Aftermath

SIX

Monday — 11.30 hours — 14.35 hours/Tuesday 16.50 hours — 17.30 hours

in which a retired lady gives information and a decision is made.

‘That’s not the reason, darling.’ Furlong Freda smiled at the suggestion. She sat in a small chair in the corner of the cluttered living room in her council house in Chapel Fields. Outside, the garden was overgrown, as were the gardens of many of the neighbouring houses. The streets were lined with old, very old, motor cars. Unpleasant odours lingered in the air as though a gas main had been fractured, or a main drain had burst somewhere beneath the road surface, and all exacerbated by the heat. Freda Queen was dressed only in a tee shirt and shorts and inhaled deeply on an inexpensive cigarette. The ‘gaol house tatt’ described by Kenneth Lismore, ‘Freda’, was as he described, prominent upon the back of her left hand. ‘No, they wouldn’t allow working girls anywhere near the racecourse, and the punters who go to the races are not the sort of punters who are looking for a girl. A lot of them have their wives and children with them. I mean, it’s a family day out, isn’t it? And when the races are on the working girls are sleeping, getting ready for night and the trade in the night.’ She inhaled and held the smoke in her lungs before exhaling slowly through her nostrils. ‘First fag of the day,’ she smiled, ‘a lifesaver.’ She flicked the ash into the fire grate, which, like the fire grate in James Post’s house, had become a gathering place for any small inflammable item. ‘No. . that stems from when I got lifted for soliciting, years ago, darling, and the cop asked me why I was called “Furlong Freda”, so I told him it was because I worked the racecourse, but I was put out at being arrested, that’s why I said it, but the real reason is that I always gave value for money. I charged the same as the other girls but gave more. . gave better. . got a good reputation and had enough regulars not to have to take risks with strangers. I went the extra furlong. . so I was “Furlong Freda McQueen”. I called myself McQueen but my name is really just “Queen”, plain old Freda Queen.’

‘That we know,’ Ventnor smiled.

‘Never made no secret of it, darling.’ Freda McQueen had a drawn, haggard-looking face and spoke with a harsh, rasping voice. She was in her fifties but could, thought both Ventnor and Webster, be taken for a woman in her seventies; Borstal training followed by a life on the streets does that to a woman.

From the room above came the sound of springs creaking, followed by footfall across the landing to the bathroom and the ‘click’ of the lock on the bathroom door.

‘Punter?’ Webster asked.

‘Boyfriend,’ Freda McQueen replied proudly. ‘I’m retired, darling. I have boyfriends these days. They help me out financially but it’s part of the relationship, not business. They don’t hang around very long, just a few weeks at a time, but they’re boyfriends.’

‘I see.’

‘So. . Jim Post got iced did he? Little, no good, waste of space that he was. He won’t be missed.’

‘We hope you can help us?’

‘Anyway I can, darlin’, anyway I can.’

‘You have a helpful attitude,’ Webster smiled. ‘You’ve changed your attitude to the police?’

‘It was like this, love, I was what I was and the coppers who collared me was what they was, we was both of us just doing our jobs. It’s the way the ball bounced in those days, dare say it still is, darling, dare say it still is.’

‘Reckon it is,’ Ventnor growled, ‘and I reckon it always will be.’

‘Oldest profession, darling, that’s what they say and it’s nothing about exploiting women. The game is the oldest two-way street in the world. The girls exploit the men just the same. Anyway the law helped me. I was being stalked and the cops put a stop to it. . a real creepy guy, phoning me. . the lot, so I called in at Micklegate Bar.’

‘That’s where we are based.’

‘Yeah? Well they helped me; this is twenty, thirty years ago now. I didn’t think they’d help a working girl but they did. . sort of unofficial. The stalking stopped, just stopped. I found out later they. . the police, had bundled this creepy guy into a car one rainy night and driven him ten miles out of York, dragged him into a field and gave him a slap, left him to walk home with a sore face and the suggestion that he worked a little bit on his attitude.’

Webster and Ventnor glanced at each other and raised their eyebrows.

‘That wouldn’t happen nowadays.’ Ventnor turned his gaze back to Freda McQueen.

‘It’s the best way, if you ask me, it benefits everyone. I didn’t get stalked no more, the police were not bogged down with paperwork and court appearances, and the felon avoided a criminal record. I’ve always said that a slap from a copper on a dark night up some snickelway is better than having to stand at the charge bar getting your record adding to, and your prints and DNA on file. I’d prefer a slap to a criminal record any day.’

‘Which is why that sort of thing doesn’t happen any more,’ Ventnor explained. ‘These days we like fingerprints and DNA on file. All right, it means paperwork but in the long run it makes our job a lot easier.’

‘I can see how that can make sense.’ Freda McQueen grappled for another cigarette and lit it with a flourish of a dull gold-plated lighter.

‘So, you’ve retired from all that anyway?’

‘Yes, old and past it and on the scrap heap with one or two boyfriends, like him upstairs,’ she pointed to the ceiling just as the toilet was heard to flush, the bathroom door unlock and a heavy footfall return to the bedroom. ‘He’s stamping his feet because he doesn’t like visitors, but it’s not his house is it and he’s not paying. Last Christmas Day my dinner was beans on toast. Well. . it was just another day wasn’t it, darling?’

‘For some. . sadly, it’s like that.’ Ventnor spoke with some finality. He wanted to get the interview back on track. ‘So, James Post?’

‘Yes. . what about him?’

‘What do you know about him?’

‘Pretty well everything there is to know. . and that isn’t much. . little man in every way. I tell you, even if they cremate him and put his ashes in an urn he’ll occupy a bigger space than he ever carved out for himself in this world. We kept each other company and yes, we knew each other in the biblical sense, didn’t mean anything to either of us. Then I realized just how low I had sunk when I woke up to the fact that I’d taken him for a partner. He lived at the bottom of the pit, right at the end of the line. . five feet nothing of me. . me. . me. . all about him and full of resentment, burning up with it and wanting victims, not just one, but more than one. It was then I thought I can’t do this, I can do better, even I can do better. I didn’t want to be seen with him. Who you are seen with is who you are, that’s why I used to work in Hull and Leeds in the main.’

‘We noticed from your arrest record.’

‘Well, York’s a small city; there are people I don’t want to know what I was. A lot of girls go out of York to work for that reason.’

‘Yes, so we believe.’

‘Jim Post,’ Ventnor growled. ‘How did you meet him?’

Furlong Freda nodded to the television set in the far corner of the room, on top of which was a half-full bottle of vodka. ‘I’m on top of it now.’ She flicked the ash from her cigarette into the fire grate. ‘Half a bottle between the two of us last night, just half a bottle, time was when I could sink two bottles a day by myself. Time was when that half-bottle would have been my breakfast. Time was, if it was booze it went down my neck. Never got as far as drinking brass polish but I was on my way there. I can’t. . I don’t want to think what my insides are like,’ she shook her head vigorously. ‘I carry a kidney donor card but when they lift my kidneys they’ll take one look at them and then show them to medical students as an example of what an alcoholic’s kidneys get to look like. Mind you, I suppose that is still some use, not the use I intended, but still use. Anyway, I woke up in the gutter once too often and thought that’s it, AA for me, darling girl.’

‘I thought you might say that,’ Webster spoke softly. ‘It’s a theme in this inquiry.’

‘About Jim Post?’

‘That and a wider inquiry. So you went to AA?’

‘Yes, and that’s where we met. We helped each other get dry and then he introduced me to a couple he knew, and I joined their breakaway group.’

‘Breakaway group?’

‘Jim Post introduced me. He took me along one night to a cafe in York and I met this really nice couple, Ronald and Sylvia. . really charming. They just were able to make me feel good about myself. They said that they had been part of AA and got tired of it. . same old same old. . folk talking about how much they used to drink, and clearly exaggerating, and meeting the same people who were just addicts. Once addicted to booze they had become addicted to AA and lived just to attend the meetings. I was beginning to feel the same about AA. They got me off the booze. . but those meetings. . and Ronald explained that his group was just an alternative, but instead of listening to guest speaker’s talk about their battle, we’d just sit in a cafe and chat, drinking coffee and killing the evening. So, I began to go along to that, met a few people.’

‘Remember any names?’

‘Helena and Roslyn. . just two names. . no surnames, sorry.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘Once, twice a week, different people, men as well as women, but then I fell out with little Jimmy Post and never went again. I also found out that they were not friends with Jim Post, they used him, he was their gofer. I didn’t want a boyfriend who was somebody’s gofer.’

‘I see.’

‘But there was something going on. Jim used to have me photograph him in remote places.’

‘How did you get there?’

‘He was Ronald and Sylvia’s gofer, he used their car. He’d got a driving licence when he was sober and never lost it. He just never drove; he never could afford a car, so never got done for drunken driving. So when he dried out he had a clean licence, very useful for someone who just runs errands.’

‘All right, that explains something we wondered about.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, we have acquired some photographs showing Post standing in rural locations, sometimes he is looking at the ground. Someone had to have taken them or he used a timer device, or both.’

‘Well probably both because I took some photographs of him. He was very insistent about the place, the place seemed more important than the photograph of himself somehow.’

‘Can you remember any of the locations?’

‘Just one with any certainty.’

‘One out of how many?’

Freda McQueen shrugged, ‘Twenty? He took me all over the Vale from here to the coast, up into North Yorkshire and down into Lincolnshire.’

‘We have some photographs of him but not that many.’

‘He took a lot. He did his own developing.’

‘Yes, we found his dark room.’

‘He will have stashed his negatives somewhere,’ she paused. ‘You know he said something once. We were driving back in their Lord and Ladyship’s car and he said, “This is my insurance”. . or-’

‘Insurance?’

‘Or protection. . he might have said protection. In fact I think he did say protection. Then he said, “If I go down, they come with me”.’

‘If I go down they come with me?’ Webster repeated.

‘Yes, word for word that’s what he said. I asked him what he meant and he said “nothing” or “never mind” or something like that.’

‘And you can only remember one of the twenty or so locations?’

‘Yes, he seemed to know where he was going, didn’t mess about, always took us right there. The booze had left some of his brain without damage.’

‘Can you show us?’

‘Yes,’ Freda McQueen smiled, ‘buy me a pub lunch and I’ll show you exactly where.’

‘You’re on,’ Ventnor replied. ‘It’s a deal.’

Freda McQueen stood. ‘Just let me claw my kit on. I can’t go out to a posh village dressed like this.’

Forty-five minutes later, Webster slowed to a stop in the car park of the Black Bull pub in the village of Temple Chitton, having followed Freda McQueen’s directions. They stepped out of the car into fierce sunlight.

‘See what I mean?’ Freda McQueen announced, ‘About this being a posh village?’

The two officers looked about them. Near at hand, the car park of the Black Bull contained Range Rovers, a Bentley, two BMWs and a large, very large Mercedes. Further afield the houses of the village seemed to be mainly conjoined, each painted in bright blue and yellow pastel shades and each with a sound roof; clearly very well maintained properties. Further afield there stood larger houses in their own grounds, the land clearly marked by black painted metal railings or generously varnished wooden fencing.

‘Yes,’ Ventnor felt a bead of sweat run down his forehead, ‘there’s money here all right. How do you know about this village, Freda?’

‘You mean, the likes of me should come here?’ Freda McQueen grinned. ‘You mean, I’m not posh enough, darling?’

She had changed into a long denim skirt with a red blouse and red shoes. Cheap clothing but she seemed to have done all she could to ‘look her best’.

‘I didn’t mean that, Freda. I didn’t know this village existed, it’s off the beaten track but it shouts of money.’

‘Old money, darling, they like to keep themselves to themselves. I know it because I used to visit the colonel here; he was one of my regulars. He lived in that house over there.’ Freda McQueen pointed to a well-appointed cottage painted in brilliant white, with the wooden beam and doors and window frames painted in equally bright gloss black paint. ‘He died some years ago.’

‘You visited him here?’ Webster could not hide his astonishment.

‘Yes, during the day as well,’ McQueen grinned then she tapped the side of her nose. ‘Didn’t dress like a working girl, see, though I was discreet. I dressed in a tracksuit and carried a bag. Arrived on the morning bus and actually did housework, washed down the door and the ground floor windows in me pinafore, walked to the shop for cleaning stuff and furniture polish, then went inside so no one thought anything else but that Mrs Mop was calling to “do” for the colonel. . once a week. Then I left on the afternoon bus back to York, but that’s why I remember this being one of the places that Jim Post took me to take a photo of him. He never knew that I knew this village and I never told him. He paid well. The colonel I mean, not Jim Post.’

‘So where is the place Jim Post had you photograph him standing?’

‘Not yet, darling, I’m hungry, I haven’t had a proper meal for two days. Hope you have a lovely thick wallet; food doesn’t come cheap in the Bull. Not cheap at all, darling. Once I’ve eaten, then I’ll take you there, where he had me photograph him.’

The man smiled at the woman and softly spoke, ‘It is time,’ he said.

The woman returned the smile and replied, ‘Yes, if you say so, then it is time.’

Dr D’Acre emerged from the heat of the white tent which had been erected in a corner of a field, some half a mile from the village of Temple Chitton, and brushed a fly from her face. ‘Male,’ she said, ‘comparatively recent burial. . some clothing still intact, but definitely male. Some flesh still in evidence but almost skeletal. Strange place to dig a shallow grave,’ she glanced around her. ‘Well tilled soil, not very remote. I would have thought someone would have noticed that some digging and burial had gone on. . but. . that’s your neck of the woods Chief Inspector.’

‘I was thinking much the same but that’s for later discussion. Right now we have a deceased male in a shallow grave exactly where an informant said it would be.’

‘You’ve got more than that.’ Dr D’Acre smiled and allowed herself a brief and fleeting eye contact with Hennessey.

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. . you’ve got a corpse with a present for you.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really, there’s something in the mouth. It’s a plastic bag. It could have been used for a gag, but it would be difficult to force into someone’s mouth, and I can think of more convenient forms of gagging someone.’

‘So can I.’

‘So I felt it with my fingertips and there is something inside it. . small and thin. . difficult to tell what because of the layers of plastic, like a lump in a carpet which feels like it should be caused by a child’s glass marble, but when you lift the carpet you find it’s caused by something the size of a pea. So it’s probably smaller than it feels to me but there is something in the mouth. I could take it out now but I’d prefer to do it in laboratory conditions.’

‘Yes,’ Hennessey spoke softly, ‘I think that would be better especially since there might be other “presents” for us.’

‘Good point. Will you be observing for the police?’

‘Yes, definitely.’ Hennessey also looked about him, the field of wheat, the small stands of woodland, the green rolling hills beyond and the ridge of skyline which gave to a clear blue sky. ‘Yes,’ he turned to Dr D’Acre, ‘yes, I will definitely be attending this one.’

Nigel Post, pale of face, drawn of expression, opened the door of his house to Carmen Pharoah. ‘Yes!’ he said, with a mixture of curiosity and aggression borne out of a sense of being threatened.

‘Police,’ Carmen Pharoah showed him her identity.

‘Yes?’

‘About your brother. . your late brother, James Post.’

‘Yes?’

‘My boss, Mr Hennessey, asked me to call and see you.’

‘Mr Hennessey?’ Short Nigel Post looked up at the statuesque Carmen Pharoah. ‘He’s the gentleman. .’

‘Yes, he was with you when you identified James Post.’

‘Yes, nice man,’ he glanced across the road and noticed curtains begin to twitch. ‘You’d better come in, keep the nosies guessing.’

Carmen Pharoah read Nigel Post’s house, neat, clean, cramped. All seemed appropriate to her for a man of Nigel Post’s age and social standing. She accepted his invitation to sit. ‘There has been a number of developments in respect of Mr James Post’s murder.’

‘Oh?’ Nigel Post sank into an armchair opposite Carmen Pharoah.

‘Yes. I am not at liberty to disclose anything, I’m afraid, not yet.’

‘I understand, miss.’

Carmen Pharoah thought Nigel Post seemed lost. ‘This can’t be easy for you?’

‘Well, first it was my wife, now it’s my brother, both taken before their time. My wife was knocked down and killed by a drunken driver and now James. You can’t help just sitting here and thinking about them when they were alive. . what we did together. . the conversations we had. .’

‘Yes, I do understand. Really I do.’

‘You’ve lost someone?’

‘Yes. . yes, I have,’ Carmen Pharoah remained stone-faced, ‘but can we keep this relevant, it’s about James.’

‘Yes. Sorry.’

A fly appeared as if from nowhere and began to buzz noisily against the window pane. Nigel Post rose from his chair, opened a window and the fly found its escape route.

‘Most men I know would have swatted it,’ Carmen Pharoah commented.

Nigel Post resumed his seat. ‘I prefer to feed the birds and spiders. So, how can I help you?’

‘James took photographs.’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘We have found some but the indications are that there are many, many more. So the question is, do you know any place that your brother might have placed any photographs or photographic negatives for safe keeping?’

‘Old technology,’ Nigel Post commented, ‘so few folk talk about photographs and negatives, it’s all digital cameras with lots of pixels. . whatever a pixel is. But James did use a conventional camera so he dealt with negatives and prints.’

‘Do you know where he might have kept them, somewhere other than his house on the Tang Hall Estate?’

‘His “drum” he used to call it. There’s only one place I can think of.’

‘Oh?’

‘His bank.’

‘His bank?’ Carmen Pharoah paused and then said, ‘You mean within a safety deposit box?’

‘Yes. It’s a long shot but it’s the only place I can think of.’

‘They’ve paid off before. Do you know which branch of which bank?’

‘Yes, I think I do. He wrote me a cheque once and I framed it,’ he smiled and stood.

‘You framed a cheque?’

‘Yes, I’ll explain when I come back down.’ Nigel Post left the room and was heard by Carmen Pharoah to go upstairs and then return a few moments later. As he re-entered the room he handed Carmen Pharoah a small photograph frame in which was a cheque made payable to Nigel Post for fifteen pounds and dated some ten years earlier.

‘It was only fifteen pounds I lost, and when he gave this cheque to me in repayment of a loan I sensed that it was probably the only thing I was going to have to remember him by. So rather than cash it, I framed it. Anyway, he did once mention a safety deposit box he had at that branch.’

Carmen Pharoah took her notepad and ballpoint from her handbag and copied down the bank’s name and address and the number of James Post’s account therein.

Dr D’Acre carefully removed the plastic bag from the mouth of the deceased and equally carefully began to unfold it. She found it stiff and brittle with age, but eventually she removed a credit card, which had expired some three years previously and the name on the card was one R. E. Malpass. She handed it to George Hennessey who took it in his latex gloved hands and read the name with some satisfaction.

‘The net closes.’ He smiled as he placed the card in a self-sealing cellophane sachet. ‘The net closes.’

‘That is your suspect, I take it?’

‘One of them. . it is a husband and wife duo.’

‘You’ll be arresting them?’

‘Now we can. With this credit card they can be at least linked to this murder, but it is still less than we need to prove guilt. . but it’s a significant step in the right direction.’

‘See what else I can let you have.’ Dr D’Acre turned her attention to the body on the dissecting table, which was still clothed in the remnants of the garments he had worn when murdered. ‘I think this post-mortem is going to be inconclusive, even before I start, unless there is a significant injury such as a skull fracture. I don’t think I am going to be able to determine the cause of death. . but a note of his clothing. . odd shoes. I mean a different shoe on each foot, an old duffel coat, still discernible as such only one toggle out of the original three remains and look,’ she gently pulled away a thin thread which appeared to have been wound round the waist of the deceased, ‘this is the remnants of twine. So who wears odd shoes and ties his coat together with string?’

‘A down-and-out.’

‘Yes,’ Dr D’Acre replied with a solemn tone, ‘yet another person to be given a name and buried. I can determine stature and age at death to see if he matches any missing person reports. The credit card would put his burial at in excess of three years earlier than his remains were found. . though there, I encroach on your territory.’

‘Oh, please, as before, encroach all you like,’ Hennessey replied, having retreated to the wall of the pathology laboratory as protocol dictated.

‘Right, let’s get the remains of the clothing off shall we, Eric?’

Eric Filey reverentially stepped forward and assisted Dr D’Acre with the slow removal and cutting away of the clothing, many pieces of which crumbled to the touch.

‘Summer burial,’ Dr D’Acre said calmly.

‘Summer?’ Hennessey repeated questioningly.

‘I would think so, just a shirt and a vest under the duffel coat. A down-and-out would know where to obtain woollens, Salvation Army. . institutions like that.’

‘Yes. . good point.’

‘Easier to bury as well,’ Dr D’Acre added. ‘Easier to dig a shallow grave in summer time, the soil would be frozen in winter.’

‘Indeed.’

‘The trousers now, Eric,’ Dr D’Acre announced. ‘We’ll cut them away, I think.’

Filey turned and took a large pair of scissors from the tray of instruments and then slowly and methodically began to cut the trousers from the bottoms to the waist, and, as he did so, Dr D’Acre probed gingerly into the pockets.

‘Different socks also,’ Dr D’Acre pointed to the feet of the deceased, ‘one dark one and one white one. He really was a down-and-out. Hello. .’

‘You’ve seen something?’ Hennessey took an involuntary pace forward.

‘Probably. . probably,’ Dr D’Acre peeled the right-hand sock away from the partially decomposed remains of the lower leg. ‘This sock seems to be. . yes. . something has been pushed down here.’ She carefully extracted a plastic coin bag, Hennessey noted, of the type used in banks to contain a determined amount of the same type of coin. Dr D’Acre handed it to him and taking it from her he saw that it contained a piece of paper neatly folded up.

‘I’ll get this off to the forensic science lab at Wetherby. This will make interesting reading,’ Hennessey murmured as he gingerly unfolded the sheet of paper. ‘Well, well, it is a utility bill. Part of one. The part you keep. . sent to one R.E. Malpass of Hutton Cranswick. . and dated three years ago. Somebody is leaving us presents, indeed.’

‘Indeed.’ Dr D’Acre began a careful examination of the body. ‘It looks like murder,’ she said. ‘The stomach has been punctured.’

‘That’s of significance,’ Hennessey growled.

‘Yes, someone didn’t want the stomach gases to bloat and then burst the stomach. Usually it is done when a corpse is immersed in water to prevent it rising. A bloated corpse will rise and will even bring heavy weights to the surface with it, but if burying in a shallow grave it’s a good idea. . from the felon’s point of view that is, it’s a good idea to puncture the stomach to allow the gases to seep out because the stomach will expand and push away unconsolidated soil and then explode with such force that it could expose the grave. Someone did not want this old boy found, but who would want to go to such lengths to hide the body of a tramp?’

‘Someone who enjoyed murdering as an end in itself,’ Hennessey replied calmly. ‘Someone who didn’t want to be stopped until he had satisfied the need to take life.’

Dr D’Acre glanced at him. ‘The name on the card?’

‘Yes,’ Hennessey nodded, ‘the name on the card.’

‘But how would a tramp obtain the credit card of the person who was going to murder him? How would a tramp even know the significance of a credit card?’

Hennessey shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps. . perhaps. . Malpass was taunting us. That is unlikely though, or perhaps a third person was leaving us a present, or perhaps a third person was maliciously implicating Malpass who is completely innocent. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. .’

‘No dental care to speak of, but that is in keeping with one of his lifestyle. No evident fractures, the skull appears to be uninjured, the skeleton is intact. Unless he died of natural causes, he was suffocated or strangled, and no evidence of same will have remained after being in the ground for in excess of ten years. As I said, an inconclusive post-mortem.’

‘But helpful,’ Hennessey held up the two sachets he held. ‘It’s going to be very helpful.’

The office was small, smaller than Carmen Pharoah expected it to be. It was neatly kept and clean, with no softenings that she could detect in her initial visual sweep of the room, no framed photographs or plants in pots, it was all very functional and to the point. The man behind the desk was well-built, and easily six feet tall, and thus seemed to make the room look even smaller,

‘Yes, I am aware of the safety deposit box, a yellow one, quite an unusual colour, and also quite the largest such box that can be obtained in the high street, strangely light as well, I have always thought.’

‘Light?’ Carmen Pharoah asked as a double-decker bus whirred past the building.

‘In terms of weight,’ the bank manager, ‘Edward Edwards’ by the nameplate on his desk, replied, ‘very large and very light. So whatever is in there, it’s not the family jewels or gold ingots. I am sorry to hear about the death of the customer; Mr Post, did you say? But I am afraid I can’t release the safety deposit box in question without authorization from his next-of-kin or a court order compelling me to do so.’

Carmen Pharoah smiled. She put her hand into her large leather handbag and extracted a manila envelope. ‘I anticipated you,’ she spoke triumphantly, ‘signed by a judge in chambers less than an hour ago.’

It was Monday, 14.35 hours.

Tuesday, 16.50 hours

Hennessey, Yellich, Ventnor, Webster and Pharoah passed the photographs between them in a solemn silence. It was little wonder, as Carmen had said, that the large yellow safety deposit box was so light, it contained nothing but photographic negatives; hundreds of them, and most of the victims of Ronald and Sylvia Malpass, clearly taken discreetly by James Post, and one or two showing the Malpasses in circumstances which linked them to the murders.

‘A very small camera without a flash attachment,’ Webster murmured as he handed two of the photographs, which were still damp from the developing process, to Ventnor.

‘Sorry?’ Hennessey queried.

‘Just a comment about the camera, sir,’ Webster explained, ‘the only way he could have taken these photographs was with a very small camera, small enough to conceal from Ronald Malpass, and one which would not flash when the shutter was pressed. He must have kept the aperture at its widest.’

‘Yes, he was determined to take them, the Malpasses, with him if they silenced him or if he was arrested. I bet it was Post who slid the credit card into the mouth of the tramp, and pushed the utility bill into the tramp’s sock ensuring it was preserved in the plastic coin bag. He told Furlong Freda that he had “insurance”. I bet you that was what he meant.’

Hennessey paused. ‘Still largely, if not wholly, circumstantial but this one,’ he turned the photograph he was holding around and showed it to the team, ‘this one I like muchly. Shows Ronald Malpass emerging from the kitchen garden. . broad daylight; it indicates that they left the women in the kitchen garden at Bromyards in the “quiet period” in the morning, thus avoiding telltale headlights going to and from Bromyards in the dead of night, and if seen would have taken to be legitimate callers to the house and the elderly Mr Housecarl. It seems to have been taken from a distance of a couple of hundred yards away so Malpass would not have heard the shutter click. He was taking out insurance all right.’

‘Very leisurely attitude,’ Yellich added, ‘calmly walking about and separating from each other by that sort of distance. It clearly wasn’t a hurried job, no dashing up to the house, locking the victim to the chain and dashing away again, they hung around. . very cool. . very collected.’

‘Yes, nonetheless, unless we find something in the Malpass’s house it is still going to be an uphill struggle to secure a safe conviction but these photographs and particularly this one,’ he tapped the photograph showing Ronald Malpass walking out of the kitchen garden at Bromyards, ‘this one is enough to arrest them and have them remanded. Separate them; give them a taste of prison life. It depends on the quality of their marriage of course, but with luck, she might roll over on him when she sees this photograph. If she turns Queen’s evidence, well, we’ll see what we see. We’ll get the warrants tomorrow morning and bring them in. There’s no hurry, they are not going anywhere or about to murder someone else. They’re washed up.’

It was Tuesday, 17.03 hours.

Wednesday 10.15–10.40 Hours

Sylvia Malpass, tall, elegant, even in the blue and white tracksuit she always wore when doing housework, stood patiently in the back room of her house in Hutton Cranswick and felt a strange and unexpected sense of calm and contentment. She smiled gently as she looked out of the wide window to the rear of her home, to the large well-tended garden, where her husband was, at that moment, playing water from the hosepipe over the shrubs and the lawn, and doing so despite the recent rain and looming rain clouds. Yet, he always did that, always watered the garden before leaving the house for any length of time. That day, though, Sylvia Malpass thought that she observed a certain determination, and certain restlessness, about her husband’s actions. It was, she thought, as if the garden was parched, and baked dry and hard, after a prolonged drought. She pondered whether or not she should interfere. . normally she would not do so. . his was the garden, hers was the house, seemed to have been the unwritten rule which had evolved in their home-building, but the excess of water drenching the garden did, on this occasion, eventually reach her. There was also, she told herself, other things which had to be addressed. With that thinking, with that argument in her mind, she turned and walked to the kitchen and exited the house by the rear door. She walked calmly up to her husband, approaching from his left and side so that he had sufficient notice of her arrival. It did never do, she had learned early on in their marriage, to take him by surprise. His reaction in such circumstances could be at best dangerous, at worst deadly. He turned at her approach and welcomed her with a warm, very warm, smile.

‘You’ve been doing this for well over an hour, darling.’ She spoke softly, yet managed to project a note of protest.

‘Yes. . I know. .’ he replied equally softly, ‘but it makes me feel better. . and I always do this before we go away for a while. . you know that.’

‘Yes, darling. . but. . but. .’ she pressed the heel of her sports shoe into the lawn causing a deep indentation. ‘Look at that. . what my heel has done. . the garden is waterlogged. . you are drowning the garden.’

‘You can’t drown a plant.’ Malpass continued to spray the shrubbery. ‘They have a kind of shut off valve which activates when they have had sufficient to drink. . but I want the garden to be well-watered. . I don’t like fretting about the garden when I am away, or we are on holiday. It spoils everything for me.’

‘Yes, darling. . but even so. . enough is enough, and there’s other things to be done.’

‘Perhaps, but I still have the front garden to water.’

‘The front. .’ She rested her hand on his forearm. ‘What will the neighbours think when they see you watering the garden in this sort of weather? It rained last night and just look at these rain clouds approaching.’

Ronald Malpass glanced to his right and saw mountainous grey clouds menacing in the east. ‘No hosepipe ban yet. . so why shouldn’t a fella care for his plants. . and since when have I been worried about the opinion of the neighbours?’

‘But,’ she protested, ‘as I said. . still things to do. . we need to fill the car with petrol for one thing.’

‘Oh. . yes, all right. .’ He laid the hosepipe on the ground. ‘Confess I had forgotten that. .’

‘Well, we won’t get far on an empty tank.’ She smiled.

‘Certainly won’t.’

‘I’ll make us some coffee. . we both need a break.’

‘Yes. .’ Ronald Malpass smiled at his wife. ‘Yes,’ he said again as their eyes met. ‘Yes. Coffee. A coffee with you would be good. Very, very good. . just once more before we set off.’

Sylvia Malpass returned to the house with a spring in her step; her husband by contrast, walked with a powerful determined heavy footfall across the sodden lawn to where the hose was attached to a tap set in the wall. He turned the tap off, screwing it down firmly, and then entered the house, wiping his feet on the mat as he did so.

Some moments later, Ronald and Sylvia Malpass sat in identical armchairs facing each other in a living room, which had been tidied to perfection, and the air in which was heavy with the smell of furniture polish and freshener. They each sipped coffees from cups which, like the armchairs, were identical.

‘It tastes exquisite,’ Ronald Malpass commented. ‘You know that I often say that the first cup of coffee in the morning is the most enjoyable cup of the whole day. . the most enjoyable by far, but there is something refreshing about this cup of coffee. It is special somehow.’

‘I know what you mean, darling. I thought that the garden had a certain freshness about its fragrance as I walked out there just now. . something which I hadn’t noticed before.’

‘That is probably because I had watered it, doing that always releases the scents. .’

‘Yes, but even allowing for that. . there was a definite something other. . something now in the air.’

‘Perhaps.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘Perhaps, but it’s possible because it is often like that before you go on a journey. . you seem to have a heightened sense of awareness of your surroundings. It’s a bit like saying goodbye to a house just before you shut the door behind you for the last time.’

‘My mother used to do that.’ Sylvia Malpass looked upwards as if recollecting memories. ‘I never have. . I dare say I was always looking forward. My old dad, he used to say that she must be soft in the head to talk to empty houses, but he was a hard case. I take more after him than her. . and I could never take to the other thing she always had us do — which was that before we left the house as a family, even if it was only for the day, we would sit and pause for a minute or two, and I mean just for sixty or one hundred and twenty seconds or some time in between, to collect ourselves as a family before going out. Even if there was a taxi waiting outside with the meter ticking, down we would sit. . in silence. . then we could leave the house as a family.’

Ronald Malpass pursed his lips. ‘You know, I quite like that. . and you never told me that. . not in all these years. .’

‘I didn’t, did I. . I just remembered it now for some reason. Probably because you never did that, paused before leaving the house, and I never wanted to do it anyway. I just left it behind in my childhood along with the dolls and tea sets.’

‘But as I said. . I quite like the sound of it. I could quite take to the practice.’

‘Well, we can do it today if you wish. Especially before this journey, when we don’t know where we are going.’

‘Yes. . just getting away from here. . away from Hutton Cranswick and the Vale of York altogether.’

‘How long do you think we have got?’

‘Time yet.’

‘But they’re coming?’

‘Oh yes. . yes. . they’re coming. So long as we are well away by then. That is the main thing.’

‘Yes. It’s all done upstairs. All neat and shipshape and Bristol fashion. . just as my Master commanded.’

‘My Master. .’ Malpass smiled and drank the last of his coffee. ‘You haven’t called me that for a long, long while.’

‘My Master and Commander. I haven’t, have I?’

‘Yes, that was it. . My Master and Commander.’

‘I just stopped for some reason. . I dare say that our marriage moved on as marriages tend to do. . a continuously evolving process.’

‘Dare say. . When did you first use it? Can you recall?’

‘Oh. . that would be in Ireland. . I am sure it was during the Irish venture.’

‘That was fun. You were like a coyote.’

‘A coyote. . a wild dog. .’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘In the mid west of the USA, so I once read, the coyotes who live outside small towns send a bitch on heat into the town. . and dogs just cannot resist a bitch on heat, and those dogs who are not tethered or kept in doors will form a pack and follow the coyote. . these are domesticated dogs, people’s pets, and the bitch leads the pack of pet dogs out of the town where the other pack, the coyotes, are waiting. Carnage.’

‘Wow. . I’d like to see that!’

‘So would I. . What I’d give to be a bird in a tree looking down on that.’

‘Yes. . not just the bloodletting, but the anguish of the pet owners. . all that guilt for not keeping their family pet safe. But we. . I didn’t attract a pack, just one at a time. Remember we called it the Black Widow game.’

‘Yes. That was it.’

‘The one with the black wig, and into the bar. . sitting alone. . grief stricken young widow. . just lost her husband. . allowed myself to get chatted up, and eventually asked if he knew a place where we could go because I have my needs. . but somewhere close. . they all did and it was guaranteed to be isolated. . and you followed us. . dressed in black with a black painted pickaxe handle. You know that’s where we learned the value of changing the MO.’

‘Yes. . once semi-conscious from the pickaxe handle, we did the business. . one got drain cleaning fluid down his throat. . we left him choking his life away. . that was a bit noisy. . we were isolated enough. . but I was worried by the racket he made. . learned the value of silence there.’

‘Yes. The old learning curve was steep in those days.’

‘Another had a plastic bag pulled over his head; the third had his throat cut; the fourth had a knife shoved into his chest. . picked up after ourselves. . left nothing behind. . no prints. . nothing, and the glass you drank from in the bar would have been well washed and dried by the time each body was found.’

‘Four of them. . Dublin, across to Galway, then back via Cork and Waterford. . well, not those places but little towns just outside them.’

‘Never pulled that stunt in the UK.’

‘Didn’t, did we. . that’s because we hit on the idea of targeting alcoholics. . but. . Ireland. .’ Malpass smiled at the memory. ‘That was a pleasant little jaunt indeed. Most enjoyable. And that was a pleasant and enjoyable cup of coffee.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll go and fill up the car. . check the oil.’

‘And I’ll wash up. . leave everything just so.’

‘Yes. .’ Ronald Malpass glanced at this watch. ‘Time is perhaps beginning to press a little. . we must not leave it too late to make good our departure.’

‘No. .’

‘So I’ll leave the front garden unwatered. Get straight off when I return.’

‘After sitting in silence for a minute or two?’

‘Yes.’ He held eye contact with her and nodded slowly. ‘Yes, we’ll do that. . we’ll do that.’

Wednesday 10.50 hours

Hennessey and Yellich sat in Hennessey’s office in silence. Yellich glanced casually out of the small window towards the city walls and at the extended group of tourists thereon, who were enjoying a brief respite from the rain and also a period of sunlight created by a gap in the unseasonal cloud cover. Yellich watched as the tourists walked, having stretched into a linear group, ambling, looking to their left and right, bedecked with cameras, unlike the locals, who walk the walls singly, often with an air of hurried determination, staring straight ahead. Beyond the walls, over the rooftops, Yellich saw the upper parts of the three square towers of the Minster gleaming in the unexpected sunlight, with the heads of the tourists clearly seen atop the southern tower, all safely hemmed in with suicide-proof wire netting, despite the fact that no one in the thousand year history of the Minster has ever deliberately flung themselves from its height to their death. But this, Yellich reflected, was the early twenty-first century, and health and safety issues rule, as does fear of litigation, and the two, he saw as being interlinked. Yellich often thought, when beset with cynicism, that the issue was not so much the safety of the individual, but the safety of the organization concerned from legal action being raised against it. He turned his gaze to George Hennessey. ‘You’re quiet, skipper,’ he said, smiling.

‘Yes, yes. .’ Hennessey replied, forcing a smile as he was pulled back to the here and now from deep and distant thoughts. ‘I was worried. . confess I still am. .’

‘Worried, boss? Why. .?’ Yellich leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees with his hands clasped together. ‘We’ll lift them. . there’s nowhere they can go. . even if they make a run for it they can’t hide anywhere.’

‘Yes, I know. . I know. . but it’s not that. . I don’t think they will even attempt to run. . it’s not that at all. . I am worried about the number of victims that they have taken. . the old tip of iceberg. . there’s always more than we know. .’

‘Yes. . for sure. .’

‘So, just as more people went into Cromwell Street in Gloucester than have been determined, just as the Yorkshire Ripper would likely have taken more victims that the thirteen he was prosecuted for, even if they were not all fatally injured, and just as Hindley and Brady were in all possibility linked to the disappearance of other children who went missing at the time, but outside the Greater Manchester area. . so they were not seen as relevant. .’

‘You think that’s a possibility, sir?’

‘Yes. Why not. . they had transport. . they could have got up to Newcastle or Glasgow very easily. . come to this neck of the woods or through to Hull. . down to Birmingham. . but children from those areas who disappeared were not linked to them because at the time Greater Manchester Police were not looking outside their administrative area. . but now we know serial killers roam far and wide.’

‘See what you mean, boss.’

‘It’s not the tip of the iceberg in that I am sure we know of the substantial number of the Malpass’s victims. . but there’s always one or two or three more. . and that’s one or two or three victims who won’t get justice. . or one or two or three families that won’t get closure.’

‘We still have to chat to them, boss. . they might confess to others.’

‘Yes. . yes.’ Hennessey nodded. ‘Good point. . they might tell us more than we already know. Might. I still feel that we have to hope that one turns on the other. . but if they both go N.G., as my son would say, then the CPS still has an uphill battle. Being photographed standing over the grave of a victim, Hindley-like, is not proof of murder — not in itself — and, yes, we have the other photographs, and, yes, we have witness statements, but a defence counsel with fire in his belly could make a jury reluctant to convict. In Scotland it could even invite a “not proven” verdict.’

‘Yes. . I see your concern, sir.’

‘When this case comes to court it will be the trial of the most prolific pair of serial killers ever known in the UK. . but, like I said yesterday, unless one rolls over on the other it’s going to be a similar case to Regina versus Allit. . a case wherein the accumulation of circumstantial evidence becomes sufficient to convict. . being the most difficult to prosecute and being the easiest to defend. But as you say. . we have still to chat with them.’

The phone on Hennessey’s desk warbled. He let it ring twice before picking it up. ‘Hennessey. .’ he said, then fell silent as he listened. ‘All right. Thank you. We’ll be there directly.’ He glanced at Yellich. ‘They’re ready now. . vans. . sergeant. . four constables, scene of crime officers. . just requires you and me to make up the arrest squad.’

George Hennessey strode determinedly up the drive of the Malpass’s home in Hutton Cranswick. Yellich strode equally determinedly behind him, and following Yellich was a uniformed sergeant and two male and two female constables. Hennessey struck the front door of the house thrice with his open palm and shouted, ‘Police! Open the door.’ He then rang the door bell continuously, insistently.

There was no reply. There was no sound, nor any form of response from within. Hennessey turned and noticed a youthful tee shirt wearing couple stop and stare at the activity from the other side of the street. Beyond the couple were neatly kept houses, and beyond that, flat fields leading to a flat skyline, all under a grey, short-lived, cloudy sky. He found a brief moment to concede that police activity of that nature was not an everyday occurrence in Hutton Cranswick. He turned to Yellich. ‘Take a constable and go round the back, please.’ He banged on the door again. There was still no response. Hennessey stepped back from the door and nodded to the constable holding the ram. ‘Put it in,’ he said quietly.

The police constable stepped forwards swinging the ram backwards as he did so, and when close to the door swung it forwards as close to the lock as he could manage, and succeeded in bursting the door open at the first attempt. He stepped back allowing Hennessey and the sergeant and the three remaining constables to enter the house. Hennessey leading the way shouted, ‘Police. . police!’

The interior of the house was still and quiet. The house was, he saw, neatly kept with just a gentle whiff of air freshener mingled with the soft odour of furniture polish.

‘Right,’ Hennessey turned to the constables, ‘search the house. . every cupboard. . every loft space. . everywhere a human body can be concealed. . you know the drill.’ Then he walked from the hallway to the kitchen and unlocked the back door using the key that had been conveniently allowed to remain in the lock.

‘Flown the coop, boss?’ Yellich entered the house followed by the constable, youthful, fresh-faced, white shirt, dark blue trousers.

‘No. . no. .’ Hennessey turned and walked back towards the hallway, ‘no, they’re here somewhere. . they will not be running. It’s over for them; I know that they know that.’ He paused. ‘Find them and then search the house for the evidence we’ll need to convict them. .’

‘House is empty, sir.’ The sergeant descended the stairs. ‘We’re checking the loft now but it’s clearly empty. We checked everywhere. . under beds. . cupboards. . no one here. . just us.’

‘Outbuildings!’ Hennessey snapped, ‘Check the outbuildings.’

The sergeant turned and shouted to the constables. ‘Down here. . check the garden shed. . and the garage.’

Hennessey and Yellich stepped out of the hallway and into the living room of the house to allow the uniformed officers to pass.

Hennessey turned to Yellich. ‘They can’t have gone. . they can’t have!’

Moments later. . perhaps less than sixty seconds later, the sergeant returned in a solemn looking attitude and looked at Hennessey. ‘We’ve found something, sir.’ He turned and led Hennessey and Yellich to the garage which stood beside the house, separated from it by a narrow concrete path. The door to allow a person ingress and egress to the garage was open. . a constable stood beside it. . the other constables stood behind him on the path. The sergeant turned and said, ‘In the garage, sirs.’

Hennessey and Yellich entered the garage and saw first the gleaming coffee coloured saloon car owned by the Malpasses, within which Ronald and Sylvia Malpass, sitting as if asleep, he in the driver’s seat, and she beside him in the front passenger seat, and holding each other’s hand. A hose led from the cars exhaust to the interior of the car via a partially open rear window.

‘We checked for life, sir,’ the sergeant informed. ‘Both appear deceased. . no pulse and their skin is clammy to the touch.’

‘Thank you, sergeant,’ Hennessey mumbled. ‘Thank you.’

A silence descended upon the scene broken by Hennessey who said, ‘You know, I feel cheated.’

‘Cheated, sir?’ Yellich replied.

‘Yes. . they won. . they won. Neither of them could have survived gaol and they knew that. . not after their lifestyle, and they would have also known that for them it would have been life without the possibility of parole. We’ll never know how many victims they had. . the nine women in the gardens at Bromyards plus the tramps they left buried. . or exposed. . all over the UK. . those that we know about. We got involved in it when it was all over, when they had already decided to quit on their own terms and escape justice. . even if the price they were prepared to pay was the loss of their own lives. . but they escaped justice. So, yes, I feel cheated. . and their victims also. . they were cheated out of justice.’

The man lay in bed looking at the woman who stood naked at the window, and who, in turn, was watching the sun sink over the Cumbrian fells, causing the autumn trees to glow like shimmering golden orbs. He savoured her slenderness, the soft curve of her breasts and the well-toned muscles, caused, he knew, by her passion for equestrianism. ‘I should have known better.’ He lay back and looked up at the ornate plasterwork of the ceiling painted in pale blue to blend with the slightly darker blue of the wallpaper, which blended with the yet darker blue of the carpet.

‘You couldn’t have done anything else,’ the woman half-turned and smiled at him. ‘You had to wait until you had sufficient to justify an arrest warrant.’

‘I still think I could have moved earlier, I just didn’t think I was under time pressure once Dr Joseph told me she also felt they had stopped killing. I thought I had all the time in the world. . and they won. . they played the game they had planned to play and we’ll never know for how many years they played it.’

‘Or how many victims.’

‘Yes, just silently took victims that few, if anybody, would miss and buried them locally, or left them to be discovered in remote places all over the UK, leaving local forces to do the naming and burying number, and not one was linked with another.’

‘There was no reason why they should be linked, down-and-outs are always being found where they died. . even in the twenty-first century, that is just the way of it.’ She stretched her arms, ‘This sun feels good. It’ll be getting quite chilly outside, but behind the window, warmth comes through.’

‘Yes. . then, like all serial killers, they racked up the game and took victims who’d be missed. It was probably their way of bringing an end to it all. . then we called on them.’

‘By which they knew it would only be a matter of time before you closed down on them you mean?’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I do mean,’ the man levered himself out of bed, ‘so they killed their gofer and then sat in their car in the garage with the engine running, holding hands as they drifted into their final sleep. Dare say they won in a sense, did what they intended to do without ever seeing the inside of a police station, let alone a prison.’

‘Well,’ the woman smiled at the man, ‘all you can do is chalk it up to experience. Let’s dress, I’m getting hungry.’

‘Agreed.’ Hennessey stood, reaching for a towel as he walked towards the bathroom. ‘Something in the bar, then we’ll eat. I think I’ll try the duck myself tonight. . confess it looked to be quite good.’

Louise D’Acre turned to take one last look at the setting sun, ‘It was,’ she said warmly. ‘It was very good indeed.’