said, with a mixture of curiosity and aggression borne out of a sense of being threatened.
‘Police,’ Carmen Pharoah showed him her identity.
‘Yes?’
‘About your brother. . your late brother, James Post.’
‘Yes?’
‘My boss, Mr Hennessey, asked me to call and see you.’
‘Mr Hennessey?’ Short Nigel Post looked up at the statuesque Carmen Pharoah. ‘He’s the gentleman. .’
‘Yes, he was with you when you identified James Post.’
‘Yes, nice man,’ he glanced across the road and noticed curtains begin to twitch. ‘You’d better come in, keep the nosies guessing.’
Carmen Pharoah read Nigel Post’s house, neat, clean, cramped. All seemed appropriate to her for a man of Nigel Post’s age and social standing. She accepted his invitation to sit. ‘There has been a number of developments in respect of Mr James Post’s murder.’
‘Oh?’ Nigel Post sank into an armchair opposite Carmen Pharoah.
‘Yes. I am not at liberty to disclose anything, I’m afraid, not yet.’
‘I understand, miss.’
Carmen Pharoah thought Nigel Post seemed lost. ‘This can’t be easy for you?’
‘Well, first it was my wife, now it’s my brother, both taken before their time. My wife was knocked down and killed by a drunken driver and now James. You can’t help just sitting here and thinking about them when they were alive. . what we did together. . the conversations we had. .’
‘Yes, I do understand. Really I do.’
‘You’ve lost someone?’
‘Yes. . yes, I have,’ Carmen Pharoah remained stone-faced, ‘but can we keep this relevant, it’s about James.’
‘Yes. Sorry.’
A fly appeared as if from nowhere and began to buzz noisily against the window pane. Nigel Post rose from his chair, opened a window and the fly found its escape route.
‘Most men I know would have swatted it,’ Carmen Pharoah commented.
Nigel Post resumed his seat. ‘I prefer to feed the birds and spiders. So, how can I help you?’
‘James took photographs.’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘We have found some but the indications are that there are many, many more. So the question is, do you know any place that your brother might have placed any photographs or photographic negatives for safe keeping?’
‘Old technology,’ Nigel Post commented, ‘so few folk talk about photographs and negatives, it’s all digital cameras with lots of pixels. . whatever a pixel is. But James did use a conventional camera so he dealt with negatives and prints.’
‘Do you know where he might have kept them, somewhere other than his house on the Tang Hall Estate?’
‘His “drum” he used to call it. There’s only one place I can think of.’
‘Oh?’
‘His bank.’
‘His bank?’ Carmen Pharoah paused and then said, ‘You mean within a safety deposit box?’
‘Yes. It’s a long shot but it’s the only place I can think of.’
‘They’ve paid off before. Do you know which branch of which bank?’
‘Yes, I think I do. He wrote me a cheque once and I framed it,’ he smiled and stood.
‘You framed a cheque?’
‘Yes, I’ll explain when I come back down.’ Nigel Post left the room and was heard by Carmen Pharoah to go upstairs and then return a few moments later. As he re-entered the room he handed Carmen Pharoah a small photograph frame in which was a cheque made payable to Nigel Post for fifteen pounds and dated some ten years earlier.
‘It was only fifteen pounds I lost, and when he gave this cheque to me in repayment of a loan I sensed that it was probably the only thing I was going to have to remember him by. So rather than cash it, I framed it. Anyway, he did once mention a safety deposit box he had at that branch.’
Carmen Pharoah took her notepad and ballpoint from her handbag and copied down the bank’s name and address and the number of James Post’s account therein.
Dr D’Acre carefully removed the plastic bag from the mouth of the deceased and equally carefully began to unfold it. She found it stiff and brittle with age, but eventually she removed a credit card, which had expired some three years previously and the name on the card was one R. E. Malpass. She handed it to George Hennessey who took it in his latex gloved hands and read the name with some satisfaction.
‘The net closes.’ He smiled as he placed the card in a self-sealing cellophane sachet. ‘The net closes.’
‘That is your suspect, I take it?’
‘One of them. . it is a husband and wife duo.’
‘You’ll be arresting them?’
‘Now we can. With this credit card they can be at least linked to this murder, but it is still less than we need to prove guilt. . but it’s a significant step in the right direction.’
‘See what else I can let you have.’ Dr D’Acre turned her attention to the body on the dissecting table, which was still clothed in the remnants of the garments he had worn when murdered. ‘I think this post-mortem is going to be inconclusive, even before I start, unless there is a significant injury such as a skull fracture. I don’t think I am going to be able to determine the cause of death. . but a note of his clothing. . odd shoes. I mean a different shoe on each foot, an old duffel coat, still discernible as such only one toggle out of the original three remains and look,’ she gently pulled away a thin thread which appeared to have been wound round the waist of the deceased, ‘this is the remnants of twine. So who wears odd shoes and ties his coat together with string?’
‘A down-and-out.’
‘Yes,’ Dr D’Acre replied with a solemn tone, ‘yet another person to be given a name and buried. I can determine stature and age at death to see if he matches any missing person reports. The credit card would put his burial at in excess of three years earlier than his remains were found. . though there, I encroach on your territory.’
‘Oh, please, as before, encroach all you like,’ Hennessey replied, having retreated to the wall of the pathology laboratory as protocol dictated.
‘Right, let’s get the remains of the clothing off shall we, Eric?’
Eric Filey reverentially stepped forward and assisted Dr D’Acre with the slow removal and cutting away of the clothing, many pieces of which crumbled to the touch.
‘Summer burial,’ Dr D’Acre said calmly.
‘Summer?’ Hennessey repeated questioningly.
‘I would think so, just a shirt and a vest under the duffel coat. A down-and-out would know where to obtain woollens, Salvation Army. . institutions like that.’
‘Yes. . good point.’
‘Easier to bury as well,’ Dr D’Acre added. ‘Easier to dig a shallow grave in summer time, the soil would be frozen in winter.’
‘Indeed.’
‘The trousers now, Eric,’ Dr D’Acre announced. ‘We’ll cut them away, I think.’
Filey turned and took a large pair of scissors from the tray of instruments and then slowly and methodically began to cut the trousers from the bottoms to the waist, and, as he did so, Dr D’Acre probed gingerly into the pockets.
‘Different socks also,’ Dr D’Acre pointed to the feet of the deceased, ‘one dark one and one white one. He really was a down-and-out. Hello. .’
‘You’ve seen something?’ Hennessey took an involuntary pace forward.
‘Probably. . probably,’ Dr D’Acre peeled the right-hand sock away from the partially decomposed remains of
