‘I am. I am misleading you.’
Hennessey raised an eyebrow.
‘I have missed out a step. Thirteen years…’
‘It’s all right, take your time.’
‘I remember, now, that Andrew had a gap year between leaving Gyles Place and going to university. What he did I don’t know, where he went I don’t know, but he kept in touch with Gyles Place—nearest thing he had to a family, you see—and told them he was off to university. Then Marian went to Leeds. I just assumed it was Leeds University that he had gone to, but there are a lot of universities round there, aren’t there?’
‘And neither she nor the staff at Gyles Place ever specifically mentioned Leeds University?’
‘No.’
Hennessey paused. ‘We’ll have to pick up the trail at Gyles Place,’ he said, more to himself than to Cox. ‘Find out what or who brought Mrs Cox to Leeds.’ Again he paused. ‘There is still no certainty that the skeleton is that of Mrs Cox.’
‘It is. It will be, my waters say so.’
Hennessey nodded; he too knew of his ‘waters’. ‘Mrs Cox didn’t have any distinguishing feature about her skeleton? No malformation, no old fractures?’
‘Marian was perfectly formed, chief inspector. A lovely woman, greatly missed, even now. I don’t know how big a hole she filled when she died, but the hole she has left behind her is immense.’ Hennessey smiled. He knew that notion as well. ‘And no, she had no old fractures, nothing of that sort.’
Hennessey stood, and thanked Cox for his time and information.
Being under no time pressure to return to York, Hennessey strolled into Bridgnorth. He discovered a pleasant market town, steeped in history. He found the terminus of the Severn Valley Steam Railway; he found an abundance of eating places and took a late lunch in one such. It was obviously a place to bring Louise D’Acre on one of their rare weekends off together: antiques shops for her and steam locomotives for him.
By contrast with the previous driver, the man who drove Hennessey to Wolverhampton was jocular and talkative—annoyingly so. Hennessey made an excellent connection at Manchester Piccadilly, was in York by seven and home to an excited Oscar at eight.
WEDNESDAY, 6th APRIL
The rain had lifted. Wednesday dawned bright, clear and sunny, chilly outside, especially in the wind, but visibility was perfect. Hennessey drove into York and to the police station, parking his car beside Yellich’s. Inside the building he saw Yellich standing by the table in the comer of his office, pouring boiling water into a coffee mug.
‘Any joy yesterday?’ he asked.
‘No, boss. Well…I’ll tell you. Coffee?’
‘Yes, I’ll have a mug, thanks.’ Hennessey stepped into Yellich’s office.
‘Well, I phoned the BMW dealership like you asked. They have computerised their records going back twenty years.’
‘And?’
‘No customer by the name of Preston had purchased a vehicle from them since their records began until the time of Amanda Dunney’s disappearance.’ He handed Hennessey a mug of steaming coffee.
Hennessey took the mug, laid it on Yellich’s desk and turned it round so that he could pick it up by the handle. ‘That tells us…well, what does it tell us?’
‘That Mr Preston’s car was second-hand. That’s what I assumed. The first owner bought it from the dealership, and sold it leaving the dealer’s sticker in the rear window. My old Ford is second-hand but the dealer’s sticker is still in the rear window. I’m not bothered whether it’s there or not, but it occurred to me that some folk might deliberately leave the sticker in the window to give the impression that they had bought the car new.’
‘All right, if it tells us that. Possibly. It possibly also tells us that Preston is an assumed name. People wouldn’t have to prove their identity when joining the reading group, unlike applying for a job, for example.’
‘Wouldn’t, would they, boss?’ Yellich nodded. ‘If that’s true, it points a suspicious finger at Preston.’
‘Who, of the reading group, is remembered as being obsessively neat, the likely profile of the murderer suggested by Dr Joseph. Do you think a neat person, a fastidious person, would be careful with his car?’
‘I would think so, boss.’
‘So would I. So why don’t you phone the dealership back? What was their name?’
‘Ferguson’s.’
‘Of course, same as the organiser of the reading group. Yes, phone them, describe Miles Preston, well built, muscular, blond hair, always well dressed, ex-public-school mannerisms.’
‘Will do, boss.’
‘You know, if Miles Preston was an assumed name used in the reading group, it would explain why he always paid for his outings in cash.’
‘Avoided using a cheque?’
‘Exactly. I mean a man with a BMW would chip in his fifteen-quid fee with a cheque.’
‘You’d think so, boss, you’d think so. Yes. I’ll get right on it.’
Hennessey carried the mug of coffee to his office and sat at his desk. He glanced out of his window at the medieval walls of the ancient city, at that moment gleaming in the morning sunlight. They were deserted, the stretch that he could see, but later, even on cold, windy days in April, the walls would be carrying tourists aplenty, and, thought Hennessey as he turned from the window and picked up his telephone, not a few locals too. He pressed a 9 for an outside line, then dialled Directory Enquiries. He asked for the number of Gyles Place Children’s Home, Potters Bar, Herts. There was a moment’s pause; the operator, who sounded to Hennessey to be already tired at 8.45 a.m., said that there was a listing for Gyles Place Children’s Centre, and she wondered if that could be it. Hennessey asked for the number, saying he would soon find out. The line clicked and a mechanical-sounding voice dictated the number slowly enough for Hennessey to write it down without needing to listen to the repeat.
‘We don’t like the term “children’s home”.’ The voice on the other end of the line was warm, confident. ‘It has old-fashioned connotations. We’re much more than custodians of children. It’s a highly specialist unit, we have referrals from all over the country.’
‘You are the senior man, Mr…?’
‘Pym. Yes, I am the principal, or the officer in charge, either title is acceptable. And you are the police, from York?’
‘Yes. DCI Hennessey. This is a bit of a long shot, but many years ago a boy called Quinlan, Andrew Quinlan, was admitted to your custody.’
‘Care. He would have been admitted to our care.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Quinlan. That’s not a name I recall, but I’ve only been here for five years.’
‘This was a lot longer ago than that.’ Hennessey allowed his smile to be heard down the phone. ‘We are talking perhaps forty years.’
‘Forty! Blimey. Gyles Place has been open as a children’s centre for that length of time, but nobody here has been here for more than…well, ten years at the most. There is always a fast turnover of staff in children’s homes, even in agencies like ours with highly motivated staff. Pay’s poor for junior staff and the stress levels are high. Stress is contagious, you see: one highly stressed individual can transmit his or her stress to another and cause that other to become stressed, and the junior staff work more closely with the children, all of whom are highly disturbed, but also highly intelligent, so they pick up the most stress.’
‘I didn’t think there would be anybody’s brains to pick, but two things occurred to me. Firstly, you may have contact with retired staff members who could reach back that far in their memory.’
‘Not offhand, but I’ll help all I can.’
‘The second possibility is accessing the record of Andrew Quinlan. I understand that is possible?’
‘His file will be held in the archives. We are a charity, not a local authority. The head office is in Potters Bar, whereas we are just outside the town. I can give you their number.’
‘Many thanks.’
Hennessey phoned the number given by Pym.
‘I’ll have to put you through to Mr Standish.’ The telephonist had, in Hennessey’s view, an annoying speaking voice, slow, as if dimwitted. Not the right person for a job as a telephonist. The line clicked; there was a a long silence, then a snappy, aggressive voice said, ‘Standish.’
Hennessey paused. He used this technique to slow telephone conversations. ‘Yes…police here, York City.’
‘Yes!’
Hennessey paused again. ‘I’m making an enquiry in respect of a boy who passed through the care of Gyles Place some forty years ago.’
‘Yes, we will have a record of him. Name?’
‘Quinlan. Andrew.’
‘Right. Give me your number and I’ll phone you back.’
Hennessey did so and the phone was slammed down. Hennessey said, ‘Thank you very much,’ knowingly into a dead line and replaced his own receiver, gently. He waited, glancing out of the window of his office. Tourists, as he had anticipated, now trailed over the walls. He looked around his office, at the grey Home Office-issue filing cabinet, at the Police Mutual calendar, at the small potted plant that needed watering. He made a mug of coffee, drank it as he waited, watered the plant, caught up on a little paperwork.
Then his phone rang.
‘Hennessey,’ he said as he picked it up.
‘Standish. Sorry for the delay in getting back to you.’
Hennessey glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Only twenty-five minutes.’
‘I was accessing the file, or one of the secretaries was.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So, young Quinlan.’
‘Young Andrew Quinlan.’
‘Yes, referred to us because his parents couldn’t cope with his aggressive and disruptive behaviour, smashing the family home up…Had a period of assessment in another home, set all the lights flashing at the intelligence test so they referred him to Gyles Place.’ There was a pause; Standish was clearly reading the file. ‘There are the daily recordings by the staff…records of parental visits, not many of them, poor lad…letters from his sister—he was encouraged to reply, but seemed reluctant. It’s quite a hefty file, Mr Hennessey. Is there something specific you wanted to know?’
‘Well, specifically where did he go when he left Gyles Place?’
‘Moment…’ Standish turned what sounded like a handful of pages. ‘He was eighteen when he left us. That’s quite old in normal circumstances, but not so old for Gyles Place. It would mean he was studying, doing pre-university qualifications—clearly one of the successes, calmed down enough to address long-term study. He is recorded as leaving to do voluntary service in the north of England, a ‘gap year’ as I believe it’s called. That was thirty years ago. These old files…reading them is like getting into a time machine, the forms they used, but they served just as well as the forms we use today. You know that observation about change bringing an illusion of progress but really creating confusion? It is so true.’
‘Yes…does it say where he went? Exactly?’
‘Not in the file, just the address of the charitable organisation to which he gave his time in return for board and keep and a bit of pocket money. Wait a minute, I’ll look at the letters…private correspondence…’ There was another pause on the line. Hennessey heard the rustling of paper, heard a tap on the door and Standish say, ‘Come back in ten minutes will you?’, then a further silence, broken by Standish saying, ‘181 Victoria Road, Leeds 6, family by the name of Wall.’
‘Wall?’
‘That’s it, as in “within these four walls”. Young Quinlan wrote a series of letters to a fellow called Tom Silva, obviously a member of staff that he had bonded with. Quinlan thought it was a personal exchange but Silva, probably sensibly, filed them. There’s six in all, short notes really, ends with Quinlan wishing Silva well in his new job and asking for his new address.’
‘Any indication of Andrew Quinlan’s appearance?’
‘No…I’m looking at the front of the file…no photograph…Oh, a report here beginning with describing him as being of “Caucasian extraction”. Today we’d say “white European”. Average build, dark hair, no physical infirmity, no particular distinguishing features like birthmarks or anything of that sort. So he left us, seeming to be alone in the world, and went to live in Leeds. Where then we have no idea. Some start to life.’
‘Wasn’t it just?’ Hennessey thanked Standish for his help and replaced the telephone receiver, again quite gently, though he had noted that Standish’s bullish manner had mellowed a little during the conversation. He recorded the information in the growing file on the headless skeleton—at that moment still identified by file number, but which, Hennessey was convinced, would become the file on Marian Cox, nee Quinlan—and cross-referred it to the file on Amanda Dunney. That done, and the file placed neatly in the filing cabinet. Hennessey left his office and walked to the end of the corridor, to the office of Commander Sharkey.
‘Come in. George Sharkey allowed himself a brief smile as Hennessey stood on the threshold of his office.
‘Just want to apprise you, sir.’ Hennessey walked into Sharkey’s office.
‘Good, take a pew. The double murder, I take it?’
‘Yes. sir.’
Sharkey was a young man. young to hold the rank of commander. A framed photograph on the wall behind him of a younger Sharkey in the uniform of an officer in the Royal Hong Kong Police, and a second photograph, showing an even younger Sharkey in the uniform of a junior officer in the British Army, told the life of the man and his route to his present position. He was also small for a police officer, a man who showed that if the selection board think a man is made of the right stuff the lack of an inch or two in stature can be overlooked. Sharkey was neatly turned out. Now here, thought Hennessey, here was a man he’d describe as ‘fastidious’; groomed to perfection, not a hair out of place, perfectly ironed shirt, neat pinstriped suit, shoes hidden beneath his desk but doubtless polished to a mirror-like sheen. All on his desk was clearly where it should be. Hennessey doubted that he could spend much time in the company of Commander Sharkey, and felt for his wife and children, who seemed to be standing to attention in the photograph on his desk.
Hennessey adjusted his position in the chair. ‘We are making progress. I think the skeleton, the bit without a head, will transpire to be that of Mrs Marian Cox. who came north from Shropshire about twelve years ago to search for her estranged brother. Exactly what was the link between her and Dunney we don’t know, but Dunney’s only social outlet was a reading group. Having your head chopped off and placed in a shallow grave is not the work of stranger murder. It speaks of acquaintance murder and motive.’
‘It does, doesn’t it?’
‘Dr Joseph at the university, a forensic psychologist, has stuck her neck out for us and suggested that the murderer might be…well, she used the word “fastidious”, in his lifestyle and appearance.’
‘Fastidious, like me, George?’ Sharkey smiled again, briefly.
‘Just fastidious. It is Dr Joseph’s contention that severing the skull from the skeleton and placing it with the skeleton of another murdered woman had two purposes.’
‘To throw us off the scent being one?’
‘Yes, sir. And the other for shock value, should the grave be discovered. Apparently that sort of “shock value” at the point of discovery is the hallmark of what I believe were once called “organised serial killers”, all of whom prove upon arrest to lead very neat, organised—’
‘And fastidious lives.’
‘Apparently so, yes, sir. The so-called “disorganised” serial killers just leave their victims where they fall and run off into the night. And of Amanda Dunney’s social contacts, one man who was a member of the reading group was of exceptionally neat appearance.’
‘You believe he’s the link between Amanda Dunney and Marian Cox?’
‘I think so, commander.’
‘Your next move?’
/> ‘Well, I asked DS Yellich to visit a BMW dealership—the neatly dressed man drove a BMW—and I thought I’d follow Marian Cox’s trail in search of her brother. See where that leads. Already traced him to an address in Leeds, which is a lot closer to home than his previous address, in Hertfordshire.’
‘I’ll say.’ Sharkey paused. ‘About other matters, George…’
‘Yes, sir?’ Hennessey said, though he knew what was coming and that his answers would be ‘no’ and ‘no’.
‘Two things, George.’ Sharkey paused. ‘I know that I have asked you this before, and on more than one occasion to boot, but it is a concern of mine; I saw enough of it in Hong Kong.’
‘There is no corruption at Micklegate Bar Police Station, sir. I would know. I have been a copper pretty well all my working life, straight into the Navy for my National Service, then joined the police. Swapped one blue uniform for another. I have in the past known a bent copper or two, but there’s nothing to worry about in this nick.’
‘Relieved to hear it. Even though you can’t know for certain—no one can—but you, with your finger on the pulse of this station, if anyone knows it would be you. Didn’t have to do anything for it, you know, just opened my desk drawer each Monday and there would be a brown envelope there, a small number of large-denomination notes. And when I say large, I mean large. I was given more money each week than my monthly pay. I earned it by not asking questions. I was occasionally told by my sergeant not to send a patrol into a certain district at a certain time, or he’d tell me to send patrols into a particular district at a particular time, so as to ensure that another district was without a police presence. On other occasions he’d tell me not to turn up for duty. He’d tell me to spend the evening at the yacht club, or stay at home; he said he’d cover for me, which he did. I never knew what was happening but heroin would be at the bottom of it, without a doubt. I just had to do what I was told by the man who addressed me as “sir”, and each Monday morning there it would be, an envelope full of money. I wasn’t there very long, George: I left because of the corruption. If I hadn’t taken the money I would have been found floating in the harbour among the blue dolphins, with my throat slit.’
After the Flood Page 11
