Aftermath

TWO

Thursday 11th June — 10.05 hours — 22.22 hours

in which a home visit is made and Carmen Pharoah and George Hennessey are severally at home to the gracious reader.

The room was brilliantly illuminated by a series of filament bulbs concealed behind opaque Perspex sheets in the ceiling. The Perspex sheets successfully avoided the potentially dangerous epileptic fit inducing ‘shimmer’ and bathed the room in a bright but constant glow, which was not harmful to the eyes of those in the room. In the room, four corpses lay on four stainless steel tables arranged side by side in a row. The fifth body of the five, one of the complete skeletons, found in the kitchen garden at Bromyards remained in a steel drawer in a chilled adjacent room. ‘Four is quite sufficient to start with,’ Dr D’Acre had explained. A sombre mood, very sombre in fact, thought Hennessey, as he stood against the wall observing the procedure for the police. He had not known a mood more sombre to have previously descended on the room. He watched as Dr D’Acre moved the arms and legs of each body, sometimes having to use all her strength, until all four lay face up, arms by the side, legs straight out and close together, and thus affording each corpse, even in death, a degree of dignity. Each victim seemed to have expired in a foetal position, either because they had sat up against the wall as they had drawn their last breath, or more likely, thought Hennessey, having seen the five bodies shortly after they had been found, that they had, with resignation, turned on their sides and awaited their own death. Hennessey watched Dr D’Acre as she worked, moving in a slow but determined, and yet gentle, manner, using as little force as necessary and handling each corpse as if it was a living being, and so she managed to create a distinct sense of reverence for the deceased. Her eyes, too, when he was able to see them, he noted, displayed a look of respect for the dead. Her mouth was kept closed as she worked, her soft jawline set firm. A single act of clumsiness, Hennessey realized, a needless look of distaste for the work she performed, or a smile, no matter how brief, or a split-second gleam in her eyes, or of eye contact with him or Eric Filey, would ruin everything, because her attitude, her professionalism, was example setting. She was leading from the front, and Hennessey and Eric Filey were willing followers and responded by exhibiting the same decorum.

Having laid out the skeletons, with the occasional help of Eric Filey, Dr D’Acre turned her attention to the least decomposed of the four, and as such, clearly the most recent of the five bodies to have been brought to Bromyards.

‘The body. . oh, please give this a number and today’s date, Kate.’ Dr D’Acre spoke for the benefit of the microphone, which was attached to an angle poise that was bolted into the ceiling. ‘Kate’ was, Hennessey assumed, clearly a skilled audio-typist who knew what to write in the report and what not to write. It seemed clear that D’Acre and ‘Kate’ knew each other very well and that they worked well together. ‘The body,’ Dr D’Acre continued, ‘is in an advanced state of decomposition and is almost completely skeletonized. It is that of an adult of the female sex. There is an absence of any significant injury to the skeleton. The skull and all long bones, ribs etcetera, appear intact. There is no sign of trauma at all.’ She turned to Hennessey, ‘That is worrying in a sense.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Hennessey nodded. He stood as far away from the dissecting table as possible, his place to be called forward to examine or witness something of significance only if invited to do so by Dr D’Acre. He was dressed similarly to Dr D’Acre and Eric Filey in green coveralls, including hat and slippers. They were worn over underclothing and always were incinerated after a single usage.

‘Early days, yet,’ Dr D’Acre returned her attention to the corpse, ‘but the absence of peri-mortem trauma indicates a slow and a lingering death.’ Dr D’Acre took the scalpel to the stomach, still discernible, and opened it with a single linear incision. ‘Nothing in there. . there might still have been some small trace of food even after this length of time, but its complete absence could mean that she was deprived of food in the last twelve or twenty-four hours of life. . but decay is too advanced. . the kidneys, too, are too decayed to be able to determine if she was deprived of fluid during the same period.’ Dr D’Acre laid the scalpel in the stainless steel tray containing a generous amount of disinfectant. ‘I will give all due attention to the task in hand, all due address, but if this corpse is typical of those found at the location in question, then I am obliged to give you advance warning that I am unlikely to be able to determine the cause of death.’

‘Appreciate that, ma’am.’

‘It’s likely going to be asphyxiation, plastic bag over the head. . or thirst or starvation. . in lessening degrees of mercy. Asphyxiation takes a matter of minutes, thirst will take a few days. . but if the victim is allowed fluid then starvation could take weeks.’

‘We wondered about the possibility of them freezing to death?’

‘Yes, hypothermia, that is indeed a fourth possibility, which will take a short time in the depths of winter and will also leave no trace upon the skeleton. Poison is an unlikely fifth, as is drowning, but those two might and will leave traces respectively. Heavy poisons such as arsenic and cyanide will leave traces, alcohol won’t. But I will be able to tell if they were drowned. . but the absence of a body of water in the area leads me to think it unlikely.’

‘I would think so too, ma’am, the fact that they were restrained and attached to a long chain makes me think that they were alive when they were abandoned. . alive and conscious. . from a police officer’s point of view.’

‘I would be inclined to agree with you, Chief Inspector, from a forensic pathologist’s point of view,’ she tapped her forefingers lightly on the rim of the table, ‘from the perpetrator’s point of view, I would think he’d want a rapid onset of death. . he would abandon them to thirst or hypothermia. He wouldn’t return each day with a plentiful supply of water to keep them alive until they starved. . too risky. So logic, not scientific analysis, points to hypothermia or thirst as the likely cause of death, depending upon the time of year they were chained up and abandoned. But that is encroaching on your area of expertise. Sorry.’

‘Encroach all you like.’

‘Thank you, but I suppose that that is my way of apologizing for being unlikely to find a cause of death. I think my expertise, modest as it is, will be confined to doing what I can to assist in the identification of the deceased, especially since one victim had sustained a distinct head injury much earlier in her life.’

‘That’s still very, very useful, thank you.’ Hennessey then glanced at Eric Filey and repeated, ‘Thank you.’ George Hennessey had come to like Filey a great deal, and come to respect him; young, slightly rotund, not only was he clearly sufficiently good at his job that he impressed Dr D’Acre but, unlike other pathology laboratory assistants whom Hennessey had met, Filey possessed a warmth about him and approached his employment with a good-humoured attitude, although when circumstances demanded, as at that moment, he was capable of demonstrating sincere reverence.

Dr D’Acre used a stainless steel length of metal to prise open the jaw of the skeleton. ‘Definitely Caucasian or white European. . the skull is northern European in appearance, and could also be Asian, but the teeth confirm it. . definitely northern European in terms of race. . and there is some dental work which may prove very useful in determining her identity. As you know, dentists have to keep their records for eleven years. This particular victim was murdered, or at least lost her life, within the last eleven years. Probably in the last two or three, and the dentistry appears to be British.

So someone, some dentist, will have a record of her dental work and that is as unique as a fingerprint. Human teeth are like snowflakes. . no two sets are ever the same.’

‘That will also be very helpful,’ Hennessey spoke softly, ‘very helpful indeed.’

‘Yes, the field is narrowing. . no males as yet. . and just glancing at the other skulls here, and recalling the fifth victim in the drawer, it seems that all are northern European in terms of race.’

‘The field is narrowing, as you say, ma’am. We don’t need to look for males or people of ethnic minority in our missing person files.’

Dr D’Acre smiled and mouthed, ‘Thank you’, at Hennessey and then said, ‘I do like to be of some use.’ She then addressed Eric Filey. ‘Can you hand me the tape measure, please, Eric?’

Dr D’Acre extended the tape measure whilst Eric Filey held the tape at the head of the corpse, until it reached the feet. ‘Tall lady,’ Dr D’Acre commented, ‘five foot ten inches, or about a hundred and seventy-eight centimetres in Eurospeak. Add an inch on to that to allow for the shrinking of the cartilage and the decay of the flesh beneath the feet, then she would have been nearly six foot in life. She was also a young woman, about twenty-five years old, no older, possibly younger.’

‘Again, very useful to know, there won’t be many six-feet tall women in our mis per files. Hardly any in fact. . and possibly just one. . but only if she is local,’ Hennessey added, ‘only if she is local. I do so hope that some day we’ll have a national missing person’s database. . the National Missing Persons Helpline is a charity. It has been useful in the past but we need nationally held mis per records on the Police National Computer.’

‘Yes,’ Dr D’Acre replied softly, ‘that would make things much easier for all concerned. I am afraid I am close to completing here. All I can do now is remove one of the teeth and age it, that way I can tell how old she was when she died, plus or minus one year, and detach the skull and send it to the forensic science laboratory at Wetherby for facial reconstruction by computer modelling, so you might then have some idea of her appearance when alive. . but as for cause of death. . we will never know, not by post-mortem examination anyway. All information for your attention will be with you asap.’

‘A very interesting patient, very interesting indeed, and very popular with the reception staff and our visiting nurses.’ Dr Richard March smiled warmly at Webster as he momentarily took his eyes off the computer monitor on his desk. ‘Yes, got his details up on the screen. Old boy, died of respiratory failure.’

Webster’s face broadened into a smile.

‘You find that funny?’ March’s smile faded rapidly.

‘Frankly, yes, I do, but not in a spiteful way, I assure you. What I mean is. . what I find amusing is the term because what does “respiratory failure” mean but “stopped breathing”?’

March chuckled. ‘I see. . yes, quite true, but so many relatives of elderly patients need something more than “stopped breathing” and as doctors we can’t put “stopped breathing” on a death certificate, if we do then our credibility is out of the window. The term “respiratory failure” gives relatives a reason for death or a cause of same. . but as you say, all it means is that the person in question just stopped breathing. It’s only used in the case of elderly people who are closely monitored up to the end. . never on a younger, healthier person who dies suddenly. For that we have the diagnosis of Sudden Death Syndrome and in infants it is Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. . but for geriatrics who have run their race and who die in their sleep, then “respiratory failure” it is. Mr Housecarl did contract a mild chest infection at the time of his death, but that might be because his immune system was shutting down and so allowed infection in. In the end, it was just the case that Mr Housecarl was one of those persons whose life had run its course and that was it. So “respiratory failure”, though I knew he was about to die because he had had a visit. . his brother.’

‘A visit?’

‘Yes, people who work in terminal care often know when one of their patients is about to expire because they will report that a predeceased relative has visited them. You’ll hear it often in geriatric care, a nurse will approach her colleagues and say “Mrs Smith’s just had her visit. . she won’t be long now”, and sure enough, within three or four days said Mrs Smith will die quietly, often in her sleep. In just that manner, when I last visited Mr Housecarl he told me that “Tommy” had visited him. Upon enquiring who “Tommy” was I learned that Thomas Housecarl had died in New Zealand some twenty years earlier. “Tommy” had appeared to Mr Housecarl and two days later he was deceased. And patients that receive such visits are lucid, not suffering from dementia.’

‘That’s very interesting.’ Webster sat back in the upright chair which was beside the doctor’s desk and faced the doctor who sat at the desk. It was clearly the patient’s chair in Dr March’s surgery and was, thought Webster, a preferable arrangement to that chosen by his own doctor who kept a large desk, barrier-like, between himself and his patient.

‘It is, isn’t it?’ Dr March, Webster found, was a doctor with a warm and cheery manner. His surgery looked out on to a brick wall, probably within reaching distance, and yet enjoyed a plentiful supply of natural light. It could not be overlooked from the outside and as such, was the only surgery that Webster had been in which did not have net curtains or some other means of preventing anyone outside from looking in on a consultation. ‘Unsettling also. So what can I tell you about Mr Housecarl?’

‘We need to establish the pattern of his life for some years prior to his death and also need to find his ex-employees.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘Yes, I can tell you, there is going to be a press release issued later today because we will need public assistance. There has been a discovery on his land; in the kitchen garden of Bromyards. . though Mr Housecarl is not under suspicion.’

‘A discovery? A dead body?’ March asked with a slight smile.

‘Yes, in fact. You sound like you know something, sir?’

‘No, I can’t help you. . it was just a logical deduction that it would take that sort of discovery to prompt a police officer to press me for my time in a very busy day and accept being squeezed in between morning surgery and “rounds”. So is that what it is. . a dead body?’

‘Yes, five in fact.’

‘Five!’

‘And we are still searching the garden, it’s badly overgrown and so there may be more corpses to be found. It’s a big case. .’

‘Oh my,’ March sat forward and held his head in his hands, ‘I am astounded. Years, you say?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But Mr Housecarl only died recently. You mean that all the while myself and the nurse. . and the Meals on Wheels folk. . all the while that we were visiting there were bodies in the kitchen garden. . the enclosed garden beside the house?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Webster paused. ‘The last body was probably deposited there only a few months ago. The Home Office Pathologist won’t be drawn on the time of death.’

‘I bet he won’t.’

‘She, actually, sir.’

‘She then. I tell you, the luxury of time of death being able to be determined is for TV programmes. It’s very hard to determine the time of death in actuality. You know, from the time that the person was last seen alive to the time the body was found is a near as science can get to determining the actual time of death.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And corpses don’t always cool either. In the tropics a body will heat up after death and will then begin to cool. That can throw a real spanner in the works.’

‘Yes, sir. . as you say. But the other victims were practically all skeletons. . though some final victims still showed traces of internal organs.’

‘I see. . yes, I see your need to establish Mr Housecarl’s life pattern.’

‘We understand that in his final months he lived in just one room?’

‘Yes,’ Dr March pursed his lips and nodded briefly, ‘yes, that was the case, and for years, not months. The last three or four years of his life he spent living in that little room, leaving only to use the bathroom opposite it. He kept himself alive by eating out of tins and on the meals the visiting catering service brought for him a few times each week.’

‘He wouldn’t move to a smaller house?’

‘Wouldn’t consider it, that was totally out of the question for him. He was fully compos mentis. . remember he had a “visit” from his brother Tommy. .’

‘Yes,’ Webster tapped his pen on his notepad, ‘as we agreed, very interesting.’

‘But the point is. . is that he was compos mentis. . couldn’t enforce his relocation under the mental health legislation. He explained to me once that if he abandoned Bromyards he would feel that he was letting down his ancestry. As you may know, the house has been in the Housecarl family for nearly three hundred years.’

‘Yes.’

‘The original house looked different, it was smaller, a much more modest building. It was expanded during the Victorian era when the family really came into very serious money. . but it was the same family who owned it. He felt sad that he was going to be the last of the Housecarls but he accepted that the end of each dynasty has to come some time.’

‘Yes.’

‘And so the least he could do, he said, was to ensure that when he does leave Bromyards, he is carried out feet first. He felt he owed that to his forebears. . and he had everything upstairs.’ March tapped the side of his head. ‘In here he was as bright as a button, his body was failing but his mind was sharp and as a consequence of that, he had the right to self-determination. . and said right we have to respect.’

‘Of course,’ Webster spoke softly; he felt the reverence owed to the consulting room. ‘He was no harm to himself or others and Bromyards wasn’t standing in the way of a proposed motorway development.’

‘No. . listed building anyway. It might fall down because of neglect but it is protected under the terms of the National Monuments Act and can’t be demolished.’

‘So, to confirm our belief and fully remove all suspicion, he could not, in your medically qualified opinion, be party to anything untoward which was going on outside the house?’

‘No. . not physically part of it and I can’t see him giving permission for anything like that. He was a gentleman of the old school. . a man of principle.’ Dr March pursed his lips. ‘No, he wouldn’t have known anything about it.’ March paused. ‘He was a hermit for many years. He had a carer. . an assistant. . I met her once. . jolly lady. Now what was her name? What on earth was it? It was a name which I thought seemed to fit her personality. Charles Dickens could have named her. . you know how Dickens suggested the personality of his character by the names he chose for them?’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Oh, yes. . like Mr Gradgrind the schoolmaster. . and the boy pickpocket called the Artful Dodger. . his characters have well-suited names and this lady had a name that Dickens would have pounced on. . what was it? Mrs Mirth. . no. . M something. . she came into a room like a ray of sunshine and she was introduced and I thought how apt. . Merryweather!’ March smiled and looked pleased with himself. ‘That was it, Mrs Penelope “Penny” Merryweather, and a jolly soul was she, salt of the earth. . milk of human kindness sort of individual. . lovely lady. She was the last of the staff at Bromyards, the last to be laid off. . and I had the impression that she was the sort of employee who did more than her job. She seemed to have a devotion to Nicholas Housecarl. She’ll be the lady to ask. . hers will be the brains to pick about the matter of the old boy’s retreat, but I think he abandoned the grounds about twenty years ago. I recall visiting about twenty years ago, when he was still living in the downstairs rooms and sleeping in an upstairs bedroom, and as I drove away I recall remarking that the hedge on the approach road. .’

‘Too long to call a drive,’ Webster smiled.

‘Yes, “drive” just does not convey the road from the public highway to the house, “approach road” is more apt. . but to continue. . as I was driving down the approach road I noticed that the privet was overdue for a trim, which it never got, and in hindsight that was the beginning of the retreat. He was letting the garden go. It was beginning then to slide into its present unkempt state. He had a few gardeners. . head gardener and his under gardeners and the “boy”, but one by one they were laid off. Then the house staff went, until only the ray-of-sunshine Mrs Penny Merryweather remained. . and then even she too was laid off.’

‘We’ll have to trace her.’ Webster glanced at a wallchart that showed the muscles of the human body.

‘She will be a good person to talk to, I’m sure, and she should still be with us. She’ll be in her sixties now, but today that’s no age at all.’

‘Do you know if Mr Housecarl had any visitors?’

‘The meal delivery service. . the district nurse. . myself. There was an arrangement whereby the rear door was kept open to allow us access. . by open I mean unlocked.’

‘Risky.’

‘Not without its risks, I concede, but it was not as though it was an unsecured door on a “sink estate” or on a house in a fashionable suburb. A felon wouldn’t stumble across Bromyards; he’d have to know it was there.’

Webster smiled warmly, ‘That’s a good point, sir, very pertinent indeed. I’ll pass that up to my boss.’ He stood, ‘Well, thank you, this has indeed been useful. So we can rule out Mr Housecarl as being a part of this.’

‘Yes, I think you can. And it means that I can go to his funeral. I don’t attend the funerals of all my patients but I want to attend this, although there won’t be many there.’

‘Where is it and when?’

‘I don’t know, I’ll have to find that out. The funeral director is Canverrie and Son of York.’

Webster scribbled the name on his notepad.

It was Thursday, 12.17 p.m.

George Hennessey relaxed in his chair and read, and then re-read, the report which had been faxed to him from Dr D’Acre for his urgent attention. He read that, as Dr D’Acre had anticipated, she had not, she regretted, been able to establish the cause of death in any of the five corpses which had been found in the kitchen garden at Bromyards. Though she hoped her findings could help in identifying the victims. Each, she was able to confirm, was female. Each was an adult, although the age at death appeared to be varied, all had some degree of dental work, and all said dental work appeared to be British in nature. They were not foreign women. All were northern European in respect of their ethnicity. No personal artefacts were found on the skeletons, no rings or watches or bracelets, nor were there any evidence of clothing found, no zip fasteners or plastic buttons, for example. The latest victim had in life been a tall, young woman (her skull had not properly knitted together, thus placing her age at less than twenty-five years) probably standing about five foot eleven, or even six foot, in life. By contrast, the other four skeletons were all significantly shorter, none taller than five feet five inches when alive. Dr D’Acre’s report concluded with an apology for not being more helpful.

‘Still very helpful though,’ he murmured as he placed the report in the thickening folder, as yet marked only as ‘Bromyards — 10/6’ and then glanced up in response to a gentle tap on the door frame of his office. Carmen Pharoah stood in the doorway, looking pleased with herself, Hennessey observed. He also saw that she held a manila folder in her right hand.

‘DC Pharoah,’ Hennessey greeted her warmly, ‘do come in and take a pew.’

Carmen Pharoah walked silently on rubber-soled shoes into Hennessey’s office and sat with a natural grace of movement on one of the upright chairs in front of Hennessey’s desk. She glanced hurriedly out of the small window of Hennessey’s office at the medieval walls of York, then bathed in sunshine and crowded with brightly dressed tourists. She turned to Hennessey. ‘We might have a match to the deceased, sir. Well, one of them, I should say.’

‘Oh? I am impressed.’

‘Yes, sir.’ She opened the folder she carried.

Hennessey held up a fleshy hand, ‘Just tell me the gist.’

‘Well, sir, I read the preliminary findings in the file. . and I thought. . not many six-foot tall women in York. . and the age, twenty-five years or younger. . well, sir, to get to the point, this is the missing persons file on one Veronica Goodwin.’

‘Goodwin?’ Hennessey commented. ‘As in Goodwin Sands?’

‘Yes, same spelling. . an “I” not a “y” and just one “n”, so Goodwin. . not Goodwynee. Just plain Goodwin, nothing fancy.’

‘Very well.’

‘Well, she was twenty-three years of age when she was reported missing, about eighteen months ago. She was a Caucasian, or northern European, and stood six feet tall.’

‘It’s worth a bet. If I were a betting man, I would say we have the identity of one of the victims. What were the circumstances of her disappearance?’

‘According to the file, sir, she went out for the night with her girlfriends and didn’t come home. This was eighteen months ago. . so winter before last. . in the January of the year.’

Hennessey leaned forward, rested his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands together. ‘You know, I think you’re right, I think that we have found Veronica Goodwin, local girl, right height and age. We should have an EFIT soon; Dr D’Acre has sent her skull. . and will doubtless be sending the other four skulls to Wetherby so a computer generated likeness can be developed. But, if there are living relatives the DNA will confirm her ID.’

‘As will her dental records, sir.’

‘Yes, as you say, as will her dental records. What was her home address?’

‘Cemetery Road, Fulford, sir.’

Hennessey raised an eyebrow, ‘Well, how appropriate.’

‘Yes. . thought that, sir.’ She took a photograph from the file and handed it to Hennessey, ‘Veronica Goodwin in life, sir.’

Hennessey took the photograph and studied it. He saw a thin-faced, but quite attractive, young woman with shoulder-length blonde hair, smiling confidently at the camera. The eyes seemed to exude a sense of warmth and sincerity. Importantly, her smile revealed her teeth. He handed the photograph back to Carmen Pharoah. ‘Get that photograph to Wetherby by courier.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘They can compare the teeth to the teeth in the skull. If they match, we have a result, a definite, positive identification of the last victim. Do that immediately.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Carmen Pharoah stood.

‘Do you know when the photograph was taken?’

‘Just a day before she was reported missing, sir.’

Hennessey and Pharoah fell silent and the poignancy reached them, being that the confident, attractive, smiling Veronica Goodwin, twenty-three years, was to be murdered within a few hours of that very convenient photograph being taken. Carmen Pharoah spoke, saying what they were both thinking, ‘We just never know the minute do we, sir? None of us.’

‘No. .’ Hennessey sighed, ‘we never do.’ Then he recovered focus. ‘So who is in CID?’

‘Detective Sergeant Yellich and Detective Constable Ventnor, sir.’

‘All right, take Ventnor with you, go and knock on the door of the house in Cemetery Road, see what you see. Remember, no positive ID has been made yet, you’d better emphasize that. See what you see, find what you find.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ll see what Webster comes back with before I find a job for DS Yellich.’

‘Mr Yellich seems to be fighting his way through a mountain of paperwork at the minute, sir.’ Pharoah turned to leave Hennessey’s office.

‘Imagine he is. . but the Bromyard investigation has to take priority.’

‘Two p.m. tomorrow.’ Sydney Canverrie, by the nameplate on his desk, seemed to Webster to be doing very well out of the undertaking business and he further seemed to be untouched by the ever-present presence of death. He was a young man, still in his twenties, so Webster guessed. He seemed to be very well nourished, was expensively dressed in a blue suit and shirt and tie, and had what Webster thought was an inappropriately jocular attitude. He could only hope that the man adopted a more sombre manner when dealing with the distraught relatives of the deceased. The office in which both men sat was lined with light-coloured, highly polished pine wood panelling and a deep pile carpet of dark red. Canverrie’s desk was large, both long and wide, and he sat in a reclinable, executive-style chair. The window of his office looked out across a neatly cut lawn to a nearby brick built building which appeared to Webster to also be part of the premises of Canverrie amp; Son of York. ‘The deceased will be interred at Heslington Cemetery on Fordham Road after a brief Anglican service in the cemetery chapel. That is the new cemetery, not the old Victorian one.’

‘Yes, I know the one you mean.’

‘And it has some interest to the police?’

‘Yes, it does, but we are more interested in observing who might be attending, rather than paying our respects to the deceased.’

‘The old boy wasn’t a felon, surely?’ A note of alarm crept into Canverrie’s voice.

‘No,’ Webster held up his hand and gave a brief and slight shake of his head, ‘he appeared to have been a good man who led a blameless life, so you can bury him with all due dignity and reverence.’

‘Good,’ Canverrie seemed relieved, ‘we would do anyway, but it’s all an act. . it’s all for show.’

‘It is?’

‘Yes, it is all for show. It was my grandfather who started the company; my father is in fact the actual “son” of the name. The undertaking business is a display of ceremony, all very serious, but that is just the image.’

‘Oh really?’ Webster scowled.

‘Yes, really. . it all starts with my introducing myself to the grieving next-of-kin and saying, “Hello, my name’s Sydney and I’ll be looking after you today. .”, with me all dressed up in my grey pinstripe and tails with a top hat, looking every inch the Victorian gentleman or bank manager. Then I walk in front of the hearse for the first few feet of the journey to the chapel, as all the relatives and friend’s cars join the convoy, and then I get into the hearse, beside the driver, and we pick up speed. So, we drop the box in the ground or hide it away behind the velvet curtains, depending on whether it’s a burial or a cremation. Then we drop the rellies off at a pub where some grub has been laid on and that’s our job done, then we do the next job.’

‘That’s interesting.’

‘You think so? Damned superficial and sometimes excruciatingly embarrassing in the case of poorly attended funerals. . one coffin and just two mourners. . a full church or chapel and a well-attended funeral is less stressful, but I am here, for better or worse.’

‘Not a happy man, I think?’

‘I am here because I am expected to carry on the family business. I’d rather be a yacht broker on the Mediterranean coast, Spain or Greece, pulling down ten to fifteen per cent on every sale, and the same percentage of any charter fee I can negotiate. So no, I am not happy in my job but I would have been disinherited if I didn’t agree to sit behind this desk, cast into ye wilderness without a penny, no seed money for my yacht and powerboat brokerage.’

‘I understand you are, sir, a pressed man.’

‘Yes. I plan to sell the business but that will only be when I inherit it, and that won’t be for a likely time.’

‘How was it you were chosen to undertake Nicholas Housecarl’s funeral?’

‘The police called us. . you lot. It was just our turn on the duty rota to attend to the recovery of the body and convey it to the Chapel of Rest. No one came forward to instruct another undertaker, and so we made all arrangements and will send our invoice to Mr Hoursecarl’s solicitors. . they have contacted us and asked us to do that. We have no instructions to cremate Mr Housecarl and so we will inter the gentleman’s remains as is the established procedure. You can always dig up a coffin if, at some future point, a next-of-kin comes forward and instructs a cremation, but you can’t un-cremate if a next-of-kin wants a burial.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘So we will always bury, it’s the rule, always bury in the absence of a clear request from the family to cremate.’

‘So, when you recovered the body from the house-’

‘Amazing old building.’

‘Yes. . you didn’t notice anyone taking an interest in the removal of the body?’

‘No, we didn’t. . I didn’t. . it was myself and three of our employees, a police constable and the doctor. All very normal, no suspicious circumstances, natural death, old boy just expired.’

Reginald Webster walked out of the air-conditioned chill of the premises of the undertakers and into the heat of the midday sun. He made a mental note that that evening he would tell Joyce that should she ever have to arrange his funeral, she should not engage the services of Canverrie amp; Son. He did not want to be planted by an uninterested man who would rather be selling yachts on the Mediterranean coast of Spain or Greece.

The Goodwin home on Cemetery Road revealed itself to be a stone-built villa, dating from the late Victorian era, within a terrace of similar houses. It had a small and neatly kept front garden which abutted the pavement. The house itself was painted white; white door and white window frames, the rest was left as naked stone. The street on which the house stood was quiet and sun drenched, causing heat hazes to rise above the asphalt surface of the road. Carmen Pharoah parked the car close to the Goodwin home though not directly outside it. She and Thomson Ventnor exited the vehicle, leaving the windows open by a matter of an inch or two, thus allowing the passenger area of the vehicle to ‘breathe’ in their absence. They then walked solemnly up to the door of the house of Goodwin. They stood for a moment before the front door as Carmen Pharoah turned to Ventnor and whispered, ‘Here we go’, and then pressed the doorbell, which made a harsh continuous buzzing sound, ceasing only when she retracted her finger.

‘Prefer the “ding dong” type myself,’ she commented, half turning to Ventnor, ‘the ones powered with batteries rather than this type which is wired to the mains.’

‘So do I,’ Ventnor paused. ‘In fact, I have a tale to tell about a battery powered doorbell.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, it defies logical explanation, so it’s going to form the in-flight entertainment for the journey back to Micklegate Bar.’

‘Sounds intriguing. .’ Carmen Pharoah’s voice trailed off as the sound of a security chain was heard being unhooked from within the house.

The door was opened calmly and clearly, in her own time and on her own terms by a tall, though finely built middle-aged woman whose complexion drained of colour as she realized that Carmen Pharoah and Thomson Ventnor were police officers.

She collected herself, took a deep breath and said, ‘Veronica?’

‘Possibly,’ Carmen Pharoah replied, she paused for a second and then added, ‘in fact it’s more than possible. . we can say highly probable.’

The woman glanced downwards and then briefly closed her eyes. ‘You’d better come in.’ She stepped aside with a lightness of step, which both officers noticed, and allowed them to enter her home. She invited the officers to enter her front room, being evidently the ‘best’ room of the house, which stood to the left of the hallway. Ventnor and Pharoah entered a tidy and cleanly kept lounge containing a three piece suite of an immediate post-World War Two style, with deep seating between high-sided arms, a television stood on a mobile table in the corner of the room, a mirror hung above the fireplace and a bookcase stood in the alcove on the further side of the fireplace. The room was, thought Ventnor, very 1950s and it immediately reminded him of his grandmother’s house — she had refused to redecorate her house out of respect to her husband who died tragically young in 1960. The room smelled a trifle musty through under use, being the nature of ‘best’ rooms in houses such as those which lined Cemetery Road, which were used only to receive respected visitors or for other special occasions. The officers were invited to take a seat and did so, sitting side by side on the settee, at either end of it, leaving a gap between them. The lady of the house sank silently into one of the armchairs, wearing an expression of fear, worry, trepidation. She rested her hands together on the lap of her green dress.

‘DC Pharoah and DC Ventnor from Micklegate Bar Police Station.’ Carmen Pharoah held her ID for the householder’s inspection, who nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Can I ask your name, ma’am?’

‘Philippa Goodwin.’

‘Veronica’s mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is there a Mr Goodwin?’

‘There was.’

‘Deceased?’

‘Probably, I wouldn’t know, he left us when Veronica was two years old.’

‘I see. . I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you, but I wasn’t sorry to see him go, he was a violent drunkard. If he had not left, it would have been a messy divorce. I went back to work. . I am a nurse. . I was then, a nursing sister now.’

‘I see.’

‘So you have bad news for me?’

‘You seem to know that.’ Carmen Pharoah was struck by the absence of tone of query in Goodwin’s intonation.

‘I work in Accident and Emergency, breaking bad news is part of the job. Doctors do it and so do the police. . nurses are on hand and so we witness it, and I have noticed that the police most often break bad news in pairs. Good news can be given by an individual officer but a pair of officers are preferred when dealing with the alternative. . and news of long-lost relatives or relatives who were occupants of cars which have crashed is either good or bad. So, for a while now, I have known that if two police officers call at my door then they will not be bringing good news.’

Carmen Pharoah nodded briefly. It was, she thought, a fair observation, a reasonable deduction. She said, ‘A body has been found.’

‘A body. .’ Philippa Goodwin’s voice cracked and then failed.

‘Yes. . I am afraid so.’

Ventnor remained silent. Carmen Pharoah and Philippa Goodwin seemed to him to be developing a rapport. It would, he believed, be insensitive of him to involve himself unless needed.

‘The body is partially decomposed and the pathologist suggests a time of death of between one and two years ago.’

‘That would fit. Veronica went missing eighteen months ago. . winter before last.’

‘And the remains are those of a very tall female in her early twenties.’

‘That’s Veronica. . twenty-three and she was a tall girl, nearly six feet tall. She didn’t like being tall, she would complain that it severely limited her choice of men. Women don’t like partners who are shorter than they are. . very limited sense of protection.’

‘Yes,’ Carmen Pharoah smiled, ‘I know.’

‘But you are married,’ Philippa Goodwin stroked her ring finger. ‘You’re a tall girl and you found someone.’

‘Widowed.’

‘So young,’ Philippa Goodwin gasped. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Thank you, but we all heal. We have to. Life must go on. But, to your daughter.’

‘Yes, hated being tall, especially in the north of England where people tend to be shorter than southerners. . it was a real barrier to her finding a partner. . only those over six feet need apply. . so few of them, fewer unattached and even fewer are suitable in terms of social position and character.’

‘I can appreciate her difficulty.’ Carmen Pharoah paused. ‘I am afraid you must prepare yourself for bad news.’

‘Bad news? Over and above the death of my daughter?

‘Yes.’

‘What could be worse?’

Carmen Pharoah paused before replying. ‘There will be a press release; it will make the early evening television news and tomorrow’s newspapers.’

Philippa Goodwin sat back in the armchair. ‘Just tell me,’ she spoke softly, ‘just tell me. She was a young woman and as a parent you fear the worst. . and we see rape victims in A and E.’

‘Well. . I can tell you that there is no indication of any such violation. It may have happened but there is no definite indication.’

‘So what then?’ A note of alarm crept into Philippa Goodwin’s voice.

‘The bad news is that your daughter, Veronica, appears to have been one of. . the last of a number of deceased women whose corpses. . whose remains have all been found in the same place.’

‘A serial killer!’

‘So-called, yes.’ Carmen Pharoah remained silent for a few seconds and then added. ‘We know nothing of the existence of this man. . or these people because they left their victims. . or his victims. . in a concealed location rather than leaving them to be found, as is most often the case.’

‘So I have noticed. . as if taunting the police?’

‘Yes, but in this case the victims would probably have remained hidden. . that is to say their remains-’

‘Yes, I know what you mean.’

‘. . remained hidden for many years because they were left on private land.’

‘Where was she found?’

Carmen Pharoah and Thomson Ventnor glanced at each other. Ventnor said, ‘It’ll be in the press release.’

Carmen Pharoah turned to Philippa Goodwin and said, ‘In the grounds of an old house in the Vale. . at the edge of the Wolds.’

‘You mean the house owner. . he collected victims?’

‘No,’ Carmen Pharoah held up her hand, ‘no, no. . he was elderly and housebound. . he died recently. It was when an inventory was being taken of the contents of the house by a solicitor that he, the solicitor, found the remains. They seem to have been taken there and left there in the ignorance of the householder.’

‘I see.’ Philippa Goodwin glanced across her living room to the window and to the cemetery that lay on the opposite side of the road to her house. ‘You know, it never bothered me to live opposite a cemetery, especially one which is full and no longer used. I enjoyed the peace and quiet, especially at night. When Veronica was little we would sit in the upstairs room if there was a thunderstorm at night holding hands and looking for ghosts during the flashes of lightning. . but now. . those stones. . they have a different meaning now. I dare say I’ll soon be choosing a stone for her, but at least I now know what happened. I’ll have her buried. . I will definitely have her buried. I will need a grave to visit and a bit of carved granite to talk to and a little plot of land to attend to. . make sure it’s watered if there is a dry summer.’ Philippa Goodwin turned to Carmen Pharoah, ‘An inventory? A list of things? So Veronica was not buried?’

‘No,’ Carmen Pharoah held eye contact with Philippa Goodwin. ‘No, her remains were exposed.’

‘I always thought of her lying in a shallow grave somewhere but she was lying on the surface of the ground?’

‘Yes. . I am sorry. . partially concealed by undergrowth but yes, lying on the ground.’

‘Does it get worse? Your eyes. . your eyes seem to be saying that there is more to come and I won’t like any of it.’

Carmen Pharoah swallowed and bowed her head slightly, and then looked up at Philippa Goodwin. ‘Yes, it does get worse. . it is in the press release but it is probably better it comes from us. .’

‘Yes. . go on. .’

‘The bodies, they were chained together. . and the other victims were completely skeletal.’

‘Oh,’ Philippa Goodwin put her hand up to her mouth, ‘you mean she was left chained up next to a corpse. .’ tears welled in Philippa Goodwin’s eyes, ‘and clothing. . any sign of clothing?’

‘None, I’m afraid, but please see that as something merciful.’

‘Merciful? How?’

‘There was no injury to Veronica’s body. . none detected. . and if she was left naked in the winter time, being when she was abducted, then death would have come quickly.’

‘Can I see her body?’

‘I am afraid that will not be possible, her remains are in an advanced state of decomposition and it is not the last impression that anyone would want of their loved one, not an image to hold in your head.’

‘And speaking of which, you will have removed the head anyway to send to a facial reconstruction expert.’

Again, Ventnor and Pharoah turned and glanced at each other.

‘I told you, I work in A and E, when there is a large-scale disaster the police remove the hands from victims because it’s easier to take the fingerprints that way than trying to remove fingerprints from a hand which is still attached to the body. I did a stint in the mortuary of the hospital as part of my A and E induction course. It’s very necessary. A and E is not for everyone but I like the crisis management, I like the life saving bit. I wouldn’t be any good on a ward, the long term getting them better and fit for discharge nursing, that’s not for me, but if you cannot handle death and corpses you are no good in A and E, and so a stint in the mortuary is an essential part of A and E induction. So I know what happens. I have assisted when a head had to be sawn from a skeleton to permit facial reconstruction. So you can tell me.’

‘Well, since you know,’ Carmen Pharoah replied softly, ‘yes that has happened. It was before we found the missing person’s report, which so neatly fitted the details obtained from the remains: sex, height, matching date of disappearance, along with the state of decomposition. We probably did jump the gun there but the head and face were badly decomposed. The same will be true of all known victims; all will have their heads removed.’

‘All known? You mean there may be more?’

‘Yes. We have to make a thorough search, the house, the grounds; all will have to be searched. So far we have five known victims and we have to assume that there will be others until we know otherwise.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘We still have to make a definite identification.’

‘It will be her.’

‘We will use dental records or DNA for that.’

‘What do you need?’

‘The name of her dentist and/or a sample of her hair if you have kept her hairbrush. . failing that. . a sample of your DNA.’

‘You can have all three. . our dentist is Mr Pick,’ Philippa Goodwin smiled, ‘appropriate name for a dentist don’t you think? He has a surgery in Gillygate. . and yes, I have kept Veronica’s hairbrush. It has strands of her hair within the bristles.’

‘If we could take the hairbrush with us, that will suffice.’

‘You’ll return it?’

‘Yes, I will personally see that it is returned to you.’

‘I’ll let you have it before you go.’

‘Appreciated. Are you happy for us to proceed on the assumption that the deceased is Veronica?’

‘Yes,’ Philippa Goodwin nodded slowly, ‘I am.’

‘The missing person’s report on Veronica states that she didn’t return from a night out with friends. Can you elaborate on that statement?’

‘Elaborate? Well, I recall the last time I saw her, I remember that day like yesterday. The last time you see someone you love, you never forget it.’

Carmen Pharoah smiled in response. ‘You don’t, do you?’

‘Well. . that day she came home from work. . she was a telephonist. . and she came home from work. . it was a Friday. She looked a picture, even in her frumpy winter clothing she was still radiant. She had little to eat, she didn’t eat enough especially in the winter when we need more food than in the summer, but like all young women she was figure conscious, continually weighing herself, but she was not anorexic, I saw to that. That is something else you see in A and E, young women, girls even, who have collapsed in the street or at work or at school and when you peel off their clothes for the initial examination, you find that they are nothing but a skeleton covered in skin, but Veronica was not even close to that stage. I can be a bit ferocious when I have to be and if she didn’t eat at least one substantial meal and two snacks each twenty-four hours, I would get ferocious with her. . and she knew it. So that day she ate, changed into her finery and went out with her friends.’

‘Do you know the names of her friends?’

‘Susan Kent.’

Carmen Pharoah wrote the name in her notebook.

‘Veronica and Susan were very close, as close as sisters. . they were school pals.’

‘What is her address? We’ll have to speak to her.’

‘Her mother lives at the end of the street. . that way.’ Philippa Goodwin pointed to the left-hand side of her house, as viewed from the outside. ‘You know, I don’t know the number but it has a loud. . a very attractive red door.’

‘Loud?’ Carmen Pharoah queried.

‘As in colour, a “loud” colour, a colour which leaps out at you is a “loud” colour. . apparently. That’s something I learned from my husband, Veronica’s father, he was an art teacher but only in his sober moments. So the Kent house has a “loud” red door. . scarlet, fire engine red. You can’t miss it.’ Philippa Goodwin forced a smile. ‘The colour caused comments but they still repaint it every five years. Anyway, Susan said that she last saw Veronica waiting for a cab at the rank in the station. It’s a very short journey, walkable, but for a young woman alone on a dark night a taxi is very sensible, and so Susan didn’t worry about her.’

‘Understandable.’

‘But she didn’t return home. I started to worry by about ten a.m the next morning. If she was going to stop out overnight she would have phoned me, but by ten a.m. I had received no phone call so I phoned the police. They were very sympathetic but they told me that they could not take a missing person report until the person concerned had been missing for twenty-four hours.’

‘Yes, that’s the procedure unless it’s a child or young person under the age of sixteen.’

‘They said that as well. So I went to the police station at one a.m., just after midnight, by which time she had been missing for twenty-four hours. . gave all the details, a recent photograph and gave them Sue Kent’s name and address. They agreed to visit Susan.’

‘And they did. The visit was recorded but Susan Kent didn’t, or couldn’t, tell the officer anything that she didn’t tell you. . Veronica was last seen getting into a car, which apparently drew up at the taxi rank as though she and the driver knew each other. . but no details. . dark night, and the other girl Veronica was with was full of booze and couldn’t tell one car from another anyway.’

‘Then nothing until now, but at least I know what happened to her. She was always so sensible, such a sober minded girl, always let me know where she was. So now I know. .’

‘Yes. . we are very sorry. Do you know of anyone who would want to harm her?’

‘I don’t, I’m sorry but Susan Kent might. She’s married now, she’s moved away from home but still in York, though.’

‘We will ask her, we’ll find her easily enough.’

‘Veronica didn’t seem troubled by anything or anyone, just a happy young woman in her early twenties, just watching her weight and bemoaning her height and the scarcity of tall men in York. . that was my Veronica.’

Carmen Pharoah recorded her and Thomson Ventnor’s visit to Philippa Goodwin and added it to the ‘Bromyards Inquiry’ file, and then walked slowly home on the walls, savouring the summer weather, to her new-build flat on Bootham. She changed into casual clothes and, it being too early and too summery to remain indoors, she walked out of the city for one hour and reached the village of Shipton to which she had not travelled before. She found a small village beside the A19 surrounded by rich, flat farmland. Being disinclined to walk back to York, she returned by bus.

She showered upon returning home and ate a ready cooked meal, castigating herself for doing so, and telling herself of the importance of maintaining her cooking skills and that she should be wary of laziness, for laziness, as her grandmother in St Kitts had always told her, ‘is one of the deadly sins, chile’. Later, irritated and unable to concentrate, even on the television programmes, she retired to bed too early and thus fell asleep only to wake up at three a.m. It was then, unable to sleep, alone at night, that the demons came, flying around the inside of her head, taunting and tormenting her. She thought of her blissful marriage and the advice given to her and her husband by her father-in-law, ‘You’re black, you’ve got to be ten times better to be just as good’, and how determined they were to be ten times better, she as one of the very few black women constables in the Metropolitan Police, and he a civilian employee of the same force, as an accountant. Then the dreadful knock on her door, her own inspector, ‘It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t have known anything,’ and she was a widow after less than two years of marriage.

It was her fault. For some reason she was to blame and a penalty had to be paid, and so she applied for a transfer to the north of England where it is cold in the winter time, where the people are harder in their attitude and less giving, and are hostile to strangers. . or so she had been told. . and where the people can bear grudges for many, many years, and there she must live until the penalty for surviving, when her husband had not, had been paid in full.

She lay abed listening to the sounds of the night, the trains arriving and departing the railway station, the calm click, click, click of a woman’s high-heeled shoes below her window, which told her all was well, and later, the whine and rattle of the milk float which told her another day had begun.

George Hennessey similarly returned home at the end of that day. He drove to Easingwold with a sense of ‘something big’ being uncovered, that Veronica Goodwin’s and the other four skeletons were not going to be the sum. He drove through the village of Easingwold with the window of his car wound down and enjoyed the breeze playing about his face and right cheek, and as he passed the place he could not help but glance at the exact spot at which Jennifer had fallen all those years ago on a similar summer’s day. He drove out of Easingwold on the Thirsk Road and his heart leapt as he saw a silver BMW parked half-on, half-off the kerb beside his house. He turned into the driveway and heard a dog bark as the tyres of his car crunched the gravel. At the dog’s bark a man in his late twenties appeared at the bottom of the drive, behind a gate designed to keep the dog from wandering into the road. The two men grinned at each other. The younger man returned inside the house as the older man got out of his car and walked to where the first man had stood, so as to give loving attention to the brown mongrel that was turning in circles and wagging its tail.

Later, when father and son sat on the patio at the rear of Hennessey’s house, and watching Oscar crisscross the lawn, having clearly picked up an interesting scent, George Hennessey asked, ‘What are you doing. . where?’

‘Newcastle,’ Charles Hennessey replied, ‘representing a felon who definitely did not commit a series of burglaries during which not a few householders were injured, some seriously, despite leaving his DNA and fingerprints behind him in an easily followed trail. . he had a crack cocaine habit, you see.’

‘Ah. .’

‘The police couldn’t lift him because he was unknown to them, no previous convictions, so no record of his DNA or fingerprints.’

‘I see.’

‘So lucky. . but luck ran out in the form of him getting into a fight in a pub. . nothing to do with burglaries.’

‘But a recordable offence and the Northumbria Police had his DNA and fingerprints taken.’

‘Yes, so they raided his home and found a number of items taken from the burglaries which he had still to sell for money for crack cocaine. . and still he is insistent on his innocence. He’s trying to convince himself, of course, as much as anyone else.’

‘I know the type.’

‘I bet you do. . but will he listen to reason? So, I am instructed to fight his corner with nothing to fight it with. His story that he found the stuff in the street won’t wash and, even so, that is still an admission of theft by finding. . And you. . your work?’

‘Five murdered women?’

‘Five!’ Charles Hennessey glanced at his father.

‘Five. . and my old copper’s waters tell me that there will be more.’

‘What’s the story, so far?’

Hennessey told his son the details.

‘A big one.’

‘Yes. We have issued a press release, it’ll make this evening’s television news and tomorrow’s newspapers, the press will be all over this one.’

‘And your lady friend?’

George Hennessey smiled. ‘Very well, thank you. You’ll meet her soon.’

‘We hope so. . she sounds. . she sounds just right for you, father. You’ve been on your own quite long enough. I realize now how hard it was for you to be a single parent.’

‘I had help.’

‘Yes, I remember, but a housekeeper is not a parent and is not a partner.’

‘Jennifer was with me, I felt her presence. I still feel it.’

‘Yes, that is interesting, I don’t doubt you.’

George Hennessey smiled. ‘Oh, she’s here. . she’s here. . I can feel her presence. She loves her garden.’

‘Yes,’ Charles Hennessey looked out over the neatly cut lawn to the hedgerow, which crossed the lawn from left to right with a gateway in the middle, leading on to an orchard in the corner of which were two garden sheds, both heavily creosoted. Beyond the orchard was an area of waste ground dominated by grass, within which was a pond with thriving amphibious life. ‘Her garden built according to a design she drew up when heavily pregnant with me.’

‘Very heavily pregnant, you arrived a few days later.’

‘I remember her. I remember being on her lap and looking up at her. It’s my first memory. I have continuous memory from about the age of four, islands of memory before that.’

‘As is usual.’

‘So unfair, sudden death syndrome.’

‘Yes, just walking through Easingwold. . on a day like today and collapsing. Folk thought that she had fainted but there was no pulse and her skin was clammy to the touch. Dead on arrival, or Condition Purple in ambulance speak. . and you just three months old. As you say, so unfair.’ Hennessey paused. ‘So when do I see my grandchildren again?’

‘Quite soon, they’re clamouring to see Grandad Hennessey again. . tend to think it’s because you spoil them rotten.’

‘Which,’ Hennessey smiled, ‘is exactly what grand-parents are for.’

Later still, when Charles Hennessey had left to drive to his home and his family, George Hennessey made another cup of tea and carried it out to the orchard and stood where he had scattered one of the handfuls of his late wife’s ashes and told her of his day. . as he always did. . winter and summer, and then he told her again of the new love in his life and assured her that it did not mean that his love for her had diminished. If anything, he told her, over the years it had grown stronger, and once again he felt himself surrounded by a warmth which could not be explained by the rays of the sun alone.

After sunset, and after spending a pleasant two hours reading a recently acquired book about the Zulu wars, which was already a valued addition to his library of military history, and after eating his supper and feeding Oscar, Hennessey took the dog for a walk of fifteen minutes, out to a field where he let the animal explore for thirty minutes and then man and dog returned to Hennessey’s house. Hennessey then walked out again, alone, into Easingwold for a pint of brown and mild, at the Dove Inn, just one before last orders were called.