Kissing the Demons

Book 3: DI Joe Plantagenet

by Kate Ellis

Genres: Police Procedurals

Synopsis

Thirteen Torland Place was the scene of five terrible murders in the nineteenth century, and also related to the disappearances of two teenage girls. When a student living in the house is found to be brutally murdered, Detective Inspector Joe Plantagenet is left wondering whether her death has anything to do with the house's grim history.

As other similar deaths come to light, Joe fears a ruthless killer may be on the prowl - a killer who deprives each victim of one of their five senses.

Each of the tragic events seem to have a connection to Obediah Shrowton, an executed murderer whose presence still seems to linger in the house. Could he be the source of evil, or is there an even more sinister explanation yet to be unearthed?

Release date: February 1, 2024

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 80000

Sample

Death arrived at the party dressed in the traditional way. Long black robe; monkish cowl pulled forward to half-conceal a skull face with cavernous eye sockets and grinning yellow teeth.

Death was tall, as one would expect, and in his bony right hand he carried a long plastic scythe – the real thing would have been hard to get hold of and much too conspicuous. And Death didn’t want to face any awkward questions.

Nobody took much notice as he stalked up the wide stairs, almost tripping up on the threadbare carpet. When he reached the landing he stood for a few moments, leaning on the banisters to survey the mortals below.

The ground floor of thirteen Torland Place was packed and all the time costumed newcomers were arriving in the hall carrying glasses and bottles. Some stopped to talk with animated gestures; some had the far away look of beer-goggled youth; and others were making their way to the living room where, through the open door, partygoers were attempting to dance with varying degrees of success.

Then Death spotted his target – a girl in flimsy white with sequinned fairy wings. He watched as she wove her way through the crowd, slightly aloof, like a being from another world. She had pale hair and large green eyes and she possessed a virginal quality that seemed out of place in that alcohol-fuelled atmosphere. She stopped by a doorway and stood alone, oblivious to the raucous laughter and loud music around her. Separated from the rest of humanity.

Death studied her. The Maiden, he thought. Death and the Maiden. But he knew her real name. It was Petulia. He mouthed the word. Petulia.

He saw her take a step towards a young man with dark curls and a face straight out of a Renaissance painting who was dressed in a white coat with a stethoscope slung around his neck. Death appreciated his beauty – which would fade as all beauty fades with time – and watched as he raised a can of lager to his lips, looking as though he’d prefer to be elsewhere; as though he found the squalid rented house with its smell of sweat and stale beer beneath him. The Maiden’s steps faltered, as though she’d suddenly sensed the protective force field of sophisticated boredom that surrounded her quarry.

Then she turned away, her eyes searching the hallway for somebody – anybody – who might be a sympathetic companion. Death knew how she felt. He had experienced the loneliness of crowds so many times. It was hell on earth.

He looked at his watch. It was two in the morning and people were beginning to drift away from the party, still clutching beer bottles and half-full wine glasses. Death too had had his fill of the too-loud conversation, the couples copulating on cheap duvets in the shabby bedrooms and the preening mortals dancing clumsily on beer-sticky floors. But he hadn’t had his fill of the house. He could never tire of it because he felt at home there. As if the very walls knew him and welcomed him in.

It was almost time to go. Death watched as the Maiden disappeared into the kitchen. She looked tired but she was still awake and sober enough to dodge away from a large boy in rugby kit whose exploratory arm had started to snake around her slim waist.

If Death had been made otherwise, he would have harboured fantasies about claiming her soft pale body for himself. But life and love were none of his concern.

The Maiden was the one. And one day very soon Death would claim her.

When DCI Emily Thwaite set out that Saturday morning the Yorkshire weather couldn’t make up its mind what to do. It had promised sunshine first thing. Then the clouds had gathered in the sky like youths on a street corner, threatening showers and possibly worse.

She reached her office on the first floor of the modern police headquarters at the back of the railway station, took off her thin raincoat and hung it on the stand. She had drunk far too much the night before and she still had a nagging headache. But if your new neighbours offer you their hospitality and constantly top up your wine glass, it would be churlish and mealy mouthed to refuse – or so she’d reasoned at the time.

She walked over to the small mirror that hung on the wall and looked at herself, noting the dark rings beneath her eyes and the fine red tracery marring the white surrounding her pupils. The wages of sin – or at least the wages of a good night on the Cabernet Sauvignon. She delved into the depths of the roomy bag which hung from her shoulder, pulled out her hairbrush, dragged it through her thick blonde curls and wiped a microscopic smudge of dirt from her nose. She’d do, she thought, running a finger round the ever-tightening waistband of her trousers. She’d signed up to the gym in the new year but the burdens of work and family meant that she hadn’t had time to go. One day, perhaps. One day.

Saturday morning wasn’t the best time to be summoned into work, what with the children to be ferried to ballet and swimming. But the Superintendent had called her at home first thing, saying that he wanted to speak to her urgently on a delicate matter so she’d had to delegate those precious, looked forward to tasks to her husband, Jeff. Sometimes she feared that she was a lousy mother. But with a job like hers, the occasional bout of benign neglect was unavoidable.

Suddenly she saw a shadow out of the corner of her eye, partially blocking out the daylight that filtered in from the outer office. She tipped the hairbrush back into her bag and fixed a professional expression to her face but when she looked round she was relieved to see Joe Plantagenet leaning on the door frame. His thick black hair looked tousled, as if he’d just got out of bed after a restless night. Perhaps he had, Emily thought. It was a long time since he had spoken to her about his private life and, although she was a naturally curious soul, she didn’t like to ask, even though there were times when she was desperate to know. There were so many questions she’d have liked to put to Joe if only she had the courage … or the blatant cheek. She’d always been known for her direct approach when she’d been in Leeds CID. Maybe working in Eborby was making her soft.

‘Has the Super told you what he wants to see us about?’ Joe asked.

‘All he said is that it’s delicate – whatever that means.’

Joe smiled. He had a slightly crooked smile, a smile which spread to his blue eyes. ‘Well, we won’t find out standing around here, will we?’

He stood to one side and allowed her to walk out of the CID office ahead of him. As it was a weekend and there were no major investigations in progress, there were only a handful of officers on duty. But if something bad happened, all that would change.

Emily walked down the corridor to the Super’s office, aware of Joe following close behind. When they came to the office door, they stopped and exchanged looks. Joe raised his hand and knocked.

A deep voice growled a ‘come in’ from the other side of the door. Joe stood back and let Emily go first, whether out of politeness or reluctance, she wasn’t quite sure.

She smoothed her hair and pushed the door open, her heart beating fast. She had a vague inkling that whatever she was about to hear would be bad. The Super didn’t do routine on a Saturday morning.

‘Come in, Emily,’ the Super said, his voice as smooth as the rather expensive wine she’d consumed last night. He gave her a businesslike smile and turned to Joe.

‘Do sit down, both of you. As I said to DCI Thwaite, something’s come up that could be of a rather sensitive nature.’

Emily caught Joe’s eye. ‘What sort of thing, sir?’

For a few seconds the Superintendent sat there in silence, as though the extreme delicacy of the matter, whatever it was, had rendered him speechless. When he eventually spoke his voice was hushed, as though he didn’t want to be overheard. ‘It concerns something that happened twelve years ago.’

Emily leaned forward. It was well before her time – before Joe’s too, come to that. ‘What was that, sir?’

Another silence. Whatever this was, it had certainly got the Super worried. Then he spoke again. ‘Two fifteen-year-old girls went missing. The last confirmed sighting of them was in Bearsley. Some kids were playing near a patch of woodland known locally as Dead Man’s Wood and they saw the two girls entering the trees. This was around seven thirty one summer’s evening. The two lasses were never seen again. There was a massive search, of course, but … There was a lot of speculation at the time.’ the Super continued. ‘One theory had it that they’d run away to London and another that they’d been abducted and taken miles away. A necklace belonging to one of the girls was found about ten yards into the wood. The clasp was broken as if it had been torn off. A handkerchief was found a few feet away from the spot – an expensive linen one. We announced it at the time … said we wanted to eliminate the owner from our enquiries.’

‘I take it this handkerchief was embroidered with a distinctive pair of initials?’ said Emily, instantly regretting her flippancy.

The Super gave her a cool smile. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Pity,’ she heard Joe mutter.

‘So did the investigation team think it was dropped by the killer?’

‘Without bodies we can’t be sure that there was a killer, can we? But nobody came forward to claim the handkerchief so we can only assume …’

‘That the owner had something to hide.’

The Super sat back. He picked up a pencil and began turning it over and over in his fingers. He was a large man, Emily thought; tall and bald with the build of a rugby player. But his hands were surprisingly long and sensitive. She would have expected great paws with sausage fingers.

‘That’s the trouble, Emily. The handkerchief was bagged up and kept by Forensic. There were slight traces of DNA – semen, apparently.’

‘Bit of hanky-panky in the woods, then?’ she said.

‘Perhaps.’ The Super hesitated. ‘Traffic division arrested a man for a motoring offence a couple of weeks ago. His DNA was run through the computer as a matter of routine and …’

There was a long pause and Emily wished he’d get to the point.

‘As you know, we can extract DNA from tiny samples now and the lab people found a match. The sample on the handkerchief matches those of the individual the traffic officers arrested.’

‘Has this individual got a name?’

This was the question Emily had been about to ask but Joe had got in first.

The Superintendent thought for a while before answering which only fanned the flames of Emily’s burning curiosity. Whoever it was, it had got the Super rattled. The possibility that it was the Chief Constable himself flashed through her mind, only to be dismissed when she visualized the ostentatiously upright man. But many a Dr Jekyll had turned into a Mr Hyde given the right circumstances and provocation. She sat forward and waited and she noticed that Joe had assumed an almost identical posture.

‘That’s why I said it was rather delicate,’ the Super said in hushed tones. ‘It’s actually Barrington Jenks … MP for Eborby and Under Secretary of State in the Justice Department.’

Emily’s lips formed an ‘oh’. She looked at Joe. He had slumped back in his seat and it was difficult to tell what he was thinking.

‘Well, he’s not above the law,’ Joe said quietly. ‘He’ll need to be interviewed.’

‘I realize that, Joe. But I think a bit of discretion …’

‘He’s at home this weekend – spending time in his constituency. Perhaps if you both paid him a discreet visit …’

‘I don’t think we need to waste any time,’ said Emily. ‘We’ll go now.’

The Superintendent looked a little alarmed. ‘I can’t emphasize enough that this needs careful handling. Jenks has friends in some very high places.’

‘If he raped and murdered two young girls, he’ll soon be making new friends in some pretty low ones,’ said Joe.

The Superintendent gave him a worried look and turned his attention to Emily. ‘I’m trusting you to handle this with tact.’

‘Naturally, sir,’ said Emily.

She was relieved when Joe stood up. She wanted the interview to be over. She wanted to corner Barrington Jenks MP and ask him some awkward questions.

‘Let’s go and see Jenks now,’ she whispered to Joe as she closed the Super’s door.’

‘Maybe we should bring ourselves up to date with the case first.’

Emily sighed. She knew he was right. She’d just have to curb her natural impatience.

Petulia Ferribie often cursed her parents for giving her such an outlandish name. It was usually abbreviated to Pet but she hated that too. It held the suggestion that she was some kind of plaything – something to be picked up or put down on the whim of an owner. When people – men in particular – saw her sweet face, elfin figure and blonde hair, they tended to make assumptions that were completely wrong. Perhaps wearing the white fairy costume at the fancy dress party last night had only served to perpetuate those assumptions. Maybe it had been a mistake but it had been the only thing available at the time.

But what did it matter? All those boring, self-obsessed students were of no interest to her anyway. She found their relentless pursuit of binge drinking and casual sex so immature. And as for her irritating housemates, they’d seemed fine when they’d met last year in the hall of residence. Caro, Matt, Jason and Pet – the Gang of Four, they’d called themselves. But once they’d moved into number thirteen everything had turned sour. Maybe it was just that she’d grown up after the first year. Or maybe it was the house itself that had changed everyone. She hated the place. It always seemed to be cold in there and something about it made her uncomfortable, as though she was never quite alone even when her housemates were absent. Since they’d moved in the previous September she’d found it hard to sleep, as though there was a presence in the shadows of her room, watching, wishing her ill.

She carried on past the soaring cathedral, its carved stone west front glowing in the weak sunlight. Walking quickly, she darted into one of the narrow medieval streets that radiated like tentacles from the great church. It was only March but the tourists were out in force, attracted by history and the recent spell of fair weather. Pet had come to hate tourists meandering along, taking photographs, looking for places to fuel up with food and drink, gawping at the cathedral and the rest of Eborby’s myriad attractions with the slow awe of primitive tribesmen faced with their first aeroplane. They were nothing but a nuisance to people who actually lived there.

Pet wove her way through the crowds on Jamesgate, swearing under her breath. If she didn’t get a move on she’d be late. And she wanted to see the main event. He would be there, taking part. And maybe he would see her.

Suddenly she spotted Jason standing in the doorway of an empty shop. He was strumming on his guitar and his dark curls flopped forward to conceal his pale, almost feminine face. She made no move to acknowledge her housemate; instead she averted her eyes as though he was an embarrassment to her.

Everyone in the house had treated Jason coolly since he’d failed his exams last summer and been thrown off his course. And here he was busking in the street, practically begging like some tramp.

To her horror he looked in her direction, stopped in mid song and raised his hand. She looked away but her escape route was blocked by a couple, entwined and aware only of each other. She felt like shouting at them, hitting them on their smug backs to make them shift. But instead, she dodged round them and half walked, half ran out of the shade of the overhanging upper storeys and out into the watery spring sun.

She could hear music somewhere ahead. The sharp primitive sound of shawm, crumhorn and hurdy-gurdy over the swaying beat of the tabor. It was the sort of music that made Pet want to dance, although she resisted the temptation as she had no inclination to make a fool of herself.

She looked round to check that Jason hadn’t decided to follow her and was relieved that there was no sign of him. Jason might be good looking but he was a loser and of no interest. Not like the man she hoped to see that morning.

The appetizing aroma of hot dogs and fried onions wafted from a stall in the far corner of the crowded square and Pet realized she was hungry. But she had no time to eat. At eleven o’clock the Waits, early music’s representatives at the Eborby Music festival, were due to make their way to Stone Street, Eborby’s widest thoroughfare. During the course of its history Stone Street had always been a gathering place and the scene of numerous public executions. But history didn’t concern Pet. Her passion was music. At university she studied piano and violin and she considered it a blessing that all the time spent in necessary practice in her department kept her away from Torland Place.

She pushed her way to the front of the crowd and stood staring at the musicians. They were dressed in red tunics with brown hose and soft leather boots; everyday dress in Eborby’s heyday during the reign of Richard III. The musician playing the hurdy-gurdy with such concentration was taller than the others, with dark hair that had begun to whiten at the temples. She’d half expected him to look ridiculous in his medieval outfit – like most of the people at the party last night had looked in their fancy dress – but somehow he didn’t. He looked like some king’s minister or great lord. How could Ian Zepper have looked otherwise?

She stared at him, willing him to notice her. He didn’t look in her direction. But she didn’t give up hope; there was still time.

The Eborby Waits began to make their way out of the square, the crowd following like rats behind the pied piper. Pet waited and brought up the rear, not realizing that she would never reach Stone Street that day. Or any other.

Death was watching her, hidden in the anonymity of the crowd. The knife was ready, concealed in a pocket, the blade warmed by his body.

He would cover her eyes when the time came to silence her forever. There were demons in their eyes; he’d known that from the first day Grace had looked at him with all that mocking contempt. And demons had to be destroyed.

Joe looked at his watch. It was eleven o’clock and the concert in Stone Street would soon be starting: he’d seen the posters dotted around the city and taken note. Early music always reminded him of his first meeting with Kaitlin: her choir had sung a Palestrina mass in the church where he’d been posted as a trainee priest and afterwards they’d started talking about music and life. That momentous meeting had made him realize that he’d been fooling himself. He hadn’t been cut out for the celibate life. His vocation had been a terrible error of judgement.

Kaitlin had entered his world like a cleansing tornado. Then just as suddenly she was gone, killed in a chance accident just six months after their wedding. Sometimes he envied his boss, Emily Thwaite, her apparent domestic bliss – although he knew that she too had experienced periods of turbulence. Nobody ever has a completely calm voyage through the world from first cry to final breath. In his job he knew that only too well.

The parents of Jade Portright and Nerys Barnton certainly hadn’t had it easy for the twelve long years since their daughters’ disappearance. Time might have led to a sad, numb acceptance but the pain of such a loss never went away. And now the whole affair was to be dug up again like a stinking corpse. Unhealed wounds would be picked at again until the raw pain returned anew. In Joe’s experience cold cases were always like that.

Any tentative plans he had to sneak off to the Stone Street concert would have to be put on hold. He still had three thick files to plough his way through because he needed to be armed with all the available facts before he faced Barrington Jenks MP.

‘Well?’

He looked up. Emily Thwaite had just parked her ample backside on the corner of his desk and she was looking at him expectantly.

‘Well what?’

‘You’ve been reading the files – what happened?’

‘Nothing much, as far as I can tell. Two friends – Jade Portright and Nerys Barnton – went into a small patch of woodland commonly known as Dead Man’s Wood behind a row of Victorian houses in Bearsley.’

‘I know where you mean.’

‘Did anyone see the girls go into the wood?’

‘Some kids were taking a short cut on their way to the swimming baths and they saw them behind the houses, heading for the trees. One of them knew Jade because she was a friend of his older sister and he said they were walking quickly, as if they were going there for a purpose. In other words it didn’t look like a casual summer evening stroll.’

‘They’d arranged to meet someone?’

‘That was never established. And after the kid saw them going into the trees they were never seen again.’

‘Any evidence of violence?’

‘Only the necklace belonging to Jade – a small silver locket. The clasp was broken which could indicate some sort of struggle but, on the other hand, I suppose it could have become caught on something. The handkerchief was found a couple of yards away. And there were signs that the ground had been disturbed.’

‘By the girls putting up a fight?’

‘Not necessarily. It might have been a courting couple or …’

‘And now Barrington Jenks’s DNA puts him at the scene?’

‘But not necessarily at the same time as the girls.’

Emily’s eyes shone. Joe knew she was hooked. ‘How long after the girls vanished was the woodland searched?’

‘They were last seen around seven and the parents reported them missing just before midnight after they’d checked that they weren’t with friends. Next morning, as soon as the kid told his mum where he’d seen the girls, the woodland was fingertip searched. It had rained till around five on the day the girls disappeared then the sun came out. Forensic said the handkerchief hadn’t been exposed to rain so …’

‘Whoever owned it was there between five that day and the following morning.’

‘The same time as the abductor.’

Emily frowned. ‘We don’t know there was an abd. . .