EQMM, December 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  She and Miles and Cameron, all now in their early forties. She, until she recovered the memory, had been a fulfilled and privileged woman, and all three had remained in the Vale. McKay Electronics was Cameron's contribution to the micro-technology boom, and Trewlawney, Wells, and Isles was a feared firm of solicitors, and had acted for one of her husband's patients when he had tried, unsuccessfully, to sue for medical negligence. The headed notepaper described Miles Trewlawney as one of the “senior partners."

  She began to return to the wood. When they had left the wood that day dawn had broken and they had sat, the three of them, side by side in a stunned silence, in Cameron's Land Rover. She remembered the journey back to the Trewlawney house, white-painted, standing in its own grounds, and so twenty years later, she had little difficulty retracing the route to the vicinity of the wood. The next step was to visit each small wood and copse in the location until she found one marked Private Wood—Keep Out which she found with ease. In the wood she located the spot where Norbert had been buried. She began to revisit the wood, near twice weekly, drawn by some horrific fascination, drawn as she had read all murderers are to the scene of their crime, over and over again. But that Monday, blisteringly hot, the first Monday in August, the wood was different. Not standing in isolation as usual, with no activity about it, it had now become a focus of much activity.

  Police activity.

  Harriet Cooper drove on, but she knew that from that moment her life was effectively over.

  * * * *

  2.

  —In which Chief Inspector Hennessey takes charge.

  George Hennessey woke with the sun, as he found he often did, early rising in the summer, rising on time but with difficulty in the deep midwinter. He dressed, went downstairs, breakfasted, let Oscar romp in the rear garden of his house. He propped the main back door open but locked the grille with its dog flap so that Oscar could come and go as he pleased during the day. He drove from Thirsk across flat country to York, to Micklegate Bar Police Station, and was at his desk by 8:30 A.M. He had then driven to Northallerton and the headquarters of the North Yorkshire Police to attend the monthly chief-inspector meeting. He returned to York for lunch to be informed that Sergeant Yellich required his attendance at a location to the east of the city. “Body discovered, sir,” the uniformed officer said. “Shallow-grave job, I believe.” Hennessey forwent lunch.

  "Gentleman here found it, skipper.” Yellich indicated Schofield, who stood with his metal detector, looking pleased with himself “Or rather his metal detector did."

  Hennessey glanced at the screen, which encircled a small area of the wood. “Who's here?"

  "Dr. D'Acre, skipper."

  Hennessey nodded and walked to the screen, opened the flap, and stepped inside. Louise D'Acre, slender, short hair, slightly greying, knelt over the body in the shallow grave, by now completely uncovered. She glanced up at Hennessey and then she looked down at the body again. “Young male,” she said, “early twenties, short and slight of build, distinctive red hair, there's a few strands remaining. He sustained a massive blow to the back of the head. That would have killed him, if we assume he wasn't already dead."

  "Already dead?"

  "Well, we can't rule out the possibility yet that he was poisoned or strangled or suffocated, and the blow to the head was just to make sure. Or if he had been suffocated his body might have been dropped headfirst from a high place to make it look as though he fell to his death, but I doubt that will prove to be the case.” She stood and peeled off her latex gloves. “No point in burying him then, is there?"

  "Point taken."

  "There were some possessions buried with him."

  "Were there indeed?"

  "Beyond the screen."

  Hennessey stepped out from the screen to where Yellich stood. “Items found with the body?"

  "Here, skipper."

  Yellich bent down and picked up a production bag. One rucksack, a few things from its pockets, one of which—he delved into the bag and brought out a small clearer bag of cellophane—had contained an ID card. “Norbert Parkes, a member of the National Union of Students, least he was twenty years ago. University of York.” He handed the cellophane sachet to Hennessey, who pondered the photograph. A thin-faced youth with striking red hair, the ID card clearly having been preserved by the thick plastic wallet it was held in, and the Terylene of the rucksack, and twelve inches of soil to keep out the sun's rays and the frost's damage.

  "Get on to the university, please, Yellich, get an address of one of their students of twenty years past ... you know the name."

  "He's in a meeting."

  "Tell him it's personal and urgent."

  The phone line clicked and the “Blue Danube Waltz” played, reached the end of the tune, then started again.

  "McKay!” The voice was angry, ill-tempered.

  "It's Harriet Cooper."

  "I don't know a Harriet Cooper. I'm in an important meeting, I have to get back to it."

  "Harriet ... ‘Hat’ ... ‘Hat’ Sewell."

  A pause.

  "Hat..."

  "Cameron, they've found Norbert's body."

  A sigh. A longer pause.

  "Cameron..."

  "Yes, I'm still here. We've got to meet."

  "Yes."

  "I'll phone Miles."

  "Are you still in touch with him?"

  "No. Not since that day."

  "I only recently remembered doing it."

  "I never forgot it, not a single day goes by ... but ... When is a good time to phone?"

  "Midafternoon but not at weekends. My husband's a doctor, this will ruin him. I've got two children at school."

  "I've got a business worth three million pounds which will sink if I

  don't stay at the helm. And three children. And a wife."

  "What are we going to do? But we owe Norbert. We owe his family."

  "Nothing. Do nothing. If in doubt, do nothing. I'll phone you at home. You'd better let me have your number."

  * * * *

  The university registrar provided the police with Norbert Parkes's address as recorded by them. It was in Bridlington. Hennessey and Yellich drove there. The address proved to be on small-hotel land, near the beach, tall, thin terraced houses with names like “Seaview,” “Holmlea,” and “Morevilla.” Many had No Vacancies signs in the window, attesting to the busy August period, when the coal mines and steelworks in the industrial north close for two or three weeks, the “stop weeks” for maintenance when the steel workers and miners take their families to “Brid” for a fortnight and stay at “Seaview” or “Holmlea” or “Morevilla": bed, breakfast, and evening meal.

  The address provided by the university, specifically, was 147, Cannaby Terrace. Hennessey and Yellich parked their car as close as they could and then walked to 147, along the terrace, savouring the sea air, the smell of fish, and the glimpse of the blue North Sea, upon which, a long way out, a white ship sailed northwards. 147 was called “Sandene” and had cockleshells cemented to the stone gateposts and also a No Vacancies sign in the window. Hennessey and Yellich stepped up to the front door and rang the bell. Half an hour later the worst was over.

  "They wouldn't sell the hotel in case Norbert returned.” Thomas Parkes, a heavily jowled man, remained to speak to Hennessey and Yellich after Mrs. Parkes had left the house tearfully to go to their church to light a candle, and Mr. Parkes had excused himself to be by himself for a while. “They retired about ten years ago. Their living room is in the basement, their bedroom is in the attic, the middle bit of the house was the guests’ area, all gone a bit musty now as you see."

  "What did you know of your brother's last movements?"

  "Movements or moments?"

  "Movements."

  "Pleased you said that.” Thomas Parkes forced a smile. “Because of his last moments, I know nothing. I don't want to know anything. But at least now the waiting is over. Now we bury him. Say goodbye properly. Last time I saw Norbert h
e was off to visit some university friends. He'd just graduated, not a good class of degree, but he could use it and said that he'd been invited to help sit a house."

  "Sit a house?"

  "As in babysitting. Live in a house while the occupants are away so as to keep the property occupied to deter burglars."

  "I see. You don't know where that was or whose house?"

  "I don't. Norbert only had one friend at university. It wasn't a good experience for him. He was out of his depth, intellectually and socially. Didn't get acceptance, always a bit of a hanger-on."

  "You saw that?"

  "No ... just things he said. Messages he gave out. When he visited home he always caught the last train back. Sometimes he managed to miss that and had an extra night at home ... messages like that. I went to teacher training college, less taxing, not as pukka.... I got on better for that. Norbert would have been better going to a teacher training college, more his level. Less of a bad experience for him. He came away using an expression ... ‘take life easy’ ... which irritated me."

  "It would irritate me too.” Hennessey glanced out of the grimy window which looked out to the rear of the house and to the backs of the houses which lined the next street.

  "He had no confidence. Ask him what he was going to do with his degree and he'd say he was going to ‘take life easy for a while.’ He allowed it to enter his thinking and it was an excuse for doing nothing. He was like a hippie from the 1960s but without the culture: ‘laid back’ all by himself, but it was a reaction to a lack of confidence. So the body, it's definitely Norbert?"

  "More than likely. Your description fits the description given by the pathologist, Dr. D'Acre, of the body as it would have been in life. The N.U.S. ID card was found in the rucksack."

  "I remember his rucksack, a red one."

  "Sounds like it is he. The dental check will confirm it. You'll be able to let us have the name of Norbert's dentist?"

  "Mr. Vere, Station Terrace, Bridlington."

  Yellich wrote the name and address in his notebook.

  "And Norbert's friend?"

  "Fella called Joe. Joe Patterson. I have Norbert's address book upstairs, if that would help you."

  "Ideal.” Hennessey smiled. “Ideal."

  * * * *

  3.

  —In which a man of the cloth provides three names and the police decide to rattle a cage or two.

  The only “Joe” in the address book was deemed to be Joseph Patterson. The phone number beside the name was twenty years old but was rung nonetheless. It proved to be the number of Joe's mother, who provided the police with “dear Joseph's” present address, in Harrogate. One hour later Hennessey and Yellich knocked on his door.

  "Oh, Norbert.” Joe Patterson had invited the police officers through the pleasant chaos of his house—wife, children, dog, cat, hamsters—to the sanctity and the tranquility of his study. “He didn't have an easy time of it. It's difficult to be accepted if you're not particularly bright, don't have a perceptible personality, don't come from the middle classes."

  "Which was Norbert Parkes?"

  "As you say.” Patterson sat back, wearing his clerical collar and smooth-front, buttonless shirt. “He had nothing to offer, basically that was his problem—no image, no academic skills, no interest outside the course that he could talk about or that would give an aspect to himself. He wanted to belong, as we all do, but had nothing to offer as a means of gaining acceptance. So he became a bit of a hanger-on."

  "Do you remember your social circle at the university?"

  "Oh, like yesterday. Let me see. I suppose the leader of the group was Miles Trewlawney, came from a well-established legal family in the Vale of York. He had a real down on Norbert, gave him a hard time, resented people like Norbert attending the university. He was a real snob. I didn't take to him, but I did like ‘Hat’ Sewell, Harriet to give her her full name, and a Scots lad called Cameron McKay. I was accepted by them, and Norbert latched on to me. And we socialised together throughout the three years of the course, with Norbert ‘taking life easy’ all the time."

  "That's an expression we've heard before today."

  "It was Norbert's catch phrase. His excuse for not applying himself. He'd ‘dropped out’ without ever really having ‘dropped in.’ I don't know the full extent of his home circumstances, his growing up, but he wasn't equipped for life. The over-indulged younger son, perhaps? I don't know. But university was a shock when he found he wasn't the centre of attention and that he was expected to work for his grades. A bit ‘disabled’ in a sense. I suppose that's why I allowed him to latch on to me."

  "The last time you saw him?"

  "After graduation. The last time I heard of him, though, was when I was invited to help Miles house-sit his parents’ house. He phoned me up and added with a snigger that Norbert would be there. I declined. I knew Miles Trewlawney, I knew his invitation to Norbert was only so as to show Norbert what he was missing in terms of quality of lifestyle and to have him there as the butt of all jokes and patronising comments. And I also thought I'd done enough for Norbert. That was the summer after graduation, twenty years ago. How time flies."

  Driving back to York, Hennessey asked Yellich to prepare a press release, stating that the body discarded in the wood in the Vale of York “is believed to be that of Norbert Parkes, who disappeared, aged twenty-one years, twenty years ago."

  "That,” said Hennessey, “ought to rattle a cage."

  "Or two,” added Yellich, keeping his eyes on the road.

  * * * *

  4.

  TUESDAY

  —In which three well-set, middle-class felons learn the meaning of Dame Agatha Christie's observation that “the past casts long shadows."

  Harriet Cooper noted with distaste how overweight Miles Trewlawney had grown and was impressed with how youthful and slender Cameron McKay had remained, despite his wealth. They had arranged the meeting at short notice, a rapid ringing-round, a meeting place had been agreed as being the car park behind the Rising Sun, a pub they used to drive out to in their student days. The three had arrived within five minutes of each other. She in the modest Ford, her family's second car, Cameron McKay had a Mercedes Benz, and Miles, of course, had a Rolls Royce. They approached each other, nodding sheepishly. This was not the sort of joyful, hugging, hand-shaking reunion that they might have envisaged having when in their youth.

  "It was on the mid-evening news last night,” Harriet Cooper said.

  "I heard it, too.” Cameron McKay nodded. “Believed to be Norbert Parkes. It's only a matter of time before they confirm identity. I read they can match dental records because teeth don't decay, well, not like flesh. I mean that..."

  "We know what you mean,” Miles Trewlawney cut him off.

  "We've got to go to the police.” Harriet Cooper was urgent, agitated. “Make a clean breast of it."

  "No.” Trewlawney avoided eye contact. “There'll be no police."

  "Thought you might say that, Miles.” Cameron McKay glanced coldly at him. “You've more to lose than we have. And further from grace to fall, not only your position, but your family's hard-earned reputation in the Vale. What are you, third generation in the firm?"

  "Fifth, actually. Well, fifth in the family. Third since we amalgamated

  with Wells and Isles and Co."

  "Don't get off the point,” Harriet Cooper snapped. “You're looking at life, Cameron, and I ... much, much less ... perverting the course of justice..."

  "Accessory to murder.” Trewlawney raised his eyebrows. “We're all looking at serious time."

  "Accessory...” Cameron McKay's voice trailed off. “Are you sure?"

  "I am a solicitor."

  "You're also motivated to frighten us into silence."

  "There's nothing to link us to the murder.” Trewlawney spoke slowly. “Nothing. The police investigation will peter out. It has to, they're thinly stretched. In a few days’ time there'll be another murder, much fresher, and the file o
n Norbert will be put in a drawer to gather dust. We're all about halfway through our life expectancy, we've kept quiet for twenty years, if we can keep quiet for another forty, we'll have got away with it."

  "You see, that's the point, Miles.” Harriet Cooper spoke in the way she only wished she could have spoken to Miles Trewlawney at the time. “I don't know whether I want to get away with it."

  "Ah...” Trewlawney pulled his shoulders back. “Don't go soft on me, Harriet. Not after all this time."

  "Actually, it's not after all this time, it's only a month ago, in a sense. I buried the memory, you see. It's very fresh for me. It belongs to yesterday."

  "And your husband? And your children?"

  "Do you think I haven't thought of them? But what about Norbert's family? They have a right to know what happened to their son."

  The conversation fell away into silence as a young man walked past them to his car. Then Cameron McKay asked, “Did anyone know where Norbert was? Who else knows he was at the house at the time?"

  "Well, he couldn't have told his parents because he didn't know the address."

  "That's right,” Cameron McKay said softly. “I remember I picked him up at York Station in my Land Rover. The ‘Great Green Land Crab,’ I called it."

  There was a lull in the conversation, then Harriet Cooper said, “Joe Patterson, he knew. He phoned me and asked me if I was going to Miles's parents’ house for a few days. I said I was. He said he was undecided but he probably wouldn't because he was tired of protecting Norbert."

  "You've got a good memory,” Trewlawney sneered.

  "Like I said, for me it's like it happened yesterday."

  "But it means Joe Patterson can put Norbert at Miles's house at the time he disappeared. It's all they need."

  "No, that and a confession, perhaps. But that alone won't be enough to convict."