Deliver Us from Evil hay-20

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘Well, thanks, anyway.’ Yellich smelled the scent of air freshener.

  ‘Please, do take a seat. We seniors do so value visitors, even those on business. We see each other, and our relatives visit, but a new face is so welcome. . and from overseas. I take communal supper. I will have something to say at the table this evening.’

  ‘Communal supper?’

  ‘Yes, it’s my choice. We can prepare all our meals if we wish or have all our meals in the dining room and anything in between. I don’t eat much breakfast or lunch and so I prepare those meals in here in my little apartment but have booked in for the evening meal each day and that practise gets me out as well as keeping me in touch with the other seniors. Coffee? Tea?’

  ‘Tea for me, please.’

  ‘I ought to have known. . you English and your tea.’ She smiled and went into her kitchen.

  Moments later when Yellich and the lady upon whom he was calling each sat holding a cup of tea served in good china cups upon matching saucers, Yellich asked, ‘Can I confirm that you are Rebecca James?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Born to adversity James. That is I.’

  ‘Adversity?’

  ‘That’s what the name Rebecca means, apparently. My lovely parents just didn’t do their homework. But in fairness, I can’t say it applied to me. I had my ups and downs like everybody else but I can’t say my life has been one of endless adversity.’

  ‘I am pleased for you.’

  ‘You are married, aren’t you, Mr Yellich?’

  ‘I am?’ Yellich was puzzled, but was enjoying the warmth in Rebecca James’s eyes.

  ‘Yes. You have that comforted look about you. . married men have it, bachelors don’t.’

  ‘Astute of you,’ Yellich inclined his head. ‘Sorry it shows.’

  ‘You can’t hide it. Children, do you have any, can I ask?’

  ‘One son. He has special needs.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘So were we at first, I have to be honest, but he gives us so much and a whole new world of special needs children and their parents has opened up to us and we have made some very good friends. . some really valuable friends.’

  ‘Good, good for you and your family.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So how can I help the British Police?’

  ‘I visited Safe Harbour this morning.’

  ‘Ah. .’ Rebecca James smiled. ‘My dreadful past is catching up with me.’

  ‘Yes, but in a good way. Hastings Drive?’

  ‘Yes. . yes, I lived there for many years. I was an approved foster parent. I have had many children through my hands, some stayed for many years, others were short term but I am proud of what I did. I know I was a good and a successful foster parent because some of the longer stay children visit me now here in Park Gate and introduce me to their children.’

  ‘Well, my turn to say “good for you”.’

  ‘Thank you. I never had children of my own. . I couldn’t. . medical reasons.’

  ‘Sorry. . that must have been difficult to come to terms with.’

  ‘Yes it was,’ Rebecca James breathed deeply. ‘So I settled for the next best thing, I cared for other people’s children, but I did my best for all of them.’

  ‘As you have shown by them visiting you. It is one of your children that I am calling in respect of.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, I dare say that I have some bad news for you I’m afraid.’

  ‘They are in trouble with the British Police?’ A note of alarm crept into Rebecca James’s voice.

  ‘No. . no, I am sorry but the child, now an adult, in question is deceased.’

  ‘Oh,’ Rebecca James put her hand up to her forehead. ‘This has happened before. Parents whose children predecease them experience something they should not experience but so many children have passed through my hands that occasionally I do hear of their passing. It is always a saddening experience. Always.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine.’

  ‘A few did not make it through the danger years. . car crashes, bar fights. . often caused by alcohol and one or two girls died young, drug overdoses or abusive relationships which culminated in murder. So who are you interested in?’

  ‘Heather Ossetti.’

  Rebecca James groaned, ‘Oh, yes, Miss Ossetti, yes I do recall her very well. She was not one of the good ones. You remember the good ones and you remember the bad ones. She was a bad one, a very bad one. Excuse me, I have her photograph.’ Rebecca James rose from the chair with a suppleness and agility which both surprised and impressed Yellich and, as if reading his mind, she grinned and said, ‘Yoga,’ and added, ‘not a recent convert either. I took it up when I was in my early thirties. Watch. .’ and, facing Yellich, she stood with her feet slightly apart, and keeping her legs straight, bent forward and touched her toes with evident ease and stood up again. ‘Not bad for an old silver one, eh?’

  Yellich gasped. ‘I couldn’t do that. . heavens. . not bad at all, very impressive in fact.’

  ‘Yes, very few can do that once they reach adulthood. I love showing off to the doctors. . but, the album.’ She left the living room and returned a few moments later with a large photograph album. She sat and opened the book which was bound in red leather-like material and began to leaf through it. Eventually she turned the book through a hundred and eighty degrees and handed it to Yellich. ‘Girl on the left hand page,’ she said as she did so. ‘You see why I remember her as being one of the bad ones? Look at those eyes, is that or is that not the very essence of evil?’

  ‘Oh yes. .’ Yellich gasped and slowly nodded his head. ‘It chills me just to look at the photograph, but in real life. . how was she in actuality?’

  ‘It’s difficult if not impossible to hide the evil in one’s eyes if it is there and at that age. . she’s about ten years old. . she had still to learn the need to at least attempt to hide it. .’

  Yellich studied the photograph. He saw a girl, smartly dressed, neat hair, she was smiling at the camera but not in a way that a young girl would normally smile at a camera in order to please, perhaps in order to comply with a request the photographer might have made, but the smile, Yellich thought, was more in the manner of the young Heather Ossetti sneering or laughing at the camera and the photographer, for above the smile were cold piercing eyes that just did not seem to be a part of said smile. The smile and the look across the eyes were separate, utterly unconnected with each other. ‘Tell me about her,’ he said softly, feeling chilled by what he saw.

  ‘No. First I think I would like you to tell me what happened to her.’

  ‘She was murdered.’

  Rebecca James nodded. ‘Yes, you know Heather is. . well, she would be the sort of person to invite such upon herself.’

  Yellich told her the story.

  ‘Running, with a stolen identity? That figures, her true personality just would not find a home anywhere, not for any length of time anyway. Well, perhaps only with a needy and a naive man who had no insight, who just could not see that look she displayed. So what can I tell you about her? Very little, I’m afraid, is the honest answer. I was only able to accommodate easily managed and biddable sort of children and that was not the manner of Heather Ossetti, not her manner at all. She was very disruptive, attention seeking, violent to other children but only to those weaker than her. She always attempted to befriend those she saw as stronger than her, but only to manipulate them.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘A lot of damage was done to the building during the time that she was with me but I couldn’t prove it was her.’

  ‘Damage?’

  ‘Initials carved in wooden panelling but not the initials H.O., initials of the other children who I knew would not do such damage. She very rapidly managed to turn all the other children against her and managed to create a very bad atmosphere. The children actually began to huddle in a group as if protecting themselves from her.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  �
�Frightening I would say, more than just interesting. As was the tendency of things to disappear. That happened a lot when Heather was with me. Things would just disappear from the house and the children complained that their possessions had vanished. The possessions concerned were always small items that a ten-year-old girl could easily conceal and carry out of the house and throw in the lake, just to be spiteful. . but again, nothing was ever seen though I rapidly realized that Heather was responsible and that she needed a highly specialized care regime, and requested. . nay, insisted upon her removal from my home, and she left me a few days later. After she had been moved, no more damage was done, no single item or possession was ever noticed to be missing and the pleasant atmosphere returned.’

  ‘What do you know of her background?’

  ‘Very little again, very little information came with her. I believe she was given up for adoption at birth by her parents. . the files will be released to you upon production of a court order should you so wish. If I recall, she had a series of placements, none successful. Even her earliest placement in a nursery was difficult and the home she was in before she came to me was destroyed by fire and all the children had to be re-homed.’

  ‘Arson?’

  ‘Yes. . or fire-setting as it’s known in Canada and the United States. . but the inquiry eventually focused on a deliberate attempt to start the fire by one of the children, but which one?’ Rebecca James opened her palm.

  ‘I think I can guess.’

  ‘Yes, I think we both can. So she was with me for a few weeks. I didn’t give in easily, as a matter of pride, but eventually I realized that not only could I not do anything for her, but she was a danger to the other children and to the building. It was a large, rambling wooden building, sealed against the rain by pitch as are many houses in Canada. Fire would have engulfed it very quickly and if she set one fire she could set another.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Where did she go when she left you?’

  ‘St Saviours.’

  ‘A convent?’

  ‘Yes, a very strict order of nuns. Her situation was conferenced wherein it was deemed she needed that form of close supervision and tight control and that was the last I heard of Heather Ossetti until you mentioned her name this morning. She did not come to visit me, for which I am extremely grateful. Another of my girls went there also, a girl called Edith Lecointe. She lost her life a few years ago. . I read it. . died in the snow one winter. Dare say they helped each other through St Saviours.’

  The recording light glowed red, the twin cassettes spun slowly, silently.

  ‘The place is interview room number three at Micklegate Bar Police Station, York. The time is nine fifteen hours on Monday the thirtieth of March. I am Detective Sergeant Fiona Rivers of the Vale of York Police Female and Child Abuse Unit. I am now going to ask the other people in the room to identify themselves.’

  ‘Detective Constable Tracy Banks of the Vale of York Police Female and Child Abuse Unit.’

  ‘Rivers and Banks,’ the man sneered, ‘how quaint.’

  ‘Just your name, sir,’ Rivers replied sternly.

  ‘Sigsworth. Noel Sigsworth.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector George Hennessey of the Vale of York Police at Micklegate Bar.’

  ‘Alexander Milner of Milner, Rhodes and Ferrie, Solicitors, of St Leonard’s Place, York.’

  ‘Mr Sigsworth, you have been arrested and cautioned in connection with the assault on your ex-wife, Matilda Sigsworth, also known as Matilda or “Tilly” Pakenham.’ Fiona Rivers delivered an ice cold introduction.

  ‘Wife,’ Sigsworth replied smugly. ‘We are still married.’

  ‘Very well, correction is noted, though you are estranged.’

  ‘Is that the case,’ Milner turned to Sigsworth, ‘about being cautioned?’

  ‘Yes. It was done by the book.’ Sigsworth wore a dark suit with highly polished shoes and he reeked of aftershave.

  ‘We will be charging you with Grievous Bodily Harm,’ Rivers explained.

  ‘A tiff. . nothing more.’

  ‘A tiff which left her with six broken ribs and extensive facial bruising.’

  ‘You have no proof and she won’t press charges, she never does.’

  ‘So this is a regular occurrence?’

  Sigsworth shrugged. ‘What marriage does not have its difficult periods?’

  ‘This time is different,’ Hennessey growled. ‘This time she has made a complaint and we have your DNA. She managed to scratch you somewhere. . such as your hand. .’

  Sigsworth lifted up his left hand and glanced at the sticking plaster on the back of it. ‘An accident,’ he said.

  ‘But it’s your DNA. . from your blood, under her fingernails, that’s all the proof we need.’

  Sigsworth’s smile was suddenly replaced by a cold hard glare and Hennessey saw the man who allegedly once said, ‘I’m only nice to you if you buy something from me’. It was all Hennessey and the two FCAU officers needed to see. The case against Sigsworth was watertight although he could still charm a jury into returning a not guilty verdict. Such ‘perverse judgements’ are not unknown and men like Sigsworth are adept at jury manipulation. It was a chance the police would have to take.

  ‘My job. . my career. .’ Sigsworth snarled. ‘I’ll kill the bitch. . she’s dead. .’

  Hennessey glanced at the tapes turning silently in the recording machine and then looked at Sigsworth as the colour drained from the man’s face.

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ he rapidly recovered his charm. ‘You must know I would never really harm her.’

  ‘But you said it,’ Hennessey said. ‘It’s now a matter of record. We don’t destroy these tapes.’

  ‘So if some harm does befall Ms Pakenham,’ DS Rivers added, ‘we’ll know who to look for, won’t we?’

  ‘And we’ll be asking for an injunction to stop you going anywhere near her or making any form of contact with her whatsoever.’ Hennessey advised in a soft, matter-of-fact manner.

  Marianne Auphan stepped out of the shower wrapped in a black towel which Ventnor thought could be fairly described as being about the size of a small country. He propped himself up on his elbows in her bed as he watched her dress. Marianne Auphan occupied what Ventnor thought an ideal home for a single person. Rented, it had a built-in garage on the ground floor with an electronically operated roll-up door. From the garage a small door led into the utility area of the property where there was a gas heater, a washing/drying area, a downstairs toilet and plentiful storage space. Stairs covered with a fawn coloured fitted carpet led up to the front door of the property and turned again and led up to the living area on the first floor where there was a large kitchen, a dining area and a sitting area. The first floor was similarly carpeted and had pine furniture, within it a hi-fi system and also a sensibly sized television. It was, in addition, richly adorned with plants. Marianne Auphan, Ventnor decided, clearly enjoyed caring for living things. Above the living area was a bathroom/shower unit with a second toilet and two bedrooms. The property had an angled roof and access to the loft space was obtained from within a large walk-in cupboard off the larger of the two bedrooms. The rear of the property looked out across a ‘deck’ or elevated wooden patio to an area of open ground, then still snow covered, and industrial units about a quarter of a mile distant, the skyline being interrupted by a circular concrete water tower with the name ‘Barrie’ written large in blue upon a white background. The front of the property looked out across a car park to identical properties being part of the same development. Marianne Auphan’s home could have been in the UK were it not for Canadian idiosyncrasies which Ventnor discovered with interest, such as the light switches which pushed upwards for ‘on’ rather than downwards as in Britain. The whistling kettle on the electric cooker he also thought particularly North American. For unlike the whistling kettles in the UK which make a shrill, high-pitched homely sound, similar to the whistles of British steam locomotives, when it boiled, Marianne Auphan’s k
ettle made a low, mournful, soulful sound similar, in fact, to the whistles of American steam locomotives. He cared not at all for it.

  ‘I’ll drive you to the terminal,’ she said, in a quiet but authoritative tone, combing her hair. ‘Then you must take a bus in. I want to be discreet about this.’

  ‘Agreed.’ Ventnor levered himself out of bed.

  ‘Take the thirteen bus out to Cundles East and get off at Zehrs. It’s a flat fare but you’ll need the exact money in coins, already.’

  Ventnor walked across the carpet to the shower.

  ‘I don’t eat breakfast, already,’ she called after him, ‘but if you want I can maybe do you an egg on toast. . or something quick like that?’

  ‘No. . no. .’ Ventnor replied as the hot water drove into the sweat clogged pores of his flesh, ‘whatever you do normally is good with me.’

  Later, whilst waiting for the number thirteen bus at the Maple Avenue bus stop, Ventnor was amused to watch a group of young boys play soccer in blazing sunshine, dressed in tee shirt and shorts, in the road between two massive and stubborn snowdrifts, Canada in the spring. Later still he sat opposite Marianne Auphan as she pressed a mug of hot coffee into his hands and held up a manila folder. ‘Nathan Fisco,’ she said. ‘Do you want to read it, or shall I give you the gist of it, already?’

  ‘Oh. . the gist, please.’ Ventnor sipped lovingly on the coffee.

  ‘OK. . but listen, within these four walls we’re on the clock now, so we’re cops. . and nothing else. . understood?’

  ‘Clear as a bell, and agreed.’

  ‘OK, good. So, Nathan Fisco, he died in a house fire about seven years ago.’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Yes, Jordana Hoskins was out by a few years but the drink does that to you, already.’

  ‘I have noticed.’

  ‘He died in a house fire, like I said.’

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘None. He was drunk according to the file, dropped a lighted cigarette on an alcohol soaked carpet and. . woosh. . but his lover at the time was. .’ Marianne Auphan let her voice fade to silence.

  ‘Heather Ossetti. . the fell Heather Ossetti.’ Ventnor sipped his coffee.