“Unlike you to be timid, Billy boy. Always swift with the blade when you were in the fields with the lads, if I recall. See the photograph did you …? Bring memories flooding back did it? Memories of your old mates? Have you asked yourself how they’re getting on these days, Billy, have you? Remember that specific day and the year?”
Billy stopped in the doorway. The sun streamed into the cottage, highlighting the thin layer of dust on the glass coffee table next to the chair. His heart was pounding and he felt fear course through his body. Perspiration seemed to drip slowly from his temples and onto his cheeks, his hands were sweaty too. His senses were vibrant.
“Good holiday? I’ve been waiting patiently. Knew you were back today but unsure as to the time. However, I’ve all the time in the world. Retirement is the best job anyone could have, providing of course, you keep yourself amused and you have a bit of brass in the bank.”
Hearing the voice but not seeing the person speaking was disconcerting. The visitor had turned the chair, the back to the door and so he was unseen. Only the top of his head was visible but that was covered in what appeared to be a light blue hood. The voice filled the room. It was strong and defiant. Bill walked around the very edge of the room his eyes never leaving the chair. He stopped on seeing the blue foot protectors that were on the visitor’s feet. The same light blue covered the lower legs.
“Who the fuck are you and what do you want? You’re trespassing.”
That brought a chuckle. “Trespassing, Billy? I’m doing more than bloody trespassing. But then so were you if my sources are accurate. Still up to your old profession I hear on the grapevine, but mixing it with our European neighbours. Funny how the rats always find the shit.” As he spoke, he stood and turned to look at Hurst who was now partially silhouetted against the light from the window. The lowered .22 was directed at his head. “Shall I call you Billy Hurst or Billy Humphrey?”
Billy frowned. “Humphrey, no, the name’s Hurst not Humphrey.”
He knew exactly what was pointing at him, he had used them enough. He had even handled that one, but the hood and the medical type mask covering the person’s nose and mouth, the full body coverall, confused him. It was clinical and surgical and extremely threatening. He began to move forward when a gloved hand was raised. “Not a good idea when facing a man with a gun. Knife, gun, gun, knife. We both know who’ll win … I digress. Let’s talk about Ramsgill, Mr Hurst, let’s call you Humphrey as that’s the name you used back then. Lovely part of Yorkshire, Nidderdale, most of the time, but not after you and your evil bastard friends had their way. Short of brass are we or are you just doing it for amusement, checking the old butchery skills are still there? It’s not the first is it? It’s growing in popularity too!”
Billy looked the stranger up and down and his fear transmuted to anger. “Who the fuck are you and what’s my business to you?”
“Missing your old pals?”
Hurst frowned. “Buddies … Fuck you, and there’s no money here so what do you want? Have I met you before?”
“Not always been an honest man, have you, otherwise why would Humphrey become Hurst? I’ve just one question for you. It’s simple. It’s either a yes or a no answer, a bit like tossing a coin, like life and death but unlike the creatures you dealt with you have a chance. I asked your pals, Peterson and Lyons the same question.” There was a long pause.
Billy allowed the knife to shift in his hand as if rearranging his grip. Fear had now been replaced by confusion. He felt a prickly heat flush through his body – the adrenalin surge brought with it bravado. “And the fucking question?”
“Do you know who I am, Billy, because I clearly know you?” The gloved hand that was held out, palm facing upwards, tugged the mask, fingers gripped the edges and the covering was slowly brought below his chin. “I made sure I was facing the light so that you could take a long, clear view. I’ll even smile if that will help.”
The sarcasm was not lost as Hurst leaned forward taking a close look at the stranger’s features. “No fucking idea …”
As he spoke the word no, a finger pulled the trigger and the .22 round penetrated Billy’s right eye at a rising angle. It swiftly traversed the cranial cavity, passing through the frontal lobe before lodging in the parietal lobe. The knife fell first, sticking vertically into the wooden floor and, like a partially hewn tree, Billy seemed to hover as if neither standing nor falling. It was as if in death he could not make the decision as to his next action. He wavered, blood and brain matter dribbling from his chin before his knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor. His body hit the protruding knife and the tip snapped with a loud click and was immediately hidden beneath the body.
Carefully, returning the mask over his mouth and nose, the intruder laid the gun next to the body before entering the kitchen. He lifted the photograph and smiled behind the mask. Three questions, three correct answers. He took the framed photograph with him, retrieved Billy’s car keys and left.
***
Shakti ensured Belinda Bostock was comfortable. She had brought two ceramic mugs of coffee into the police station’s public lounge, a room kept to be more conducive than the bare and emotionally cold interview room. A yucca stood in one corner and prints depicting Harrogate were displayed on two walls giving the room a more friendly air. As they were about to study a selection of facial images Shakti had prepared, they sat facing a large computer screen. It had been found that people sitting away from and not directly in front of the screen had a better chance of identifying a suspect. It was a positional thing. As the trainer had said, how often do we face people a foot from our own face?
The photographs started to appear, were paused briefly and then changed. Shakti held the remote control and could now stop, rewind or still the images at any time. Neither spoke. Halfway through the prepared images Shakti was growing anxious.
“Stop! Please hold that one.” Belinda leaned forward. The photograph was of a man looking directly at the camera, his face contorted. Two others were to one side but neither was looking at the camera. He was obviously photographed outside and he wore a woollen bobble hat, his collar up and the lower jaw covered.
“Do you recognise him, Belinda?”
Turning to look at Shakti she put her mug on the table. “It’s not the man at the front but … but the guy to his left.” She moved towards the screen and scrutinised it. “I think it’s him.”
Shakti enlarged the image but in doing so she found the clarity was reduced. “It’s pixilating, sorry.” She picked up her phone. “Quinn. We might have a positive on image 2016/6/BedaleHunt.127. Can you get it sharpened? Face is partly hidden by a hood and some sort of scarf. I need to talk later. Collect all the contact details we hold for that image.” Shakti could have done that immediately but she was conscious of the need to try to obtain the information Owen had requested.
“Let’s just go quickly through the rest, there aren’t many and he might appear in other shots.” She let the images roll across the screen and chose her moment. “Forgive me, but I was aware of your concern when your husband learned that your DNA was found on the keys. Did you know Peterson better than you’ve made out?”
Belinda laughed. “He was seventy-seven years old for goodness sake!”
“Twenty-five years ago he wasn’t.” Shakti waited, knowing immediately she had hit the right spot. The pause was palpable.
“In confidence?” Belinda looked at Shakti. “It will go no further?”
Shakti smiled. “Total confidence.”
“When he worked full-time, he was a fun character, he had quite a reputation and if the rumours were right, had a lot of women too. He always had a great physique for a man of his age. When you’re isolated as I am, no kids, just the farm, you can get, let’s say, distracted. You have a lot of time and when he was working in the yard my imagination took over. His sweaty torso, shiny and lithe was a bit of a turn on to be honest. To answer your question, we had a bit of a fling.”
“Bit of a fling? An affair you mean?”
“We fucked a few times but I was always worried Ted would find out and you’ve experienced his temper. I was also frightened in the early days that I might get pregnant. We’d tried, Ted and me, I mean, but without success and I thought that he might be sterile. Ted could breed sheep, even cattle, goats and chickens but he couldn’t produce his own offspring. Back then, these problems were and still are a taboo subject. Even now men won’t talk about it, let alone go and see a professional. We often wondered about his parents when you consider the age difference between him and his brother. Probably an outside contract there for Trevor as they were like chalk and cheese. Well that’s what Ted said when they fell out. I went and had tests unbeknown to Ted. They informed me that there was no reason why I couldn’t conceive. I didn’t tell him as it would have put the blame directly onto him and this way he could still believe that it was down to me. That’s what he told folks in the pub. Ted then just wrapped himself up in the farm, saying that kids were time consuming and expensive but I know he felt bitter.”
“When was the last time between you and Peterson?”
“About five years ago.”
“Ever in the car?”
“No, definitely not.”
“So, the keys and your DNA?”
“When he came to the farm, he’d drop them in. If Ted wasn’t there, we’d have a quick kiss and a cuddle. Nothing else. I’d move them so Ted wouldn’t see them if he came back. Sam would go off on the tractor or in the pick-up. He’d collect them at the end of the day. I’d leave them on the front wheel or if I was about, in the car. You must understand that it was the excitement.”
“Did your husband ever suspect?” Shakti moved a little closer. “Enough to want to get some kind of revenge?”
“Kill him? Definitely not. Found it hard killing crows and jays. Needed Sam for that. Sam could kill anything and not even blink. If I’d have ever told Sam that Ted hit me, he’d have shot him. I know that.”
***
Owen’s mobile rang, the old familiar ring tone. He saw it was Dan Grimshaw. He listened. A call had come in from a member of the public who had identified one of the people in the photograph posted on social media. He listened as Dan told him the elderly gentleman knew him as he robbed him of £2000 in 1984. “He was to lay a driveway and offered a discount if he paid up front. Strangely enough, he paid and the man never returned. Interestingly he kept the flyer and the contract. Driveways Direct. I’ve checked the files for the period and fraudulent trading seemed rife and was reported a number of times.”
Owen grabbed a pen and jotted down the name. William Humphrey. 1984. Formerly a butcher and greengrocer in Chadderton Manchester before becoming a fraudster. “Bingo! Where is he now?”
Owen frowned. “We don’t know? Electoral list? Do we have an age for William Humphrey or Hurst?” Owen signalled for April to come closer. “Putting you on speaker.”
“He was in his late thirties then so he’ll be early seventies. They said he had a fancy car and smart suits back then. A plausible and credible salesman.”
“Obviously.”
“From checks, he sold those previous businesses, the car and the flat and simply vanished.”
“Have you looked for any Humphreys living in the area? If he’s flipping between the two names that’s the reason he’s slipped through the bloody net.”
“That’s next. If he’s the butcher with the knife marked BHB and the glove found at Bostock’s, we might be too late. Check with your caller. Get hold of the flyer. He’s obviously held a grudge for a long time so he might be able to help more. Try for a description of the man and anyone else who might have worked for him. If they were con men, they usually work in pairs, one the workman, the man on the ground and the other, the salesman. See what you can dig up. Go yourself. I’ll get it cleared with Greater Manchester Police.” Owen put down his phone as the call finished.
April had moved away and was searching for the Humphreys within a fifty-mile radius. She added the approximate date of birth. “Jollies in the Dean Cottage, between Grassington and Hebdon. Lives alone. A William Humphrey.” She swiftly called control for immediate action and requested a direct link to monitor progress. She checked to see if he owned a vehicle and then linked the registration with ANPR before giving a thumbs up to Owen.
Owen moved and stood behind her chair reading the details on the screen.
“Is that all there is? Work, any history on file?”
“Adding details into HOLMES for possible links now.”
***
The killer drove the car towards Grassington before pulling off the road. Placing the framed photograph on the dashboard he quickly left the car and walked a hundred metres from the vehicle before stripping off the protective clothing and stuffing it into a small bag. It would take ten minutes to walk to Grassington public car park and his own car. Out of curiosity he drove back towards Hebdon and the cottage. His heart fluttered as he saw the flashing blue lights of a police vehicle approaching. Surely they were not going to the cottage, not so soon. He slowed as the car flashed by. His curiosity getting the better of him he pulled into the first available lane, reversed and returned towards Grassington, ensuring he did not slow down as he saw the police car parked outside the cottage he had not long left. Shit! That was a close call, he said under his breath and instinctively looked away as he passed. He knew they were connecting the threads and his heart fluttered more erratically.
Chapter Sixteen
Owen drove as April watched the countryside flash by; it was hypnotic and she felt her mind drifting. Neither said much, aware of what they were going to witness. She could see why Cyril often arrived feeling nauseous; the blue lights now clearly visible on the otherwise plain police vehicle seemed to bring out the worst in his driving. The thought of a cyclist or animal around the next blind bend made her close her eyes and hold her breath, only relieved when the road ahead was clear. He slowed as he approached the junction at Greenhow Hill, glancing at the church to his right and then at the yellow painted bicycle chained to a wooden telegraph post. A group of cyclists sped past in the other direction.
“Wonder if The Stray will ever recover from the World Cycling Championships,” he mumbled. “Right bloody mess. Heavy vehicles and soft ground are a recipe for disaster.”
“It’s grass, it’ll grow, that’s one thing we can be assured of. Ask every gardener in this country. Ralph certainly doesn’t mind as long as there’s the odd puddle he can roll in; he’ll even settle for mud!”
Ralph was her Great Dane, a dog she had adopted after the owner had been murdered. Owen always believed its DNA had more in common with that of a donkey than a dog but he too had a soft spot for the animal; they were both gentle giants.
The CSI were present on their arrival and they soon found themselves chatting to one of the four North East Home Office pathologists. As Julie was away Owen had presumed that it might be Caner. On their first meeting Owen had reserved judgement about the man. He always felt he had a condescending air, as if there was a permanent bad smell beneath his nostrils, aloof and arrogant with the less experienced in his company. It was only when he had been welcomed to the autopsies that their friendship developed.
Caner was just removing his protective clothing as they approached. “Owen, the cavalry has not saved the day on this occasion, I’m afraid, although I have to say from my initial tests you were closer than on many. The body was still warm when the first officers arrived. One went and checked the immediate area but found nothing. Time of death maybe no more than an hour maximum! I’ll know more when I do the full tests. So, Bennett and my colleague are sunning themselves in beautiful Barbados.” He let the last syllable run on his tongue. “Whilst we mere mortals have to deal with the sins of man. Lovely place for a honeymoon, mind. Have you been?”
April looked at Owen and then back to Caner. Both shook their heads and she wondered if Owen was thinking of Rodcliff Massiah, a fri
end and fellow officer who had inspired Cyril to book the holiday.
“You know DS Richmond?”
Caner smiled. “Indeed. We always seem to meet in such unpleasant circumstances. April, if my memory serves me correctly.”
April smiled.
“Billy Hurst, I’m informed, although the cottage is rented by a Humphrey. Shot in the head with a small calibre bullet .22. Penetrated the right eye. Reminded me of the case of a famous boxer. He was found in the rear of a car in a back street in Blackpool with an air gun pellet through his eye. Found sitting with the rifle pointing upwards. Never caught the person who did it. A long time ago so before my time, but I digress. Projectile will still be present in the skull as there’s no visible exit wound. We’ll get that as soon as he’s on the table. However, I feel sure that it will match the gun that was to his side.”
Owen looked again at April. “The missing gun from Peterson’s place. Then there’s the knife, probably removed from here. If that’s the case we know it’s the same person who killed Lyons and Peterson.”
“Forensics noted three knives missing from the knife block. Each marked BHB. However, one was found under the body. Looks like he had it as some kind of defence. You’ll get a clearer picture once inside. Nothing’s been moved. Will be in touch.”
As Caner walked away, Owen read April’s facial expression and jumped quickly to his defence.
“Before you say anything, I used to feel the same about him. Trust me, he’s fine.”
“I’d have labelled him under the category of ‘T’.”
Owen chuckled and nodded.
Before entering they added the compulsory protective overgarments. In the lounge, Owen crouched near the body and tilted his head. The blood had congealed around the eye socket but the face below it was streaked with blood and matter. There was surprisingly little pooled below his face. He then noticed the chair placed at an unusual angle, as if deliberately positioned with its back to the door; it seemed out of place when he looked at the room’s general layout. There were indentations in the rug to the right suggesting it had recently been moved from its regular position. The CSI confirmed it had been resited. It would be photographed and measured for a full ballistic examination.
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