Fear of Drowning

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘So can I, Yellich. Daresay I’d do the same if I was in her position. Right. Ask her when she last saw her parents, ask her if the name Sheringham, possibly Tim Sheringham, means anything to her, ask her if she knows of any enemies her parents might have and ask her for a contact phone number.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  Hennessey listened as Yellich put the questions and the request to Nicola Williams. Yellich listened and then said, ‘Yes, of course we’ll let you know of any developments.’ He replaced the phone and joined Hennessey in the dining room. ‘Well, sir, she last saw her parents on Sunday. She said goodbye to both of them and drove to London. She confirms that her brother had left the house by then.’

  ‘So she saw both of them. By the time she was ready to leave, her father had crawled groggily out of bed with a bad head.’

  ‘It would appear so, sir. She left at about three p.m. That would be their last sighting. She knows Tim Sheringham.’

  ‘She does?’

  ‘Manager of the gym. Her mum goes to work out there, makes no secret of it.’

  ‘She wouldn’t if she was having an affair with the manager. Especially if said manager was younger than her son.’

  ‘Aye, happen. She knows of no enemies that her parents might have. And she’s given me her home and office phone number.’

  ‘No known enemies.’ Hennessey pondered. He picked up a statement of the Williamses’ current account. ‘Right at the limit of his credit and he’d be a rich man going by this statement were it not for the little “o/d” after the last figure. So money, as we’ve said, wasn’t the motive. So it’s got to be passion, negative passion, but passion nonetheless. And look at all these unpaid bills; I mean, how can someone get into this sort of debt and still take his family for a meal at the Mill?’

  ‘Beats me, boss.’

  ‘The sort of man for whom appearance is everything, that’s who, Yellich. But you know, I don’t know him, I don’t know this man.’

  ‘Williams?’

  ‘Yes, Williams. I don’t know him. You see, on the one hand he has this apparently repressive attitude to his house, which is quite cramped, everything-in-its-place exactitude. You’d think that was a man with his feet on the ground. Then, on the other hand, there’s the Williams who’s a fantasist, who’s got this level of debt yet is treating his family to a meal with the most expensive wine in the best restaurant in the Vale of York, a man who is blissfully unconcerned about debt, the amount of which would have you and me on the point of suicidal despair. Those two personalities just don’t go together. Not in my mind, anyway.’

  ‘Well, you know what they say, sir?’

  ‘No, what do they say?’

  ‘There’s nowt so queer as folk.’

  ‘That’s a gem of Yorkshire wisdom, is it?’

  ‘Aye, well, they do say that.’ Yellich felt a little uncomfortable. ‘I mean, folk do such daft things that there’s often no other explanation. It’s like when you think you know someone and…’

  ‘Yes. Thank you, Yellich, we’ll save the homespun philosophy. I want to meet Tim Sheringham.’

  * * *

  Tim Sheringham revealed himself to be a well-built, muscular man whom both Hennessey and Yellich felt had a natural dislike for the police. He also appeared guarded, cautious, guilty. He sat in a cramped office, the window of which looked out onto a well-attended mixed gym of powerfully built men and svelte women in gaily-coloured gym strips. The rock tune ‘Simply the best, Better than all the rest’ pumped out of loudspeakers as the gym attendees pumped iron. Hennessey mused that often, before you can get people to do things you appeal to their vanity, and beyond Sheringham’s office were about twenty people all at that point, putting a little extra effort in because they wanted to believe that they were simply the best, better than all the rest.

  ‘Yeah,’ Sheringham said, clean-shaven, crew-cutted, ‘I knew her, so what?’ He further revealed himself to speak in a curious blend of British English and American English, often, Hennessey believed, to be referred to as mid-Atlantic. Basically in this case it was British English with a smattering of American English words and turns of phrase and inflections. He had either lived for a while in the States or steeped himself in American films. Hennessey felt the latter; in his eyes Sheringham didn’t look at all worldly wise.

  ‘She’s missing.’

  Tim Sheringham paled.

  ‘Hey, I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about then, have you? When did you last see Mrs Williams?’

  ‘Last week. Last Wednesday.’

  ‘We understand you often see her on Wednesdays?’

  ‘Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.’

  ‘Maybe you’d just better tell us what you know.’

  ‘About what? I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘So you said. You’re having an affair with Mrs Williams?’

  ‘Look.’ Sheringham hunched his shoulders. ‘Just keep your voice down, will you?’

  ‘Why? You bothered someone will hear?’

  ‘Yes. I’m married. Mr Williams had some kind of golf club committee meeting on a Wednesday. So I went to her house on Wednesdays. We had to be discreet, he was a bit jealous.’

  ‘Had. Went. Had. Was.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘All past tense.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As if he is deceased. And as if you know he’s deceased.’

  ‘Clever. But wrong. I broke it off with her. Last Wednesday I told her it was over. I’m married. It was fun, then it wasn’t.’

  ‘I see. Why did you start in the first place?’

  ‘Mutual attraction.’

  ‘Not many men in their twenties would find women in their mid-fifties attractive.’

  ‘Nowt so queer as folk.’

  ‘Funny you should say that, Mr Sheringham.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Nothing. So how did it come about?’

  ‘Because I’m physical. I’m very, very physical. For physical people the flesh is often very, very willing and the spirit is very, very weak. Yes, she was older than me, more than thirty years older. I was younger than her son … but I like cross-generational relationships. I get a thrill out of them. So did she.’

  ‘Cross-generational relationships?’

  ‘That’s the term. You know, people who seek partners of different age groups, toy boys for the women, sugar mummys for the boys. I like it. She liked it. This is between you and me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I mean, if my wife were to find out…’

  ‘She’d not be happy.’

  ‘That would only be the beginning of it. Can’t tell you what she’d do to me if she found out about me and Amanda. That’s why I broke it off … the flesh was still willing, the spirit was still weak, but I got frightened of Vanessa.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Where did you meet Mrs Williams?’

  ‘Here in the gym.’

  ‘How long ago.’

  ‘About two years.’

  ‘Long time ago, really.’

  ‘Long enough. It was good for both of us. Like all affairs, it was better in the beginning, by last week all the fun had gone. It wasn’t going anywhere and Vanessa…’

  ‘You’re frightened of your wife, you say?’

  ‘What she can do. She could finish me. In the end the risk wasn’t worth it. I mean, you’d be frightened of your wife finding out if your wife could do to you what my wife can do to me.’

  ‘I’m not married.’

  Sheringham sneered.

  ‘Out of choice,’ Hennessey said coldly.

  ‘Of course.’ Sheringham curled his lip. ‘You’ve got to say that.’

  ‘So how long have you been married?’

  ‘About twelve months.’

  ‘Twelve months!’

  ‘That’s what I said.’ Sheringham looked pleased with
himself.

  ‘So you were having an affair throughout your engagement to your wife and for the first year of your marriage?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sheringham said smugly. ‘Anything wrong with that? In fact, I met Amanda Williams before I met Vanessa. I ran them in parallel for about eighteen months.’

  ‘In parallel. Is that how you see it?’

  ‘That’s just the way of it. A lot of women come in here to get in shape. I help them. I take them round the circuit. I take an interest in our clients.’

  ‘Our?’

  ‘My wife and I are partners in the gym.’

  ‘Some you get to know better than others?’

  Sheringham shrugged. ‘Amanda had problems at home, her children were up and away, her husband drank like a fish … not giving her the attention a woman needs … she was in her fifties…’

  ‘Was.’

  ‘Is, then.’

  ‘But you said “was”.’

  ‘Don’t tie me up in knots.’

  ‘Don’t have to, Mr Sheringham, you’re doing a good job of it yourself.’

  Sheringham flushed with anger and gripped the arms of the chair he was sitting on. ‘Don’t say anything you might regret.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Take it as you want to take it!’

  ‘Got a temper, have you? Bet all those steroids don’t help that.’

  ‘Nothing I can’t control.’

  ‘Fortunate for you.’

  ‘I want you out of my gym. I want you out now.’

  ‘All in good time.’

  ‘Now. Now!’ Sheringham leaned forwards. ‘I get what I want, when I want it and I want you two out of my gym now. I want you out. You have no choice.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Hennessey nodded.

  ‘So, go.’

  ‘But if we go, you come with us.’

  ‘And you come with us now,’ Yellich said, slowly. ‘Full gym or not.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘Obstructing police enquiries. If we say you come with us, you come with us. You have no choice.’

  A pause. Sheringham glared with anger.

  ‘So,’ Hennessey continued. ‘You took up with Mrs Williams?’

  ‘As I said.’

  ‘And you saw her regularly until recently?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you broke it off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because I was getting fed up, because I was frightened of my old lady … because, because.’

  ‘How did she take it?’

  ‘Like any mid-fifties dame would take it when her toy boy flies the coop. I won’t be easy to replace in her life and she knew it.’

  ‘Knew?’

  ‘Knew, know, what does it matter?’

  ‘Quite a lot. Were you bothered at all?’

  ‘Some. She was loaded, meals at fancy restaurants, had an amazing house once … huge thing … the Grange … we’d play serious games there before Vanessa came on the scene … huge old house … she’d hide me away in a room where he never went and visit me secretly … he’d be in the house … kept me for a week once … that was fun.’

  ‘Enjoy being kept, did you?’

  ‘Yes. Anyway, they sold it, the Grange, and moved to the bungalow, easier to look after, she said. It was a bit of a comedown from the Grange but it was all right. I grew up in Tang Hall, so the bungalow was still good living. She said the sale of the Grange was a good move for her husband, released a lot of cash for his business ventures. So she said. But I wasn’t interested in that. She was bored, she had her needs. A woman does.’

  ‘And you helped out?’

  ‘Yes. On Wednesdays. Wednesdays and Sundays are women-only days at the gym. They’re my days off. Wednesdays were his committee day at the golf club. We’d meet at her bungalow … we’d do it late afternoon, early evening, then she’d take me for a meal, a good, or less good, restaurant depending on how she felt I had performed. It was our little game. I didn’t always make it to the Mill. But occasionally I did. She set high standards. But that’s the way to do it, you know. Sex on an empty stomach and no alcohol, then your meal in a restaurant. Do it the other way round, then it’s not so good, too much food and wine dulls the sensation.’

  ‘In your book?’

  ‘It’s good advice. Try it. I mean if you ever have the opportunity.’

  ‘I’ll remember that. So where’s Mrs Williams?’

  ‘I don’t know. And I don’t care.’

  * * *

  Hennessey drove home to Easingwold. He walked his garden with his dog, tail wagging, at his feet, happy to be out after a day-long confinement in the house. It was because of the garden that he had kept the house. His house itself was a modest three-bedroom detached property, set back from the Thirsk Road at the edge of the small town. A small lawn to the front, behind a high but neatly clipped hedge stood to the front of the house. It was at the rear of the house that Hennessey was most at ease, for here was a generous lawn, bounded by privet, and beyond, through a gap in the privet, was an orchard, with the trees planted in rows between paths made up of slabs of Yorkshire stone, and beyond the orchard was an area of waste ground, where a pond had been dug and in which pond life thrived, venturing distances which surprised Hennessey. Once, one evening, he returned home from walking Oscar and he and Oscar had turned into his drive and walked slowly behind a frog which was also clearly returning home, and while he and Oscar entered the house, the frog had been observed to traverse the lawn and enter the orchard, making its way to the pond in what Hennessey referred to as the ‘going forth’. In the rear garden of his house, just he and Oscar, Hennessey knew tranquillity. Micklegate Bar Police Station might as well have been on another planet when he was in his back garden. That evening in June, after returning home, still feeling a little irritated by Tim Sheringham’s personality, he ate a simple but wholesome casserole, took Oscar for a walk and then strolled into Easingwold for a Guinness at the Dove Inn.

  3

  Wednesday morning

  … in which a lush pasture gives up its dead, a witness is revisited, and murder is confirmed.

  Colin Less was a countryman. A son of the soil in any man’s eyes. He had worked for the successive owners of Primrose Farm for thirty years. On the Wednesday of that week he went, spade in hand, as requested, in order to assess the state of the ditching. It was the first thing he did that morning, arriving there at about eight a.m. Yet by the time he arrived, the sun was high in the sky and the morning haze had long, long evaporated. He saw the mound of recently turned soil the instant he entered the five acre. He could not really have missed it. His immediate impression, drawing from his long years of experience on the land, was that whatever had been buried in the field had been buried very recently. His further impression was that whatever had been buried had only been buried shallowly: the mound of freshly tilled earth was too high, or ‘proud’ above the level of the field to be anything but a shallow burial. He would not know until he read the newspapers over the next few days, and then some months hence when he read the newspaper reports of a trial at York Crown Court, that his first impression was quite correct: it had been a recent burial. But he found out there and then that his second impression was also correct: it was a shallow burial. He had dug down only about one foot from the surface of the mound, to about six inches below the surface of the surrounding pasture when he struck an object. It was a human foot, still encased in a male shoe and sock and, so far as he could see, the leg to which it was still attached was encased in the trousers of an expensive-looking suit. Colin Less covered up the small hole he had excavated and walked to the nearest village where he knew stood a phone box outside the post office. He didn’t rush the one-mile walk, but strolled, enjoying his fit, muscular body, enjoying a summer’s morning in rural England. For he had reached the age in life where he knew that he was time limited, and often the reminders of mortality were about him, more so, m
uch more so than a town dweller who takes his meat from a supermarket shelf. His discovery of human remains served only to bring the message about, not just the inevitability of death, but also its inescapability, home to him all the more clearly. So he savoured his life, and the richness and lushness of life about him, the foliage, the birdsong, the history of it and the certain continuance of it after his time. There was, after all, no hurry. Whoever the man was, he thought, he had already arrived where he was going. And his corpse wasn’t going anywhere.

  * * *

  Hennessey followed the directions that he had been given and turned down a narrow lane between high hedgerows and reflected that in other circumstances he might have found the drive enjoyable. He came to a place where the lane ran between woodland and then the land opened out into flat fields, and it was there, where the woods gave way to the fields, that he saw the line of vehicles which marked his destination. There was an area car, still with its blue light revolving, a little unnecessarily, in Hennessey’s view, a mortuary van, black, sombre, windowless, and further beyond, he saw Yellich’s fawn-coloured Escort, and beyond that, to his delight, he saw a post-World War Two vintage Riley, white with red front mudguards and running boards. His son had once owned a die-cast toy model of such a vehicle, identical colour scheme as well. He halted his own car behind the mortuary van and walked to the entrance of the field, across which a blue and white police tape had been strung. Beyond the tape stood a group of people, one or two in uniform. One, not in uniform, held up a camera and photographed something on the ground. As Hennessey approached the tape the constable standing at the entrance to the field said, ‘Good morning, sir,’ and lifted the tape, allowing him to pass underneath it. Hennessey walked up and stood beside Yellich.

  ‘Two adults, sir. One male, one female. Recently buried, as you see, clothing in place.’

  ‘Well, hello, Mr and Mrs Williams.’ Hennessey glanced at the corpses. ‘We meet at last, I have heard so much about you.’