Playing With Bones

Book 2: DI Joe Plantagenet

by Kate Ellis

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Singmass Close has a sinister past. Reputedly haunted by the ghosts of children, in the 50s it was the hunting ground of the Doll Strangler, a ruthless killer who was never brought to justice. Now DI Joe Plantagenet wonders whether a copycat killer is at work when the strangled body of teenager Natalie Parkes is found in the same close, a mutilated doll lying by her side. With the recent disappearance of a young female model and an escaped convict at large, this new, horrific murder stretches Joe's team to their limit. But as the bodies start mounting up and Joe's questioning brings him closer to the real strangler, he comes to suspect a shockingly creepy connection between all three cases…

Release date: January 6, 2011

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 320

Sample

The girl raised her hands in a feeble attempt to save her life.


Everything was fading now and the old gas lamp loomed in and out of focus as she tried in vain to push away the thing that
was gripping her throat.


Unexpected thoughts ran through her mind as she struggled: that her expensive new shoes would be ruined by scraping against
the hard pavement; that her attacker smelled of cheap aftershave. The important events in the girl’s short life didn’t flash
before her as she’d expected. Only the irrelevancies. The small details.


She felt herself losing the fight and, as the cathedral clock struck two, she sank to her knees, her fluttering fingers plucking
at the soft silk tightening around her neck.


Once she’d slumped to the ground like a discarded toy, the killer went to work with the knife, leaving the wound on her small,
bare foot glistening like raw meat in the glow of the street lamp. Then slowly, almost lovingly, he placed the doll beside
her body, like a parent placing a favourite plaything in a sleeping child’s bed.


He raised his head to look around the silent close and when he spotted a child’s pale face staring down at him from the upstairs window, her eyes meeting his in silent accusation, his body began to shake.


Joe Plantagenet had had a restless night and at six in the morning, with the light peeping through the blinds, he’d decided
to get up and have an early breakfast of croissants and coffee. He had bought the croissants as a treat for himself because
Maddy was away. But somehow they didn’t make him feel any better.


Suddenly the telephone on the sideboard shattered the drowsy silence. Joe picked it up and fumbled for the button that would
stop its insistent noise. A glance at the clock told him it was six forty-five and he knew there was only one reason why someone
would ring him so early. It was the hour for bad news.


He heard DS Sunny Porter’s voice on the other end of the line, annoyingly alert. Perhaps he was a naturally early riser, Joe
thought as he drained his coffee cup.


It was too early in the day for pleasantries and he was grateful when Sunny came straight to the point. ‘Body’s been found
in Singmass Close off Gallowgate, sir. Young woman. Milkman found her lying on the pavement – shock made him drop two bottles
of semi-skimmed. Doc says it looks like strangulation but she won’t commit herself till the post-mortem.’


Joe suddenly felt wide awake. ‘She never does. Any ID?’

‘Yeah. Her handbag was found under her body so we can rule out a mugging
gone wrong. According to a young person’s ID card she’s a Karen Strange … address in Bacombe.’


Joe sighed and closed his eyes. His shoulder had begun to ache. The site of the gunshot wound he’d sustained in Liverpool
nine years before – when, as a new DC, he’d been summoned with his sergeant, Kevin Hennessy, to a routine job which turned
out to be anything but – still gave him trouble, especially at times of stress. Kevin had been fatally wounded but Joe had survived feeling a confusing
mix of guilt and gratitude. ‘How old is … was …’


‘Nowt but a lass … about eighteen or thereabouts. Terrible,’ Sunny added quietly. There were many in CID who thought Sunny
Porter was as hard as nails. But, after working with him for five years, Joe knew otherwise.


Joe glanced at the empty kitchen stool by his side. Maddy was down in London. But she hadn’t stayed overnight at his flat
for the past fortnight – not since the night she had bared her soul to him, offered the ultimate commitment. The night he’d
taken her hands in his and told her as gently as he could that he didn’t feel ready for marriage. After all, they’d been together
for less than a year, having met when Joe had saved the life of her colleague at the Archaeology Centre. Although Joe had
great affection for Maddy, there were times when he’d felt that wasn’t enough – that the spark that had been there with his
wife Kaitlin who’d died so soon after their marriage, was missing. At the age of twenty-two Joe had given up his calling to
the priesthood for Kaitlin; and he’d have given his life for her. Perhaps he’d always known in his heart that Maddy couldn’t
take her place.


A few days after Joe had let her down gently, Maddy had dropped her bombshell – the irresistible job in London, too good an
opportunity to miss. She had travelled down by train yesterday for the interview and was staying with old university friends
for a few days. When he’d seen her off at the station, he had been careful not to offer an opinion on her possible move. It
was her decision, after all. But he’d found her departure unsettling and the thought of it nagged away in the back of his
mind like a dull headache. Perhaps the old song was right – you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.


He heard Sunny’s voice again. ‘You still there, sir?’

Joe scratched his head. ‘Sorry, Sunny. I suppose I’m needed at the crime scene,’ he said. He still wasn’t dressed but perhaps
a shower would wake him up.


Sunny’s reply was predictable. Detective Inspector Plantagenet was needed ASAP. It was obviously murder and the wheels had
already been set in motion. Madam – as Sunny habitually called DCI Emily Thwaite behind her back – had issued her orders.
And Emily wasn’t a woman who took no for an answer.


Joe slid off the stool, ready to make for the bathroom. But just as he was about to put the phone down, Sunny spoke again.

‘It’s a strange one, this. Really weird.’

Something in Sunny’s voice made Joe’s heart beat a little faster. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, there was this doll beside the body and …’

‘And what?’ Joe wished he’d get to the point.

‘You’ll have to see for yourself,
boss. But it isn’t nice.’

Joe had never expected that a murder would be. He hurried to the bathroom, impatient to discover
what Sunny meant.


The unhappy milkman had reported his gruesome find at six that morning and DCI Emily Thwaite felt as though she’d been on
the phone ever since, the receiver surgically attached to her ear.


The last thing she needed was a high-profile murder on her patch. The previous afternoon the child killer, Gordon Pledge,
had escaped from a prison van while he was being transferred from Wakefield prison to Full Sutton and the hunt for him was
on. Top priority. And now this. A dead girl in the middle of Eborby. What else could go wrong?


She sipped the tea her husband, Jeff, had made and tried to consume a slice of toast in between briefing her colleagues and
making sure Daniel, her youngest, had everything he needed for his Saturday morning swimming lesson. After a short-lived crisis concerning a pair of missing swimming
trunks, Emily looked at her watch. The SOCOs were over in Singmass Close going about their business. However, as senior investigating
officer, she knew that she should be there on the scene, keeping her eye on things.


She’d already dispatched someone to visit the dead girl’s address but she wanted to speak to the people who knew Karen Strange
as a matter of urgency. She needed to get to know the victim. She needed to know her habits, her thoughts, her loves and her
hates. And she needed to know who had hated – or loved – Karen enough to kill her: Emily knew from experience that twisted
love could lead to murder, just as loathing could.


Emily looked at Jeff. Although he was starting to show the inevitable signs of age – the thickening of the waist and the deepening
lines – he was tall, fair and still good-looking enough to be the object of the occasional teenage crush amongst his female
pupils at the high school where he taught history. She didn’t have to issue him with his orders. He was used to the routine
by now. When the call had come in he’d taken charge of the children and, as it was Saturday, he knew he had to drop Sarah
at ballet after taking the boys to the swimming baths.


She knew that she should be thankful that Jeff supported her in her career. A lot of men she knew wouldn’t be so understanding.
It was a source of regret that she never seemed to have the time these days to find the right words to tell him how much she
appreciated him, and most nights she arrived home exhausted, her brain buzzing with the day’s frantic business. But one day,
when she had a moment, they’d have some quality time – how she hated that expression – together. But not yet. She had a murderer
to take off the streets. And from the sound of it, this was no domestic or a fight at closing time. This one sounded odd.


She checked her reflection in the hall mirror and ran a brush through her unruly fair curls. She had a pretty, freckled face
with a slightly turned-up nose and, if it wasn’t for her little weight problem – brought about by too much snacking on the
move – she reckoned that she wouldn’t be bad for her age. But dieting was for those with time on their hands.


Her thoughts were interrupted by a small voice. ‘Mummy.’

Emily looked round. Her daughter, Sarah, was standing at the bottom of the stairs in her Forever Friends pyjamas. At six years
old, Sarah had always been as boisterous as her two brothers, but over the past couple of weeks she’d seemed quiet, preoccupied.


‘What is it, love?’ she asked as she picked up her briefcase.

‘Grizelda wants to know where you’re going.’

‘Tell her I’ve got to go to work. I’ve got to catch some naughty people and lock
them up. Have a good time at ballet, won’t you, love.’ She bent down to give the little girl a kiss.


‘Kiss Grizelda,’ Sarah ordered imperiously.

Emily kissed the air a couple of feet from Sarah’s face. The imaginary friend phase probably wouldn’t last long and in the
meantime, there was no harm in going along with it. It probably meant that Sarah was imaginative, she thought with a passing
frisson of maternal pride.


But she knew she couldn’t linger. She blew Sarah a kiss and hurried out to the car. First stop the crime scene. Second, the
victim’s family. She wasn’t particularly looking forward to either.


It was too early for heavy traffic so the journey into the city centre only took ten minutes. When Emily arrived at the insignificant-looking archway leading from Gallowgate onto Singmass Close, she saw blue-striped crime scene tape festooned
across the entrance. Two elderly women with shopping trolleys were standing there, craning their necks to see what was going
on. Emily could have told them not to bother – the body would already be screened off. Ignoring the double yellow lines, she
parked up on the pavement behind a patrol car.


Singmass Close itself lay behind a small arch, little more than a gap between an Italian restaurant and a charity shop, opening
onto a wide alley with medieval stone walls to the right. To the left stood a plain Georgian building swathed in scaffolding
– once a ragged school for an orphanage, it was in the process of being converted into offices fit for twenty-first-century
business. Beyond this was a close of tasteful modern townhouses constructed around a central courtyard, built in the 1980s
on the site of a maze of dank and crumbling slums. Until the area’s phoenix-like renaissance, Singmass Close and its surrounding
maze of streets and alleyways had been a place of darkness, tucked away like a shameful secret at the rear of Eborby’s magnificent
cathedral. Now a blanket of gentility had been flung across the Close. It had shed its dark past and changed beyond recognition.


She gave the uniformed constable on guard a brisk smile as he lifted the tape to allow her through. As she struggled into
the set of paper overalls she’d been handed, her eyes searched the close for a familiar face.


Eventually she spotted Joe Plantagenet standing by the yellow-and-white tent that concealed the body. Like her, he wore a
disposable suit but she was sure that it looked better on him than it did on her. He was an inch or so shorter than her husband,
Jeff, with longish dark hair, freckles, a nose that was perhaps a little too big and bright-blue eyes which looked as though
they could see into your soul. His expression was serious. Joe was never one for the gallows humour that helped some of their colleagues get through
the day.


She walked over to join him – he looked up and gave her a sad smile. ‘Hi, boss.’ His voice was deep with a trace of a Liverpool
accent.


‘So what is this place?’ Emily asked. As she’d only transferred to Eborby from Leeds less than a year before, she was still
getting to know the city.


‘It’s called Singmass Close because the Vicars Choral who lived here used to sing mass at the cathedral when the canons couldn’t
be bothered.’


‘Oh aye?’ she said, trying to sound interested. She could have done without the history lesson but she knew Joe was into that
sort of thing. His girlfriend, Maddy, worked at the Archaeology Centre so the interest had probably rubbed off.


‘So what have we got? I take it you’ve had a look?’

‘Only a quick peep. The doc’s in there doing her bit. It’s a strange one.’

Emily saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Something about this murder had disturbed him. Like any police officer, Joe
was used to violent death and she wondered what was so different about this one.


‘Has the doc given her verdict yet?’

‘Probably strangulation – some kind of ligature – but there’s no sign of the murder weapon
so, presumably, the killer took it away with him.’ Joe shifted from foot to foot as though he wanted the business over and
done with.


‘Time of death?’

‘Two o’clock in the morning, give or take an hour. Dr Sharpe won’t commit herself before …’

‘The post mortem. Why is that woman always so bloody cautious? You OK, Joe? You look tired.’

Joe gave his boss a small smile. ‘Didn’t sleep too well, that’s all.’

‘You and me both.’

‘No news of Gordon Pledge?’

Emily shook her head. ‘He can’t have got far. All patrols are on the lookout for him and uniform are checking out his known
haunts.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘I suppose we’d better have a look at this body,’ she said with determination. She’d
found from bitter experience that professional detachment was the only way to deal with such things.


She began to walk towards the tent, some of the SOCOs acknowledging her with a nod as she made her regal progress. She turned
her head and saw that Joe was following a few paces behind like a mourner in a solemn procession and she heard his words echoing
in her head. ‘It’s a strange one.’


In a matter of seconds, she’d see for herself what he meant.

At Eborby’s busy railway station, Michele Carden examined the contents of her purse. Fifty-five quid. There was no way she’d
get as far as London. That had been the plan, of course, but Michele’s plans had a habit of crashing to the ground … like
the time she’d tried to get to the Leeds Festival and the tickets she’d bought from a lad at school had turned out to be fakes.


She put her purse back in her pocket, cursing the price of rail travel and settled back on the uncomfortable plastic seat
in the bustling station café, her rucksack by her feet, looking round as though she was waiting for someone. The last thing
she wanted was for anyone to approach her and start asking questions.


She’d arrived on the Thirsk train half an hour ago and ordered a diet Coke, which she drunk slowly, knowing she had to make
it last. It would never do for anyone to guess that she hadn’t a clue what her next move was going to be.


Michele had dressed with care as usual. At five foot eleven with glossy dark hair and a clear skin which was the envy of her
classmates, she knew she looked good in the clothes she had collected during her Saturday trips to Eborby when she would patrol
the racks of Top Shop in search of the latest look. She wished she had a magazine to read but she hadn’t thought to bring
one and buying one from the station bookstall would eat into her precious escape fund.


She took another look in her purse as though she hoped the notes would have bred and multiplied since it had last been opened.
But no matter how often she counted, the sum was still the same. The plan had been London but now necessity made her toy with
other options. Leeds was a possibility. But Leeds was a bit too close for comfort.


She took her mobile from her pocket. A text had just come in from Laura. WHERE RU? She was about to reply but then she had
second thoughts. Laura might talk. And careless talk cost freedom.


She switched the phone off. If she was really serious about making her bid for freedom, she’d have to break with the past
– break with her boring, oppressive school and her sad family and friends with their small-town minds. She was aiming higher.
Sod Leeds … Plan A was back in operation. She was going to London and she was going to make it big.


If the train was too expensive, there were alternatives. Eborby’s coach station wasn’t far away. And there was always the
cheapest form of transport of all … hitching.


She had just finished her Coke, draining the can of every last drop to get her money’s worth, and she needed the loo. Then
she’d make for the coach station to see how often the London coaches ran. As she picked up her ruck-sack and rose from her
seat, she heard a voice.


‘Excuse me.’

Michele looked round. A middle-aged woman was standing by the table. Michelle had noticed her arriving ten minutes before,
sipping a latte at a table at the far side of the café. She was probably ten years older than Michele’s own mother but she
was dressed far more expensively. The little suit with the carefully arranged scarf suggested Paris, as did the perfume and
the immaculate make-up. Chanel … that pink tweed suit was definitely Chanel. The woman was slim with jet-black hair cut
in a glossy bob. Her mouth turned down slightly at the corners and she didn’t look particularly friendly … but the well-dressed
and immaculately groomed rarely do.


Michele hugged her rucksack close, suddenly wary. This woman could represent authority. She could be someone who would bring
her dreams to a sharp halt there and then. But as she edged away, the woman smiled – a businesslike smile rather than a warm
one.


‘I hope you don’t mind my approaching you like this but my name is Sylvia Palmer. I run a model agency in Leeds. Perhaps you’ve
heard of it … Palmer’s Models.’


All Michele’s wariness suddenly disappeared. Had she heard of Palmer’s Models? Should she have heard of Palmer’s Models? Perhaps
she should have done – after all, wasn’t modelling her life’s ambition? Somehow she had taken it for granted that everything
glamorous went on in London. But maybe she could get what she wanted nearer home. Her heart was beating fast as Sylvia Palmer
looked her up and down and offered her a manicured hand, which Michele shook limply.


‘Do say if you’re not interested but I really think you’re the type of girl we’re looking for. Have you ever done any modelling?’

Michele flicked her hair off her face self-consciously. This was a dream come true. ‘Er, no … but I’ve always wanted to … I
mean …’


‘You’ll need a portfolio of photographs, but my agency can arrange all that … free of charge, of course. We take our commission
when you get work.’


‘Er … yeah. Great.’ Michele shifted from foot to foot. What do you say when somebody comes up out of the blue in a station
café and offers you all the riches of the world?


Sylvia Palmer looked at her watch. ‘Look, have you any plans for this afternoon? Only one of our top photographers is doing
a shoot at a place out in the country in a couple of days’ time and I need someone to help get everything ready. So if you’re
free …’


Had Michele any plans? Silly question. The only plan Michele had that day was the pursuit of fame and fortune. And it looked
as if those two elusive things had just come right up to her and said hello. ‘Yeah great,’ she said, lost for anything more
eloquent.


‘My car’s outside. We’ll go out the back way, shall we? I’ll lead the way.’

Michele Carden didn’t need asking twice. As the woman hurried ahead, she swung her rucksack onto her back and followed several
yards behind.


Joe thanked the sergeant who lifted the flap of the tent to let them in, making a note of their arrival on his clipboard.
His face was serious. Joe thought he looked like a man who’d had a shock.


Inside the tent, a small young woman with dark-brown curly hair was kneeling on the ground, bent over the corpse. She looked
up and gave him a shy smile, her eyes flicking towards Emily who was standing by his side. Joe felt a little embarrassed as
he always did when he recalled Dr Sally Sharpe’s drunken confidences at the CID party last Christmas. She had kissed him with
alcohol-fuelled passion and told him she fancied him. Then she’d offered to take him back to her flat but he’d declined her offer tactfully, assuming that it was the wine talking. Sally probably
didn’t remember. At least he hoped she didn’t.


‘Hi Sal,’ he said casually. ‘What can you tell us?’

Sally placed a swab carefully in a screw-top jar and sat back on her heels. ‘Like I told you before, I reckon she died in
the early hours of the morning between one and three but I might be able to tell you more when I get her on the slab. And
she was strangled … some sort of ligature.’


‘Any sign of sexual assault?’ he asked, glancing at Emily who was staring down at the body, her plump, pretty face solemn.

‘Not that I can see.’

Joe looked down at the dead girl. Her pale blonde hair was tugged back into a pony tail and her freckles were half veiled
by a layer of foundation. Her eye shadow was heavily applied and she still retained a trace of scarlet on her lips. All this
and the skimpy mini skirt and plunging neckline told him that she’d been for a night on the town. And in Eborby there were
only a handful of places where you could paint the town red. It shouldn’t be difficult to find out which of these Karen Strange
had been to. Unless he was wrong … unless the skimpy clothing was being worn for professional reasons.


‘Any chance she was on the game?’ Emily asked quietly, as though she’d read his thoughts.

It was something Joe hadn’t liked to consider – but he supposed the question had to be asked. ‘I had a word with Jamilla before,’
he said. ‘She’s been to break the news to the family. The victim lived at the address with her parents so I wouldn’t have
said so. All girls seem to dress like that for a night out, don’t they?’


Emily nodded sadly. She was a mother and Joe guessed that the thought of any daughter of hers flaunting her assets like that
was making her uncomfortable.


Sally shifted a little so they could get a better view. ‘There’s something else you should see.’ She lifted the dead girl’s
left foot gently. It was bare and stained with dried blood. ‘The big toe’s missing. Freshly severed with some sort of sharp
knife I’d say. There’s not that much blood around so I’m sure it was done post mortem.’


‘I understand her handbag was found with her,’ said Joe.

Sally nodded towards a large plastic evidence bag containing a small, new-looking jewelled handbag with a chain strap. ‘It
was underneath the body so she probably fell on it. Her purse and her mobile haven’t been touched and apart from her make-up,
there’s a packet of condoms and her ID card.’


She passed the bag to Joe who peered through the shroud of plastic at the young persons’ ID card. The fuzzy, washed-out photo
of the blonde girl looked quite unlike the corpse on the ground. But he knew from experience that people can look quite different
once the spirit that makes them who they are has departed. He’d once seen a picture of the dead Marilyn Monroe taken in the
morgue which bore little resemblance to the vibrant woman on the cinema screen.


Sally’s voice interrupted his musings on mortality. ‘Have you seen this?’ She pointed to another bag.

He edged his way round the body slowly and picked it up. As a stared at it, a pair of eyes stared back. Glass eyes, cold,
multifaceted blue, in a pale, painted face. Porcelain with rosebud lips, pink-tinted cheeks and sandy curls. He moved the
doll and the staring eyes closed as if the thing was dead. Then as he turned it upright it snapped back to life again, studying
him through thick lashes.


He handed the bag to Emily. ‘

It was found beside the body,’ said Sally. ‘Weird. Unless she was a doll collector and she was taking it home. But …’

He watched as Emily studied the doll. It was about two feet tall with a face that was at the same time both sweet and malevolent.
It was dressed in a white smock, yellowed with age, and Emily fumbled with the plastic until she had a clear view of the left
foot. As she stared, it took her a few seconds to realise the significance of what she was seeing. ‘The toes have been hacked
off,’ sh. . .