Seeking The Dead

Book 1: DI Joe Plantagenet

by Kate Ellis

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

When Carmel Hennessy begins a new job in North Yorkshire, she finds the historic city of Eborby gripped by fear. A killer is on the prowl - a killer who binds and asphyxiates his victims before leaving their naked bodies in isolated country churchyards. The press are calling him the Resurrection Man. Tragic events from the past link Carmel with new-kid-on-the-block DI Joe Plantagenet, who, with his new boss, DCI Emily Thwaite, faces the unenviable task of identifying the killer before he claims another victim. The victims appear to have nothing in common but the manner of their deaths, but as Joe's investigations lead him to a pub with a sinister history, he is forced to consider that the case may have occult connections. Then Carmel becomes aware of a malevolent presence in her new flat and, when she starts to receive mysterious threats, it is Joe she turns to first. And that is when Joe is forced to get into the mind of a cunning - and scarily ruthless - killer.

Release date: January 6, 2011

Publisher: Piatkus

Print pages: 255

Sample

Things that frighten the devil away.

The killer grabbed a cheap biro from the box on the table and started to make a list.

Garlic … or was that just vampires?

Church bells. Everyone knew they drove evil away. The killer stood on the city walls by the cathedral each Tuesday night while
the ringers practised, bathing in the mellow music of the great bells. Safe.


Charms. Coral. And crucifixes. And the sight of an open Bible. And holy water.

With trembling fingers that could hardly form the letters, the killer continued the list. It had to be finished. There would
soon be more work to do.


More death to bring to the evil ones.

Carmel Hennessy hurried home, hugging her cardigan around her to ward off the unseasonable chill in the air. As she emerged
from the crazy maze of ancient streets on to the cathedral square, she turned her head to stare up at the towers, intricately
carved in pale-gold stone, soaring up to heaven like arms outstretched in prayer.


Carmel – who had been raised in Liverpool before moving with her mother and stepfather to a town of concrete and straight
lines – loved the centre of Eborby with its network of cramped, medieval thoroughfares where the past hung in the air like a heavy smog. History, from peaceful trade to violent rebellion, slithered through the winding
streets and passageways, tending at times to overshadow the present. But then that was why she was there … the Heritage
Industry. Carmel Hennessy owed her living to the past.


Her flat in Vicars Green stood just a few hundred yards from the great cathedral itself. When she’d moved to Eborby she’d
expected to be exiled to the outer suburbs, or to one of the less salubrious streets near Kingsgate, but her new landlady,
Peta Thewlis – who was also her boss at the Archaeology Centre – had been looking for a reliable tenant for her vacant flat.
Carmel’s grandmother, being a great believer in fate, would have said that it was ‘meant’.


Carmel was grateful to Peta of course, but she couldn’t say in all honesty that she liked the woman. She found Peta cool and
uncommunicative. However, she was sure that they could maintain an amicable working and landlady-tenant relationship. No problem.


The Vicars Green flat couldn’t be more convenient, but living so close to Eborby’s chief attractions did have a few drawbacks.
Carmel didn’t so much mind the stream of tourists who trudged across the triangle of grass, passing the Roman column standing
at its centre without a second glance, as they made for the quaint National Trust tearoom fifty yards along the street. But
the ghost tours were a different matter.


They arrived each night at eight o’clock on the dot. A band of tourists marching like a ragged army behind a tall man with
a long, pale face who wore a voluminous black Victorian cape and a tall silk hat. He reminded Carmel of an extra from a Jack
the Ripper movie. But rather than moving through the swirling mists of Whitechapel, this particular Ripper stalked the summer
streets of Eborby recounting tales of spooks and grisly executions. There seemed to be no end, Carmel thought, to the public’s
appetite for horror. But, as far as she was concerned, the ghouls were welcome to it. After what had happened to her father, she had had her fill of violent death.


One evening she had looked out of her window to see the guide pointing directly up at her flat. And sometimes, if the window
was open, she could catch the odd word drifting upwards on the evening air – plague; girl; face. She had no idea what the
man she had begun to think of as Jack the Ripper was telling his audience but she was beginning to find his regular visits
a little unsettling. If people were staring at her window, she would have liked to know the reason why.


So far she’d discovered that number five Vicars Green had originally been one wing of a larger house, the former home of some
prosperous city merchant, built in the late fifteenth century. Her flat, on the first floor of number five, was small – one
bedroom, living room, minuscule kitchen and a tiny shower room off the bedroom – but she loved the way the bare floorboards
creaked and no two walls stood at exactly the same angle because the house had twisted and settled with the centuries.


If she lay in bed at night and thought about all the people who had lived and died there, her imagination supplied a thousand
stories, happy and sad. There were nights when she lay awake listening to each groan of the timbers and each thump of the
plumbing. And sometimes there were nights when bad dreams made her wake up in terror – when she saw her father’s dead face
smiling at her, a trickle of blood dribbling from his lips.


But although the past held terrors, the present too had horrors of its own. The papers were full of Eborby’s two recent murders
and each day the headlines screeched out more grisly speculation. They had called them the churchyard killings at first. Then
some bright spark in a newspaper office had named the killer the Resurrection Man, a catchy label that had caught the public’s
imagination … and stuck.


Carmel did her best to put all this unpleasantness, past and present, out of her mind as she made herself something to eat. Something warm and comforting. Beans on toast – childhood
food. Then at ten past eight she looked out of her small, leaded living-room window on to the green below. Jack the Ripper
was there again, talking, gesticulating and pointing up at her bedroom window. Carmel fought a sudden impulse to rush downstairs
and find out exactly what it was about her new home that these ghoulish tourists found so very fascinating. Perhaps she’d
pluck up the courage to ask Peta Thewlis one day at work. Or maybe she’d join the tour herself one night. She might even learn
something about the hidden history of her newly adopted city. The bits they didn’t put in the guide books.


After ten minutes the ghost tour moved on, making its way to the Fleshambles, the ancient street of the butchers where the
shops’ overhanging upper storeys almost blotted out the sky. That thin street, which must once have reeked of blood and rotting
flesh, was gloomy even when the sun was shining. No doubt there’d be something nasty there to keep the ghoulish tourists interested,
Carmel thought, switching on the TV and settling down on the sofa. As she watched the flickering images she planned the rest
of her evening. She would have a shower and an early night curled up with a good book. Then she gave a snort of derision.
She was twenty-three – perhaps she should be putting some energy into getting herself some sort of social life. But things
are never easy for a stranger in a strange town. And besides, she knew that sometimes she wasn’t good company.


At ten o’clock she heard the cathedral clock striking the hour and she turned off the TV before making for the bedroom, wondering
why she always felt a thrill of something akin to fear when she crossed the threshold of that small, low-beamed room with
its cool blue walls. Ignoring her gut feeling of apprehension, she walked over to the window and lifted her arms to shut the
flowery curtains.


Suddenly something caught her eye on the green below. A movement. A figure stepping out of the shadows. A man in a tall silk hat was standing there quite still, looking up at
her. His expressionless face pale as the moon.


Carmel let the curtains slip from her grasp and took a step back, her heart pounding. He looked like death. And he had come
for her.


Detective Inspector Joe Plantagenet’s eyes were drawn to the photographs pinned on the notice board that covered one wall
of the incident room. They held a terrible fascination … like the sight of a car crash. After a few seconds he looked
away.


Because the victims had been left naked in churchyards, the killer had been dubbed the Resurrection Man by a gleeful press.
But the men and women who wrote the reports hadn’t seen the pictures on the wall. They hadn’t seen the corpses, looking as
if they had just emerged from the grave. They hadn’t seen the look of horror and despair on those dead faces; the wide, terrified
eyes; the gaping mouths set in a silent scream as if they had glimpsed some unspeakable horror before their souls had quit
their bodies. Joe had always believed in evil. But he had rarely encountered it before in such a palpable form. So close he
could feel it.


The pathologist, a woman of science, had delivered her verdict in a cool, matter-of-fact sort of way. The victims had probably
been stunned and tied up before being buried alive. She had shown no emotion as she spoke and perhaps, Joe thought, she had
the right idea. Professional detachment was the only way to deal with something like this. You couldn’t spend too much time
dwelling on the victims’ agony. If you did, you’d go mad.


‘You OK, Joe?’

The words made Joe jump and he swung round to see Detective Sergeant Sunny Porter standing there. Sunny was a thin, wiry man
in his early forties with a prematurely lined face, the consequence of a lifetime’s dedicated chain smoking. He had been christened
Samson by his optimistic parents but he had only reached five feet eight and the nearest thing he’d ever encountered to a Delilah was a WPC in Traffic
who, it was rumoured, had sapped his strength for a few months back in 1995. Samson hardly seeming appropriate, he had been
Sunny from childhood, by name if not always by nature.


‘I’ll feel better when we catch the bastard who killed these two,’ Joe said, trying to sound positive.

‘Madam wants to see you,’ said Sunny with an emphasis on the word ‘madam’.

Joe smiled to himself. Sunny was still coming to terms with the fact that the new DCI was female. She was the replacement
for DCI Miller, who had been forced to retire suddenly after suffering a heart attack. Whoever had taken over was bound to
encounter resentment as Miller had been popular, one of the boys. But Joe was willing to give DCI Emily Thwaite a chance.
After all, she had only been in the job a week and it wasn’t easy taking over the investigation of two high-profile murders
– identical and almost certainly linked – at such short notice.


Joe took a deep breath and made his way to DCI Thwaite’s office. After giving a token knock, he walked in and Emily Thwaite
looked up and gave him a businesslike smile. ‘Joe. Sit down … please. I’ve just seen the Super,’ she said. ‘He wanted
to know if we’ve made any headway.’


‘What did you tell him?’

‘The usual. Enquiries are progressing. We’re making a fresh TV appeal tonight … keeping it in people’s minds. We’re doing
all we can with the manpower available. I’ve asked for more overtime to be approved.’


‘And?’

She smiled bitterly. ‘It’s being considered.’

Joe looked at her. She was an attractive woman: fair, a little on the plump side and touching forty. Her pale curls framed
a pretty, almost doll-like face, and Joe knew that this would count against her with some. But he was determined to keep an
open mind.


He looked around the office and saw that she had added some personal touches. Photographs on the desk and an ornately carved
letter rack, possibly the souvenir of some exotic holiday. A child’s painting had been pinned up on the office wall: five
figures of varying sizes, two females – one big, one small – in triangular skirts and three stick-like males stood stiffly
in a row. Emily’s family, he guessed, although she hadn’t made any mention of them so far. The picture, with its enthusiastic
innocence, looked somehow incongruous in a place where brutal murders were being investigated. But perhaps they served as
a reminder that in the world outside the police station, not everything was dark.


Emily interrupted his thoughts. ‘Anything new come in?’

‘Nothing important. We’ve had a team doing house to house near where Uckley’s body was dumped but it seems that nobody heard
or saw anything unusual.’


Emily rolled her eyes. ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’

Joe Plantagenet looked at his watch, wondering whether to ask the next question. Perhaps the suggestion wouldn’t be welcome.
But he decided to make it anyway. ‘It’s lunchtime. Do you fancy something to eat at the Cross Keys? They serve a good ploughman’s
lunch … and it’s about time you were introduced to the watering holes of Eborby.’


She hesitated for a few moments as though she was assessing his motives … and the wisdom of accepting the invitation.
Then she smiled. ‘Why not?’


Joe thought he saw a flicker of something akin to gratitude in her eyes, swiftly concealed. He knew it wasn’t easy for her
coming in as DCI, newly transferred from Leeds and appointed over the heads of men who thought they deserved the post more
than she did. But he’d heard good things about her – that she got results. And he’d also heard rumours on the flourishing
station grapevine that she was married to a teacher and had three children of school age. If this was so, she had a lot on her plate and if anyone was going to give her a hard time, it wouldn’t be Joe. But then
he had a reputation for being soft. Too soft sometimes.


The police headquarters stood near the railway station, outside the towering grey bulk of the city walls built in the Middle
Ages to protect Eborby’s citizens – to keep violence out – not that they worked very well these days. As they left the building,
Joe saw some young children playing on the steep banks that sloped up to the walls, rolling down the slopes laughing, under
their mothers’ watchful eyes. Joe had heard that plague victims had been buried beneath these banks in the seventeenth century
and he wondered whether the mothers would have let their children play there if they’d known. Probably. The past was the past.


Joe and Emily crossed the bridge over the river and followed the wide road that led into the heart of the city, passing the
Museum Gardens and the Victorian red-brick library, dodging the heavy lunchtime traffic: cars, coaches and open-topped tourist
buses. The stench of petrol fumes hung in the air until they slipped down a narrow side alley, making for the web of narrow
streets at the city’s heart – now a pedestrian haven – with their medieval shops and worn stone pavements. Once an unremarkable
urban landscape, Eborby’s old town was a bustling tourist attraction these days. History sells and city centre pubs took advantage
of this fact by retaining their original charm. Theme pubs were banished to the outskirts.


The magpie-timbered Cross Keys had stood at the end of a thin cobbled alleyway for many centuries, quenching the thirst of
Eborby’s citizens. But the new Thai menu on offer was a recent innovation. Joe, set in his ways, ordered a ploughman’s while
Emily opted confidently for a Thai chicken curry.


The low ceilings and lighting to match made for an intimate atmosphere. ‘Nice place,’ Emily said, breaking an awkward silence.
She looked at Joe, studying him as she would study a suspect in the interview room. He was younger than she was – around thirty she guessed – with wavy black hair, blue eyes and a pale complexion that suggested Irish
blood somewhere in his family tree.


‘I suppose we should talk about the case,’ Joe said, businesslike, as though he wanted to keep a barrier of formality between
them.


Emily pulled a face. ‘Not while we’re eating, eh. I could do with a bit of a break.’

Joe had to acknowledge that she was probably right. They were getting too bogged down in the details of the case. A rest would
do them both good.


There was another silence while Joe searched for something appropriate to say. Small talk to oil the wheels. ‘How are the
family settling in?’


Emily’s expression softened. ‘OK. It’s the school holidays so my husband’s got a few weeks before he starts at his new school.
He teaches history.’


‘I’d heard he was a teacher. Can’t keep much quiet round here.’

‘So I gathered,’ she said as the food arrived. Joe noticed that she started eating straight away as though she’d suddenly
realised she was hungry.


‘New house OK?’ he asked.

She nodded, her mouth full.

‘Whereabouts is it?’

‘Near the racecourse,’ she answered, playing with her fork. She suddenly looked up. ‘Did I hear you used to be a priest or
something?’ The question was sharp and she looked him in the eye as though he were a criminal under interrogation.


Joe hesitated, wondering how much it was wise to say. ‘I was training to be a priest but … Well, life has a habit of surprising
you, doesn’t it?’


‘Or kicking you in the teeth,’ Emily muttered under her breath. ‘So what happened to change your mind?’

‘A woman happened,’ Joe said after a few moments’ silence.

‘Is she still on the scene?’

Joe shook his head.

‘But there is someone?’

‘Not at the moment.’ He gave her a wary smile. She hadn’t given much away about her own private life but she seemed to want
to know all about his.


She tilted her head to one side. ‘Do I detect a Liverpool accent?’

He took a deep breath. ‘I was brought up there. My dad was from Eborby and my mum was from Liverpool. Her parents were Irish
and she was a devout Catholic. That’s why I …’ He let the words trail off. Some things were hard to explain to a woman
he hardly knew in a busy lunchtime pub.


‘How long have you lived in Eborby?’

Joe didn’t answer for a few seconds. A shadow of pain passed across his face. It was barely perceptible. But Emily noticed.

‘Almost five years now. I used to be in the Merseyside force but … There was an incident. A colleague of mine was killed.
I was with him.’ He bowed his head, avoiding Emily’s eyes. ‘He was shot. So was I but they didn’t do the job very efficiently
in my case … only got me in the shoulder. Kevin wasn’t so lucky.’


‘I’m sorry,’ Emily said quietly. She understood. She too had had colleagues – friends – who had been killed in the line of
duty. It was never easy to come to terms with. And the anger, the sense of loss and injustice, lasted for years … maybe
even for a lifetime. You never forget.


‘I stuck it out in Liverpool for a few years afterwards but then I decided to transfer to Eborby because I wanted a fresh
start. And I’ve got roots here.’


Emily looked around the pub. ‘Yeah, I can understand that.’ There was an awkward silence then she gave Joe a shy smile. ‘Plantagenet
… isn’t that …?’


When Joe returned her smile it was as though a shadow had lifted. ‘My dad was from Eborby and Richard III operated in these parts so there are old family stories that we’re descended from one of his illegitimate children. But I don’t know
how true it is. Maybe one day I’ll do some research and …’


‘You should,’ said Emily, looking at her watch.

Joe looked down at her empty plate. ‘Good curry?’

Emily nodded and arranged her knife and fork neatly before pushing the plate to one side.

‘Sorry to talk shop,’ he said. ‘But I think it might help to go over what we’ve got so far while we’re away from the incident
room.’


Emily sighed. They’d had their break and she knew Joe was right. ‘OK. I’ve read all the files but I still need to get my head
round the facts. Get them clear in my mind.’ She pushed her hair back off her face, preparing to get down to business.


‘Right,’ said Joe. ‘First victim Carla Yates, aged forty-five. Single. Lived alone. Worked at a travel agent’s on Westgate
and reported missing by her work colleagues. Five days later she was found dead in a village ten miles north of Eborby, lying
against the wall of the churchyard. She was naked and there were marks on her mouth, wrists and ankles indicating that she
had been bound and gagged with some sort of adhesive tape. There were also contusions on the head which, according to the
pathologist, had been sufficient to stun but not to kill. Cause of death probably suffocation. It’s likely she was left somewhere,
probably in a confined space until the air ran out.’


Joe imagined the unfortunate woman coming round, bound and unable to move, trapped somewhere until death came as a release.
It was too horrible to contemplate. He had seen the look of terror on her decaying face. As though she had seen a vision of
hell itself.


‘Last seen?’

‘She’d been to the pub after work on a Friday night with some of her colleagues. She left them to catch the bus home at the
nearest bus stop by the Museum Gardens. She lives off the Hasledon Road … not far from the university. She was picked up on a couple of CCTV cameras in the city centre
and everything seemed normal. We’ve traced the bus driver and some of the passengers and they didn’t notice anything unusual
– nobody following her or anything like that. We think she must have been abducted after she got off the bus – the bus stop’s
about a quarter of a mile from her home. No cameras on the route unfortunately.’


‘Private life?’

‘Divorced. No significant other. I’ve got the team making enquiries on that one.’

‘Good. Now I’ve taken over, I’d like to talk to all her friends and colleagues again. There might be something that’s been
missed. What about the second victim?’


‘A man. I suppose that rules out any kind of sexual motive.’

‘Not necessarily.’

Joe took a deep breath. ‘His name was Harold Uckley. Aged fifty-six. Worked at the head office of the Eborby Permanent Building
Society. He was married with two grown-up sons and he appears to have led a blameless life. The word dull springs to mind.
But then dull people can sometimes have hidden depths.’


‘Mmm. You can say that again. In Leeds the Vice Squad uncovered a network of prostitutes. Most of their clients were solicitors,
chartered accountants and tax inspectors. I saw the photographs. I’d never have thought people like that could be so imaginative.’


Joe popped a piece of crusty bread into his mouth and noted that Emily was smirking as if she found the peccadilloes of the
upright citizens of Leeds highly entertaining. No doubt they’d provided hours of not-so-innocent amusement for the officers
at her last nick.


She leaned forward, her elbows on the table. Joe could smell her perfume, something floral and French. ‘Remind me of how Uckley
disappeared.’


‘He came home from work as usual, had his tea, then he got a phone call and told his wife he was going out to the local pub for half an hour. We traced the call. It was made by
a friend of his, a fellow fisherman. He’d expected to meet Uckley for a quick drink as he often did. Only Uckley never turned
up. He left home and never came back. The theory is he met someone near the house and got into a car with them. But who and
why we don’t know. The friend’s certainly in the clear – he was waiting for Uckley in the pub with two other men. Uckley turned
up dead five days later in another churchyard. Well, you’ve seen from the photos up on the office wall how he was found. Exactly
the same as Carla Yates – naked with marks indicating that he was bound. Same cause of death. Asphyxiation, as if he’d been
closed in somewhere until the air ran out.’


‘Nothing from family and colleagues? He’d not been behaving as if there was something worrying him? He’d not indicated that
he intended to meet anyone?’


‘Nothing. He was a quiet man who kept himself to himself.’

‘Aren’t they all? Funny that our two victims are so different, don’t you think?’

‘They must have had something in common. Something they were both involved in, say. We’re going through their private lives
like my gran used to go through her kitchen cupboards every spring.’


‘I had a gran like that.’ Emily smiled at the memory. ‘Expert on surveillance she was and all. I sometimes wonder whether
MI5 have ever considered the effectiveness of the net curtain.’


‘So what exactly did you tell the Super about our progress?’ Joe asked, dampening the mood.

‘What could I tell him? All the usual questions have been asked. The victims’ last movements have been traced. But there’s
nothing that makes much sense. And so far there doesn’t seem to be any connection between the two victims apart from how they
died.’


‘Do you think they were random attacks?’

Emily looked him in the eye. ‘Do you?’

‘The killings are well organised. He’s keeping them somewhere … watching them die slowly.’

‘Or he leaves them and comes back when he thinks they’re dead.’

‘Oh no, I think he likes to watch them. There’s something sick about all this.’ Joe pushed his plate away. Suddenly he’d lost
his appetite.


‘Forensic haven’t come up with anything to indicate where he keeps them till they die,’ he said. ‘However, traces of wood
shavings – oak to be precise – were found on both bodies. It’s good quality wood but I’m told it’s readily available.’


‘They’re kept in a sawmill? Or somewhere furniture’s made? Or coffins. An undertaker’s?’

‘Could be anything. But I’ve got people checking it out. Just our luck if the killer turns out to be a DIY enthusiast.’

Emily sighed. ‘As far as I can see, every lead’s been covered and we’re no nearer to finding this lunatic than we were when
Carla Yates’s body turned up four weeks ago. I’ve really jumped in at the bloody deep end, haven’t I?’ She suddenly looked
unsure of herself, afraid. But the glimpse of vulnerability only lasted a split second.


Joe gave his new DCI a sympathetic look. ‘You look as though you need another drink, boss. Want one?’

Emily shook her head. ‘No. We’d better get back.’ She gave Joe a sly grin. ‘Or people might start talking.’

Joe tried to ignore the remark but he felt his cheeks burning. He suspected that she was rather enjoying his embarrassment.
She had a sense of mischief, he thought, which could come in useful in the gruelling days to come … if only to distract
them from their failures.


She stood up, her mouth set in a firm line, and looked at her watch. ‘We’d better get a move on,’ she said before making a
beeline for the door.


Joe followed her out of the crowded pub, weaving through the lunchtime drinkers, wondering fleetingly whether one of them might be the Resurrection Man. Killers, after all, look the same as anyone else.


Carmel Hennessy arrived back at her flat at six.

It had been a satisfactory day, as far as she could tell. She had demonstrated the basic techniques of dating fragments of
pottery to a group of visitors and they had looked interested – or perhaps they were just being polite. Anyway, Carmel had
carried on regardless because that was what she was being paid for. She knew she was lucky to have the job, especially in
a place like Eborby where the relics of previous generations were all around you. Coming back to a lonely flat, miles from
friends and family, was a price worth paying – at least for now.


So much talking had left her mouth dry and on her way home she had found herself dreaming of a hot mug of tea like a parched
man dreams of water in the desert. As she passed the newsagent’s in the little tree-shaded square between the Fleshambles
and Marigate, she noticed a board outside bearing the words ‘Resurrection Man latest’ in scrawled black marker pen but she
hurried on without buying a paper. There were some things she preferred not to think about.


She took the quickest route home. She knew the way now. When she’d first arrived in Eborby she’d often got lost in the labyrinth
of winding streets. But now they’d become familiar, with their quaint pubs and their quirky little shops. She stopped and