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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Also by Peter Turnbull

  Copyright

  1

  Tuesday morning

  … in which the alarum is sounded.

  He was unsure exactly when it came about, exactly when it occurred, but at some point, the very ordinariness of it became suspicious.

  For the third successive evening, the lights in the Williamses’ bungalow, the living room light and the bedroom light, went on at the same time – at the same time each evening and also at the same time as each other – and then two hours later went off at the same time, at the same time each evening, at the same time as each other. The man at first thought it only careless to arrange the timing switches so that the lights in the house go on and off at the same time. Far more sensible, he thought, to stagger them, as was his practice, ensuring that the light in the bedroom was off half an hour after the light in the living room. For the first night that the house was clearly unoccupied, all was normal. The Williamses were out for the evening. Out with their son home from the navy and their daughter up from London for the weekend. The two sports cars in the drive and the absence of the Williamses’ Volvo estate said so. That had been the Saturday evening and the man had noticed the lights of the bungalow go on as he walked his dog past the building. Later that night he was putting the empty milk bottles out on his front step when he caught sight of the Williamses’ bungalow through the small copse which separated his house from their bungalow, just as the lights in both rooms went out at the same time, almost, perhaps thirty seconds between the living room light going out and the bedroom light also going out. But to all intents and purposes, he thought, they went out at the same time and so telegraphed a clear signal to any potential burglar that the property was unoccupied. The man remained indoors all the following Sunday, leaving his home only in the evening to exercise his dog, walking him the mile and a half to the Horse and Hounds in the next village, a pint of beer before last orders and the mile and a half back. Three miles a day, good for man, good for dog. He glanced at the Williamses’ bungalow as he walked past and saw that the two sports cars had gone and the Williamses’ Volvo parked in the drive, though not as it usually was parked. Usually, it was reversed in and left nearer the road than the house. When he saw it on the Sunday, it had been fronted in and left close to the garage doors. As he passed the bungalow again at approximately 11.15 p.m. on the return leg of his evening walk, he noticed the lights go out, one after the other, as an owl hooted from a nearby wood; the only sound on the rich summer’s evening.

  The man did not look for the Williamses on the Monday, but whenever he was in a place in his house, or in his garden, that allowed him to see the Williamses’ bungalow, he would stop and observe it for a few seconds, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ebullient Max or of the soft-spoken Amanda, as he had come to know them in the short time that they had been neighbours. But there was still nothing to be alarmed about, he didn’t know them well enough to know their habits, their daily routine, and it was summer, the time when people take their holidays. But he did know that Max, who had described himself as a ‘financier’ when he had come to introduce himself, worked at home, and so far as he could tell, Amanda was not employed. And, also so far as he could tell, they used their car each day, lazily so, for he had seen Amanda drive away and return ten minutes later and enter their home clutching a loaf of bread. Nothing yet to be alarmed about, but a worry nagged in his mind. So much so that when that evening he walked his dog to the Horse and Hounds he stopped outside the Williamses’ house and looked at the building for about ten minutes, hoping to catch a glimpse of one or the other, or both. But he saw nothing and on his return journey, he, being a man of habit, passed the bungalow just as the lights in the living room and the bedroom went out at the same time. More or less.

  It was the Tuesday morning, at about ten o’clock, that the man acted out of concern because, by then, what had been normal had become suspicious. He walked slowly up the drive, and pressed the doorbell by the front porch door, noting uncollected post lying inside the porch. The bell rang the Westminster chimes and echoed loudly in the bungalow but produced no reaction.

  ‘Not right,’ he said to himself as much as to his Labrador. ‘Not right at all.’

  He returned to his house and phoned the police and asked that they attend the bungalow, the last house on Old Pond Road in the village of Bramley on Ouse. He explained why and said he’d make himself known to the constable. He returned to the grass verge outside the Williamses’ house and enjoyed a pipe while he waited for the police to arrive. He had finished a large bowl of St Bruno, enjoying the flat, lush landscape, dotted here and there with small woods, but in the main, fields of green or yellow, and a few, he thought too few, hedgerows, when the area car arrived.

  “Morning,’ he said cheerfully to the constable.

  “Morning, sir.’

  ‘It was myself who phoned you.’ The man had long stopped wondering at the youth of police officers.

  ‘Yes, sir. Worried about a household, I believe?’

  ‘This one here.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ For his part, the officer saw a genial-looking man in his late middle years, relaxed in light-coloured trousers, a T-shirt and a wide-brimmed cricket hat. He also noted the black Labrador sitting patiently at his side and detected a strong bond between man and dog. ‘What appears to be the problem?’

  ‘Well, I hope nothing, but I haven’t seen my neighbours since Saturday. I don’t know them very well, they moved in only about … well, I’ll tell you … June now, they arrived after Easter, so…’

  ‘Just a few weeks then?’

  ‘Yes. Not sufficient for me to get to know them, so I don’t know their routine, except that he works from home and they tend to go everywhere by car. So not being seen for a day or two and the car not having moved, and also parked unusually.’

  ‘Unusually?’

  ‘They normally reverse it into the drive and leave it closer to the road than the house.’

  ‘Do you know their names, sir?’

  ‘Williams. Max and Amanda, couple in their fifties, late fifties.’

  ‘And you last saw them on Saturday?’

  ‘About three o’clock. Their adult children visited. The son is an officer in the Royal Navy, their daughter is a civil servant and normally lives in London. They did tell me once that when their son and daughter visit they invariably go to the Mill.’

  ‘The Mill?’

  ‘It’s a restaurant, well out of my price range, but they enthused about it. It’s near Stamford Bridge. I noticed two sports cars in the drive on Saturday evening, they’d gone by the Sunday evening and the Volvo was parked in the drive, but not, as I said, as it usually is. I assume that their children had visited and they had gone for a meal, as is their wont on such occasions. I caught a glimpse of Amanda on the Saturday afternoon, just caught a glimpse of her as she entered the house, but nothing since. I don’t want to be alarmist, they could be on holiday … the lights are going on and off as if on timer switches, there is uncollected post … they have a glass-panelled porch, as you see.’

  ‘I thi
nk you’re right to be concerned, sir. Sorry, your name is…?’

  ‘Thom. T.H.O.M. Schoolmaster, retired. History.’

  The constable wrote on his pad. ‘And your address, Mr Thom?’

  ‘Number twenty-six, Old Pond Road. That’s my house there.’ He turned and pointed to his house. ‘Next property to the Williamses’, they’re twenty-eight, Old Pond Road, the last house in the village on this road, not a building beyond their bungalow on this road until you get to Upper Leemans, a mile and a half distant. Me and my best friend here do that walk each day. We do it in the evening this time of year. He’s a black dog, as you see, and, like all black dogs, he suffers dreadfully in the heat. That’s when I thought something was odd, walking past the Williamses’ on our way home, the lights went out at about eleven-fifteen on successive evenings.’

  ‘Any other neighbours share your concern?’

  ‘I am the only neighbour really. The people across the street are away and have been for a week or so. You see, they have asked me to keep an eye on their property, which I am pleased to do. I don’t know the Williamses well, but we are on friendly enough terms for them to be able to ask me to keep an eye on their house if they went away for a few days. Which all adds to my worry. The thing to do, I would suggest with utmost respect, is to contact their son.’

  ‘He’s in the navy?’

  ‘Yes, by sheer coincidence, he’s shore-based at Knaresborough. At least, he was when Max and Amanda moved in. Could have been posted on by now, of course, but he’s not so distant that he can’t come home for the weekend. Max told me about their son when they moved in. Anyway, it’s over to you, but I feel better for having reported it.’

  ‘You were right to do so. I’ll go and have a closer look at the building. If there’s nothing out of the ordinary, I think I will take up your suggestion and phone the Andrew.’

  ‘The Andrew?’

  ‘The navy.’

  * * *

  ‘George.’

  ‘Sir?’ Hennessey looked up at the small, for a police officer, dapper, immaculately groomed man who stood in the door frame of his office.

  ‘Got a disappearance, I hear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Anything in it, you think?’ Commander Sharkey held an old-looking book in his hands.

  ‘Too early in the piece to say yet, sir.’ Hennessey picked up the phone. ‘Just contacting the relatives now.’

  ‘I see.’ Sharkey approached Hennessey’s desk. ‘Actually, I just stopped by to show you this. I found it in a charity shop, it’s a first-hand account of the Battle of Waterloo.’

  ‘Oh…’ Hennessey took the book from Sharkey. ‘How interesting.’

  ‘Knowing your interest, I thought that would be right up your street.’

  ‘I’ll read it this evening, sir. Thank you. I’ll let you have it back as soon as.’

  ‘Oh no, keep it. It hardly cost me anything, a few pence … I can run to that.’ Sharkey paused. ‘Speaking of pence … you’ll let me know if…’

  ‘Sir.’ George Hennessey smiled. ‘Please don’t worry … about the corruption, I mean. If there is anything going on, I’ll know and I’ll be the first to tell you.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sharkey nodded. ‘It’s just that I saw enough of that in Hong Kong to last a lifetime, enough to see me well out.’

  ‘Sir, believe me. There’s nothing, nothing for you to worry about. This isn’t Hong Kong. We are not in anybody’s pocket.’

  ‘Thanks, George. That’s a great comfort. I mean that.’ Sharkey left the room looking, thought Hennessey, a relieved man. He continued to dial the number. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said when his call was answered.

  ‘Morning, Lieutenant Home-Dawson, Officer Watch One.’

  ‘Chief Inspector Hennessey, North Yorkshire Police.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Wonder if you could help us?’

  ‘If we can.’ The speaker was a young-sounding, confident-sounding man.

  ‘Do you have a Lieutenant Williams with you at present?’

  ‘We might.’

  ‘I see. I can understand your caution. I might be anybody.’

  ‘Quite,’ but said with good humour.

  ‘Well, should you have a Lieutenant Williams stationed with you at the moment, would you be good enough to ask him to phone myself, please, Chief Inspector Hennessey, Micklegate Bar Police Station in York?’ Hennessey relayed the phone number. He added, ‘You could tell him not to be worried, it may well be nothing to be concerned about.’

  ‘Very good, sir. He’ll appreciate that.’

  Hennessey replaced the phone and glanced out of his office window at Micklegate Bar, where the severed heads of traitors, rebels and enemies of the Crown were once displayed. He glanced at his office, the police mutual calendar and the Home Office issue filing cabinet, of battleship grey. It was, he felt, a dull, hard, cold office but any softening would be frowned on by the police authority. He had on occasion visited other places of work, offices in the private sector and the public sector, and had been envious of the comfort offered by a potted plant or a poster of a faraway place. He stood and made himself a mug of coffee in the detective constables’ room, carried the steaming mug of liquid through to his office and sat sipping it as he leafed through memos, reading each one and then initialling it to denote that he had ‘read and absorbed it’ and then returned them to the wire basket prior to carrying the basket of memos through to the detective constables’ room for each officer there to read and initial the memos. Then his phone rang.

  ‘Hennessey,’ he said as he snatched it up.

  ‘Phone call for you, sir,’ said a nervous young woman on the switchboard. ‘A Lieutenant Williams.’

  ‘Oh yes. Put him through please … hello … Lieutenant Williams?’

  ‘Speaking.’ The voice was cold and aloof. Quite, quite different, thought Hennessey, from the warmth and friendliness of Lieutenant Home-Dawson. He also thought that Williams sounded older. Somehow, the enthusiasm of Home-Dawson did not extend to Williams.

  ‘Thank you for coming back to me so soon.’ Hennessey leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the desk top.

  ‘Shore-based,’ Williams said, and Hennessey picked up a sour note in his voice. He found it interesting, always having believed that a good measure of a person can be taken from their speaking voice, and because of this valued ‘meeting’ people by means of telephone. Here was sourness. ‘Sailing a desk,’ Williams continued. ‘You tend to be a little more accessible than you would be if you were at sea.’

  ‘Where a sailor belongs?’

  ‘I’ll say. But you wanted me to phone you?’

  ‘Yes. It’s concerning your parents.’

  ‘My parents?’

  ‘They are Max and Amanda Williams of Old Pond Road in –?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Those are they.’

  ‘We responded to a call from a concerned neighbour, this morning, who reported that he has not seen your parents since Saturday last, but would in the course of events expect to see them near daily, by all accounts. I didn’t attend myself.’

  ‘They should be at home.’

  ‘Well, this is the reason for my call. I didn’t want to force entry if they were on holiday, for example.’

  ‘Yes … but no … they should be there.’ A note of concern crept into Williams’s voice. ‘Could I ask you to go and have a look inside the house?’

  ‘Is there a key?’

  ‘In the garage. The garage door is held on a latch but isn’t locked as such. Shelf right-hand side, two glass jars full of paraffin and nuts and bolts. Between the two jars … it’s just above head height, can’t see the key but you can reach it very easily. It’s the key to the back door of the bungalow. If you come to need the front door key that’ll be hanging up in the kitchen.’

  ‘We’ll get back to you.’ Hennessey replaced the phone and shouted, ‘Sergeant Yellich!’

  ‘Yes, boss?’

  Hennessey
stood and reached for his hat as Yellich came into his office.

  ‘I want you to take a couple of constables and make a brief search at this address; twenty-eight, Old Pond Road, Bramley on Ouse. It’s a village, north of York off the A19.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Yellich nodded vigorously.

  ‘Two middle-aged householders reported missing. Their son says they should be at home. There’s a key for the back door in the garage.’ Hennessey told him exactly where. ‘Go and see what you find, but tread carefully. Even if you don’t find anything immediately suspicious, still treat it as a crime scene.’

  ‘’Course, boss. You’re not coming?’

  ‘No. I’m going to have some lunch.’

  * * *

  Sergeant Yellich, followed by two constables, entered the Williamses’ bungalow by the rear door, having located the key exactly where they had been told it would be found. Inside, 28, Old Pond Road revealed itself to be a bungalow of even more modest proportions than was suggested by the modest exterior lines. The kitchen Yellich found to be small and cramped, the main bedroom had space only for the double bed and a dressing table and wardrobe. The living room and dining room seemed swamped by the furniture they contained, so much so that Yellich was put in mind of the new build estates, the show houses of which have scaled-down furniture: buy one and then try making the double bed fit into the bedroom. The bungalow was kept neatly, to an everything-in-its-place perfection. The only thing possibly out of place was the Sunday Times ‘Culture’ section, left sprawling on the settee opened at last Saturday’s television listings. A small alcove off the dining room had been turned into a study, with a bureau pushed in sideways and a chair hard up against it for want of floor space, so that any person sitting on the chair would have to have his, or her, legs splayed on either side of it. Yellich lifted up the bureau lid and found the interior to be a neat ordering of documents and papers. Nothing appeared to have been touched. There was no sign of violence, no sign of unlawful entry. And most importantly, there were no dead bodies. A neat, well-ordered house; clean too, thought Yellich. Very clean, a strong smell of bleach and disinfectant, perhaps accentuated by the hothouse effect of all windows and doors being shut on a succession of very hot days. That would cause a staleness of the air and enhance odours. The garden too, like the house, was kept to millimetre-exact perfection: a neat lawn, a weedless border in which grew flowers. A garden hut stood to one side of the lawn. He returned his attention to the interior of the house. He found a cheque book in the joint names of Max and Amanda Williams. On the dressing table in the bedroom, he found a ladies’ watch and a little hard cash, about twenty pounds, he guessed. He also found a ladies’ handbag, cluttered with possessions. Clearly the handbag in present use by the lady of the house. This worried him. It was his observation that women do not go far without their handbag. Not voluntarily anyway.