Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017

Bad Bargain Lane by Peter Turnbull

Author of more than forty novels, most of them mysteries or police procedurals, Peter Turnbull is also a prolific short-story writer and a winner of the Edgar Allan Poe Award for best short story, or “The Man Who Took His Hat Off to the Driver of the Train” (EQMM 3–4/11). He joins us this month with another case in his popular Hennessey and Yellich series.

The house had gone comfortably beyond being a little of a local eyesore to be tolerated and had achieved the status of being a well-known landmark. “Turn left at the house with the overgrown garden” might, for example, be the advice given to a stranger seeking directions. The house itself, brick-built and solid, was not particularly old, being built in the nineteen thirties as part of the suburban development of York between the two world wars. It was a detached property and occupied a position on the corner of the main road where a narrower road led into a housing development which dated from the nineteen sixties. The houses amid which it stood were proudly upkept by their owners, all amidst lovingly tended gardens. In complete contrast, the house on the corner was badly neglected, with many tiles missing from the roof, with paint sufficiently faded and peeling that it revealed natural wood beneath, and an elderly Jaguar, once a prestigious motorcar, had been allowed to decay in the driveway beside the house, helped on its way by local youths who had smashed the windscreen in an act of wanton vandalism, running away into the night thinking the act was a huge joke. The house had been the home of two elderly men, a father and son, both of whom had retreated from life but had been sustained by a reasonable income from an unknown source, a pension or an estate, which paid money into an account on a month-by-month basis. No one knew the details, and their only caller was the postman, who fought his way up their drive through the overgrown shrubbery to deliver their mail, which never consisted of anything but unsolicited junk mail and fuel bills. Then, one autumn, both men had died, one after the other. It was rumoured that the son had gone first and the father had simply lost the will to live, but when the police forced entry following calls from concerned neighbours, who had reported the house lights not being switched on for three consecutive nights, both men had been found deceased, with no suspicious circumstances, both sitting in armchairs opposite each other in a cluttered living room. The house had then been cleared upon council orders (no will having been found), any valuable items auctioned, and any money raised put into a trust fund together with the money obtained when the house was sold on the open market, to be kept until such time as a next-of-kin was found, or approached the local authority. The house drew interest from potential buyers attracted by the low price and also from those who had building skills and time to restore the house and bring out the best in it. It was run-down, neglected, but free of damp and rot and was structurally sound.

A man called John Batty bought the house, paying over the price he had hoped to obtain it for, but the bidding was fierce. He did, however, think he had acquired the property for a reasonable price; it was certainly larger and in a more prestigious location than he could have afforded had it been in a move-in condition. The house had been thoroughly cleaned within, but Batty decided to fully rid any infestation by building a fire within the house. He laid a bed of bricks on the floorboards which in turn had been laid on a sheet of metal. He then built up a high “chimney” of bricks to contain any flame, into which he placed a bedding of paper, then a layer of kindling and then a large lump of coal. He had then ignited the paper. The resulting fire burned for four hours and filled every room, every nook and cranny from basement to rafters, with smoke. “You can,” he argued, “buy all the modern cleaning agents you like but nothing beats fumigation. Nothing at all.” He and his wife set about decorating the home, whilst a firm of gardeners addressed the outside of the property. It was in the spring that Batty began to “polish” the garden, as he put it. The gardeners had reduced all shrubs and trees to a manageable height and had also reduced the grass, which was three feet high in places, to some semblance of lawns. The old wooden garage had been torn down and removed and a new concrete garage had been erected in its place. It was an area of ten feet by four feet behind the garage which John Batty decided would become a small kitchen garden. One Saturday morning he commenced work with a spade, turning over the soil, which had not been turned in many, many years. He was focussed on the task and did not notice the woman.

“I’ve been watching you,” she said.

Batty looked up. The young woman stood on the pavement which was separated from the property by a privet hedge, by then a manageable four feet in height. The woman cut a striking figure, long black hair, loud red lipstick, possibly, he thought, the brightest red that lipstick could be. She wore a black coat with a high collar which was turned up and encased the back and side of her head. She wore a black dress and around her neck there was heavy metalled jewellery.

“You’ve been watching me?” Batty dug the spade into the ground and stood upright. He was pleased to have the excuse to stop work. He already knew that that evening he would be stiff from his labours.

“Yes.” The young woman held eye contact with Batty. She spoke in a soft local accent. “I watched you moving in and I wondered if you’d dig where you are digging or leave it grassed over.”

“Oh...?” Batty replied curiously.

“That’s where they were buried, you see,” the woman spoke calmly. “I saw them being buried.”

“Them?” Batty queried.

“The bones. Don’t go down too deep, or you’ll disturb them. They should stay where they are.” The woman then turned and walked away and John Batty was never to see her again. He watched her go, and when she crossed the road and he saw her full-length figure, he noticed that her coat hung down to her ankles and that her feet were encased in heavy, black footwear. She walked away calmly without a fault in her step or a backward glance.

John Batty carried on digging. An observer would see a man content and focussed on his garden, but the encounter had unnerved him. He dug deeper than he normally would have in order to create a small patch of land set aside for the cultivation of carrots and potatoes and onions and in doing so, he turned up a bone. Then another. He could not identify them and he thought them to be animal bones of the type given to dogs. He carried on digging, having laid the bones on one side and the then encountered something round, which when he dug around it, transpired to be a skull.

A human skull.

Batty drove the spade into the soil and walked calmly into his house and dialled three nines, and requested the police. Upon hearing him, his wife turned from the kitchen sink and looked curiously at him. It was her practise to “blitz” the washing up, allowing a day’s dishes to accumulate rather than wash up after each meal. Her practise was not to his taste, but she ran the house and she always ensured the dirty plates and dishes and cutlery were kept immersed so the flies were not attracted. He glanced at her as he spoke. He thought she cut a pleasing figure with a mountain of washing up to work through. “They’ve been there for years... yes, of course.” He hung up the phone. He sat and tugged at the laces of his working boots. He glanced up at his wife, “It’s as you heard,” he said, “and we are not to go near them. There’ll be no more gardening done today.”

“We must have the garden blessed,” his wife replied calmly. “When it’s all over, we must have the garden blessed. I have seen the vicarage... it’s near here. I’ll go and see the vicar.”

“And the house,” John Batty began to untie the laces of his other shoe. “I don’t have any bad feelings about this house, but if something awful happened under this roof... then we must have the house blessed as well as the garden.”

“Of course.” His wife then quietly returned her attention to the washing up.

John Batty opened the door in response to the classic police officer’s knock, tap... tap......tap. Detective Chief Inspector Hennessey and Detective Sergeant Yellich introduced themselves and showed their IDs. Batty told the officers where they would find the bones and then told them about the woman. “Strangely dressed female,” he said. “I have not seen her before but then my wife and I are new to this neighbourhood.”

“Strangely dressed,” Hennessey replied. “How so?”

“All in black, long black coat, bright red lipstick.”

“A Goth,” Yellich advised. “Sounds like a Goth.”

“Well, whatever, but she knew about the bones. She knew what I would find... if I dug deep enough. I found two bones, then the skull. Then I stopped digging. I could not identify the bones as human, but the skull looked human enough. I teach mathematics. I’m no doctor, but the skull looks human.”

“I’ll go and check.” Yellich turned and walked to where Batty had told the officers the bones would be found.

“I must say you are transforming this house.” Hennessey smiled approvingly.

“You knew it as it was before we bought it?”

“I think all of York knew it.” Hennessey grinned. “It was a bit of a landmark. Who lived here?”

“Father and son by the name of Parkes... both deceased of natural causes.”

“I see, so we won’t be questioning them about the bones.”

Yellich returned and nodded to Hennessey. “Looks human to me, sir.”

“Very well.”

Yellich plunged his hand into his overcoat and took out his mobile phone. He requested the attendance of the Home Office pathologist, four constables, and Scene of Crime officers. “On their way, sir.”

“All we can do is wait.” Hennessey glanced around him. He saw a pleasant, well-set suburb under a blue, spring sky with a few white clouds at a medium altitude.

“Tea?” Batty asked. “I’m afraid we don’t have any sugar.”

“Ideal.” Hennessey smiled. “Thank you.”

Dr. Louise D’Acre, short-haired, slender, in her mid forties, exited the inflatable tent which had been placed over the area where the bones had been found. “Two cow bones,” she said. “I think the two bones are from a cow; they’re not human but the skull is... and it’s attached to a complete skeleton of a child of about ten years, a male child.”

“A child?” Hennessey sighed.

“Yes... sadly... but recent, late twentieth, early twenty-first dental work is evident,” Dr. D’Acre advised.

“Slater and Riddle,” Yellich announced, “those two ten-year-old boys who disappeared about ten years ago now... remember, sir...?”

“Yes.” Hennessey nodded. “Thomas Slater and his friend... Harry Riddle. Their bikes were found near their homes, but the two boys had vanished. I remember the search... we looked everywhere but there was not a trace... it was as if they were abducted by aliens.”

“On Bad Bargain Lane,” Yellich said. “Strange name for a road... there has to be a story... but that’s for another time.”

“Can you drive out to the boys’ parents, please,” Hennessey addressed Yellich. “Let them know that we have found the remains of a boy who is about the age that Thomas and Harry were when they disappeared. I’ll hang on here.”

Somerled Yellich drove slowly down Bad Bargain Lane. He stopped outside the address of Thomas Slater’s parents, which showed itself to be an interwar vintage house. He walked up the narrow path and knocked reverently on the door, using the highly polished brass knocker. It was opened rapidly upon his knock. Yellich showed his ID to Mr. Slater and explained the reason for his visit.

Inside the house, Yellich saw it to be neatly kept, smelling gently of wood polish. Mr. Maurice Slater was a tall man, with an angular face.

“We’ll be able to use his dental records to determine the identity,” Yellich advised.

“It will be Thomas or Harry. Those two boys were inseparable in life... I am sure they’ll be found close together.” Maurice Slater sat back in his chair. “Now we’ll have a grave to visit... ‘We’ as in my wife and I and also ‘we’ as in the Riddles. I will go and visit the Riddles; I think we will want the boys buried side by side... separate funerals but adjacent graves. Any idea who did it?”

“None.”

“It was the Beadales,” Maurice Slater said matter-of-factly, “... one or both.”

“The Beadales?”

“Bad family two doors down.” Maurice Slater indicated in the direction towards the Tang Hall Estate. The police had questioned them at the time.

“Why do you think it was them?” Yellich asked.

“Because the boys disappeared one summer’s evening, and a few days later, when it was certain some harm had come to them, I was out in my back garden and my wife was wailing in her grief in the bathroom and the sound carried out and across the gardens and Wayne Beadale... I think it was Wayne, was standing in their garden and he smirked at the sound my wife was making. He didn’t know I was there, you see.”

“Smirked?” Yellich queried.

“Yes, the sort of smirk that says I know something that you don’t know,” Slater explained.

“That’s interesting,” Yellich spoke softly. “That is very interesting. Did you report it?”

“Yes, the police were very good and they noted my observation but said that they needed more than my observation to arrest them. I didn’t mention it to the Riddles, though.” Slater spoke coldly. “Harry Riddle’s father Ronnie... he’s a man with a fiery temper. If he knew about that smirk, he’d go round and shoot them... he’s got a shotgun... fully licensed... he works as a gamekeeper, you see.”

“I see,” Yellich replied.

“He doesn’t keep the gun at home, it’s under lock and key in his gamekeeper’s hut, but he can access it. This has got to be done properly... but that’s a bad family,” Slater added, “a very bad family.”

“The Beadales?” Yellich clarified.

“Yes.” Maurice Slater drummed his fingers on the armchair in which he sat. “The boys’ father was a heavy-handed thug and the child-welfare people were always taking the children into care, the two twins Wayne and Shane... and then returning them and taking them away again. They grew up brutalised... a right pair of bandits. You know them well. Then the youngest boy was born and shortly afterwards, the old man was killed, he was found battered to death in the middle of the Tang Hall Estate. He trod on too many toes, if you ask me... and the mother brought the young boy up, just doted on him... turned him into a mother’s boy, she even gave him a girl’s name.”

“A girl’s name?” Yellich gasped.

“Francis,” Slater explained. “Francis with an ‘i’ is male, with an ‘e’ it’s female.”

“I see.” Yellich nodded. “Yes... I see what you mean.”

“My wife and I were always adamant that we would avoid those names, such as Lesley or Leslie... but Francis Beadale is a whiney, complaining boy of seventeen now who wants his own way and whose mother lets him have his own way... and he’s in trouble with the law now, he’s in the young offenders’ institution in Doncaster. He won’t be liking that. He won’t be liking that at all.”

“You seem to know the family well?” Yellich observed.

“We live just two doors apart, as I have just said,” Slater explained. “We don’t associate with them, but you see and hear things. You get to know a lot over the years.”

“I will go and call on Mr. and Mrs. Riddle.” Yellich stood. “They will have to be told about the discovery.”

“Yes,” Slater also stood, “but don’t tell him that I saw one of the Beadale twins smirking. That won’t be fair on him.”

“I won’t.” Yellich nodded. “As you say, this has to be done correctly.”

“It’s a positive match.” Louise D’Acre held up the dental records and once again examined the teeth in the skull. She glanced across the pathology laboratory of the York District Hospital to where D.C.I. George Hennessey stood. “It’s Harold Riddle... the remains of.”

“We’ll return to the house tomorrow,” Hennessey replied. “We’ll take sniffer dogs... see what else the garden is hiding.”

“Or who.” Louise D’Acre placed the dental records back in the folder. “Or who it is hiding.”

“We know it was you,” Hennessey snarled.

“Oh?” Wayne Beadale sneered. “Really?” He was well built.

“Yes, really.” Yellich, sitting beside Hennessey and directly opposite Wayne Beadale, added, “You’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.”

“That’s coercion.” Tony Last of Last and Grimes, Solicitors, looked reproachfully at Yellich.

“It’s true, though...” Yellich mused. “You’ll sleep better with it all off your chest.”

“I sleep just fine as it is.” Wayne Beadale turned to Tony Last and winked at him. Last did not respond. Beadale turned his attention back to Hennessey and Yellich. “I like it on the outside. I’m as free as a breeze. So from now on it’s ‘no comment’ to every question you ask me.”

Hennessey and Yellich walked from Interview Room 1 to Interview Room 2, where Shane Beadale sat with his solicitor. Shane Beadale proved to be identical to Wayne Beadale in every respect, in appearance and attitude, revealing himself to be, as Yellich sourly described him, “another no-comment merchant.”

“It’s an old road.” Somerled Yellich sat on the settee next to his wife. “It’s mentioned in the Doomsday Book, makes the road about one thousand years old... but it was renamed in the Victorian era when someone bought a parcel of land at one side of the lane during a period of drought and when the rains eventually returned he found out that he’d bought a swamp...”

“Ah...” His wife rested her head on his shoulder. “Hence Bad Bargain Lane. Not as intriguing as I had hoped, but interesting.”

“He was just a smug, self-satisfied, no-comment merchant, as Somerled Yellich said.” The man swilled the mulled Rioja around his glass. “We have no evidence at all which links them to the boys’ murder, and they know it.”

“Just the body,” the woman replied. “At least that’s something... the parents know what happened and they have a grave to visit. It’s better than not knowing.”

“Yes...” the man sipped his wine, “that is something.”

“Will you be looking for the young Goth woman?”

“Very definitely. Very, very definitely. She knew the body was buried where it was found. She has a story to tell.”

Louise D’Acre inclined her head to one side. “It’s gone quiet up there... no patter of tiny feet... shall we go up?”

“Yes.” George Hennessey placed the empty glass on the low table. “Yes... let’s go up.”

Dr. D’Acre emerged from the white inflatable tent at the foot of the garden, and once again she peeled off her latex gloves as she did so. “Yes,” she looked solemnly at Hennessey, “it’s another male child... about ten years old.”

From within their kitchen Mr. and Mrs. Batty stood side by side watching the developments in their garden. Mrs. Batty said, “We will definitely get this house blessed. What on earth went on here?”

“I don’t know,” John Batty replied, “but I still have no bad feelings about the house itself... it still feels a warm building... I feel that whatever happened all happened outside, nothing happened under the roof.”

“Three children that I know of, but Lauren Sullivan says there are more.”

“Lauren Sullivan,” Hennessey asked, “who’s she?”

“She’s a real Goth. She goes to vampire parties in the ruins of Whitby Abbey on the top of the cliff... where Dracula arrived in England in the form of a big dog.”

“Yes, I know the story,” Hennessey growled. “So where will we find her?”

“She’s got a record for shoplifting; you’ll have her address in your files. She’s about twenty years old now.”

“All right, we’ll go and talk to her. So what can you tell us?”

“We were in the van, my brothers were in the front, Shane was driving... me and Lauren were in the back. We were up the top end of Bad Bargain Lane, fly-tipping some old worn-out tyres, when Shane saw the two boys and called them over. We knew Thomas because he was a neighbour, and he recognised us and came over... no one was about... no houses at the top end of the lane. Shane grabbed Thomas Slater and Wayne grabbed the other boy and just murdered them. No words, no plan... they just did it. My brothers are like that... they even say the same thing at the same time, like two bodies are sharing the same brain. So they took all the boys’ clothes off when they had strangled them and burnt them, burned the clothing, I mean... then, at night, they went to this house with an overgrown garden and buried them there, in the back garden. Shane said that if the two old men who lived there heard something they’d still be too frightened to come out. So that’s what they did and me and Lauren Sullivan watched them and Lauren was saying ‘wicked... wicked...’ and clapping her hands, ‘this is so wicked.’ ”

Hennessey paused. “You mentioned a third victim?”

“A little girl,” Francis Beadale spoke calmly, “about a year later. She was called Rose... Rose was her surname.”

“Anne Rose!” Yellich gasped. “Your brothers murdered her? We never linked her disappearance to the disappearance of Thomas Slater and Harry Riddle,” Yellich explained to Hennessey. “It was a long way out of York, and her clothing was left in a posed position... neatly placed along a footpath... each item exactly ten feet from the next item, a different victim profile... different M.O.”

“Yes,” Hennessey replied softly, “I remember that case.”

“Me and Lauren were with Shane and Wayne when they took that little girl and strangled her. They buried her near the coast. I can take you right there; I can show you where to dig.”

“Your conscience getting the better of you, is it, Francis?” Yellich spoke in a despairing tone.

“Nope...” Francis Beadale shrugged his shoulders. “I was seven years old; Lauren was about ten... there’s nothing on my conscience.”

“So why help us?”

“I want something in return,” Francis Beadale smiled.

“What,” Hennessey asked, “what can we do to help you?”

“Get the charges against me dropped...”

Hennessey sighed. “You’re in here for six months for receiving stolen property... and you’re prepared to give information which will get your own brothers sent down for three life sentences, just to get out of a six-month period of custody? Your own brothers...”

“Yes... I don’t like it in here; I want to go home to my mum... She looks after me and lets me do things. Here I have to do gym, and I have to get up in the morning, and I don’t get to say what I want to eat... but my mum lets me stay in bed and lets me eat what I want to eat. If I say I want fish and chips for supper, I get fish and chips for supper... and if my brothers are away it means there’s just me and my mum in the house.”

Hennessey and Yellich both sank back in their chairs. Hennessey looked into the eyes of the smiling Francis Beadale.

He thought it was like looking into two bottomless pits.

© 2017 by Peter Turnbull