Kissing the Demons (28 page)

‘She'd written down your name and phone number on the details of a one-bedroomed flat not far from here.'

‘I own a flat on Boothgate Close. Is that the one?'

Joe nodded and took the sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket. He'd put it in a protective plastic cover and folded it carefully. When he handed it to Cassidy he studied it and nodded.

‘I only had a couple of properties back then and I was letting them through these estate agents at the time but I sometimes showed prospective tenants round. She'll have called me for an appointment – that'll be why she's written my name and number on here.' He handed it back to Joe. He seemed confident, as though he knew Joe could prove nothing. ‘And before you ask, I don't remember her.'

‘Did Pet mention this to you?'

‘She asked if I'd met her mother and I told her I didn't think so.'

‘Did she tell you her mother was missing?'

‘Yes. But I got the impression she'd run off. I mean there's missing and missing, isn't there? It sounded like her mother didn't want to be found. Not that I told Pet that. I thought it was best to let her live with her illusions.'

‘I think her mother was murdered,' said Joe bluntly, watching Cassidy's reaction.

But he was disappointed. ‘Sorry to hear that but it's nothing to do with me. I never killed my sister and I never killed this Helen woman . . . or Pet or Anna for that matter.'

‘Dr Zepper brought in a notebook belonging to Pet. It's mostly about her search for her mother. You get a mention.'

‘So I believe. He rang me last night and told me all about it.'

‘How did you feel about Zepper sleeping with your fifteen-year-old sister?'

Cassidy began to walk towards the kitchen. ‘Don't know about you but I need a coffee.'

Joe waited patiently while the coffee was made – properly by a flashy machine with elaborate spouts and dials. It tasted good and he sipped at it while he waited for Cassidy to speak. He looked as if he was in the mood for confidences. The only trouble was Joe didn't know whether to believe a word he said.

‘OK,' said Cassidy as he sat down. ‘Zepper was screwing my little sister. He could have lost his job . . . gone to prison, I don't know. But he knew exactly what to say to make me keep my mouth shut.'

‘What do you mean?'

Cassidy sighed. ‘He'd caught me with a woman . . . one of my teachers. She was married and she said that if anybody found out it would ruin us both. I was infatuated with her and I couldn't bring myself to betray her. Anyway, it didn't seem to have anything to do with Grace's murder. It didn't give me an alibi or anything like that so I kept quiet. I wish I hadn't now but I thought I was doing the right thing at the time. You do make some daft decisions when you're young and romantic, don't you.'

‘Do you still think Zepper killed your sister?'

‘He had an alibi and he's always denied it but . . . Look, if I could prove he killed Grace and clear my name, I'd be a happy man. But he keeps coming out with crap about loving her. Love? He was in a position of trust and he abused her. He should have gone to jail.'

‘I can see why you're angry. Did you take that anger out on your sister?'

Cassidy turned away, fists clenched, and Joe knew that if it weren't for his job he'd probably have a bloody nose by now. He changed the subject. ‘Who's the slob Pet mentioned in her diary? Could it be Den Harvey?'

‘I suppose so.'

‘And the Suit Man? Someone her mother might have seen before she vanished?'

‘Haven't a clue. Could be anyone.'

‘What about kissing the demons?'

Cassidy swung round. ‘It was just something we used to say – me and my mates. It just means living dangerously. Kicking over the boundaries.'

‘Pet used the phrase.'

‘She might have heard me saying it. Or Zepper might have picked it up from Grace. Grace used to hang round sometimes when we were talking so she'd have heard the phrase. I've forgotten who first used it but we liked saying it. It made us feel . . . I don't know . . . daring maybe.'

‘Do you possess a Halloween suit – the Grim Reaper?'

‘You're joking.'

‘I'd like a list of properties you own.'

Cassidy hesitated for a moment then disappeared. He returned a couple of minutes later with a printed list of addresses which he dropped on the coffee table.

‘Are all of these occupied?' Joe asked as he picked them up.

‘The address in Mungate's empty at the moment.' He pointed to one address. ‘And this one in Bacombe's being renovated so it's crawling with builders.'

‘Got the key to the Mungate flat?'

Cassidy disappeared for a minute or so and returned with a Yale key which had a cardboard label attached to it by a piece of string. Joe thanked him and promised to return it as soon as possible before taking his leave.

As he reached the door Cassidy spoke again, his voice subdued. ‘Have Anna's parents arrived yet? I'd like to . . . I'd like to pass on my condolences. And I've put all her belongings in suitcases so . . .'

When Joe turned to face him he could have sworn he saw tears in his eyes.

When Joe arrived back in the office he found a brown envelope waiting on his desk. But before he opened it he asked somebody to check out the address Cassidy had given him – the vacant flat that didn't have builders crawling all over it. It was situated near the city centre in the new Mungate development. From the willingness with which Cassidy had provided the key, he didn't expect to find anything incriminating. But he couldn't help wondering about blue and red carpets.

He opened the brown envelope and found that there were six photographs inside, each a blown up section of the YSY group picture. When he laid them out together the image almost filled his desk. A number of new faces that had been distant blurs in the original were now sufficiently well defined to be recognizable but Joe was quite sure that he hadn't seen any of them before. It had been a long shot which had turned out to be a waste of time.

He looked at his watch. It was five o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. The time when most people were enjoying a weekend away from the demands of work. There was a time when he'd have wondered how soon he could get away. But as it was, he didn't have much to go home for. There were times when he wished Maddy was back in Eborby and not down in London – and this was one of them.

Death knew it was important to do things properly. He had thought up these rituals all those years ago during the times of terrifying darkness when he could neither see nor hear nor speak nor see nor touch nor taste. Before the mask of normality had been put on, so firmly that nobody could see behind it.

In those days he had only had the ghost of a murderer for company; a murderer who had owned the house he lived in and whose shade dwelled there still; breathing in the night, half seen in the shadows. The ghost of the murderer had visited in those dark times and he'd whispered to Death in that blackened room under the stairs.

This time the victim would be deprived of the sense of touch. Fingers were easy to sever and they made splendid souvenirs to treasure, to keep safe and precious to relive the sensations of killing. Death checked the knife he had sharpened on the electric machine in the kitchen and he knew that the blade would cut through flesh like butter.

Death wanted more than anything to return to the scene of Jacob Caddy's crime. He had been watching the woman who lived there from the trees behind the house and he'd seen her undressing at her uncurtained bedroom window, confident that she couldn't be seen. But Death had been there watching.

Recently the place had been crawling with police so Death knew his careful plans might have to change. Perhaps it would be amusing to claim one of the enemy as a victim; or somebody whose loss would cause them pain. Death knew that surprise was on his side. And besides, taking risks made you more powerful.

It was so good to kiss the demons.

TWENTY

A
t six o'clock Emily strolled over to Joe's desk. ‘Anything new?'

He shook his head. ‘There's no forensic evidence to match Andy Cassidy, Den Harvey or Ian Zepper to the crime scenes. I'm beginning to wonder whether the killer's invisible. There's nothing on CCTV or . . .'

‘He'll slip up sooner or later.'

‘You don't think he's going to stop now he's got a taste for it, do you?'

When Emily didn't answer he picked up a sheet of paper Jamilla had just left on his desk. It was a list of past staff at a firm called Harby's, one of the letting agents Helen Ferribie had dealt with. When he scanned the list of names, he saw one he recognized. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction as he handed the sheet to Emily.

‘Look at this. Barry Jenks. Managing Director. This was in the days before he stood for parliament.'

‘So he could have shown Helen Ferribie round properties?'

‘If he was the boss he probably would have delegated but it's possible. Shall we get him in again?'

Emily nodded. ‘Tomorrow, eh.'

Joe was about to say that if Jenks was the killer he should be locked up before he had a chance to strike again. But the fact that he was in charge of a letting agent used by a woman who may or may not have been a victim of crime was hardly evidence. Perhaps his instinctive dislike of the man was shading his judgement. He had helped cover up a crime when he hadn't called the police upon discovering Nerys's body, but that didn't mean he was a murderer.

Emily was about to return to her office when she spotted the blown up photograph, now stacked neatly into sections in his in tray. She picked the photos up and began to look through them. ‘Any luck?' she asked.

‘I don't think so. But it was worth a try.'

Suddenly she froze. ‘I'm sure I've seen one of these lads before but I can't remember where. Of course he's much older now but . . .' She leaned over and pointed out a figure, a boy in shorts and T-shirt who was standing a few yards away from the main group posing for the camera.

Joe frowned. ‘Yes, you're right. Of course it might not be him. Maybe if we had another word with Andy Cassidy . . .'

Emily nodded and Joe picked up the telephone receiver. If their luck was in, this was something that could be settled by a quick phone call.

Cassidy wasn't in. Neither was Den Harvey. The latter's mother had answered the phone and had been quite rude, accusing Joe of harassing her son. Hadn't he been through enough when Sharon, that girlfriend of his, was killed? Joe left a message on Cassidy's answer phone and asked Mrs Harvey to tell Den to get in touch.

As soon as he put the phone down it rang again and he picked it up, hoping that it was Cassidy. But instead he heard an unfamiliar voice.

‘Hello, this is Victor Smith from the Cosy Carpet Warehouse. Someone was in asking whether we'd fitted any blue and red wool mix carpet recently in the city centre.'

Suddenly Joe felt a thrill of hope.

‘It's just that somebody bought a roll end of that carpet recently. It wasn't on our fitting records because she took it away with her in a van, said she'd get it fitted herself.'

Joe's heart was beating a little faster now. ‘It was a woman?'

‘That's right. Very smartly dressed.'

‘Do you have a name?'

‘Yes. There's a signature on our copy of the receipt.' He paused. Joe could just see him squinting at the handwriting, trying to make out the name. ‘It looks like Carla Vernon. And there's an address. Do you want it?'

‘Please.' Joe sat with his pen poised over his note book. When he'd written it down he thanked Victor Smith profusely and rushed to Emily's office.

But before he could get there he was waylaid by Jamilla who had yet another list in her hand. ‘One of the house agents Helen Ferribie used was called Duttons. I thought you'd be interested in this.' She handed the sheet of paper to Joe and he read it with a smile.

‘Thanks, Jamilla,' he said before resuming his journey to Emily's office. Then he turned back and picked up one of the blown up sections of the YSY photograph on his desk: the one featuring the unknown but familiar boy. ‘Jamilla, can you keep trying Cassidy's and Harvey's numbers, then can you show whichever one you get hold of first this picture and ask them if they know who it is?'

Jamilla took the picture and when Joe entered Emily's office somehow he knew that he was going to make her day.

From where Death stood on the fringe of Dead Mans Wood he had an excellent view of thirteen Torland Place. The students normally went out on a Saturday night and sometimes the girl walked home from the city centre alone. The van was waiting at the end of the street and it wouldn't be hard to get her in there. She'd feel safe so close to home. Until the tape tightened around her wrists and ankles and she saw the knife descending.

He strolled away from the woodland and down the narrow alleyway at the side of the house. The rotting wooden gate leading to the small back garden of number thirteen was the way Jacob Caddy would have gained access all those years ago. It was more than a hundred years since Obediah Shrowton had been hanged for those murders he didn't commit. Caddy was a humble butcher but he'd been so clever – a genius – and nobody had suspected his guilt for a moment. And even though Shrowton knew the truth, nobody had believed him. Caddy had written down the story for his son who had passed it on to his son and so on, until this dark flame had been passed on to Death. Until Death had sat senseless in that blackened cupboard, conscious only of that terrible, triumphant story pouring into his brain.