Peter Turnbull - Aftermath

‘That’s quite illuminating.’

‘I had my eyes opened all right. . but she was never home, it was one group in the mornings, another in the afternoon and another in the evenings. I was not even second fiddle to the AA. I was in her life in name only. But I still miss her dreadfully.’

‘I’m sorry. What we really have to do is to confirm her identity. . dental records or a sample of her DNA.’

‘Yes. . she had a climbing accident when she was a young woman; the left side of her face was permanently concave. She was very self-conscious about it; it was then that she started drinking. . distinct injury to her skull. She was lucky to have survived and luckier still to have escaped serious brain damage.’

‘As you say. . that might be sufficient to confirm her identity but what you report about her drink problem might be very significant.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yes,’ Carmen Pharoah stood, ‘I think so. I really think so.’

Thomson Ventnor drove back to Micklegate Bar Police Station, signed in, and went directly to the office of DCI Hennessey. He tapped on the door frame, entered the office and sat, uninvited, in one of the chairs in front of Hennessey’s desk. ‘I am mindful of your previous admonition, boss,’ he explained smiling.

‘Oh?’ Hennessey put his pen down and reclined in his chair. ‘Which particular admonition was that?’

‘Charging off without clearing it with you, sir, even though I had my mobile phone with me,’ he tapped his jacket pocket.

‘Yes, I remember, I am so pleased that you took that issue on board, it is essential that I keep the overview and also it is essential that I know where each of my team is, at all times.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So, do I assume. . may I assume there is a development?’

‘Just another possible contact about one of the victims, Angela Prebble. . she is a Miss Prebble, not Mrs, and the man she shared her house with is her brother, not her husband.’

‘Ah. . I see.’

‘He made reference to her friends but despite that, he painted a picture of a very socially isolated pair of individuals. One friend of hers sent a Christmas card with his name and address on the reverse of the envelope. I feel that he, the friend, might be more in the loop. . in Miss Prebble’s loop than is, or was, her own brother, but I was only briefed to interview the next of kin. I am happy to go and see him alone but I thought I’d better clear it with yourself first, sir, and also do a criminal records check.’

‘Yes, thank you. I am pleased you did that, but it sounds like a two-hander.’ Hennessey reached for his phone and, lifting the receiver, he pressed a four figure internal number. ‘Criminal records?’ he asked when his call was answered. ‘Good. .’ he glanced at Ventnor questioningly.

Ventnor responded, ‘Ronald Malpass, Two Portland Street, Hutton Cranswick.’

Hennessey repeated the name and address and then looked at Ventnor a second time.

Ventnor shook his head and said, ‘No numbers, sir.’

‘No date of birth,’ Hennessey added, as he heard the sound of a computer keyboard being tapped rapidly and efficiently. Then he said, ‘All right, thank you.’ He replaced the phone gently. ‘No major crime. . just a few for drunk and disorderly, and one drunk in charge of a motor vehicle. . all dealt with by the magistrates and some time ago. . all spent convictions now, but I still think I’d like you to take someone with you.’

‘As you wish, sir.’

‘Contact Carmen Pharoah. Ask her to meet you at the address.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The man who had murdered James Post and his wife sat in silence in the living room of their home. The brains of both were active but there was just nothing to say once the man had said, ‘No point in burying. . not now.’

Carmen Pharoah followed Martyn Penta to the door of his house when the mobile phone vibrated in her handbag and played the ‘William Tell Overture’. ‘Excuse me.’ She halted and plunged her hand into her handbag.

‘Of course, and may I compliment you on your choice of ringtone? So many ringtones are for the brain dead.’

Carmen Pharoah smiled at the compliment and then, holding the device to her right ear, said, ‘Hello, Thompson.’ She fell silent before replying, ‘I’ll see you there. I am just leaving Mr Penta’s house now, I’ll see you there. I’ll look for your car.’ She smiled at Martyn Penta as she slid her mobile phone into her handbag. ‘Day in the life of a copper, one thing after the other.’

Martyn Penta opened the door of his house to allow her to egress the building. ‘Well, it’s better than being out of work and thanks, you’ve jolted me into a sense of urgency in respect of my work. I have balance sheets to address.’

In the event, it was Thomson Ventnor who identified Carmen Pharoah’s car and he halted behind it. He left his own car, walked to hers and sat in the front passenger seat. ‘Sorry, I took the wrong turning.’

‘I’ve only just got here myself.’ Carmen Pharoah gazed at the line of detached houses reaching away from her on the right-hand side, to the left was a large village green complete with duck pond and war memorial, beyond which stood a row of prestigious looking houses which seemed to represent the ‘posh’ side of the village green. ‘The address is just up there and round the corner. I enquired at the post office which I found inside the general store. It’s that sort of village.’ She started the engine of her car. ‘Following me or leaving yours here?’

‘Leaving it,’ Ventnor pulled the seat-belt across his chest, ‘pick it up on the way back. This fella has some previous I should tell you, all minor, drink related, all spent.’

‘Drink again?’

‘Yes, may not be anything but alcohol related. Demon drink is getting to be a bit of a common theme.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ Ventnor glanced at the war memorial as they drove past it. ‘Veronica Goodwin. .’

‘And Gladys Penta. I have just visited her husband. She was the cornerstone of the local chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous.’

‘That is interesting.’

Carmen Pharoah smiled. ‘That’s exactly what I said.’

‘Well it at least makes a change.’ Hennessey smiled as he made the remark. ‘In fact, I think it’s a first.’

‘It’s a new one on me also, sir.’ The uniformed sergeant of the police was, thought Hennessey, clearly of sufficient years’ service to be able to say that. ‘Usually it’s dog walkers or children’.

‘Or courting couples.’ Hennessey strode across the baked, hard ground, side by side with the sergeant, towards the small stand of trees by which stood a white inflatable tent, the location being cordoned off by a line of blue and white police tape. ‘That’s happened before, a young couple seeking some privacy, entering a secluded area and lo’ and behold, a dead body. . rather putting a damper on any romantic notion they might have been entertaining.’

‘I’ll say,’ the uniformed sergeant replied drily, and without any trace of humour. Hennessey had not met the man before and sensed he was in the company of a bitter man who probably felt he should have achieved a higher rank than he had achieved, and who was approaching his retirement from a modest station.

The police constable at the tape inclined his head in acknowledgement of Hennessey and the sergeant and lifted the tape to allow them to enter the restricted area. The interior of the wooded area was pleasantly shaded but unpleasantly, Hennessey thought, contaminated by the buzzing of a large swarm of flies. Hennessey entered the inflatable tent which stood beside the trees. Dr Mann was already present.

‘Adult male,’ Dr Mann announced, ‘adult of the male sex. I have confirmed life extinct at fourteen twenty hours, about twenty-five minutes ago.’