‘Who didn’t have anything to do with Amanda, I may say.’
‘What about Martin Mason?’
‘Headmaster of Sentinel Lane Primary School. Lovely man. That’s three.’
‘And yourself, Mrs Ferguson.’
‘Myself?’
‘You’re the fourth person who knew Amanda socially at about the time of her disappearance.’
‘I suppose I was, yes. Why the belated interest? Has she turned up?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes, she has. Can you please let me have the telephone numbers of the other three people?’
‘I don’t know if I should. I prefer to ask them to phone you.’
‘I could get a court order to force you to release this information.’
‘Oh well, in that case. I’ll have to go to the study for my address book, but I insist on phoning you back with the information.’
A few moments later Yellich was in possession of all three telephone numbers. He added the names and numbers to the file under the heading ‘Amanda Dunney’s Social Circle’.
He placed the file neatly in the drawer of the grey Home Office filing cabinet which stood in the comer of his office. He then glanced out of his window again and tried to read the weather. The rain seemed to be holding off. Gillygate was on the route to York City Hospital. It seemed such a lazy thing to do to drive the short distance from Micklegate Bar to Gillygate and Mr Serle’s dental practice, and then on to the York City Hospital. He decided to walk. Besides, he thought as he signed out at the enquiry desk, the walk would give him a little ‘space’. A busy man needs all the space he can get.
‘I think it’s safe to assume that there will be a match.’ George Hennessey ran a liver-spotted hand through his silver hair. ‘The dental records will show the skull to be that of Amanda Dunney.’ He reached forward, picked up the mug of coffee and sipped.
‘I think so too, boss.’ Yellich sat in front of Hennessey’s desk, his left ankle resting on his right leg. He too sipped a mug of coffee.
‘And you suspect her social circle, rather than angered relatives of her unfortunate patients?’
‘Yes, I do. You see, if Sarah died in needless agony because of Nurse Dunney, I would be angry. I can well understand the relatives of her patients besieging the health centre wanting her address, if not her blood, but would it lead to murder and the burial of her body in a shallow grave in a field? I think not.’
‘I’m sympathetic, but not wholly swayed. I don’t think we should lose sight of the possibility that the culprit is an angered relative. But go on.’
‘That speaks of premeditated murder, and for that you’re looking at a relationship of some sort. The relatives of her patients would be content to know that she was finished as a nurse, no more employment for her anywhere, loss of pension. That would satisfy me once my anger had left me, if Sarah had been one of her “victims” (I can hardly call them patients). So we have the members of the reading group, her landlady and her brother. Of the three, my feeling is that the culprit is a member of the reading group. Two men and a woman are still with us; two other men are now deceased and another woman has gone to live in New Zealand. The one thing that does puzzle me is that her landlady recalls her receiving an invitation to a reading-group annual dinner, but the organiser of the group tells me that the group had no such dinner.’
‘Interesting, but let’s keep an open mind. What do you intend to do?’
‘I’ll go back and ask her what she can remember about it—the invitation, I mean.’
‘Yes…it may be something but it may also be nothing, a complete blind alley.’
‘Will do, boss. I’ll call on her tomorrow.’
‘So you paint a picture of Amanda Dunney as a lonely, possibly embittered woman, given to cheap, cutting remarks, unable to attract a partner, who by some twisted reasoning abused the trust placed in her to cause people intense pain?’
‘Yes.’ Yellich nodded. ‘That’s the picture which came across. Not a woman I would want to meet.’
‘This is why I asked you to find out what you can about her, because there is information that I have withheld from you.’
‘Oh?’ Yellich said with a smile.
‘Yes. The post-mortem threw up information which didn’t gel with the picture of Nurse Dunney as given in the missing-persons report, to wit that she was a fifty-three-year-old spinster.’
‘Yes…?’
‘The skeleton in the grave is that of a woman who had given birth—’
Yellich’s jaw sagged. ‘I didn’t know you could tell that from a skeleton.’
‘Apparently you can—it’s something called “pubic scarring”—but Dr D’Acre was certain: not just one birth, but many.’
‘The impression of Nurse Dunney is that she never had a partner, let alone experienced pregnancy and parenthood.’
‘So we must have the skeletal remains of not one, but two women. The skull of one, the rest belonging to another, but definitely in the same grave, of similar age when they died.’
‘Someone putting us off the scent, do you think, boss?’
‘Has to be. Someone anticipating that the grave might be found, and wanting us to believe we had found the body of Nurse Dunney. And we probably would have fallen for it, had not the expert eye of Dr D’Acre noticed the pubic scarring.’
Yellich sat back in his chair. ‘Wow!’ It was the only thing he could think of to say.
‘“Wow” indeed. Somebody wanted the other lady dead more than they wanted Amanda Dunney dead. The other body had a family; she would be noticed missing more quickly than Nurse Dunney.’
‘But not from this area, boss, otherwise our mis-per files would have a record of it.’
‘My thinking entirely. Have to scan the nationwide database. Perhaps you could ask the collator to set that in motion before you leave for the day. Should have the results waiting for you to address tomorrow morning. Someone alien to York, but who, when she died, might have had a connection with the city.’
‘Right, boss.’ Yellich stood. ‘You won’t be in tomorrow then?’
‘Not me. Weekend off. A rare luxury, even for chief inspectors.’
‘Doing anything?’
‘No.’ Hennessey drank the now cool coffee. ‘Nothing special.’
THREE
In which a middle-aged couple play a game and Detective Sergeant Yellich has occasion to visit Humberside
FRIDAY EVENING, 1st APRIL—SATURDAY, 2nd APRIL
George Hennessey left the police station at 5 p.m. He was held up in the rush-hour traffic but none the less was pleased to have reached Easingwold and his house on Thirsk Road by 5.45. He let himself in and was warmly greeted by his brown mongrel. He picked up the mail delivered that morning after he had left for work: bills, junk mail and a postcard from his son from Middlesborough, ‘Just’, as he had written on the reverse, ‘for the hell of it!’
Hennessey went upstairs and changed out of his suit into more comfortable trousers and casual shirt and jacket, packed a bag for two nights, plus walking boots and waterproofs, then set the timer switches for the security lights in the upstairs and downstairs of his house. He carried the bag and hiking gear out to his car and returned for Oscar and Oscar’s food and water bowls. Then he drove away, with Oscar sitting beside him, staring steadfastly out of the windscreen.
He drove north to Thirsk, where he turned westwards, driving through country which he found pleasant to the eye. He crossed over the Al on to the B6267, which he followed to Masham, and to the car park of the Rose and Crown. Leaving Oscar in the car, he entered the hotel and walked up to the reception desk. The interior of the hotel he found instantly comforting: dark-coloured carpets, low black beams and a wood fire crackling in the hearth opposite the reception desk. Pamphlets of local tourist attractions stood at the side of the desk and while waiting to be attended to he selected one about the Embsay Light Railway. Having travelled on the North Yorkshire Moors Steam Railway and (many times) on the
Worth Valley Steam Railway, with the near-obligatory walk up the steep cobbled hill at Haworth to visit the Parsonage, it left only the Embsay Light Railway to knock off. Then he would have travelled on all the local steam-preservation lines, enjoying the magic of steam locomotion, the animal movement of the engines, the smell of the steam.
‘Good evening, sir.’ The receptionist was a young woman whose manner and appearance caused Hennessey to warm to her. ‘Can I help you?’
‘George Hennessey. I have a single room booked for tonight and tomorrow.’
‘Ah, yes…’ The receptionist consulted the register. ‘From Easingwold. Not a long journey for you, sir?’
‘All that’s needed for a pleasant change of atmosphere and surroundings, do a bit of walking, get up on the hills, really clear the tubes.’
‘I know what you mean, sir. How will you be paying for the room?’
‘Credit card?’
‘Excellent…if I could have the card, please.’
Hennessey was given the key to room number seven, and he carried his bag up the carpeted stairway, the wood-panelled walls smelling strongly of furniture polish.
Fearful of making a dreadful error, he tapped on the door of room seven before unlocking it and entering. The first thing he noticed was the size of the bed, a double, then he checked the wardrobe, drawers and bathroom. He returned downstairs to the reception desk. Dinner, he was told, would be served up until nine o’clock. He walked into the lounge bar, which was similarly thickly carpeted, and low-beamed with a log fire. Three other guests were there, a young, professional-looking couple sitting at a table in the comer, leaning towards each other, not interested in anybody or anything save each other. The third guest was a slender woman with short, dark hair, in her forties, Hennessey thought, smartly dressed in a grey suit and patent-leather shoes, sitting in front of a glass of colourless liquid, probably, thought Hennessey, a white wine. She was reading a copy of Yorkshire Life. She glanced up once as George Hennessey entered the room, then returned her attention to the magazine. A quiet country hotel for the weekend. Just what the doctor ordered.
Hennessey left the hotel building and walked to the car park, collected Oscar and waited patiently while his dog wolfed his supper and then drank deeply from the water bowl, which Hennessey had filled from a plastic bottle brought from home. Then he took Oscar for a long walk then left him in the car for the night, one window slightly open and on one of Hennessey’s old shirts for familiarity and reassurance.
He went to his room, washed and changed his shirt, and went to the lounge bar. The couple were still in the comer; the elegantly dressed lady was still engrossed in her magazine, though her glass was empty. Hennessey glanced at her fingers and was surprised that such a clearly accomplished and attractive woman wore no rings at all, though she did have a gold bracelet on one wrist and a gold watch on the other.
‘Yes, sir.’ The attentiveness of the barman, a young man in a white shirt, black bow tie and black trousers, drew Hennessey’s attention from the woman.
‘Whisky, please.’
‘Yes, sir. We have Bell’s, Whyte and Mackay, Teacher’s, Regal…’
‘Oh, Bell’s, thank you. I don’t have the Scotsman’s educated taste in whisky.’
Suddenly Hennessey was aware of the elegantly dressed woman standing beside him.
‘Yes, madam?’
‘Another white wine, please.’ She had a soft voice, yet a voice of authority, the self-assuredness that comes from learning.
Hennessey turned to her, ‘Would you allow me, madam?’
The woman looked at him, but demurely so, paused and then said, ‘Thank you, sir, that would be most kind.’
‘White wine for the lady, please.’ Hennessey addressed the barman.
‘Yes, sir. Dry, wasn’t it, madam?’
‘It was. Thank you.’ She turned to Hennessey. ‘Perhaps you’d care to join me?’
‘I wouldn’t be intruding on anything?’
‘Not at all. Frankly I would enjoy the company. I’m having a weekend away, just for myself, by myself.’
‘Strange you should say that.’ Hennessey paid for the drinks and enjoyed the slight, generously good-humoured smile of the young barman.
Over drinks Hennessey learned that the woman was a divorcee, had three teenage children (with their father that weekend) and was a doctor.
‘I’m a police officer,’ he said, ‘widowed.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Long time ago now.’
‘Even so…’
‘Well…have you eaten?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, perhaps you’d care to join me for dinner.’
‘Thank you, but I insist on paying for myself.’
‘As you wish.’ Hennessey walked to the bar and asked for two copies of the menu. Again smiling warmly, the barman handed the menus to Hennessey.
‘I can take your order, sir. I’ll come over for it.’
‘Good. Give us ten minutes. Thank you.’
They were offered a table in the comer of the dining room and served faultlessly by a smiling waitress who seemed to be happy for them. For their meal, they selected different first courses, but both chose venison for the main course, which was, they agreed, excellent. It was finished by a round of Irish coffee.
‘I shall sleep well tonight,’ the woman said.
‘So shall I. This hotel is quite near my home. I live in Easingwold, but it could be…it could be a different country.’
‘Same here. As I said, I live in York, and you’re right, it could be a different country.’ She stood, Hennessey likewise. ‘Thank you for an enjoyable evening, Mr Hennessey.’
‘I thoroughly enjoyed it.’
‘Good night.’
The murderer, unlike George Hennessey and his lady companion, did not eat that cold, rainy Friday evening. He did not feel hungry, not at all. He lay in his bed, listening to the rain patter on the window pane, and thought that the secret, the secret now was to do nothing, nothing that he wouldn’t normally do. So they had found the bodies, both of them. The great lie that was his life would soon be exposed—unless…unless he could continue to act normally, until the police investigation fizzled out and police time was given to more recent crimes. Act normally, he told himself, just act normally, as though nothing has happened. None he less, sleep evaded him that night.
George Hennessey had slept well, an unusually good night’s rest because he usually had difficulty sleeping for the first night in a strange bed. He had lain there, thinking about the day, planning tomorrow, but he could not help his thoughts returning to the slender, graceful woman who had been his dinner companion.
He woke early on the Saturday morning and enjoyed a long bath, then dressed and went out to the car park to allow Oscar to run around for a few minutes, which he did, crisscrossing the car park as the day before he had crisscrossed the lawn at the rear of George Hennessey’s house.
The woman was already at her breakfast when Hennessey entered the dining room. They nodded to each other briefly and Hennessey sat at a separate table. A cooked breakfast, especially when cooked by someone else, was by far his favourite meal. He ate leisurely, that morning’s copy of the Guardian propped up in front of him.
Hennessey and the woman met again later that morning. He had changed into his walking clothes: a solid pair of walking boots, socks, corduroy trousers, a full-length waterproof, a tweed hat. He went to the reception desk to hand his key to the smiling receptionist and when he was there the woman approached, also to hand in her key, also dressed for the hills.
‘You’re going for a walk today?’ Hennessey asked.
The woman smiled and indicated her clothing.
‘Yes…bit of a silly question.’ Hennessey laid his key on the desk. It was swept up by the receptionist, who continued to lean forward, head slightly bowed.
‘Actually, I’m not going for a walk.’
‘You’re not?’
‘No,
Mr Hennessey. I walk to the shops sometimes. I’m actually going for a hike or a ramble, but “a walk” somehow doesn’t convey the sort of journey I envisage making.’ She too laid her key on the counter. It was picked up by the receptionist, who still made no move to place the keys in the corresponding pigeonholes.
‘Where do you intend to go, may I ask?’
‘You may. On a hill—any hill that promises fresh air and a little solitude, ideal for a lady who gets too little of either.’
‘Well, you are welcome to join my friend and me, if you wish, and if you don’t want absolute solitude.’
‘Oh.’ The woman looked crestfallen. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you had a partner.’
‘Constant and faithful.’ Hennessey stole a glance at the receptionist and saw the woman smiling what seemed to be a genuine I’m-happy-for-you smile, one which seemed to vanish when Hennessey made reference to his ‘friend’, but which returned again when Hennessey said, ‘To wit, one brown mongrel, Oscar by name.’
‘I love dogs.’ The woman smiled. ‘I have a horse.’
‘Oh, really? I don’t know horses.’ Hennessey walked towards the hotel doorway.
‘Well, I warn you’—the woman fell into step beside him—‘one gallop and you’re hooked. But it’s a mighty expensive pastime.’
‘Had a friend once’—Hennessey held the door open for her—‘he used to be a keen sailor, a yachtsman. He described the sport as like standing under a cold shower tearing up twenty-pound notes.’
The woman smiled. ‘Horse riding is a bit like that; the bumpiest ride of your life, the coldest, the windiest, and as you canter along, as you say, you pull twenty-pound notes out of your pocket and toss them aside. Where’s your dog?’
‘In the car park. He sleeps in the car.’
As they walked along the pavement to the car park at the side of the hotel Hennessey said, ‘Well, so far so good.’
‘Definitely got their interest,’ said Louise D’Acre.
Yellich listened with amusement as a young and clearly exasperated constable tried to give directions to a tourist.
After the Flood Page 5
