"He said that?"
"He did. He said that he was good at it, been doing if for years. The trick was, he said, to target someone who can't go to the police and to never ask for more than the victim could afford. He invited me to negotiate a second mortgage on the house and so raise the money; that way I'd keep my job. I'm a school teacher, primary, and I could still continue to 'enjoy' myself at weekends. He was smug and arrogant, though his language was choice. And I mean choice in the extreme."
"But you did go to the police."
"Yes, I did. The police took statements from the boys, no bad news. I made a statement to the school governors and kept my post, aided by letters of support from the organisers of the British Naturist Movement to the effect that both myself and Meg, my wife, are genuine naturists and have been so for many years. The Scouts were less accommodating, probably because I had no contract of employment with them as such. They said I'd been 'ill-advised' and 'indiscreet' and invited me to resign. I felt a bit like Captain Oates leaving the tent to walk to his death for the benefit of his companions. That is a very hard thing to do. To leave something that you've been part of for so long because by doing so, you make the only contribution you can make. I turned to drink for a while but got a hold of that in good time."
"Good for you."
"You know the mistake he made wasn't so much that he saw the photographs as evidence that I was a paedophile, but that he broke his own second rule, we just couldn't afford a second mortgage. If he'd asked for less, I might…just might have found the money."
"That's called mating with a scorpion. You'd never have got rid of him then."
"You're probably right, because the police set up a sting operation. After a few weeks I phoned him and he told me to have the money ready and that he'd bring the negatives with him…the phone conversation was being taped."
"I see."
"Told me he'd come to my house and collect it, which again suited the police because they installed hidden cameras in the house. Anyway, he came, picked up the suitcase, opened it, saw it contained newspapers and said 'Where's my money?', at which point the police made their presence known. The look on his face…it was a picture. But he didn't have the negatives with him. As you say, the price he asked was really just the first instalment. The police never did find the negatives, though now they're quite useless. But Ossler, clever man, knew when the game was up, went G to blackmail, collected five years, out in three with remission."
"And probably started again."
"You think?"
"I think so. This time he put the screws on someone who couldn't go to the police and so relieved him of his brains instead."
George Hennessey drove the short distance from Jim Parrott's house to his own house in nearby Easingwold. His house was a modest, inter-war four-bedroom detached house standing in generous grounds on the Thirsk Road. He let himself in the house and was warmly greeted by "Mick" a black crossbred who looked like a scaled down Labrador. Still patting his dog about the neck, he stooped to pick up his mail and then walked out into the rear garden because that's where his wife was. The lawns, the dividing privet, the pond, rich in amphibia, in the rough ground, or the 'going forth' as she had referred to it. Always, always at the end of a working day he came to the garden to say "hello" to Jennifer.
Later, after a meal, after he and Oscar had taken their customary evening stroll, Hennessey walked into Easingwold for a pint of stout. He enjoyed the beer, he enjoyed the conviviality of the pub, but more, he enjoyed the walk in the still, warm air under a vast, crimson sky.
It had not, he thought while on the return leg, been an unsuccessful day's work.
Four
In which the gentle reader learns of the vulnerabilities of Yellich and Hennessey, and a suspect moves into the frame for the murder of Nathan Ossler.
Feeling energetic and knowing that his body, being elderly in terms of a policeman, was in much need of exercise, and it being a fine summer's morning, George Hennessey decided to walk from Micklegate Bar Police Station to York District Hospital. By reason of both preference and pragmatism, he chose to walk the walls as far as Lendal Bridge where once the working girls would stand before they were removed because it was bad for tourism, and who now all rent rooms in saunas, and walked up Museum Street, already bumper to bumper with open-topped tourist buses. He turned left and followed the graceful Georgian crescent which is St Leonard's Place. He crossed Bootham Bar and walked down Gillygate, of small, often interesting shops of the Victorian era, to Wiggington Road and to the grey, low-rise, slab-sided hospital. Walking across the car park his eyes swept from side to side, searching for a specific car and his heart leapt as he saw, utterly unmistakable, a red Riley with white mudguards and black roof, circa 1947 and in pristine condition. Only one like it in the Vale of York, if not the entire north of England. When he saw it, his pace quickened.
In the hospital he walked to the pathology department and to the office of Dr Louise D'Acre.
"Inspector Hennessey," Dr D'Acre smiled warmly.
She was a slender woman in her forties, short cropped hair which was dark but greying here and there which Hennessey knew didn't bother her at all. He knew that she had three lovely teenage children and that her life was fulfilled. She did not fight the years, but grew old with grace and dignity and was much more attractive, in his eyes, because of it.
"Dr D'Acre, I saw your car in the car park. I knew you'd be in."
He sat unbidden in a hard chair in front of her desk.
"Oh, so nobody's nicked it yet then?" she chuckled warmly.
"Nobody will, it's not re-saleable."
"Oh, but it is. My garage proprietor has advised me to have it alarmed and fitted with all sorts of fancy gadgets. Private collectors you see. If you can steal an original Van Gogh and find a buyer for it, nicking a 1947 Riley will not present an obstacle."
"I dare say, looking at it like that."
"It's the only way you can look at it. So what is for us today, one Ossler, Nathan believed to be?"
"Is…his identity was confirmed at close of play yesterday."
"ID confirmed." Dr D'Acre wrote on the medical record. "And was a sprightly fifty-seven years when he died in suspicious circumstances. Apparently by gunshot wound. Don't get many of those. Not in the Vale we don't."
"So people keep observing."
"Well, shall we have a look at him?"
In the post-mortem laboratory, Hennessey and Dr D' Acre both dressed in green coveralls and wearing latex gloves, stood back to allow the medical photographer to photograph the injury sustained by Nathan Ossler, who, clothing removed, revealed himself to have been, when alive, lean and muscular. The medical photographer took a series of photographs of the injury from every angle and then stepped back and smiled at Dr D'Acre. "All finished," she said.
"Thanks, Mary." Dr D'Acre stepped forwards and examined the wound. She spoke for the benefit of the microphone which was attached to an adjustable, stainless steel arm which protruded from the ceiling to a point above the steel table on which the body lay, and level with the top of the pathologist's head. "So the date is Tuesday, seventh of June, the time is…" She glanced at Hennessey who consulted his wristwatch and told her. "…oh nine forty-two in the forenoon. The post-mortem is in respect of one Nathan Ossler, aged fifty-seven years. Immediately obvious is massive trauma to the front of the skull consistent with gunshot wounding. The front of the skull has been removed by the trauma along with the frontal section of the brain which is quite unusual."
"It is?"
"I am not well versed in gunshot wounds, but most bullet wounds to the skull take the form of entry and exit wounds, such blowing away of the skull is quite unusual. What has happened here has been caused because the deceased has what is called an eggshell skull."
"A very thin skull?"
"That's it. Whatever else might have happened to him in life, he never banged his head. Anything that might have given either you or me a headache or a
lump on the head, would have killed him. It meant that the skull wasn't strong enough to withhold the shock waves that cause cavitation."
"You've lost me."
"Well," Dr D'Acre rested her hands on the side of the stainless-steel table. "Cavitation is the hole caused by the shock waves from the bullet. It's a temporary condition, the bullet pushes soft tissue away from it, both before it and beside it, causing a cavity measured in inches. The tissue falls back into place almost instantly, but in a very damaged form. Cavitation can be fatal, if the shock wave which causes the cavitation reaches a major organ, then death can result, even though the bullet didn't actually touch said organ."
"I see."
"In this case, the bullet entered the front of the skull, caused cavitation, but the thin nature of the skull meant it wasn't strong enough to contain the shock wave and the front of his head blew open. You didn't find the bullet did you?"
"No…"
"It's because it fragmented." Dr D'Acre took a pair of tweezers and extracted a minute sliver of metal from the brain tissue. She placed it in a small glass jar. "I'll recover as many of these as I can, see what a ballistics expert can make of them. But I've only come across this fragmentation effect once before and that was when the bullet concerned was a dumdum bullet, so called, small cuts in the top of the bullet cause lines of weakness. When the bullet is fired it causes it to explode on impact. Very messy indeed."
"As I see."
"Normally a bullet would have passed straight through the skull, especially one as thin as this. But as you see, exploding bullet, thin skull…quite a mess. The calibre of the bullet was quite small, I would say a .22, which is a bullet that does its damage because of the sheer kinetic energy discharged on impact. They travel faster than any other bullet that can be fired from a handgun, but I'll have to refer you to a ballistics expert for authoritative interpretation."
"It was a handgun though, you think?"
"Only because I saw the scene of the crime, Chief Inspector. Difficult to see a rifle being used in such a confined space, or concealed from the road to the house. Just conjecture really."
"I wouldn't take issue with it," Hennessey grunted. "From the word go I had thought this a handgun number."
"Where would you get one from?"
"Ways and means, there's ways and means, but that's a good point. It means the culprit probably had some connection with the criminal fraternity. You can obtain a handgun in Britain but only if you know someone who knows someone."
"Very well…that's your department. The cause of death seems certain, but I'll trawl for poison as a matter of course. The airways are unblocked, there's no other noticeable injury, no discoloration of the face, which might suggest he was strangled before being shot…pupils…normal…I feel confident that the bullet terminated his existence. The angle of the trajectory, going by the remnants of the entry wound and the fact that the top and front of his head has been blown off, suggests that the gun was fired upwards into his skull from directly in front."
"A much shorter person?"
"Or someone sitting in a chair with the deceased standing over them. But whatever, the angle of the bullet seems angled upwards, probably by about forty-five degrees."
"Time of death could be quite crucial for us."
"As always," Dr D'Acre smiled. "I noted the rectal temperature at the location, the time and the room temperature. I did some prep before you arrived this morning, using Henssge's nomogram method, and allowing for the fact that the deceased was clothed, I have arrived at a time of death nine to eleven hours before I arrived. I took the rectal temperature at nine thirty-two hours, and so I calculate a time window of about two hours from twenty-two thirty hours on the day before the body was found."
"From ten thirty on Sunday evening to half past midnight on the Monday forenoon." Hennessey mused. "I've worked with much wider time envelopes than that."
"I can't narrow it down any further I'm afraid."
"It's narrow enough."
"What might help is his last meal. Would you like to take a deep breath?" Dr D'Acre took a scalpel and made an incision above the stomach cavity, gases hissed as the stomach was punctured. She inclined her head to one side as the gasses escaped. "Never gets any easier," she said, forcing a smile. "But that wasn't so bad, quite a fresh corpse you see." She peeled back the layers of skin and peered into the stomach cavity. "Now this is interesting?"
"Oh?"
"Yes, he ate Indian and did so not more than one hour before he died."
"Bingo!"
"Naan bread, chicken tikka…in the main. He didn't masticate well, tended to swallow without chewing, not good for the digestion or extracting of protein…here you see bits of chicken tikka are still identifiable." She pierced a piece of meat with the scalpel and held it up for Hennessey's edification. "See?"
"That's interesting. You know, I can't see Ossler bothering to go out and eat, but I can see him sending out for a delivery. There'll only be one or two Indian restaurants that will offer a delivery service to a fairly remote village like Strensall…if we can obtain the time of that delivery…"
"You'll be able to narrow the time of death down further. He died within one hour of eating it. Anything from fifteen minutes to sixty minutes after eating it. That's a time window of forty-five minutes." Dr D' Acre continued. "My children have a passion for Indian food, we have home deliveries. Our local Indian restaurant won't deliver after eleven p.m., which is quite normal."
"So we are looking at time of death being nearer the beginning than the end of your time window, nearer ten thirty p.m. Sunday, than twelve thirty Monday, a.m.?"
"I would think so, Chief Inspector. I would think so."
"And shortly after he was shot with a single bullet which exploded on impact and popped his skull open because of the effect of…?"
"Cavitation. A bullet doesn't so much push its way through solid flesh, it's more in keeping with flying through a near vacuum which is caused by the shock waves which the bullet pushes in front of it and around it. The faster the bullet, the greater the shock waves, hence the great damage done by the small .22 calibre weapons. A very small bullet, but oh, does it fly through the air."
"The track…the trajectory of the bullet was upwards?"
"At about forty-five degrees and, as I said, given the way the deceased was slumped in the chair, I'd say that he was standing when shot. The murderer was much shorter than he or was sitting when the trigger was pulled." Dr D'Acre paused and turned her attention once again to the wound. "No gunpowder burns," she said. "Again, as previously mentioned."
"No what?"
"Gunpowder burns. It means that the muzzle of the gun was at least eighteen inches away from the entry wound. Ties in with someone sitting down in front of the deceased when the shot was fired."
"Pleasant way to spend a Sunday evening."
"Oh, I'm sure he didn't plan it like that." And Dr D'Acre and George Hennessey laughed, gently, but in deep enjoyment of each other's company.
"What now, boss?" Yellich asked.
For some reason that he could never fathom, but that he had long noted was a tendency of his, George Hennessey glanced at the clock on the wall of his office before answering: ten fifty in the forenoon. "Or who, or where?" he said. Then glanced out of the office window at a cloudless blue sky. "You know when it comes down to it, we know precious little more than we did this time yesterday. Nathan Ossler was shot on Sunday evening. That's it."
"Being unfair on yourself, boss," Yellich smiled, leaning forwards as he did so. "We're getting background on Ossler. One nasty piece of work, professional blackmailer did you say? If he's done it once, he'll do it again…and that's a very handy motive to bump someone off. He made a mistake with the Scoutmaster by all accounts, thought he'd caught a paedophile who couldn't go to the police, but if he learned from that mistake and was squeezing someone he had found who genuinely couldn't go to the police…then that's a strong motivation."
Henness
ey smiled. "Keep talking to me, I'm beginning to see a road ahead. There is a path through the Great Grimpen Mire after all."
"No guarantees, boss, but that's how I'd be inclined to approach it."
"I think you're right. I don't think it's domestic…Mrs Ossler is well set up by the murder of her husband, but I think she'd prefer him alive to look after her and, anyway, her alibi checks out. I'm more puzzled by the phone call Ossler received from a school well after the school day had finished. I also want to talk to the guy who had a fight with Ossler at the golf clubhouse. There's a background there, more to it than Ossler insulting the man's wife by pouring beer down her front."
Yellich nodded. "There is, isn't there? Ponder it. What hold had Ossler over that fella that could enable him to do that in public? Has to be something."
"Has, hasn't it, Yellich?" Hennessey stroked his chin. "Right, I want you to go and have a look at his warehouse. Find what you find and then go and have a chat with Oliver Ossler. He's part of the network and he may or may not be involved, T.I.E., Yellich, T.I.E. trace, interview, eliminate. Talk to him, seek a motive, seek his whereabouts on Sunday last, two hours either side of midnight. Oliver Ossler is also likely to benefit from his father's murder but that may not amount to a motive. Much depends on the will and the contents therein, or what people believed to be the contents therein. Then I want you to go looking for an Indian restaurant."
"An Indian restaurant, boss?"
"Ossler's last meal was Indian, likely to have been delivered. Seek an Indian restaurant that will deliver in Strensall, see if they have a record of a delivery to Ossler's house on Sunday. If so, what time was it delivered? Dr D'Acre tells me that Ossler was cooled within thirty minutes of eating his last meal. Forty-five minutes at the outside. If we can find the time of that delivery, it will narrow the time of his death down nicely."
"Very good, boss."
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