Crossed Out
Page 2
She had not really been listening but scrolled down and read, nodding that the statement was correct before signing within the box on the screen with the attached plastic stylus.
“Looks nothing like my signature, though.” She smiled, handing back the phone.
“Technology. I’ll see you to the roadway and then put this back where it belongs.” He held up the cross. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
Alex smiled and nodded as she put the reference number he had jotted down for her into her bag.
He inspected the cross again and shook his head.
Cyril Bennett had crossed West Park after leaving the passageway that linked it with Robert Street. Although the sun was shining and the sky blue, the wind seemed cold as it funnelled through the gap between the buildings. Once across the road, its strength diminished. He glanced at the standing stone positioned to the side of the road, ring-fenced with iron railings, like the sole inmate of some bizarre prison. He remembered a sign that had been attached once which read, Free the Harrogate One. He chuckled to himself as he let his hand touch the rough-hewn sandstone. It marked the outer limit of the toll road in times past. Looking up, he noticed an officer in conversation with a lady on a bench. He thought nothing of it and quickly walked across The Stray heading for Otley Road and then on to the Police Station at Beckwith Head Road.
DS David Owen was already at his desk, a broadsheet spread across it hiding the detritus that normally lodged permanently on the flat surfaces that he called his own. A large Harrogate Festival mug contained a dark brown liquid that might have been tea but one could never be sure. It sat in a small pool of identical liquid. He glanced up as he saw Cyril approaching. Owen smiled.
Everyone called him Owen, when he was at police training there were a number of cadets in his year with the name David and so he was referred to as Owen and the sobriquet remained.
“Morning, sir.”
Cyril returned the smile. “Still on the chilly side this morning, Owen.”
“Your starter for ten, sir, this’ll warm you. How many firkins in a kilderkin?”
He looked up at Cyril, keeping his face straight whilst picking up the mug of tea. Droplets rained onto the paper and then his tie as the rim touched his lips. “Bloody hell, that’s hot!” He quickly put down the mug, slopping more of the contents onto the desk.
Cyril smiled and shook his head. “Two. Half a barrel.”
Owen looked at the paper and then at Cyril with an expression that conveyed his astonishment at his boss’s knowledge. He nodded. “What about a hogshead?”
“Fifty-four gallons, Owen, or one and a half barrels' worth of Black Sheep ale. A butt is two barrels and a tun is equal to six barrels. Here’s one for you. How many gallons in a tun?”
Owen hesitated, staring in admiration, taken aback by the sudden role reversal. He put his index finger to his lips to demonstrate that he was thinking… “My calculation… is… a lot.”
“Two hundred and sixteen to be accurate. As you say, a lot. Why the interest?”
“It’s in the paper here.” Owen pointed to the article. “There’s a local cooper who can’t get an apprentice… sad, really.”
He looked down to read the relevant section to Cyril but watched as his boss turned quickly and moved to his office. Owen suddenly realised what he had done and he hung his head.
“Bloody hell… Cooper! I should have thought,” he said as he screwed up the newspaper and tossed it into the bin. It hit the metal rim and the weight of the paper flicked the bin over, scattering the contents across the floor.
Cooper had been involved in the case that had seen their colleague, Liz Graydon, kidnapped and murdered. It was the small things that seemed to trigger Cyril’s guilt… Owen might be clumsy but he certainly was not foolish… he would give him some time.
After fifteen minutes Owen knocked on Cyril’s door and entered carrying a cup of tea. “Wasn’t thinking, sir, brought you a brew. There’s none slopped in the saucer neither.”
“Thank you, Owen. Not your fault, it’s fine. Sometimes it’s as if the pin is driven into me, your memory can be your friend and then your enemy within a matter of moments. The word cooper always makes me think of Liz, as does Charles Horner.” He forced a smile at Owen. “Maybe I should apply to be that guy’s apprentice and make barrels, get out of this job, slip quietly away from the rat race altogether.”
Charles Horner was a Victorian manufacturer of hat pins. Such a pin had been used to murder his colleague, DS Liz Graydon.
“You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks, Sir?” Owen turned quickly and left as Cyril’s phone rang.
“Bennett.”
Cyril listened, jotting down the occasional note. He sipped his tea and sat back glancing at the photograph of Liz that he kept in a simple, black frame on the top of the filing cabinet. When the call ended, he put down the phone, stood and crossed the room. It had been a while since they had had their usual one-sided conversation. Maybe like his counsellor had said, one day she would decide to just go, leave without warning and when she did, he must accept it. Maybe she had gone, moved on. He knew one thing for certain, he should move on too. He picked up the photo frame, moved back to his desk and slipped it in the bottom drawer as if putting the genie back into a lamp.
“I think it’s time, Liz, it’s time to move on. I know you’ll always be near but not too near.” He closed the drawer with a degree of reverence and left his office.
Owen was working on the computer when Cyril approached. He patted Owen on the shoulder, a gesture that assured Owen that his earlier thoughtlessness had been forgiven.
“Get your coat, we have a discovery near to Kent Lane, Ripon. Nature has opened up to us revealing items of great interest. Dr Pritchett is on her way. I’ll explain in the car.”
3
Owen drove as usual. Cyril stared forward at the road and toyed with his electronic cigarette. He rolled it across his lips as if searching for inspiration whilst humming some indefinable tune. It was not until they were passing through Killinghall that he spoke.
“A sink hole has appeared overnight partially destroying and destabilising an old property and revealing what appears to be human remains; a large hole, too.”
Owen glanced sideways and then back at the road. “Regular occurrence in Ripon, I believe.”
Cyril just raised his eyebrows. “Ripon’s one of the most susceptible areas in the country for them owing to the Permian gypsum deposits. As to the extent and accuracy of the report, we’ll have to wait and see.”
“How’s Dr Pritchett?” Owen glanced again and noticed a slight smile crack across Cyril’s lips. Cyril and Julie Pritchett had developed a relationship that suited them both, neither wished to commit fully, both were married to their professions and so the casual nature of their affair was perfect. Initially it had started tongues wagging in the station but time had silenced the cynics.
“She’s fine, Owen, and thanks for asking. Hannah?”
Owen simply grinned.
Kent Lane was closed with a tenuous, plastic tape strung between a fence post and a gate. The tape oscillated in the light breeze. Blue lights from the attending fire appliances competed with the bright spring sunshine. Cyril and Owen approached the tape and, after their ID had been checked, were escorted down the track to a further line of tape and some cones.
“Best not go beyond that, sir, not ’til we know the extent of the sinkhole. According to the Borough Surveyor, it could go right under the house and this track for all they know at the moment. It’s being assessed further right now, that’s the noise you can hear. They’re using a drone, part of a new initiative with the CSI people, can you believe? Hear it? It’s over there in the hole.” He pointed in the direction of the sound, an obvious and unnecessary action that made Cyril bristle. “Utilities have isolated the gas and are working on the water now. Drains are damaged too, I guess, hence the aroma.”
Cyril and Owen could make out th
e echoing sound of the drone’s rotors, muffled by its concealed position. Owen, sensing Cyril’s displeasure, quickly thanked the officer, who moved back to the road.
“He was trying to be efficient, sir. Who’s the Senior Investigation Officer?”
Cyril smiled. “Inspector Spence.”
Cyril looked at the dirt ground under his feet and like a man about to walk on thin ice, gently tapped it with the sole of his highly polished shoe, before decisively taking a few steps backwards; only then did Owen see Cyril relax. He stared at the broken building. Taking the hint, Owen looked down before also quickly moving back.
The site was situated on the outskirts of the city, relatively close to the River Ure. The partially destroyed redbrick house made for a pitiful sight.
“Just look at it. It resembles a doll’s house that’s been opened to reveal the floor levels and furniture within.”
Owen looked again at the ground and then at the building. Torn wallpaper flapped around the edge of the exposed lath and plaster internal walls as the lights swung, pendulum-like, from the ceilings. Pictures clung to the walls like drunken spectators, an upright piano was anything but as it leaned precariously on the very edge, uncertain as to whether it was half in or half out. Its final tune might well have been played. Water still poured from the fractured pipes, the tumbling streams allowing a partial rainbow to form as the sun caught its fall.
“Bloody hell!” Owen summed up the situation swiftly. “That would be some bloody alarm call in the middle of the night. Look how close the bed is to the edge. The gable end has disappeared into the hole. A quarter of the house has gone!”
“There’s usually no warning, Owen, once the gypsum has been eroded it’s just a matter of time, and the last few weeks of heavy rain have obviously triggered the subsidence. Luckily, only two people were in the house at the time and no injuries other than the couple being scared witless.”
“The earth moved, I bet, for someone.” Owen grinned and looked at Cyril, hoping to see a smile appear but received nothing, not even a flicker.
“Mr and Mrs Edge.” Cyril turned to look at Owen. He knew full well he would think it a joke. “Edge, yes, I kid you not, so say nothing please, Owen. He’s seventy-nine and she’s a year older. Lived in the property since the seventies.”
“So where are the human remains?”
“In the hole. What’s strange is that they appear to be on top of and mixed with the masonry, so either they were in the house at the time of the collapse or disturbed from the sub-soil around the periphery of the hole during the collapse.”
“So who spotted them?” Owen stood on his tiptoes as if trying to peer further into the distant hole.
“A Fire and Rescue Officer checked the house looking for the owner’s dog and he spotted them when inspecting the cavity from the downstairs flooring. Initially he could not be sure as it was dark and he was using a powerful torch. However, he was wearing a helmet camera and on close inspection of the footage when he returned to the fire tender, it confirmed his original suspicion that generated the call to us and the pathologist.”
“So is Dr Pritchett down there?”
Cyril pointed across the large field to a white and blue Tetra pop-up forensic tent.
“I believe that they’re monitoring the images taken from the drone...” Cyril’s voice carried a degree of incredulity, “... if I fully comprehend what our friend has just told us.”
“The guy there’s flying it,” Owen interjected. “He’s wearing video glasses so although he can’t see the drone, he can see what the drone can see. It’s probably sending images back to the tent as well as the lab. Bloody difficult to fly those things, I’ve tried. A number of forces are using them now as well as the emergency services; cheaper than a chopper.”
“Really? I’ll have to take your word for that.” Cyril patiently smiled at Owen and raised an eyebrow: the technical information was of little interest. He felt an urge to ask Owen how it transmitted in real time but decided against receiving a long-winded explanation. All he was interested in was what they could discern from the images. “Well, if it’s the only way an inspection can be carried out at present until the property and the ground is made safe, so be it. Come on!”
Inspector Spence greeted Cyril and ushered them into the tent. The HSE and Borough Surveyor were busy to the left of the shared trestle table, studying the geological charts. Julie Pritchett was standing next to Hannah Peters. They were both staring at a computer screen. Julie wore a single earpiece connected to a microphone and was directing the drone pilot to manoeuvre the craft to give the best possible images. She overheard Cyril’s conversation and turned. She put her hand over the mic before calling them closer whilst pointing to the images on the screen. Cyril noted the eye contact between Owen and Hannah and was also aware of her slight blush.
“It’s not easy to comprehend fully the circumstances,” Julie explained. “You can see that there are a number of bones and bone fragments, also the remnants of items of clothing but they appear to be separate and therefore may have no connection. You can see hair, possibly human but…”
Cyril leaned closer, popping on his reading glasses. “That?” He pointed to part of the screen.
“Yes. What we can’t understand from these images is what came from the house and what didn’t. We’ll only know when we can physically get in there.”
Cyril turned and watched Owen disappearing towards the road, his mobile to his ear.
Julie continued. “Until it’s been surveyed and made safe there’s nothing to be done as there’s no danger to life. There are severe fractures in the rear wall of the property and unstable ground to the right of the hole. We’ve been advised there is a likelihood of further collapse. If you want my immediate assessment, our person in the hole has been a long time dead so it would be unacceptable to risk further investigation until the site’s been made safe.”
Cyril put his hand on Julie’s arm. “Thanks, Julie. Please keep me updated.” He smiled at Hannah. “Hannah!” He turned to speak to Spence before following Owen to the road.
4
The metal trowel cut the grass in a sawing, circular movement before a core of turf and soil to the depth of thirty centimetres was removed. It was carefully placed to the side of the new cavity. A small vacuum-sealed pouch was popped into the hole; a fine, transparent length of fishing line that had been connected to one corner was just visible as the soil was replaced. A large boot gently trod the turf making the recent work invisible. The gardener, still kneeling, leaned back and checked before threading the fishing line through a hole in the heavily stained wooden cross, tying it before forcing the cross fully into the ground, as if to mark the spot. He brought his fingertips to his lips, kissed them before touching the top of the cross. He stepped back and looked for a final time before lowering his head. Turning quickly, he walked clumsily from The Stray towards Tewit Well Road.
Owen was leaning against one of the tenders, chatting to a fire officer. Cyril walked towards them and Owen introduced him.
“This is DCI Bennett.”
The officer put out his hand.
“Sir, just been chatting with Jim Yeats, here,”
Cyril shook the Fire Officer’s extended hand and smiled.
“He snatched Mr and Mrs Edge from the property and then went back in to search for what they thought might be their missing dog.”
“Is going in for a dog part of your normal safe operating practice, Jim?” Cyril asked, knowing what the answer would be.
Owen also turned to the fire officer.
“Usually, no, and the original assessment was purely to bring out the couple even though the building was in a dangerous condition, that’s standard practice as you know. It was still dark when we arrived so using a drone was out of the question. Only owls fly in the dark.” He turned smiling at Cyril and Owen but neither reciprocated. “If it had been light we’d have double-checked with our drone, it’s equipped with a heat detecting c
amera. As I said, in the dark you’ve no chance.”
“When I got to the bedroom, both occupants were very shaken. Mrs Edge was still in bed and afraid to move. Her husband, on the other hand, was wandering close to the side of the damaged floor. He was confused as you would be when part of your bedroom has disappeared in the middle of the night. It was difficult to see where the floor ended owing to the carpet being stretched over the void. He was obviously disorientated. He was calling for Ben. Even when I’d got them into the hands of the paramedics he was still asking for Ben so, not knowing whether Ben was a person or a pet, we made the decision, after careful consideration, to do one final sweep. I went in once more but found nobody.”
“So you think that he could’ve been calling his dog?” Cyril enquired.
Jim looked at Cyril and then Owen, his facial expression changing. “Possibly, but we couldn’t be certain and we couldn’t get any sense out of either so decisions had to be made to preserve life. We’d have looked bloody foolish if another incapacitated person had been in the house or, even worse, in the hole!”
“Good point. I assume the couple have been taken to Harrogate?”
“Yes, as you’ll know, shock can be a killer for people of their age.”
Cyril held out his hand. “Thanks, Jim. If there’s anything else you’ll…” Cyril didn’t finish as Jim interrupted.
“It’s out of our hands now, it’s all yours. A Scene Evidence Recovery Manager will be working under your guidance. HSE and the District Surveyor are on site.”
Cyril smiled. “Seen them. Good job, Jim. Thank you!”
Owen and Cyril moved away. Owen spoke first.
“I called in and received details of the people registered at this address. Only the two living there, they’ve been in the house since 1968. Two kids, one male, Joseph, died in a motorcycle accident in 1979 and the other, daughter Emma Robson, lives at Barden Mill, that’s…”