thirty. Another hour and a half and Tavy would finish the ghost tour. He’d make for Wheatley Hall to give in his takings and change out of his costume before coming to the flat to see her. She turned the page of the local paper, surprised that she was looking forward to their meeting more than she expected.

  When she’d arrived back at Vicars Green at six the workmen downstairs had been packing away and now they’d all gone. They were putting a new kitchen in Conrad’s flat and she wondered whether she could persuade Peta to do the same in hers – the present one had certainly seen better days.

  The kitchen firm had white vans and she wondered whether last night’s visitor had just been one of the workmen who’d come back for something he’d forgotten. It seemed the most likely explanation and she felt a little foolish. Maybe the place – and her ghostly companion – was making her jumpy.

  She was about to turn the TV on when she heard a thump. Then another. She froze. The sound had come from the flat below.

  She listened but when she heard nothing more, she flicked the TV switch and the flat was filled with the voice of a young woman with a Yorkshire accent, recounting the evening news. When she started to say that the police were no nearer catching the Resurrection Man, she switched to another channel.

  It was another half hour before Tavy arrived and suggested that they have a drink at the Mitre by the cathedral. It was quiet, he said. And he didn’t feel like facing crowds.

  His bruises were still visible. During the ghost tours he could camouflage them with pale make-up but when he was himself, unmasked as it were, he felt rather self-conscious. Carmel watched him as they sat in a corner with their drinks and thought that he seemed a little on edge. The attack had probably affected him more that she’d first thought. Delayed shock perhaps. She joked that the bruises were the honourable scars of battle – a fight bravely fought – trying to lighten the mood, and with the wine her uncertainties and suspicions about him started to fade. Until he mentioned that the police had been round to talk to his mother earlier. They had wanted to speak to him, presumably about Janna. Why was it that Janna Pyke intruded on her life … even in death?

  At ten, Tavy walked her back to Vicars Green and they said goodnight. Carmel stood with him on the doorstep, wondering whether she should ask him to stay. She would have felt safer if she wasn’t alone. But Tavy told her he had an audition for a small part at the Eborby Repertory Theatre first thing the next morning. He had to go because he needed an early night. Carmel was surprised to find that she felt a little relieved. Perhaps the time wasn’t right yet … not while Janna’s murderer was still out there. And as she’d stood there with Tavy in the darkness the old doubts had started to creep back. The tiny, almost imperceptible voice that whispered that he had been involved with Janna Pyke so perhaps he wasn’t to be trusted.

  She wished him luck with the audition before making her way upstairs, pausing to listen for any sound from the downstairs flat. She heard a faint noise which, she convinced herself, came from next door. And then in the thick, expectant silence that followed, Carmel sensed the presence of the girl. She was waiting for her in the flat. Waiting for company.

  The Resurrection Man made his escape through the garden, climbing over the wall at the back and strolling away casually down the back entry, clutching the carrier bag – one of the bags from the Archaeology Centre that he’d found down in the cellar.

  He had time to fill before he could act and he wished he could while away the hours in some pub somewhere, chatting with mates like the men from Kathwell’s. He would have liked to be ordinary. But the powers that controlled him had other ideas. His was a greater destiny.

  He passed a fitful couple of hours on a bench in Robins Stray, dozing off then waking suddenly, startled by unfamiliar noises and shivering with the cold. Robins Stray was a vast area of parkland a mile outside the city walls, more a wild common than a tame municipal park. He liked the place and its desolate history. Victims of the plague had lived there once
in wooden huts, well away from the city’s population. There was even a stone known as the plague stone, a flat stone with a shallow depression. He had once been told that the depression had been filled with vinegar to disinfect the money left by the unhappy plague victims in exchange for their food. He had also heard that there were bodies buried there and he wondered whether their spirits still walked, restless and resentful at their untimely end.

  He took the key from his pocket and turned it over in his hands, staring at the thing, preparing himself.

  The coffin had been cleaned out ready for its next occupant. The Seeker, in his wisdom, had named her as one of the evil ones who had to be destroyed. He had her name safe in his pocket and when it was over he would put it with the rest, with the Seeker’s instructions and his register of the dead … of souls reclaimed. And after death he would do her the kindness of laying her on consecrated ground, a kindness the poor victims of Robins Stray had never been given. He always made certain that their souls were saved, which demonstrated that he was on the side of good against the creeping slick of evil. An enemy of Satan.

  At ten minutes past midnight he began to walk the two miles to the industrial estate. He had to pick up the van and the equipment he kept in the disused cupboard at work. The battered old trolley he’d found during one of his visits to the hospital, missing a wheel and destined for the skip. He knew that it had been put there for him to find and, after making a few repairs, he used it to transport them to and from the van. It had been meant.

  He had left the tape in the cupboard along with the wig; the one he’d bought for the dying man as a joke when he’d been in Mirebridge Hospice. When he donned the wig, he felt strength flowing into him. A power beyond his understanding. The wig was to him as ritual robes were to a priest or a witchdoctor. It made him special. Lifted him above the everyday.