Peter Turnbull: Aftermath

‘Flown the coop, boss?’ Yellich entered the house followed by the constable, youthful, fresh-faced, white shirt, dark blue trousers.

‘No. . no. .’ Hennessey turned and walked back towards the hallway, ‘no, they’re here somewhere. . they will not be running. It’s over for them; I know that they know that.’ He paused. ‘Find them and then search the house for the evidence we’ll need to convict them. .’

‘House is empty, sir.’ The sergeant descended the stairs. ‘We’re checking the loft now but it’s clearly empty. We checked everywhere. . under beds. . cupboards. . no one here. . just us.’

‘Outbuildings!’ Hennessey snapped, ‘Check the outbuildings.’

The sergeant turned and shouted to the constables. ‘Down here. . check the garden shed. . and the garage.’

Hennessey and Yellich stepped out of the hallway and into the living room of the house to allow the uniformed officers to pass.

Hennessey turned to Yellich. ‘They can’t have gone. . they can’t have!’

Moments later. . perhaps less than sixty seconds later, the sergeant returned in a solemn looking attitude and looked at Hennessey. ‘We’ve found something, sir.’ He turned and led Hennessey and Yellich to the garage which stood beside the house, separated from it by a narrow concrete path. The door to allow a person ingress and egress to the garage was open. . a constable stood beside it. . the other constables stood behind him on the path. The sergeant turned and said, ‘In the garage, sirs.’

Hennessey and Yellich entered the garage and saw first the gleaming coffee coloured saloon car owned by the Malpasses, within which Ronald and Sylvia Malpass, sitting as if asleep, he in the driver’s seat, and she beside him in the front passenger seat, and holding each other’s hand. A hose led from the cars exhaust to the interior of the car via a partially open rear window.

‘We checked for life, sir,’ the sergeant informed. ‘Both appear deceased. . no pulse and their skin is clammy to the touch.’

‘Thank you, sergeant,’ Hennessey mumbled. ‘Thank you.’

A silence descended upon the scene broken by Hennessey who said, ‘You know, I feel cheated.’

‘Cheated, sir?’ Yellich replied.

‘Yes. . they won. . they won. Neither of them could have survived gaol and they knew that. . not after their lifestyle, and they would have also known that for them it would have been life without the possibility of parole. We’ll never know how many victims they had. . the nine women in the gardens at Bromyards plus the tramps they left buried. . or exposed. . all over the UK. . those that we know about. We got involved in it when it was all over, when they had already decided to quit on their own terms and escape justice. . even if the price they were prepared to pay was the loss of their own lives. . but they escaped justice. So, yes, I feel cheated. . and their victims also. . they were cheated out of justice.’

The man lay in bed looking at the woman who stood naked at the window, and who, in turn, was watching the sun sink over the Cumbrian fells, causing the autumn trees to glow like shimmering golden orbs. He savoured her slenderness, the soft curve of her breasts and the well-toned muscles, caused, he knew, by her passion for equestrianism. ‘I should have known better.’ He lay back and looked up at the ornate plasterwork of the ceiling painted in pale blue to blend with the slightly darker blue of the wallpaper, which blended with the yet darker blue of the carpet.

‘You couldn’t have done anything else,’ the woman half-turned and smiled at him. ‘You had to wait until you had sufficient to justify an arrest warrant.’

‘I still think I could have moved earlier, I just didn’t think I was under time pressure once Dr Joseph told me she also felt they had stopped killing. I thought I had all the time in the world. . and they won. . they played the game they had planned to play and we’ll never know for how many years they played it.’

‘Or how many victims.’

‘Yes, just silently took victims that few, if anybody, would miss and buried them locally, or left them to be discovered in remote places all over the UK, leaving local forces to do the naming and burying number, and not one was linked with another.’

‘There was no reason why they should be linked, down-and-outs are always being found where they died. . even in the twenty-first century, that is just the way of it.’ She stretched her arms, ‘This sun feels good. It’ll be getting quite chilly outside, but behind the window, warmth comes through.’

‘Yes. . then, like all serial killers, they racked up the game and took victims who’d be missed. It was probably their way of bringing an end to it all. . then we called on them.’

‘By which they knew it would only be a matter of time before you closed down on them you mean?’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I do mean,’ the man levered himself out of bed, ‘so they killed their gofer and then sat in their car in the garage with the engine running, holding hands as they drifted into their final sleep. Dare say they won in a sense, did what they intended to do without ever seeing the inside of a police station, let alone a prison.’

‘Well,’ the woman smiled at the man, ‘all you can do is chalk it up to experience. Let’s dress, I’m getting hungry.’

‘Agreed.’ Hennessey stood, reaching for a towel as he walked towards the bathroom. ‘Something in the bar, then we’ll eat. I think I’ll try the duck myself tonight. . confess it looked to be quite good.’

Louise D’Acre turned to take one last look at the setting sun, ‘It was,’ she said warmly. ‘It was very good indeed.’