The Jackal Man
Wesley Peterson series:
The Merchant’s House
The Armada Boy
An Unhallowed Grave
The Funeral Boat
The Bone Garden
A Painted Doom
The Skeleton Room
The Plague Maiden
A Cursed Inheritance
The Marriage Hearse
The Shining Skull
The Blood Pit
A Perfect Death
The Flesh Tailor
Joe Plantagenet series:
Seeking the Dead
Playing With Bones
For more information regarding Kate Ellis
log on to Kate’s website:
www.kateellis.co.uk
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-748-12889-1
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Kate Ellis
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DY
For Tom and Becky
We are not of the servants’ hall nor are we exalted with the angels above stairs. We are a sad and sorry sisterhood. Neither
fish nor foul. Always underestimated and yet, as a body of women, our tastes are refined and we are frequently more educated
than our so-called betters. We are the teachers of ungrateful young ladies and gentlemen. We are the forgotten daughters of
impoverished gentility. We are the slaves of duty. We are the governesses.
I myself am possessed of many accomplishments. Painting. Sing ing. A broad knowledge of literature. A small talent for the
pianoforte. An ability to converse in the French tongue. And a keen interest in history, particularly that of Ancient Egypt.
I have made a special study of hieroglyphics and the customs, practices and religion of those remarkable people. Indeed it
was this interest that secured me my post here as Sir Frederick Varley is an aficionado of such matters.
When I was interviewed by Sir Frederick in Oxford, he asked me which Egyptian deity I favoured and I had no hesitation in
saying that it was Anubis who claimed my particular attention.
Anubis. The Lord of the Mummy Wrappings. The Helper of the Dead.
Half an hour to midnight and Clare should have been home fifteen minutes ago.
As she hurried down the lane, the high hedgerows looked naked and dead in the silvery darkness. The wind was gusting harder
now and the cold seeped through her thin coat like icy fingers touching her flesh.
She broke into a run, grateful that at least she’d had the foresight to put on her flat boots. In high heels, this walk would
have been impossible and maybe she’d always suspected that Jen was going to let her down. Jen’s promise that she’d be there
to provide a lift home from the Anglers’ Arms had seemed half hearted but Clare had convinced herself – and her mother – that
all would be fine. Besides, there’d always been the option of calling a minicab if the plan fell apart. Until she’d looked
in her purse at five to eleven and realised that the last of her money had gone on a fourth Bacardi and Coke.
The other girls lived in the opposite direction and had already arranged their own transport so there’d been no room in their
minicab. As they’d left, Vicky had given her a pitying look and told her that she’d be fine walking home: it was only half
a mile away, across the main road into Tradmouth and then down a narrow country lane flanked by farmers’ fields, so what was
she worrying about? Vicky had always been a bitch. She’d always managed to make Clare feel dim and clumsy but she was clever
enough never to cross that narrow and precarious boundary into bullying.
A tree ahead creaked in the wind and its bare arms waved to and fro as if warning of danger ahead. Clare walked on, avoiding
the puddles that glistened like mercury pools in the light of the full moon. She could smell manure and damp vegetation as
the moon suddenly disappeared behind a bank of clouds. Then, in the shock of the darkness, she stumbled over something lying
in the lane. She put out a tentative hand to see what the obstacle was, hoping that her fingers wouldn’t meet the soft dead
corpse of some creature run down by a speeding car. But when she felt the rough, cold wood of a fallen branch she exhaled
with relief.
As she levered herself up an owl swooped out of nowhere and the sudden movement of those silent, ghostly wings sent a shock
through her body. But she forced herself to stand and ignore the stinging graze on her knee and the gaping hole in her new
patterned tights. Just a couple of hundred yards to go now. Then she’d be in sight of home.
Suddenly a throaty noise shattered the darkness like the roar of a lion. She froze and pressed her body against the hedgerow,
wincing as the twisted wood bit into her flesh. After a couple of seconds a pair of bright headlights lit up
the lane. Temporarily dazzled, Clare shielded her eyes as the vehicle shot past. And as the sound of the engine receded,
she stood quite still by the side of the road until her eyes readjusted to the moonlight.
She took a deep breath and began to walk on, trying to ignore the sounds of the night; the eerie scream of a distant fox,
the predatory screech of an owl. She was nearly home.
But the animal she saw as she rounded a blind bend made no sound as it walked silently towards her. A strange creature the
size of a man, stalking on cloven hoofs like the devil.
It didn’t move particularly fast but she sensed its power. If she attempted to get away she knew it could follow and outrun
her easily. But she had to make the effort to escape somehow, even though her limbs felt heavy and useless, as if some unseen
force had fixed lead weights to her feet.
In the middle of the Devon countryside there was nobody to hear you scream and Clare knew that, even if fear hadn’t paralysed
her throat, any cry for help would be futile.
With a huge effort she turned away from the thing and attempted to run. There was a cottage back near the main road and if
she could just reach it she would be safe. So with the vision of that glowing cottage fixed in her mind like some heavenly
city, she began to move. There was no need to look back to see whether it was still following: even though it moved silently
she knew it was behind her … and getting closer.
As it caught her waist she lost her footing and stumbled to the ground, unaware of the pain as the gravel bit into her knees.
Then the thing’s soft hands, like great paws, closed around her neck and something thin that felt like wire began to bite
into her flesh. Her hands shot up instinctively to her throat and she tried with all her strength to wrest the thing
off. But the thin ligature cut in deeper as she fought for each precious breath.
Clare’s struggle for life seemed to last forever. But in reality it was only a few seconds before she was vaguely aware of
the droning engine of another vehicle, approaching with frustrating slowness. All of a sudden she felt herself tumbling forward
again onto the rough road surface as her body was released from the creature’s murderous embrace, and she lay there stiff
with terror, hardly daring to move. Whatever it was had let her go but it could still be there waiting in the shadows like
a cat preparing to return to a bird half tortured to death for its pleasure.
Then headlights appeared around the bend, bathing Clare’s body with light as she lay sprawled across the road. But by the
time the van had screeched to a halt, she had lost her fight for consciousness. And the thing that had tried to take her life
had disappeared off into the night.
February is the quietest month. The festivities of Christ mas are a vague and rosy memory and spring, when tourists descend
on South Devon like migrating birds, seems a long way off.
So when the phone by DCI Gerry Heffernan’s bed began to ring at half past midnight on Monday morning, he was unprepared for
the interruption to his deep, complacent sleep. He wrestled with the duvet that had wrapped itself around his plump body and
at first the duvet won the fight. But as his brain began to function he managed to escape its clutches and flick on the bedside
light.
He picked up the receiver and put it to his ear, rubbing his eyes and wondering if he had any clean shirts ironed. This was
bound to be something that required him to get up and
dressed and venture out into the cold night air. A phone call at that hour always heralds bad news. This was somebody’s tragedy.
Once the officer on the other end of the line had conveyed all the details, Gerry asked the inevitable question, dreading
the answer.
‘Is the lass expected to live?’
There was a long silence. ‘We don’t know yet, sir. But if the motorist hadn’t found her when he did …’
‘What do they say at the hospital?’
‘You know what doctors are like, sir.’
Gerry understood. He knew what doctors were like all right. Like lawyers they tended not to commit themselves to certainties.
‘Inspector Peterson’s already on his way to the scene, sir. Do you want me to organise a patrol car to pick you up?’
Gerry answered in the affirmative and fifteen minutes later, wearing yesterday’s crumpled shirt, he stumbled out of the house
and onto the quayside. A thin veil of mist had come down over the river but he could still make out the streetlights of Queenswear
on the opposite bank. As he walked to the patrol car, hands in pockets and the scent of seaweed in his nostrils, he looked
around, drinking in the night sounds magnified by the water and the night air; the gentle lapping of the river against the
quayside and the distant metallic clink of halyards against the masts of yachts bobbing on the tide. There was no traffic
on the river at this time of night – the fishing boats had departed hours ago and wouldn’t return till dawn – and all the
town lay in silent misty darkness. He sat in the passenger seat and looked out of the window as he was driven away from the
town up the steep hill past the Naval College and out into the open country side.
The car turned sharp left by the darkened bulk of the Anglers’ Arms and Gerry noticed a patrol car pulled up onto the grass
verge outside a cottage on the corner opposite the pub. But Gerry’s car drove on past. The crime scene, the constable explained,
was further down the lane.
As they rounded a bend Gerry saw another patrol car blocking the single-track road ahead. His car screeched to a halt behind
it and he climbed out of the passenger seat slowly, yawning widely like some large, sleepy animal. Being half asleep when
he left the house he had thrown on the first coat that came to hand, not his warmest, and now he shivered in the damp night
air.
The road ahead was lit by dazzling arc lights and a trio of men in white crime-scene suits were conducting a pains-taking
search of the lane and the hedgerows either side. He looked about for a familiar face and he spotted a tall, dark-skinned
man in his mid-thirties, leaning on the bonnet of the patrol car, arms folded, watching the proceedings with detached interest.
DI Wesley Peterson was wearing a weatherproof coat, the kind worn by the hardier type of yachting enthusiast, and warm gloves.
Unlike his boss, he had come prepared.
When Wesley saw Gerry his face lit up with what looked like a smile of relief.
‘So what’s the story here, Wes?’
‘A motorist found a girl lying in the middle of the road. He almost ran over her but he managed to stop his van just in time.
He called the ambulance then he got out and went to see if he could do anything.’ He paused. ‘He assumed she’d been the victim
of a hit and run but …’
Gerry knew there was more to come. If it had been a simple hit and run he and Wesley wouldn’t be there freezing
their balls off at one fifteen on a chilly Monday morning. ‘But what?’
‘The bloke who found her works at Tradmouth Leisure Centre and he’d been on a first aid course so he tried to roll her over
into the recovery position. Then he noticed her neck: she’d been strangled with something thin like a cord or twine which
had bitten quite deeply into her flesh, but she was still alive. They’ve taken her to Tradmouth Hospital.’
‘Where’s the driver who found her?’
Wesley turned and pointed to a small white van pulled up on a section of wide verge a few yards behind them next to a farm
gate. Gerry must have passed it on his way there but hadn’t noticed with all the activity ahead of him on the road. There
were two shadowy figures inside the van and the windows had begun to steam up.
‘Let’s go and have a word, shall we? What’s his name?’
‘Danny Coyle – he lives in a rented cottage in Whitely with his girlfriend and he was on his way back from having a drink
with some mates in Tradmouth. He seems a bit shaken up. Paul’s in the van with him taking his statement.’
‘Bet your Pam wasn’t pleased at having her beauty sleep disturbed,’ Gerry said as they made their way slowly back down the
lane to where the van was parked.
‘You could say that,’ Wesley replied quietly in a tone that told Gerry that further enquiries wouldn’t be welcome.
When they came to the car Gerry rapped sharply on the steamed-up driver’s window. The passenger door opened and as the interior
light came on he saw a muscular, shaven-headed young man wearing a tracksuit in the driver’s seat. Sitting hunched beside
him with a clipboard on his knee was DC Paul Johnson. Paul was in the habit of running
marathons and the driver had a decidedly sporty look so Gerry guessed the pair would have a lot in common.
The driver opened the door and sprang out eagerly, as though he was glad of a chance to get out into the air. Paul did likewise,
uncurling his tall frame from the cramped confines of the seat and stretching out his long legs.
‘Mr Coyle? I believe you found the young woman, sir,’ Gerry began after introducing himself.
‘Yeah. I’ve just given a statement. Can I go now?’
‘Yes, no problem. But before you go, can you just go over what you saw?’
Danny Coyle nodded meekly. Too much exercise had deprived him of a discernable neck and the arms that bulged beneath the thin
cloth of the tracksuit top looked powerful. Certainly powerful enough to strangle a woman.
‘I’ve told him all I know,’ he said, nodding towards Paul. ‘I was just driving home when I saw a girl lying in the middle
of the road. I presumed she’d been run over – hit and run – so I got on my mobile and phoned for an ambulance then I got out
to see if I could do anything.’
‘Did you see or hear any other vehicles? Please think carefully.’
Danny shook his head. Then he thought for a moment. ‘Come to think of it, I might have heard a car engine in the distance
just as I got out of the van. But it might have come from the main road. I don’t know. I rolled her over into the recovery
position and felt for a pulse. But when I touched her neck I realised it was all … well, all sort of cut. I’d kept my
headlights on and when I looked more closely I could see that there was a sort of bloody line around her neck. I could feel
a pulse so I knew it wasn’t too late. I just wanted the ambulance to come before … Anyway, I thought I’d better
ring you lot as well. I mean that mark on her neck looked … Have you heard how she is? Did she make it?’
Gerry and Wesley exchanged looks. That was the next thing they had to find out.
There had been several occasions during Dr Neil Watson’s life when he had felt out of his depth and this was one of them.
He wasn’t really sure why he, of all people, had been contacted. But there were many, he supposed, who, on hearing the word
‘archaeologist’, thought automatically of Howard Carter and Tutankhamen’s tomb or Schlie mann’s magnificent treasures of Troy.
If only they knew that life in the Devon County Archaeological Unit was mostly mud and paperwork.
But Neil didn’t feel inclined to enlighten anybody just yet. For one thing he’d always wanted to see Varley Castle. The concept
of somebody building a forbidding granite fortress on the edge of Dartmoor during the late nineteenth century when there was
little need to defend yourself against marauding neighbours intrigued him. He had seen photographs of the castle perched on
a gorge above a glistening river, but photographs can never really capture the feel of a place or give anything more than
a hint of its breathtaking magnificence.
