Merryweather, and a jolly soul was she, salt of the earth. . milk of human kindness sort of individual. . lovely lady. She was the last of the staff at Bromyards, the last to be laid off. . and I had the impression that she was the sort of employee who did more than her job. She seemed to have a devotion to Nicholas Housecarl. She’ll be the lady to ask. . hers will be the brains to pick about the matter of the old boy’s retreat, but I think he abandoned the grounds about twenty years ago. I recall visiting about twenty years ago, when he was still living in the downstairs rooms and sleeping in an upstairs bedroom, and as I drove away I recall remarking that the hedge on the approach road. .’
‘Too long to call a drive,’ Webster smiled.
‘Yes, “drive” just does not convey the road from the public highway to the house, “approach road” is more apt. . but to continue. . as I was driving down the approach road I noticed that the privet was overdue for a trim, which it never got, and in hindsight that was the beginning of the retreat. He was letting the garden go. It was beginning then to slide into its present unkempt state. He had a few gardeners. . head gardener and his under gardeners and the “boy”, but one by one they were laid off. Then the house staff went, until only the ray-of- sunshine Mrs Penny Merryweather remained. . and then even she too was laid off.’
‘We’ll have to trace her.’ Webster glanced at a wallchart that showed the muscles of the human body.
‘She will be a good person to talk to, I’m sure, and she should still be with us. She’ll be in her sixties now, but today that’s no age at all.’
‘Do you know if Mr Housecarl had any visitors?’
‘The meal delivery service. . the district nurse. . myself. There was an arrangement whereby the rear door was kept open to allow us access. . by open I mean unlocked.’
‘Risky.’
‘Not without its risks, I concede, but it was not as though it was an unsecured door on a “sink estate” or on a house in a fashionable suburb. A felon wouldn’t stumble across Bromyards; he’d have to know it was there.’
Webster smiled warmly, ‘That’s a good point, sir, very pertinent indeed. I’ll pass that up to my boss.’ He stood, ‘Well, thank you, this has indeed been useful. So we can rule out Mr Housecarl as being a part of this.’
‘Yes, I think you can. And it means that I can go to his funeral. I don’t attend the funerals of all my patients but I want to attend this, although there won’t be many there.’
‘Where is it and when?’
‘I don’t know, I’ll have to find that out. The funeral director is Canverrie and Son of York.’
Webster scribbled the name on his notepad.
It was Thursday, 12.17 p.m.
George Hennessey relaxed in his chair and read, and then re-read, the report which had been faxed to him from Dr D’Acre for his urgent attention. He read that, as Dr D’Acre had anticipated, she had not, she regretted, been able to establish the cause of death in any of the five corpses which had been found in the kitchen garden at Bromyards. Though she hoped her findings could help in identifying the victims. Each, she was able to confirm, was female. Each was an adult, although the age at death appeared to be varied, all had some degree of dental work, and all said dental work appeared to be British in nature. They were not foreign women. All were northern European in respect of their ethnicity. No personal artefacts were found on the skeletons, no rings or watches or bracelets, nor were there any evidence of clothing found, no zip fasteners or plastic buttons, for example. The latest victim had in life been a tall, young woman (her skull had not properly knitted together, thus placing her age at less than twenty-five years) probably standing about five foot eleven, or even six foot, in life. By contrast, the other four skeletons were all significantly shorter, none taller than five feet five inches when alive. Dr D’Acre’s report concluded with an apology for not being more helpful.
‘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
‘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.’
