Peter Turnbull - Aftermath

Later, when father and son sat on the patio at the rear of Hennessey’s house, and watching Oscar crisscross the lawn, having clearly picked up an interesting scent, George Hennessey asked, ‘What are you doing. . where?’

‘Newcastle,’ Charles Hennessey replied, ‘representing a felon who definitely did not commit a series of burglaries during which not a few householders were injured, some seriously, despite leaving his DNA and fingerprints behind him in an easily followed trail. . he had a crack cocaine habit, you see.’

‘Ah. .’

‘The police couldn’t lift him because he was unknown to them, no previous convictions, so no record of his DNA or fingerprints.’

‘I see.’

‘So lucky. . but luck ran out in the form of him getting into a fight in a pub. . nothing to do with burglaries.’

‘But a recordable offence and the Northumbria Police had his DNA and fingerprints taken.’

‘Yes, so they raided his home and found a number of items taken from the burglaries which he had still to sell for money for crack cocaine. . and still he is insistent on his innocence. He’s trying to convince himself, of course, as much as anyone else.’

‘I know the type.’

‘I bet you do. . but will he listen to reason? So, I am instructed to fight his corner with nothing to fight it with. His story that he found the stuff in the street won’t wash and, even so, that is still an admission of theft by finding. . And you. . your work?’

‘Five murdered women?’

‘Five!’ Charles Hennessey glanced at his father.

‘Five. . and my old copper’s waters tell me that there will be more.’

‘What’s the story, so far?’

Hennessey told his son the details.

‘A big one.’

‘Yes. We have issued a press release, it’ll make this evening’s television news and tomorrow’s newspapers, the press will be all over this one.’

‘And your lady friend?’

George Hennessey smiled. ‘Very well, thank you. You’ll meet her soon.’

‘We hope so. . she sounds. . she sounds just right for you, father. You’ve been on your own quite long enough. I realize now how hard it was for you to be a single parent.’

‘I had help.’

‘Yes, I remember, but a housekeeper is not a parent and is not a partner.’

‘Jennifer was with me, I felt her presence. I still feel it.’

‘Yes, that is interesting, I don’t doubt you.’

George Hennessey smiled. ‘Oh, she’s here. . she’s here. . I can feel her presence. She loves her garden.’

‘Yes,’ Charles Hennessey looked out over the neatly cut lawn to the hedgerow, which crossed the lawn from left to right with a gateway in the middle, leading on to an orchard in the corner of which were two garden sheds, both heavily creosoted. Beyond the orchard was an area of waste ground dominated by grass, within which was a pond with thriving amphibious life. ‘Her garden built according to a design she drew up when heavily pregnant with me.’

‘Very heavily pregnant, you arrived a few days later.’

‘I remember her. I remember being on her lap and looking up at her. It’s my first memory. I have continuous memory from about the age of four, islands of memory before that.’

‘As is usual.’

‘So unfair, sudden death syndrome.’

‘Yes, just walking through Easingwold. . on a day like today and collapsing. Folk thought that she had fainted but there was no pulse and her skin was clammy to the touch. Dead on arrival, or Condition Purple in ambulance speak. . and you just three months old. As you say, so unfair.’ Hennessey paused. ‘So when do I see my grandchildren again?’

‘Quite soon, they’re clamouring to see Grandad Hennessey again. . tend to think it’s because you spoil them rotten.’

‘Which,’ Hennessey smiled, ‘is exactly what grand-parents are for.’

Later still, when Charles Hennessey had left to drive to his home and his family, George Hennessey made another cup of tea and carried it out to the orchard and stood where he had scattered one of the handfuls of his late wife’s ashes and told her of his day. . as he always did. . winter and summer, and then he told her again of the new love in his life and assured her that it did not mean that his love for her had diminished. If anything, he told her, over the years it had grown stronger, and once again he felt himself surrounded by a warmth which could not be explained by the rays of the sun alone.

After sunset, and after spending a pleasant two hours reading a recently acquired book about the Zulu wars, which was already a valued addition to his library of military history, and after eating his supper and feeding Oscar, Hennessey took the dog for a walk of fifteen minutes, out to a field where he let the animal explore for thirty minutes and then man and dog returned to Hennessey’s house. Hennessey then walked out again, alone, into Easingwold for a pint of brown and mild, at the Dove Inn, just one before last orders were called.

Friday, 12th June — 10.15 hours — Saturday 04.10 hours

in which more is learned about the final victim and the gentle reader is privy to George Hennessey’s demons.

Mrs Penny Merryweather revealed herself to be a slightly built and a warm and a bumbling personality. She was dark-haired and wore a ready smile and also instantly struck Yellich as indeed having a character which well befitted her name. She lived in a small council house set among six other similar houses in the village of Milking Nook. She smiled at Yellich upon him showing her his ID and stepped aside, inviting him into her house. Yellich entered and, following Penny Merryweather’s directions, found himself in a cluttered but neat and cleanly kept living room where he sat, as invited, in one of the two armchairs in the room. Yellich scanned the room and all seemed to him to be in perfect keeping with a householder of Mrs Merryweather’s age and means. The television in the corner was small and probably a black and white set having, thought Yellich, the look of that vintage about it. Framed portraits of children and adults stood along the mantelpiece in a neat row. The wallpaper had faded and, like the television, seemed to Yellich to belong to a different, earlier, era. The room smelled heavily of furniture polish. Mrs Merryweather sat in the second armchair and leaned forward, smiling in what Yellich thought was an eager to please and almost childlike attitude.

‘Mr Nicholas Housecarl,’ Yellich began, ‘of Bromyards.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Deceased. Recently so.’

‘Yes, sir, but you can’t say it wasn’t no surprise can you? I mean, his age. He did very well did the old gentleman, very well, all the village said so.’

‘I understand that you worked for him?’

‘Yes, sir, I was one of the staff at the big house and I was the last to leave. I was still there almost to the end I was. . even though in the last ten or fifteen years I used to work part time, just two or three afternoons a week and none at all in the depths of winter. . but still almost to the very end.’

‘One of the staff?’ Yellich settled back into the armchair. ‘How many were there?’

‘Oh. . quite a few at one time, sir, quite a few. . such a big house you see with huge gardens and grounds beyond the garden that needed looking after, not as much as gardens but looking after just the same. . a large field of grass that Mr Housecarl had scythed once every two years.’

‘Scythed?’ Yellich smiled.

‘Yes, sir, couldn’t use a motor mower on it because of stuff laying in the grass like rotting tree trunks and so it had to be scythed. You can believe me on that one, sir.’

‘How many men did that take?’

‘Just the one. . Brian Foot did that. He used to like working alone did Brian, and, with a huge field to scythe, and that he got paid when it’s done, no matter how long it took to do, it suited him. It wasn’t a crop you see, it just had to be cut but not gathered in. Dare say it’s waist high now, but Brian wasn’t on the staff, retired farmworker brought in to scythe the ten acre once every two years. He didn’t gather the grass he scythed, just let it lay there to rot but that’s how Mr Housecarl wanted it.’