disappeared.’
Hennessey took the piece of paper from Webster. He read:
Angela Prebble, 33 years
Paula Rees, 39 years
Gladys Penta, 42 years
Rosemary Arkwright, 45 years
Helena Tunnicliffe, 51 years
Roslyn Farmfield, 57 years
Denise Clay, 63 years
‘I see what you mean;’ Hennessey spoke softly, ‘the youngest is thirty-three years, the oldest sixty-three years, not at all the typical victim profile of serial killers of female victims.’
‘There is one more victim, sir.’
‘One more?’
‘Yes, I can’t fit her with any of our mis per reports but Dr D’Acre confirms she is, or was, middle-aged.’
‘So we have nine victims, these seven, Veronica Goodwin and the as yet unidentified victim?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And, as you say, Veronica Goodwin at a tender twenty-three years is a distinct anomaly. . but something will link them. They’re all from the Vale? Yes, sorry, of course they are otherwise we wouldn’t have their mis per files.’
‘Yes, sir, just the one victim who might be foreign to the Vale, she is a short-term resident who had no social network, so no one to report her missing.’
‘But eight out of the nine are definitely local to the Vale, they were left locally and in the same place. . the perpetrator is local. The kitchen garden at Bromyards speaks loudly of local knowledge, no outsider here coming to the Vale to look for his victims, he knows this area. . he’s local.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And the victims, apart from the unidentified one, are local?’
‘Furthest address from the city of York is at Shipton and that’s only five miles away, a gentle stroll for a person in reasonable health, ten minutes by car and failing either, a frequent bus service.’
‘Anything about the time sequence of their disappearances?’
‘It seems there is a gap of between ten and twelve months between each disappearance. They all disappeared in the winter months.’
‘Dark nights. . poor visibility. Interesting. It could be a coincidence but I tend to think it isn’t.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But it does mean that death came quickly to them. . it suggests a quicker and more merciful death by hypothermia than the slower death by thirst that we were worried might be the case.’
‘Yes. . a small comfort.’
‘Well, Yellich is gathering what information he can about the murder scene. Ventnor and Pharoah are interviewing people who knew Veronica Goodwin, so you and I will finish early for today. We’ll review at nine tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have a restful night. I think we’ll all be working hard for the foreseeable future.’
Reginald Webster, not at all displeased to be able to return home earlier than he had anticipated, drove to Selby via the quieter and more rural B1222 via Stillingfleet and Cawood. He turned into the housing estate in which he lived and announced his arrival by sounding his car horn twice, which he knew was, strictly speaking, a moving traffic offence, it being unlawful to sound a car’s horn if (a) the car is stationary or (b) for any other purpose than to announce danger should the car be in motion. He was, however, known to his neighbours, all of whom knew and understood and approved of his method of announcing his arrival to his wife. As he parked his car the front door of his house opened and Joyce stood there smiling. He called a greeting to her, walked up the driveway and as he drew near he deliberately scuffed the gravel beside the concrete of the driveway. At the sound of the scuffed gravel his wife, blonde, short, slender, extended her arms. He embraced her and she responded instantly. Terry similarly greeted him by nudging his nose against his leg and wagging his tail.
That evening they sat down to a filling salad which had been lovingly prepared by Joyce, it being the only meal that he allowed her to prepare because hot food, and especially when created with boiling water, was too dangerous to risk. Later, as evening fell, Webster took Terry for a walk in the nearby woodland, because even working dogs need free time, and as he listened to a close by but unseen skylark he wondered at his wife’s courage. Blinded at just twenty years of age when she was studying fine art at university and yet considering herself lucky because, of the four occupants in the car, she alone had survived.
George Hennessey did not do well in heat. He never understood why people would spend hard-earned money to bake in Corfu in July or August when they could visit Iceland instead, and leave it until January to visit the Mediterranean fleshpots when the weather there is bearable. He often said that if he were to be given a choice of Crete in August or Aberdeen in January, he would choose the latter without a moment’s hesitation, it being preferable, in his mind, to keep warm in a cold climate rather than to try to keep cool in a hot climate. Because of his discomfort in heat he found sleep evaded him that evening. The hot day had given way to a warm evening and as he lay abed underneath just a single lightweight duvet with the window of his bedroom fully open, he still found it impossible to sleep. He was, though, at rest emotionally speaking and thinking of but not particularly preoccupied with the following day’s tasks. . and then he heard the noise. Low at first but getting louder and louder and louder as it approached his house and then faded as the selfsame noise had once before faded into a similar summer’s night. It was a motorbike. And at the sound his state of emotional rest erupted into turmoil.
The gap then appeared, the gap left by Graham, a void, huge, unmissable, a place which should have been filled by his elder brother who died in a motorbike accident when Hennessey was eight years old. An emptiness, always there. .
George Hennessey’s mind would not settle until the birds started to sing and the dawn began to appear, at which point sleep, wonderful, wonderful sleep came to him like a mother and took him unto her bosom.
It was 04.10 hours, Saturday, 13th June.
FOUR
Saturday, 13th June, 09.00 hours — 15.37 hours.
George Hennessey fought off the urge to sleep and smiled as he glanced round his team of officers assembled round his desk, each drinking tea from half-pint sized mugs patterned with many various logos and colours. Somerled Yellich, Carmen Pharoah, Thomson Ventnor and Reginald Webster, each looking refreshed and alert, and each clearly having benefited from a more solid and refreshing sleep than he had been able to manage until he was jarred into wakefulness at seven a.m. He similarly sipped a mug of hot tea, without which no Englishman can function and so which must be taken before the working day can commence. ‘So,’ Hennessey put his mug down gently on his desktop, ‘we seem to have had a productive day yesterday, all busy. . all got results. . I have the overview, I read the recording before you filed it in here,’ he patted the manila folder, marked just ‘Bromyards Inquiry’ but which was evidently thickening, ‘but we need to share with each other. So, Somerled, as senior man, would you like to kick start us?’
‘Yes, thank you, sir.’ Yellich leaned forwards. ‘I visited two people yesterday, both of whom know the house, Bromyards, very well. Both had very good things to say about Mr Housecarl, but perhaps the most useful information came from the elderly ex-head gardener, a chap called Sparrow, Jeff Sparrow, who told me that the kitchen garden at Bromyards could not, for the main part, be overlooked and that it was abandoned ten years ago, or so, about then, he couldn’t give a certain date.’
‘Yes,’ Hennessey added, ‘that fits in with the date of the abduction of the first victim. .’ he consulted the folder, ‘one Angela Prebble, thirty-three years. . after Veronica Goodwin’s tender twenty-three years, she was the
