Deliver Us from Evil

THREE

Thursday, March twenty-sixth, 09.10 hours — Friday 02.00 hours in which a trail is followed, a revelation made, and Reginald Webster and Thomson Ventnor are separately at home to the kind reader.

The drizzle turned slowly to snow as George Hennessey looked casually out of his office window and across the road to Micklegate Bar. He thought how it was that the weather made the walls of the ancient city look exceptionally cold and forbidding. He then turned to face the team assembled side by side in chairs in front of his desk forming a tight semicircle: Yellich, Webster, Ventnor and Pharoah. ‘So,’ he said as he relaxed in his chair, ‘it appears that we need to trace the mysterious Canadian gentleman. He seems to have some explaining to do.’

‘Seems so, Skipper,’ Yellich replied and then delicately sipped tea from the mug he was holding.

‘So what do we think about Mr Stanley Hemmings? Is he in the frame?’

‘He seems genuinely grief-stricken, sir.’ Carmen Pharoah sat forward cradling her mug of tea in both hands. ‘It did not sound like a blissfully happy union. He seems to have been besotted by her but. . it wasn’t. . what’s the word?’ She appealed to her colleagues.

‘Reciprocated?’ Webster suggested. ‘Is that the word you’re looking for?’

‘Yes, that’s the very word. The passion seemed very one-sided, even allowing for their neighbour embellishing her own cynical view of things; Edith Hemmings did seem to be a bit of a handful of a woman. I did take her passport details so I can contact the Canadian authorities, although Mr Hemmings didn’t indicate she had any relatives.’

‘Yes, we must find out who she is. . was. . and determine her name; was she “Julia” or “Edith” and why did she seem so frightened of the Canadian gentleman who was looking for her? Something happened in Canada. Something very serious.’

‘She was an orphan,’ Yellich said, ‘so we understand, at least according to Mr Beattie, though some relatives may exist, some extended family.’

‘Yes, we have to involve the Canadians. That’s one for you, DC Pharoah. .’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘There is nothing to report in respect of the industrial units,’ Ventnor reported. ‘I visited them yesterday, a struggling property company. The units have been empty for some time, quite isolated but also easily stumbled across. How he found them is a question we’ll likely put to the Canadian when we catch up with him. Seems he is our man, stalking Mrs Hemmings like he did, over a number of years. We really need to find him.’

Hennessey paused. ‘So, time for action. DC Pharoah, contact the Canadian Embassy as you suggested. What else have you got on?’

‘Two serious assaults, sir, both domestic, and I am helping the CPS to frame charges against a serial shoplifter, “Liz the lifter” as she is known, and prolific isn’t the word and that’s just going on what we know. What we don’t know about would probably fill Marks and Spencer’s twice over. . and she’s still only seventeen.’

‘We’ll be getting to know her very well,’ Hennessey smiled.

‘Indeed, sir. . very well indeed.’

‘Sergeant?’

‘Fatal stabbing in the city centre, sir, not far from here. . by the cholera burial pits. The felon is in custody and will be pleading guilty. His brief is trying to negotiate a reduced charge but we’ll get a result one way or the other. Other than that I have much paperwork to do.’

‘OK. Ventnor?’

‘Car thefts in the main, sir. Seems like an organized gang is behind them, they are targeting high value prestige motors, but there has been nothing for six weeks now, unless they have moved on to another city. So it’s become a waiting game.’

‘Very well. Webster?’

‘Burglaries in the main, sir, and also possibly one very well organized gang. . and again, it’s also a waiting game. They’ll slip up one day but these fellas are very clever, very thorough. They seem to be well aware that every contact leaves a trace. . so very careful. . most carefully not wanting to cut themselves it seems, so as not to leave DNA behind. . clean breaking of panes of glass has become their hallmark.’

‘Right,’ Hennessey sat forward, ‘so Webster and Yellich, I want you two to team up. Find this damned Canadian and find out more about the victim. She came from somewhere and he has gone somewhere. Pursue both lines of enquiry. At some point they will converge.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Yellich replied promptly.

‘For myself, I intend to visit a gentleman who has been helpful before. I doubt he will know the Canadian man but he might know Mrs Hemmings. If she has been stealing from her employers in the Vale for a number of years then my man will probably know her. Was the date of entry stamped on her passport?’

‘No, sir.’

‘No matter. So the other place of employment she had before she worked for Beattie. . that will have to be visited, and we also need to find the guest house he used when he was in the area.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, leave it to you two gentlemen to see what you see and to find what you find.’

‘It’s been over two years now, confess it seems like it was yesterday. Damned woman. . I feel that this house was contaminated by her.’

The address of the man who had employed Edith Hemmings nee Avrille and whose character reference Alexander Beattie described as a ‘work of convincing fiction’ revealed itself to be a large and a lovingly tended property set in its own grounds with stables adjoining the main building. Other outbuildings were visible, including a large greenhouse development. Upon halting the car on the gravel in front of the house and drawing back the metal ring pull by the front door, Yellich and Webster were greeted leisurely by an elderly butler. The man wore a dark jacket with grey pinstriped trousers and highly polished shoes. He was clearly a man with a serious attitude to his position and closely examined the IDs of both officers. He then invited Yellich and Webster into the house, showing them into a large wood panelled foyer in which a log fire crackled and burned welcomingly in a cast iron grate within a stone built fireplace. He then asked the officers to wait and excused himself. The fire seemed to speak to the officers of emotional warmth as well as of a very welcome heat. The foyer was further softened by two large, highly polished brass pots which stood either side of the door and within each of which a thriving yucca plant was established. The foyer smelled of wood smoke mingling with furniture polish.

The butler returned after an absence of about five minutes, Webster guessed, and he warmly and politely invited the officers into an anteroom softly but tastefully furnished with armchairs and a table surrounded by upright chairs. The room, Yellich and Webster noted, was smaller than the foyer but was similarly appointed with wood panelling and had an equally welcoming log fire burning in a cast iron grate. Oil paintings of rural scenes hung on the wall. The butler invited the officers to sit, saying, ‘Mr Rigall will be with you shortly.’

‘Shortly’ transpired to be very short. In fact no more than sixty seconds after Yellich and Webster were left in the room to await Mr Rigall, the man entered. He was tall, powerfully built, dressed in faded denim jeans and a blue shirt over which he wore a large, sloppy woollen cardigan. He was clean shaven, short-haired and he smelled of aftershave. Webster and Yellich stood as he entered the room and he waved them to resume their seats. Rigall apologized for keeping them waiting, explaining in a soft voice that he had been under the shower when they called. ‘I am a bit of a late riser,’ he added by means of explanation. ‘How can I help you?’

Webster explained the reason for their visit.

Rigall groaned and sank into a leather clad armchair. He then said, ‘It’s been two years now. . confess it seems like it was yesterday. Damn woman.’

‘Tell us about her. . please,’ Yellich asked, as Webster took his notebook from his jacket.

‘Where to start?’ He twisted his body and took a packet of cigarettes from his jeans pocket. ‘Sorry. . do you mind?’

‘Not at all, sir.’

‘Would either of you gentlemen like a cigarette?’

‘No, thank you, sir,’ Webster said as Yellich gave his head a brief shake, and added. ‘Thank you anyway, sir.’

‘Sensible. Wish I didn’t but with my wife no longer here to tell me off I have picked up quite a few bad habits, this being one such. I manage the estate and have some business interests but you know, I confess I quite enjoyed surrendering my everyday life to my wife’s control, it seemed to take the pressure off me when I came home. . and she had a strict “no smoking” rule so I observed it. It was her house and she was the boss. It would not suit all men but it suited me.’ He lit the cigarette with an inexpensive blue coloured disposable lighter. ‘We were an odd couple in many regards. She was a small, quick woman who could be sharp-tongued and very quick-tempered when it suited her. I do not apologize for it, I am well built and much slower moving than she was, much calmer in my attitude. We were yang and yin. We were just like a hand and a glove.’ He drew deeply on the cigarette. ‘She died suddenly in a riding accident. . sorry to ramble but I promise that it all builds up to explaining how the Canadian creature came to live here. It is the background.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Webster replied, gently sensing that Tony Rigall also needed to tell them the story for his own highly personal reasons.

‘No one saw the accident. Her horse found its way back to the stables whinnying in distress. . snorting and neighing. . heavens, the damn thing actually raised the alarm. She and her horse loved each other; there was a real bond there, a real relationship. Any other beast would have just stood there chewing the grass waiting for someone to lead it home, but “Scarlet” — her horse, she had a distinct reddish tinge on her flank, hence her name — Scarlet galloped home, back to the stables, and raised the alarm. Two of the estate workers followed her back to where my wife was lying motionless on the ground.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, she was DOA at the hospital. It was a blessing. There is such a thing as a “quality of life”. She was thirty-five, still a young woman. The fracture was high up on the spine near the base of the neck. One vertebra lower and she would have been a tetraplegic, paralysed from the neck down and with another forty plus years of life left to live. Trapped on a lifeless body, her head would have been perched on the top of a vegetable. She was very physical, horse riding, swimming, cross-country running, hill walking, you name it. . all on top of managing the house. She had a way with the staff; she could inspire them to want to work for her, she was a natural leader. She ran a very peaceful and efficient home. . she created a very happy ship.’

‘I am sorry,’ Webster offered. ‘That is tragic.’

‘Thank you, but life has to go on and I think of her as lucky dead, rather than dead lucky.’

‘Yes,’ Yellich spoke softly. ‘I know what you mean.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes, I think I do. We see life. . police officers see life, it’s the nature of the beast. . and I think I fear permanent severe disability more than I fear death. As you say, sir, there has to be a certain quality of life, a certain minimum quality to make life bearable.’

‘Yes,’ Tony Rigall smiled, ‘that’s a very good way of putting it. So there was, overnight, a huge gap in the house and it was shortly after that occurring that that woman arrived. That damned Canadian. No one could have replaced Amelia. . no one. . and I didn’t want to replace her on an emotional level, no one could have done that, as I said, but I did need someone to organize the house. We. . I had a cook. . I didn’t want her to cook in the kitchen and we had maids to clean, so I advertised for. . for I don’t know what. . a house manager, someone to run the place on a day-to-day basis in the way my lovely wife had done. Someone to keep the overview.’ Rigall leaned back in his chair and glanced upwards. ‘Big mistake. . that was the story of Julia arriving. . she had no references but no one else wanted the job and she impressed well at the interview.’

‘Where did she come from? Did she say?’ Yellich glanced upwards at the ornate ceiling.

‘Canada. She was newly arrived from Canada. She said that she was looking for a new start in life.’ Rigall drew heavily on the cigarette. ‘She seemed to settle in, seemed to be pleasant at first. Then our cook left without saying why she was leaving, and then the maids. I knew the maids would leave when cook left because the maids were. . well, I don’t want to sound patronizing but by means of explanation I’ll describe them as “simple-minded”, and cook kept an eye on them. She was very protective towards them, motherly almost. She wouldn’t let anyone put upon them. . but cook leaving was a shock, cook was really in with the bricks. It turned out that the Canadian female just irritated her; she just wouldn’t stay out of the kitchen, always interfering. In any house of this size the kitchen belongs to the cook and if you don’t know that, or don’t accept that, then you are in trouble. That’s the rule. It’s the cook’s kitchen. That’s it. So, it came to the point that cook had just had enough; she took off her apron, left it on the kitchen table and cycled home, never to return. The maids followed her. At that time I was out of the house most of the day attending to business. I never saw any of the friction developing, and eventually it was the head gardener who tipped me off. “I’d be off as well”, he said, “but I’m in the garden all day and I have my hut to go to when it’s wet, so I am away from the house, away from the Canadian female”.’

‘I see.’

‘So I let her go. I let the Canadian female go. I had to. Wretched woman. I gave her a reference that would get her started somewhere else, so that was unfair of me but I wasn’t inclined to defend a case for unfair dismissal in the county court. That could have been very costly.’

Yellich and Webster remained silent. Webster, who with Yellich had visited the Canadian woman’s next employer in his stone cold home, thought that ‘unfair’ did not adequately describe Rigall’s act of dumping his troubles on another unsuspecting person as a means of solving said troubles. Edith Hemmings, as she became, had left Rigall’s household to work for Alexander Beattie and whilst there had emptied the elderly man’s bank account and stolen his meagre possessions. ‘Unfair’ just wasn’t the word, thought Webster, just not the word at all. Then Rigall said something which made Webster’s attitude towards him soften.

‘Only when she had gone did I realize what she had done,’ he explained. ‘I gave her access to the money to buy food and fuel and found out later that the account had been cleared out. Not all my money. . that is separate and safe. . but the money I put into the account to run the house. The household budget account. Then I found out she had stolen my wife’s jewellery. I called the police but we didn’t know where she had gone; the cheques she had written were made out to cash. The jewels would have been sold for hard cash. I have now replaced my domestic staff and have appointed Lionel, the butler who opened the door to you, and he costs an arm and a leg. But the sense of loss remains.’

‘So what sort of woman was Julia, apart from being dishonest? Apart from rubbing people up the wrong way?’ Yellich asked.

Rigall smiled. ‘Well, what else can there be after that?’ He paused. ‘But I really can’t answer your question, she never let me get close to her, and I never wanted to, and so any conversation we had was always short and to the point.’

‘Did she tell you much about herself? Her background?’

‘No. . no. . she didn’t. She was quite private in that sense, quite a private person. She was recently arrived from Canada, that I did find out, but she never spoke about her family. She came from Quebec province, I believe, she did tell me that and also that she then moved to Ontario. . lived near Toronto for a while, just before coming to the UK.’

‘Would you say she was hiding, or running from something?’

‘Yes. . yes,’ Rigall smiled briefly and nodded. ‘You know you could say that, yes, you could. In fact, come to think of it, someone did come to look for her. A Canadian man — it’s all coming back now. I was a man obsessed with the theft of my money and of my wife’s jewellery and with the driving away of excellent staff. . but yes, she was a person in hiding. She had strange hiding away habits now that you mention it. . stayed indoors, in the house and the garden. She’d walk in the rear garden to take the air but never the front. Very infrequently she’d leave the house, just once a week perhaps, even once every two weeks, to buy provisions and cash cheques and sell Amelia’s jewellery. So, yes, in hiding, a woman in hiding. A very unpleasant character, and I am so pleased she has gone. . it was a big mistake to hire her. So why all the interest?’

‘She was murdered,’ Yellich explained, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Rigall leaned forward and, resting his elbows on his knees, shook his head slowly. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me at all? I can understand that, I can really understand why someone would want to do her in. When was this?’

‘Recently, a few days ago.’

‘Where?’

‘Not too far from here.’

‘There’s been no mention of it in the media. . that’s something I would have noticed.’

‘We decided on a news blackout. . for now.’

‘I see.’ Rigall reclined in his chair. ‘Murdered you say? Well, well, well. . why am I not at all surprised. .?’

‘Tell us more about the Canadian.’

‘The man you mean. . the man who came looking for her?’

‘Yes, that man.’

Rigall paused. ‘He came very recently. . a few months ago. He was on her trail though, he had her scent.’

‘What did he want. . do you know? Did he say?’

‘Her. . madam. He wanted her. I told him that she had left two years ago but that didn’t seem to disappoint him, in fact he smiled and said, “Getting closer. I am getting closer”.’

‘He came here?’

‘Yes. Walked up to the door and knocked on it. He was as bold as brass and as calm as you please. He spoke to Lionel who was unsure of him and asked him to wait outside. . it was a little cold that day but Lionel did the right thing. He is very good like that. He came to find me. . I was in here, in this very room, and so I went to the door and he was every inch a Canadian. To look at him you’d think “lumberjack”, broad-chested, powerfully built, trimmed dark beard, patterned jacket and a fur hat, a man’s fur hat. . you know the type.’

‘Yes. . yes.’

‘He asked for Julia Avrille. It was then I told him she had left a few years ago. He asked where she had gone and I told him I didn’t know but I believed she had remained in the vicinity. . she was somewhere in the Vale of York.’

‘How did you know that?’

‘I saw her, saw her a few times driving an old car. It was the car that caught my eye, a mid 1960s saloon, a Wolseley or a Riley, white with a red flash down the side, a real classic. Lovely car. It’s the only one of its kind hereabouts, damn few left in all England and that is the only one in the Vale, of that I am certain. I have an interest in classic cars you see. So she drove past and then I saw it was her at the wheel, wearing her wig but it was her. Did I mention she always wore a wig when she went out?’

‘It’s all right, we know about the wig.’

‘Very well. The Canadian hung around for a few days, and unlike his quarry he made no attempt to hide himself. He seemed to base himself in Malton. . that was his operational base. He became a bit of a local figure and he liked his English beer, which is strange for a Canadian or an American. When they are over here they seem to prefer lager because that is very similar to American beer. . served chilled like American beer. . and the same colour, but English beer, brown coloured and served at room temperature, is not to their taste. You know I once saw a group of American sailors, first time in the UK, that was obvious, they came into a pub and ordered beer. The way they looked at it, absolutely aghast, then the way their faces screwed up when they tasted it. . it really was so very funny. Anyway, someone in the pub realized what had happened and told them that he’d been in the States and knew how they liked their beer to be served and he suggested that they try the lager, which they did and were very happy campers after that. . but the Canadian. . he liked his English beer. He had acquired the taste. So the point being that a publican in Malton might remember him.’

‘You’ll be the police?’ The man leaned against the back of the bar of the Jolly Waggoner in Malton, dressed in a neatly pressed white shirt and black trousers with a black clip-on tie. He wiped a glass with a starched white towel. ‘You have just visited Mr Rigall, the fox hunting man.’

‘He hunts?’ Yellich replied, observing a clean and neatly kept pub.

‘Rides to hounds is the correct term but yes, he hunts the fox in his hunting pink and white breeches and black hat. He has some status in the hunt. He’s not the master but has some significant position. He is a very and a most proper gentleman, is the good Mr Rigall.’

Webster and Yellich noticed a note of sarcasm in the publican’s voice.

‘You don’t like the hunt?’ Webster probed.

The barman shrugged, ‘I wouldn’t protest against it, but I wouldn’t protest for it. I dare say I am what is known as a camp follower. I support the hunt without being part of it.’

‘Interesting position to put yourself in,’ Yellich smiled.

‘Well, this is rural England. It’s about as rural as it can get and in here you pick up the local attitude and the local attitude is “leave the hunt alone”. I am not local myself. I came down from “the boro”, but I have to make this pub work.’

‘The “boro”?’

‘Middlesbrough, Teesside. . which is about as urban and industrial as you can get.’

‘Ah. .’

‘Well, folk round here haven’t a good word to say for the fox, it’s an “animal of an animal” they say. If the fox just took what it needed it wouldn’t be so bad but you see I am told that if a fox gets into a chicken run and there are twenty chickens in the run, it will kill all of them, then make its way home taking just the one chicken it needs to feed himself and his litter. But you see, for some smallholders and agricultural labourers, the loss of all their chickens to wantonness is a lot to bear. . it’s a big loss for them. No fresh eggs. . no poultry. . have to buy it all until they can restock with more chickens.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘And the hunt also brings in big money and keeps traditional rural crafts alive. We have a blacksmith and he’s only here because the hunt keeps him in work. He can walk down the main street holding his head up as a proud man but without the hunt he’d be nothing. . a man on the dole, looking for work, any work, no matter how menial.’

‘Interesting point of view.’

‘So I say, keep the hunt, it keeps the money coming in and we need it, trade is slow but we are still afloat.’

Webster glanced round the pub. A few elderly men, four he counted, sitting silently, apart from each other and in front of glasses of beer. Slow trade as the publican said, but, Webster pondered, he is at least still open midweek which is more than the lot of the publican of The Hunter’s Moon in Stillington.

‘So how can I help you, gentlemen?’

‘Yes, we have visited Mr Rigall. .’

‘One of his estate workers drinks in here,’ the publican smiled. ‘Called in for one on his way home for his lunch, he is a bit of a daytime drinker but he can handle it, and he told me to expect you.’

‘Yes, he was correct to tell you to expect us. We are looking for a Canadian gentleman; we believe he might have been in here enjoying a beer, some months ago now.’

‘Piers?’ The publican smiled broadly. ‘Piers, the Canadian?’

‘Is that Piers?’ Webster showed the computer E-FIT to the publican.

‘Yes. . well, it could be Piers, there is a likeness, Piers was the only Canadian to hang round here. Went away, then came back to see us a few days ago. . nice bloke, he said he had done what he came to do. . job done, he said. He looked more satisfied than pleased; he said he was shortly to be going back to Canada. He bought a beer and put one in the pump for me. We shook hands and he walked out the door. . and that’s the last I saw of him.’

‘A few days ago?’ Yellich could not conceal his excitement.

‘Yes, Tuesday of this week, day before yesterday. It would be mid evening when he called in, seven, eight p.m., that sort of time. He used to stay with Mrs Stand.’

‘Mrs Stand?’

‘Next door but one. . that way,’ the publican pointed to his left. ‘Double fronted house, Broomfield Hotel to give it its proper name, but it’s a guest house. . bed and breakfast, not a proper hotel. He stayed there.’

Yellich smiled. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Thanks a lot.’

George Hennessey spent that morning at his desk addressing necessary paperwork. He was all too aware of the gripes of police officers about the mountain of forms they have to complete and reports they have to write, but he found that he enjoyed paperwork and he gave a lot of care to the task, knowing as he did the necessity of accurate and up-to-the-minute recording. At midday, and noticing the sleet-laden rain had eased, although the cloud cover remained at ten tenths in RAF speak, he stood and clambered into his woollen coat, wound a scarf round his neck and screwed his brown fedora on his head. He walked casually from his office and signed as being ‘out’ at the front desk and, after exchanging a word with the cheery police constable who was on duty there, he stepped out of the building into a grimy Micklegate Bar. He glanced up, as he often did, drawn with horrific fascination, at the spikes on the wall above the arch where the heads of traitors to the Crown were impaled and then left for three years as a warning to any other would-be renegade, the last such impaling taking place during the mid eighteenth century. Hennessey crossed the road and climbed the steps on to the wall and turned to his right to walk the wall from the Bar to Baile Hill, knowing, as every York resident knows, that walking the walls is by far the speediest and most efficient means of crossing the city. The stretch of wall he walked that day was, he always found, the most pleasing, affording good views of the neat and desirable terraced houses of Lower Priory Street and Fairfax and Hampden Streets which stood snugly and smugly ‘within the walls’, and to his right the much less expensive, the less desirable, less cared-for houses of the streets joining Nunnery Lane, being ‘without the walls’. The last few feet of that stretch of wall ended in a small copse which Hennessey always thought had a certain mystical quality about it. He left the wall at Baile Hill, as indeed he had to, and crossed the road bridge over the cold and deceptively sluggish looking River Ouse, turning right on to Tower Street and, exploiting an infrequent gap in the traffic, jogged hurriedly across the road. Once over the River Foss at Castle Mills Bridge, he was, as he always thought, in ‘any town — UK’.

It was an area of small terraced housing with inexpensive cars parked at the kerb. He glimpsed a motorcycle chained to a lamp post, the unexpected sight of which caused a shaft of pain to pierce his chest. He continued, walking up quiet Hope Street, crossing Walmgate and entering Navigation Road. He was by then deeply within the part of the city which could have been anywhere in England. All round him were the same type of small terraced houses with only the light grey colour of the brick suggesting that he was in the Vale of York. Hennessey strolled on and turned into Speculation Street and at the end of the street he walked through the low doorway of The Speculation Inn. He turned immediately to his left and entered the taproom. In the corner, on the hard bench which ran round the corner of the room, in front of a small circular table, sat a slightly built, smartly dressed middle-aged man. The man smiled at Hennessey; Hennessey nodded to the man and walked to the serving hatch, there being no bar in the taproom of The Speculation. Hennessey bought a whisky and soda and a glass of tonic water with lime from the jovial young woman who served him. He carried the drinks across to where the middle-aged man sat and he placed the whisky in front of him. Hennessey then sat on a highly polished stool in front of the man and raised the glass of tonic water, ‘Your health, Shored-Up.’

‘And yours, Mr Hennessey. And yours.’ The man eagerly sipped the whisky. ‘You come to your humble and obedient servant this day as a ray of sunshine would come upon a dark place. I didn’t know how I was going to make that drink last and then you walked in the door. . a saviour to a man in need.’

‘Well, I may have need of you. . anyway I see you survived Her Majesty’s Prison, Shored-Up?’

‘Oh, Mr Hennessey, I tell you, HM hotels are getting rougher and rougher. So very rough. I had to share a cell with three others, and our cell was originally a cell designed for one, and they were all rough boys. . that terrible youth. .’ The man shuddered. ‘How I resent him.’

‘The one that dobbed you in?’

‘Yes, him. . that one. . who dobbed me in, as you say. No sense of honour.’

‘You would have done the same, Shored-Up, especially if it meant avoiding a spell inside. . which is what he avoided.’

‘How is a man to make a decent living? The dole goes nowhere. It wouldn’t keep a church mouse alive. . and I never harmed anyone. . I don’t do violence.’

‘Stealing elderly ladies’ Rolls Royces. .’

‘Yes, but not harming the ladies themselves and so lucrative. . a way of making a living.’

‘So criminal also.’ Hennessey cast an eye over the man’s clothing. Expensive at first glance, threadbare at the second and as always saying ‘charity shops’ very loudly at the third glance. The image of the ‘distressed gentleman’ came to Hennessey’s mind, usefully assisted by the man’s ‘gentlemanly’ manner, which had been honed over the years by observing the real thing. ‘So are you at it again?’

The man shrugged. He delicately sipped the whisky Hennessey had bought him. ‘Chap has to earn his living. . there are no free rides.’

‘You’ve been out how long? Can’t be a full month yet?’

‘Three weeks tomorrow.’ The man smiled, ‘I confess that fresh air never did taste so sweet. Now I am settling into my nice new flat. I gave up the old one; or rather it gave up on me.’

‘Yes, I can imagine you’d have difficulty paying rent when you’re inside doing twelve to the inch.’

‘I had a little put by. I could have kept the flat going but paying rent on an empty flat, it went so much against the grain. Flats are easy to come by, and I quite like my new little drum. And I escaped the torture of sewing mailbags, opted for education, “good citizenship” in the main. Easier and anyway they don’t sew mailbags in the prisons any more. The GC class enabled me to sit and daydream; usually I carried myself off to a sun drenched and very faraway place.’

‘And now you are seeking another victim?’ Hennessey growled.

‘Client, Mr Hennessey, please. They are your humble servant’s clients.’

‘Clients,’ Hennessey sighed, ‘you mean a string of wealthy old ladies who seek male company of the manner that used to be enjoyed by them.’

‘Provide comfort and succour to those in need. . that’s what I do, Mr Hennessey.’

‘Living and dining with ladies who pick up the bill.’

‘And where is the crime in that, Mr Hennessey?’

‘None, none at all, not until you begin to tell them about the tin mine in Bolivia which could produce unheard-of riches and which needs some development money to get it into full production or the location of the treasure-laden ship which went down in a storm some centuries ago. . and would they like to invest in a little mining concern or a salvage venture with a guarantee of their money back plus at least fifty per cent? It’s then it becomes off side, very left field.’

‘But I am also of use to you, Mr Hennessey, am I not?. . great use.’

‘Which is why I am here.’ Hennessey glanced up at the frosted windows upon which was etched the legend ‘Sanders and Penn’s Fine Ales’, being a relic of the earlier days of The Speculation Inn when there was evidently a local brewery called ‘Sanders and Penn’.

‘Ah. .’ the man smiled. He drained his glass and pushed it across the highly polished, brass-topped table towards Hennessey.

‘Not so fast. Two nights ago a woman was found by the side of the canal. .’

‘I know,’ the man smiled.

‘You know? How? We haven’t released a press statement.’

‘Can’t keep a thing like that quiet, it’s not possible. The boys know, the boys in “the Den”; they know. Suspicious circumstances, the old jungle telegraph, the boys in the Den need to know things like that. . got to keep abreast of developments. Survival depends upon it.’

Hennessey sighed. ‘I imagine, but the reason why I have called here in the hope of finding you “at home”, as it were, is because the deceased, the victim, was not as clean as the driven snow herself, so we are discovering, quite a naughty lady. In fact you two would have made a very good team, you fleecing old ladies and she fleecing her gentlemen employers. What a duo you would have made.’

‘Really?’ There was a glint in the man’s eyes. ‘Now you tell me.’

‘She was a Canadian.’

‘Not Becky?’ Shored-Up looked genuinely saddened. ‘You don’t mean Becky?’

‘You know her?’

‘Becky the Canadian, black hair but liked to wear a blonde wig?’

‘Yes, sounds like her,’ Hennessey groaned, ‘and Becky is yet another alias, Julia and Edith being two others. Doubtless there will be more.’

‘Well, this is a small town, Mr Hennessey, and the brothers and sisters all know each other. . she gave her name as Becky Lecointe.’

Hennessey stood and walked to the serving hatch. He returned with another whisky and placed it in front of the man and said, ‘So, tell me what you know about Becky Lecointe.’

‘Well, she got to know the boys and girls in the Den.’

‘Being the taproom of The Mitre in Blossom Street?’

‘Might be. .’ The man picked up the glass of whisky and savoured the bouquet.

‘It is. . but carry on.’

‘Well, it explains why I drink in here at lunchtimes. I have to be discreet, you understand. It’s a long way from Blossom Street in York terms, and it also explains why sometimes I insist on meeting your good self out of town.’

‘I remember,’ Hennessey growled. ‘I can’t decide whether or not my abiding dislike for Rotherham is greater than my abiding dislike for Doncaster. . but thank you for introducing me to both towns. My life is enriched by the experiences of visiting both.’

‘Please,’ the man sipped his drink lovingly, ‘but it is necessary to be discreet, as I said. I play a dangerous game, Mr Hennessey, it’s part of the thrill and while we all will meet our maker I do not wish to bring that unique event upon me any sooner than I have to.’

‘That I can understand,’ and again pain ran deep within Hennessey’s chest, two shafts, one for Jennifer and one for Graham. ‘So. . in your own words. .’

‘The Canadian. . thief.’

‘Yes.’

‘Selling jewellery she’d half inched. She got a better price for it in the Den than in the pawnbrokers. Folk only do that if it’s half inched. If it’s theirs and they want it back then they pawn it. But she was interested only in getting all the cash she could. So it was pinched. Also a few wallets.’

‘She dipped?’

‘Oh yes. . a woman’s touch you understand, more adept at getting inside a man’s inside pocket.’

‘Strange we never got to know her. . she must have been good. . in a criminal sense of the word.’

‘The Canadian police do.’

‘Do they?’

‘So she said. She was anxious to return to Canada, she was unhappy in the UK. Me, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere but the UK, dare say she feels the same way about Canada, or felt the same, I should say. Home being home. . wherever the heart is an’ all that stuff.’

‘Yes.’ Hennessey glanced up at the frosted glass of The Speculation Inn. Through the areas of clear glass he saw dark clouds looming ominously and rapidly.

‘So she told us she was waiting until the heat died down before going back; it seems that for her it was a case of any port in a storm.’

‘I see.’ Hennessey sipped his drink. ‘Strange she found The Mitre.’

‘She was in the area for a good few months before she found us, but like always finds like. If you hang around any city long enough you’ll find your own kind. Story was that she needed a fence, someone to take the stolen stuff off her, and eventually she found The Mitre. She really was in a good way of business. She even turned windows. Very unusual for a woman, and a woman of her years as well.’

‘Turned windows!’

‘Yes, she was a most adept burglar. Most adept. Or she could con and would con and charm her way into an old person’s house. She had a calm manner and a ready smile. She also had an ID card.’

‘Of?’

‘A social worker. She had dipped a social worker, found his ID in his wallet and realizing its usefulness she had kept it. The photo was a clean shaven, dark-haired young male, but it was all that was needed to con a partially sighted elderly person desperate for company, as so many of them are. So she would get into the elderly person’s house, leave with something of value and unload it in the Den. She wanted cash. . only cash, as we all do. Wouldn’t take it to a jeweller who’d be suspicious, and they have CCTV in their shops. So it was either the Den or the pawnbroker but she preferred the Den. If she couldn’t sell it in the Den only then would she pawn it. I used to feel sorry for her husband, poor soul.’

‘Oh. .’ Hennessey sipped his tonic water. ‘Why?’

‘Well, he’s thinking he’s got a nice wife to come home to and all the while she’s roaming the Vale. . and out to the coast.’

‘The coast?’

‘Oh yes, where do you go when you retire but the coast? Lots of easy pickings on the coast.’ He sipped his whisky.

‘She was doing this recently?’

‘Last week. She did a house last week somewhere and had got herself a bag of gold and ice. It was all worth thousands but she sold it for hundreds.’

‘Some woman,’ Hennessey shook his head. ‘We think someone was looking for her. Do you know anything about that?’

‘Yes,’ the man leaned forwards, ‘she was a frightened woman. Someone was on her trail, hunting her, and she was frightened of him. The wig, you see, an attempt at disguise. She’d take it off in the Den but put it on when it was time to leave.’

‘Did she drink?’

‘No, well always only fruit juice. Never touched booze. Playing safe. Can’t be the dutiful wife, his to come home to, with breath smelling of booze.’

‘Astounding.’

‘Not a nice woman at all. Couldn’t trust her, even among thieves. It doesn’t surprise me at all that someone offed her. Does not surprise me at all. Not in the slightest.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me either.’ Hennessey glanced round the room, the hard bench which stood against the wall, the circular brass-topped tables with stools around them, low ceiling, no decoration at all, hardwearing floor surface. The Speculation had not ever been modernized, as if, it seemed to Hennessey, it was waiting to be discovered by the real ale real pub brigade. ‘Just who was she?’

The man shrugged and smiled and pushed his glass across the shiny brass surface of the table, holding a pleading manner of eye contact with Hennessey as he did so.

‘No more for you, Shored-Up, not from my pocket, but if you get a line on the fella that was looking for her, then contact me. If it’s good news you’ll get a serious wedge.’

‘And perhaps also a good word in for me with my probation officer, Miss Pratt? Oh my. . a tyrant. . what with her and the youth who informed on me. . my life is a trifle difficult at the moment.’

‘Maybe. The fella who was looking for Becky is also a Canadian, well built, chequered or tartan jacket, beard, fur hat, likes British beer. Strange that, stalking someone to kill them but finding time to enjoy the local beer as though he was on holiday.’ Hennessey stood. ‘But do try and get by on the dole. No more Lt Colonel Smythe (retired) of the Devon and Dorsets, or you’ll be back in the slammer. And you know how much you like all those rough boys.’

‘Too late for me to learn new skills, Mr H, far too late, I’m an old dog now.’

‘And keep your appointments with Miss Pratt.’

‘She’s a tyrant, still only in her twenties and a tyrant already.’

‘That,’ Hennessey buttoned his coat, ‘sounds exactly like the probation officer you need.’

The owner of the Broomfield Hotel smiled a warm, wide smile and opened the booking ledger. She was a small framed woman, dressed in a business suit and giving off a soft aroma of perfume. ‘Two rooms, gentlemen?’

‘No rooms,’ Yellich showed his ID. ‘Sorry,’ he added with a smile.

He thought the woman’s smile in response was forced. Business could not be good for the Broomfield Hotel, Malton. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

‘Well, it is a seasonal sort of business, winter is always a low time and this winter seems to be hanging on, quite reluctant to go. We get a few businessmen in the winter, that carries us through, or folk staying here while they are looking up relatives. So how can I help you?’ Mrs Stand continued to smile warmly.

‘We were told you recently put up a Canadian gentleman, tall man, beard, chequered or tartan jacket, seemed to like local beer. Quite recently. . a matter of days ago.’

‘Yes. . yes, we did. What would you like to know about him?’

‘All you can tell us.’

The dining room of the Broomfield Hotel was, said the proprietor, ‘as good a place as any to talk’ and she escorted them there. The room had ten tables; all the tables had white cloths and cutlery lay neatly in wooden trays upon a sideboard. The room smelled of furniture polish and air freshener. The world passed the room on the other side of net curtains.

‘Well, he came,’ said the woman as she and the officers sat at one of the larger tables. ‘His name. . can’t recall his last name but his first name was Piers. . he liked to be called Piers.’

‘Yes, the publican gave that name.’

‘He paid cash as I recall, so never any cheque or credit card, so I never found out his surname. Doubt if I would remember it if I did. . my memory. . it was never good and now it’s getting worse.’

‘You remember his Christian name though,’ Yellich spoke softly.

‘Only because Piers is a name that has personal significance for me. It’s my brother’s name.’

‘I see. So what sort, what manner of man was he?’

‘Well I remember he had a warm manner but his mind was focused. He was not here on holiday. He was one of those guests who stay here because he had a task to fulfil. He came here a few times over the years. First time must have been about two years ago. . last time was a few days ago, as you said. If you are in this business you remember the good guests and you remember the bad guests and you remember the regulars. You also get a feel for guests. I grew up in a guest house in the Lake District so I have been in this game one way or another all my life and you do get a feel. . and Piers was a man with a mission.’

‘He never said what that mission was?’ Yellich probed. ‘No indication even?’

‘No,’ the proprietor shook her head, ‘no, he played his cards close to his chest. Piers was a good guest, clean. . neat. . well spoken. . quiet. . reserved. He went out each morning and returned each evening with beer on his breath but his conduct was still perfect so he didn’t drink a lot. He was always in by ten which is when I lock the door. I can’t keep the door open all night like a big hotel can. I have a maid who helps but at night, in the evenings, I am by myself, I don’t even have a dog. I can’t retire for the night and leave the front door unlocked. That would be asking for trouble.’

‘Of course,’ Webster agreed, ‘that would be unwise. . even in civilized Malton.’

‘Do you know how he travelled about?’ Yellich asked.

‘Car.’

‘You didn’t get the registration number?’ Yellich asked hopefully.

The proprietor shook her head and smiled sheepishly as if to say, ‘sorry, no’.

‘So when did he leave this last time?’

‘See. . Thursday today, it would be Tuesday, Tuesday in the evening. Yes, my bridge night. I host a bridge school here each Tuesday and I remember that I had to leave the table to allow him to settle his bill. . so Tuesday. Definitely Tuesday, two evenings ago.’

‘You will have cleaned his room by now?’

‘Yes and re-let it but if you wish to inspect it to look for fingerprints or whatever, then please do so.’

‘Thank you, we’ll do that,’ Yellich nodded. ‘He might have left us a print on an obscure surface. Is the room being let out at the moment?’

‘No, the guest who had that room left this morning.’

‘Well, if you could keep it empty, the SOCO boys will be here tomorrow.’

‘SOCO?’

‘Scene of Crime Officers.’

‘Ah. . but yes, of course. I am quiet at the moment, as you have seen. . no problem about keeping one room un-let.’

‘Thank you. He didn’t leave any item, any possession behind him?’

‘No, sorry, he didn’t. Some guests leave their room looking like one large dustbin; just leave anything they don’t want and leave it anywhere they wish, floor. . on the bed. . anywhere, but Piers, he picked up after himself. He was one of the good guests. I could do with more like him.’

‘I see. Did he ever ask directions or seek local knowledge or any other information?’ Yellich asked.

‘No. . no. . Piers was very independent, very self-reliant. He did have a road map of the area, I saw him looking very studiously at it over breakfast one morning. But he never asked directions or where anything was, he was just the quiet Canadian who only spoke if he was spoken to. Quiet but also with a purpose, who cleaned up his room after him, paid in cash, and left.’

Hennessey grunted in response to the gentle and reverent tap on his office door. He glanced up and saw Carmen Pharoah standing at the door frame. He thought she looked worried. He said so.

‘Yes, sir,’ Carmen Pharoah entered the room and stood in front of Hennessey’s desk. She held a piece of paper in her hand. ‘I have contacted the Canadians, sir, to notify them of the death of Edith Hemmings nee Avrille, just to note them of her death; it is really up to her husband to notify the next of kin.’

‘Yes.’

‘But. .’ she sank unbidden on to the chair in front of Hennessey’s desk, ‘there is a lot more to this. .’

‘As we are finding out.’ Hennessey put down his pen with clear resignation and sat back in his chair. ‘Go on, tell me.’

‘Well, the upshot is that she is known to the Canadian police. . Edith Avrille, date of birth. . place of birth. . same woman. . also known as Lecointe.’

‘Oh, interesting.’

‘Well, she was known to the Canadian authorities. Just petty stuff a long time ago.’

‘Was?’ Hennessey’s eyebrows closed, his brow furrowed.

‘She died three years ago,’ Carmen Pharoah explained calmly. ‘Whoever it is who’s in the metal drawer at York District Hospital, it is not Edith Avrille.’

Reginald Webster drove home, taking the quieter, more picturesque B1222 from York via Stillingfleet and Cawood to Selby. He drove up to his house and pumped the horn twice followed by a single third blast. . one-two. . pause. . three. It was the long agreed signal between himself and Joyce. If the neighbours didn’t like it, none of them complained and he only ever used the signal during the day or early evening. Never at night when his neighbours would be abed. As he left the car, Joyce opened the door and smiled in his direction and allowed herself to be pushed aside by Terry as he darted out of the house to greet Webster. Webster walked up to the house with Terry and embraced his wife and she responded warmly and they closed the door behind the three of them.

Webster made the supper that evening, as was usual in the winter months, while his wife ran her fingers over the Braille book she was currently reading. She longed to cook for her husband but he was adamant, it was just far, far too dangerous for her to work with heat and boiling water. In the summer a well prepared salad was most welcome for him to come home to but in the winter, when hot food was needed, then he did the cooking, and did so at his insistence.

That evening he took Terry for his walk. The long-haired Alsatian was a happy dog, as are all dogs who have jobs to do, but guiding Joyce throughout the day was no substitute for exercise, and he needed his ‘off duty’ time to wander and explore the dense woodland close to where the Websters lived. Reginald Webster watched the lithe and placid dog as he wound his way in and out of the frost-covered landscape and again marvelled at his wife’s courage, facing her blindness with such stoicism. All the worse because at the time of the accident she had been studying fine art at university. She thought herself fortunate because, of the four people in the car that night, it was only she who had survived.

Humble.

Again, his wife made him feel very, very humble.

Thomson Ventnor drove home and changed into a lightweight Italian suit and a white overcoat. He took a bus to the outskirts of York and walked slowly up a long driveway to a large nineteenth century house and opened the front door. He was met with a blast of excessively warm air which he always thought could not possibly be healthy. He signed in the visitor book and climbed a wide, deeply carpeted stairway and entered a room in which a number of people sat, all still and quiet, apparently not interacting with each other at all. In one corner of the room a young woman gently moved an electric razor over the face of an elderly man. She and Ventnor nodded and smiled at each other. Another elderly man, seated in the opposite corner, grinned in recognition of Ventnor, but by the time Ventnor reached him, the man had retreated somewhere within his mind and all Ventnor could do was to sit beside him and say, ‘Hello, dad.’

Having stayed at the home for half an hour and talked to the staff about his father’s wellbeing, Ventnor left the building and took a bus into York. He wandered from pub to pub having a pint of beer in each and eventually fetched up at Caesar’s Night Club. He got into conversation with a woman who had forced herself into a dress that was too small and too short for her and had a trying-hard-to-be-nice smile. He thought she had the worn look of a retired lady of the night, or perhaps of someone trying to put something unpleasant behind her, but it was at least female company and she seemed interested in him. When the closing lights came on she said, ‘See you around?’

‘Yes,’ Ventnor replied, holding eye contact with her. ‘Don’t know when. I’m going to Canada tomorrow, don’t know when I’ll be back. . it’s an open-ended trip.’

‘Well, that’s a new one,’ she snorted as she grabbed her handbag and twisted off the bar stool to begin, on unsteady legs, to walk across the floor towards the exit sign.

‘It happens to be true’, he said to himself. ‘Only found out myself a few hours ago’.

It was Friday, 02.00 hours.