Kissing the Demons (12 page)

‘That depends what you mean by a relationship.'

Joe leaned forward, man to man. ‘Did you sleep with her?'

‘Unfortunately I wasn't her type. She didn't sleep with students.'

‘Do you know of any students who took exception to that?'

Jason shook his head. ‘I expect a lot of men – or maybe even women – were disappointed but I'm not aware of any who took it badly. Even our little Matt accepted his rejection.'

‘Was Pet with anyone at the party last Friday?'

‘No. She was just drifting round looking bored and lovely.'

‘Was there anyone at the party you didn't recognize?'

‘There were people from Caro's and Matt's departments but . . . Hang on, there was someone who didn't seem to be with anyone. Not that I could describe him – or it might even have been a her. All got up as the Grim Reaper; skeleton mask, black cloak; even carried a scythe.'

‘Go on.'

‘I never saw him take his mask off, not even to have a drink. And he was standing on the landing . . . watching, if you know what I mean. It seemed a bit odd at the time but . . . Well, we'd all had a few drinks and . . . Like I said, I only caught a glimpse – and I never saw his face.'

‘Are there any photos of the party?'

‘I don't know but I can ask around.'

Joe stood up and thanked Jason. After an inauspicious start, he'd turned out to be quite helpful. Now all he had to do was to see if any of the other housemates had spotted the Grim Reaper. And if any of them knew his identity.

The Turpin Hotel stood just outside the city walls on the south side of the river. It was modern and in need of refurbishment. But it was cheap, anonymous and used by penny pinching tourists and adulterous couples alike.

The automatic door swished open as Jenks walked in and he bowed his head as he hurried forward into the foyer. The young receptionist wore a cheap navy suit, too much make-up and a bored expression and she hardly looked at Jenks as he approached, which suited him fine.

‘Room for Torland. I believe my wife's already here.'

The young woman typed fast into a computer keyboard before handing Jenks a plastic swipe card. ‘Room three twenty-five. Third floor. Lift's over to your right. Have a nice day.'

Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Jenks resisted the temptation to make a sarcastic riposte. He picked up his briefcase, covering it carefully with his coat to obscure the official lettering, and as he made for the lift he found himself looking round for watching eyes like an inexperienced shop lifter.

He was relieved when nobody shared the lift with him. His biggest fear was being recognized – the possibility that few people are familiar with the face of their local MP never occurred to him – and he dreaded the prospect of making polite grunts to a fellow traveller. When the lift door opened a corridor lined with anonymous doors stretched in front of him and he walked until he arrived at room three twenty-five.

He hesitated for a second then he swiped his plastic key and when he saw the tiny light turn from red to green, he pushed the door open.

She was sitting on the bed and Barrington Jenks's first thought was that time had been kind to her.

‘Hello, Jasmine,' he said quietly.

Then she raised the knife to her painted lips and smiled.

Cassidy worked from home, which had its advantages. And its disadvantages. It cut commuting to a minimum. But on the other hand you could never really escape the office. Or the police.

They had come calling that morning to break the news about Pet. He had made noises of shock and regret, adding the words ‘not that I knew her well, of course,' to allay any suspicion on the part of the two Detective Constables, one a lad in his twenties with a crew cut, the other a young Asian woman.

They had asked questions, taken a brief statement, asked where he was at eleven thirty on Saturday night, thanked him and left. And they had seemed to accept his story that he'd spent Saturday night with an estate agent friend who'd called round with some papers for him to look at.

He picked up his mobile phone again. Each time he'd dialled the number he needed, it had gone straight to voice mail. He clenched his fist and brought it down on the desk, unable to control his frustration.

‘What is the matter, Andy? Is there something I can get you? Coffee?'

He dropped the phone on to the desk as though it was red hot and swivelled round in his chair. ‘Piss off, Anna.'

The young woman in the doorway looked at him, a hurt expression on her face.

‘I'm sorry.' He held out his arms. ‘Come here.'

She walked towards him slowly and when she came within reach he pulled her towards him with a violence that made her gasp. Then, as she slumped on to his knee, he kissed her, his hands exploring her slim body and encountering no resistance.

He whispered something in her ear and she pulled away. ‘But that is a lie.'

‘Not really. It's the truth. I just need you to back me up. If it's a lie, it's only a tiny white one. And the police probably won't ask you anyway, but if they do . . .'

She nodded. ‘Very well.'

He put his hands under her armpits and hoisted her upright. ‘Off you go now. I've got work to do.'

He watched with a glow of satisfaction as she left the room reluctantly. And once she was out of earshot he picked up his mobile and dialled the number again.

This time it was answered.

‘Ethan. Look, the police might be in touch with you. If anyone asks, when you called round here on Saturday night with those papers, we had a drink and you stayed till midnight. OK?'

When he heard the answer he smiled. It was all fixed. Sorted. And maybe now Ian Zepper would get what he deserved.

NINE

C
aro had no more lectures that day but that didn't mean she didn't have work to do. She had always been the conscientious sort, keeping up with her reading and essays so that she didn't get left behind. The truth was that she'd never felt particularly confident about her abilities. While other girls at her private school had floated effortlessly along on a sea of good grades with minimum effort, Caro had had to strive for every A and B she gained.

Since she'd moved into number thirteen her marks had started to slip and she knew that if she didn't do something about it, it would all end in tears and ignominy. There had been times when she'd thought that the house itself was making her restless and unable to concentrate. She liked to be in control – and that was something she was finding increasingly difficult in Torland Place.

She looked down at the mobile phone she'd been turning over and over in her hand and suddenly recalled that she'd seen Matt taking pictures with it at the party on Friday night. He'd found it on the mantelpiece and he'd been snapping away when she'd seen him and snatched it back, making it quite clear that he had no right to interfere with her private property. His riposte was that she shouldn't have left it there and he probably had a point but she'd put it down during the preparations and forgotten about it. The police had asked for pictures but she'd forgotten all about the incident till now.

She began to flick through the pictures, viewing the images of drunken revelry with increasing disapproval. Until she came to a picture of Pet pouting at the camera. Teasing. She stared for a while at the image of the dead girl. Strange, she thought, how life can be so swiftly snuffed out.

It seemed hard to believe that there was nothing of Pet left but a lifeless, rotting corpse. When she'd been alone in her room last night, she'd been sure she'd smelled her dead housemate's distinctive perfume and heard a rustling over by the door. Then she thought of the seance and shuddered. She should never have allowed it. She knew that now.

She continued to scroll through the pictures until she saw one that caught her attention. One of the detectives had told her that Jason had seen somebody dressed as the Grim Reaper at the party and she'd thought it was Jason's idea of a joke. But here he was, a figure draped in black with a half-hidden skeleton face, leaning over the banisters at the top of the stairs, watching. She suddenly went cold. Here was Death standing in the shadows, seeking out someone to devour – and that someone had been Pet.

She put in a call to the number DCI Thwaite had left before examining the picture more closely. Surely Death was just a person in fancy dress, someone with a macabre sense of humour. But there was something behind the anonymous figure, a nebulous, vaguely human shape, faint and misty. But it was probably something that had got on to the lens, a spot of liquid maybe. There was always some rational explanation.

Petulia's stepmother was being driven up to Eborby to identify the body. Sally Sharpe was booked to do the post-mortem at four thirty so, if Joe and Emily were to interview Mrs Ferribie beforehand, time was tight and there was still a lot they didn't know about Pet Ferribie's life.

‘Ma'am.'

Joe and Emily looked up and saw DC Jamilla Dal standing at the door of Emily's office.

‘We've looked through the CCTV footage of the Early Music Festival on Stone Street. The victim's there one minute and then there's nothing after that. She must have slipped away down a side street or alley.' She took a deep breath. This wasn't all. ‘And we've got an ID on the musician she was watching.'

Joe tilted his head to one side. ‘Let me guess, is it Ian Zepper?'

Jamilla's eyes widened in surprise. ‘How did you know?'

‘His name's already come up.' He looked at his watch. ‘He was out this morning but he should be back at the university by now.'

‘Do you want me to ring the university and find out?'

Emily shook her head vigorously. ‘No. I prefer the element of surprise.' She glanced at her watch. ‘If we're quick we can get over there before Petulia's stepmum arrives.'

Joe didn't say much as they drove out to the university campus, built in the 1960s just outside the far-flung suburbs on the south side of the city. He drove on autopilot, the problem of Kirsten still nagging at the back of his mind, although he was trying his best to forget her and her poisonous words.

He parked the car in an area marked staff only and they made straight for the administration block, walking beside the large lake around which the University of Eborby had been built. It was said that there were more geese and ducks there than students and, from the squawking and quacking as they passed, Joe could quite believe it.

When they reached the concrete admin block they were greeted by a plump middle-aged woman who seemed to take a visit from the police in her stride. She expressed no curiosity when they asked whether Ian Zepper was on the premises, but told them that Dr Zepper had just finished teaching and should be found in his office in the music department. Joe thanked her and followed her directions, Emily walking silently by his side.

The music department was housed in another concrete block, no concession having been made by the 1960s' planners for artistic sensibilities. A student carrying a violin case directed them to Dr Zepper's office on the ground floor and Joe's knock was greeted by a weary ‘Come in if you must.'

Joe pushed open the door and stepped inside, warrant card at the ready. He was conscious of Emily behind him and he knew she'd be taking in the scene and making her usual snap judgements . . . which usually turned out to be right.

He recognized Zepper immediately from the TV footage Emily had showed him earlier, although now he was dressed in an open-necked striped shirt and corduroy trousers rather than medieval costume. He had a mouth that naturally turned up at the corners and Joe sensed that he possessed that most elusive of qualities, charisma.

He stood up and shook hands, a concerned frown on his face. ‘What can I do for you? If it's about that speeding fine, I assure you the cheque's in the post.' His lips twitched upwards in a wary smile. ‘But I expect they all say that.'

‘It's not about speeding, Dr Zepper. You were playing with the Eborby Waits on Saturday morning, I believe?'

‘That's right. One of the Waits is away and I stood in for him at the festival. Early music is a particular interest of mine. The original Waits, of course, were employed by the city – they were given livery and four pounds a year to play music during the winter months and act as watchmen and announce the time around the streets.' He hesitated, aware that he was talking too much. ‘Look, what's this about?'

‘Do you know a girl called Petulia Ferribie?'

‘She's one of my students. Why?'

‘I'm afraid she's dead, Dr Zepper.' Joe watched the man's reaction carefully.

Ian Zepper looked genuinely shocked. ‘Dead? How? When? Was it an accident or . . . ?'

‘Her body was found first thing this morning behind Bearsley Leisure Centre.' He paused. ‘She'd been murdered.'

Zepper slumped back into his chair, stunned. Then he looked up at Joe accusingly, as though he suspected he was playing some cruel joke. ‘Are you sure it's Pet? Has anybody identified her?'

‘We've identified her from a photograph and her stepmother's travelling up from Dorset to do a formal ID.'

‘You've got it wrong. It can't be her.'

‘Why do you say that?' Emily asked.

Zepper didn't answer, he stood up and stared out of the window which gave a view of the lake, as though seeking inspiration.

‘Petulia was last seen on Saturday morning in the crowd watching the concert given by the Waits. She appears on news footage of the event watching your performance very intently. Then she disappears, probably down some alley or side street.'