Peter Turnbull: Aftermath

‘Still very helpful though,’ he murmured as he placed the report in the thickening folder, as yet marked only as ‘Bromyards — 10/6’ and then glanced up in response to a gentle tap on the door frame of his office. Carmen Pharoah stood in the doorway, looking pleased with herself, Hennessey observed. He also saw that she held a manila folder in her right hand.

‘DC Pharoah,’ Hennessey greeted her warmly, ‘do come in and take a pew.’

Carmen Pharoah walked silently on rubber-soled shoes into Hennessey’s office and sat with a natural grace of movement on one of the upright chairs in front of Hennessey’s desk. She glanced hurriedly out of the small window of Hennessey’s office at the medieval walls of York, then bathed in sunshine and crowded with brightly dressed tourists. She turned to Hennessey. ‘We might have a match to the deceased, sir. Well, one of them, I should say.’

‘Oh? I am impressed.’

‘Yes, sir.’ She opened the folder she carried.

Hennessey held up a fleshy hand, ‘Just tell me the gist.’

‘Well, sir, I read the preliminary findings in the file. . and I thought. . not many six-foot tall women in York. . and the age, twenty-five years or younger. . well, sir, to get to the point, this is the missing persons file on one Veronica Goodwin.’

‘Goodwin?’ Hennessey commented. ‘As in Goodwin Sands?’

‘Yes, same spelling. . an “I” not a “y” and just one “n”, so Goodwin. . not Good wynee . Just plain Goodwin, nothing fancy.’

‘Very well.’

‘Well, she was twenty-three years of age when she was reported missing, about eighteen months ago. She was a Caucasian, or northern European, and stood six feet tall.’

‘It’s worth a bet. If I were a betting man, I would say we have the identity of one of the victims. What were the circumstances of her disappearance?’

‘According to the file, sir, she went out for the night with her girlfriends and didn’t come home. This was eighteen months ago. . so winter before last. . in the January of the year.’

Hennessey leaned forward, rested his elbows on his desk and clasped his hands together. ‘You know, I think you’re right, I think that we have found Veronica Goodwin, local girl, right height and age. We should have an EFIT soon; Dr D’Acre has sent her skull. . and will doubtless be sending the other four skulls to Wetherby so a computer generated likeness can be developed. But, if there are living relatives the DNA will confirm her ID.’

‘As will her dental records, sir.’

‘Yes, as you say, as will her dental records. What was her home address?’

‘Cemetery Road, Fulford, sir.’

Hennessey raised an eyebrow, ‘Well, how appropriate.’

‘Yes. . thought that, sir.’ She took a photograph from the file and handed it to Hennessey, ‘Veronica Goodwin in life, sir.’

Hennessey took the photograph and studied it. He saw a thin-faced, but quite attractive, young woman with shoulder-length blonde hair, smiling confidently at the camera. The eyes seemed to exude a sense of warmth and sincerity. Importantly, her smile revealed her teeth. He handed the photograph back to Carmen Pharoah. ‘Get that photograph to Wetherby by courier.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘They can compare the teeth to the teeth in the skull. If they match, we have a result, a definite, positive identification of the last victim. Do that immediately.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Carmen Pharoah stood.

‘Do you know when the photograph was taken?’

‘Just a day before she was reported missing, sir.’

Hennessey and Pharoah fell silent and the poignancy reached them, being that the confident, attractive, smiling Veronica Goodwin, twenty-three years, was to be murdered within a few hours of that very convenient photograph being taken. Carmen Pharoah spoke, saying what they were both thinking, ‘We just never know the minute do we, sir? None of us.’

‘No. .’ Hennessey sighed, ‘we never do.’ Then he recovered focus. ‘So who is in CID?’

‘Detective Sergeant Yellich and Detective Constable Ventnor, sir.’

‘All right, take Ventnor with you, go and knock on the door of the house in Cemetery Road, see what you see. Remember, no positive ID has been made yet, you’d better emphasize that. See what you see, find what you find.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ll see what Webster comes back with before I find a job for DS Yellich.’

‘Mr Yellich seems to be fighting his way through a mountain of paperwork at the minute, sir.’ Pharoah turned to leave Hennessey’s office.

‘Imagine he is. . but the Bromyard investigation has to take priority.’

‘Two p.m. tomorrow.’ Sydney Canverrie, by the nameplate on his desk, seemed to Webster to be doing very well out of the undertaking business and he further seemed to be untouched by the ever-present presence of death. He was a young man, still in his twenties, so Webster guessed. He seemed to be very well nourished, was expensively dressed in a blue suit and shirt and tie, and had what Webster thought was an inappropriately jocular attitude. He could only hope that the man adopted a more sombre manner when dealing with the distraught relatives of the deceased. The office in which both men sat was lined with light-coloured, highly polished pine wood panelling and a deep pile carpet of dark red. Canverrie’s desk was large, both long and wide, and he sat in a reclinable, executive-style chair. The window of his office looked out across a neatly cut lawn to a nearby brick built building which appeared to Webster to also be part of the premises of Canverrie amp; Son of York. ‘The deceased will be interred at Heslington Cemetery on Fordham Road after a brief Anglican service in the cemetery chapel. That is the new cemetery, not the old Victorian one.’

‘Yes, I know the one you mean.’

‘And it has some interest to the police?’

‘Yes, it does, but we are more interested in observing who might be attending, rather than paying our respects to the deceased.’

‘The old boy wasn’t a felon, surely?’ A note of alarm crept into Canverrie’s voice.

‘No,’ Webster held up his hand and gave a brief and slight shake of his head, ‘he appeared to have been a good man who led a blameless life, so you can bury him with all due dignity and reverence.’

‘Good,’ Canverrie seemed relieved, ‘we would do anyway, but it’s all an act. . it’s all for show.’

‘It is?’

‘Yes, it is all for show. It was my grandfather who started the company; my father is in fact the actual “son” of the name. The undertaking business is a display of ceremony, all very serious, but that is just the image.’

‘Oh really?’ Webster scowled.

‘Yes, really. . it all starts with my introducing myself to the grieving next-of-kin and saying, “Hello, my name’s Sydney and I’ll be looking after you today. .”, with me all dressed up in my grey pinstripe and tails with a top hat, looking every inch the Victorian gentleman or bank manager. Then I walk in front of the hearse for the first few feet of the journey to the chapel, as all the relatives and friend’s cars join the convoy, and then I get into the hearse, beside the driver, and we pick up speed. So, we drop the box in the ground or hide it away behind the velvet curtains, depending on whether it’s a burial or a cremation. Then we drop the rellies off at a pub where some grub has been laid on and that’s our job done, then we do the next job.’

‘That’s interesting.’

‘You think so? Damned superficial and sometimes excruciatingly embarrassing in the case of poorly attended funerals. . one coffin and just two mourners. . a full church or chapel and a well-attended funeral is less stressful, but I am here, for better or worse.’