H&Y20 - Deliver Us from Evil Read online

  Hennessey turned to Webster. ‘SOCO have still to arrive, sir,’ Webster said, responding to Hennessey’s silent question. ‘No photographs have been taken at all, as yet.’

  ‘As yet,’ Hennessey groaned. He turned to one of the constables and said, ‘Radio in, will you, find out where SOCO is . . . they’re probably driving round looking for us . . . damn canal isn’t difficult to find.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The constable reached for the radio clipped to his lapel.

  ‘Tell them it’s the long blue line on the map,’ Hennessey growled with shortening patience. ‘The one just to the south of York and not to be confused with the railway line.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Well, I’ll make my way back to York District and await the arrival of the deceased.’ Dr D’Acre spoke calmly. ‘Will you be observing for the police, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Probably,’ Hennessey sighed, feeling acutely the embarrassment at the non-arrival of the Scene of Crime Officers without whose photographs of the corpse, said corpse cannot be moved.

  ‘Well, the frost will preserve any evidence so the delay will not create problems, and the issue of the missing handbag . . .’ Dr D’Acre raised an eyebrow, ‘well, my penny to your pound that it is where she was strangled if the strangulation is relevant . . . or . . . or . . . it’s in there.’ She nodded to the motionless ice-cold water of the canal. ‘Rather you than me,’ she added with a brief smile.

  ‘We have frogmen,’ Hennessey followed her gaze, ‘but I know what you mean. Confess, it’s times like this that I’d rather be a dog handler than a diver. If we can’t find the handbag anywhere we might look . . . no . . . we’ll have a look. We’ll have to look in there but at least it’s a canal, not a river, it can be closed off section by section and drained. That will make things easier. Much easier.’

  ‘Well . . . I will see you later.’ Dr D’Acre picked up her bag and walked back along the towpath.

  ‘So, who found the body?’ Hennessey turned to the constables, two of whom had been at the locus when he arrived, and who now stood reverently some feet away.

  ‘Member of the public, sir,’ the constable consulted his notebook, ‘one Mr Cookridge . . . he lives close by. We have cordoned off the canal towpath, sir . . . one tape at Middle Walsham . . .’

  ‘Yes, I passed it.’

  ‘And the other at the road about a quarter of a mile in the other direction, where the towpath can be accessed.’

  ‘I see, well you two walk back to the village and do a careful search of the towpath, mark anything that might be suspicious, then return here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You two do the same in the other direction, as far as the road . . .’ Hennessey paused as one of the constables answered his radio. The constable said, ‘Understood’, and clicked the ‘off’ button. ‘SOCO is on its way, sir. They did get lost, as you thought . . . ten minutes they said.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Hennessey growled. ‘Webster.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Go and talk to the gentleman who found the body.’

  ‘Sir.’

  From a small stand of black trees in the middle distance a lone unseen rook cawed. Webster, for one, found himself deeply grateful for the sound.

  ‘I do the walk daily, that lovely old walk; have been doing it daily for the best part of five years now.’ Charles Cookridge spoke softly and did so with what Webster felt could fairly be described as undisguised pride. ‘Not bad for a sixty-six year old, five miles a day, rain or shine, leaving the house at eight a.m. fortified by a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich.’

  ‘And him never a sporty type in his youth,’ Mrs Cookridge chimed from the kitchen, inviting herself into the conversation despite being out of the line of sight. ‘And I should know.’

  ‘Childhood sweethearts, we were,’ Charles Cookridge explained with a wide grin. ‘We both used to truant each Wednesday afternoon, her from her school and me from mine, winter and summer, so when our classmates were heaving and grunting and exerting themselves trying to shave a second here or add an inch there, me and her were in the woods doing a bit of heaving and grunting and exerting of our own. That tended to be in the summertime though. In the winter we just went for long walks if it was dry. If it was wet or snowing we just sheltered somewhere.’

  ‘And then only latterly,’ again the chime came from the kitchen, ‘ . . . when our bodies were old enough.’

  Webster smiled. ‘Good memories . . . very good memories. You are lucky to have them.’

  ‘Better memories than throwing a javelin half an inch further than anyone else or jumping higher or running quicker,’ Charles Cookridge’s eyes gleamed. ‘Sporty types can damn well keep their playing fields. They are welcome to them.’

  The Cookridge’s home was a small owner occupied house on an inter-war estate on the edge of the city of York. Webster found their home to have a warm and a cosy feel to it. The living room in which he and Charles Cookridge stood was pleasingly softened by books in a bookcase by the fireside, by plants in vases and by a neatness which stopped short, it seemed to Webster, of fastidiousness. One or two items had not been put away, some of the books on the shelves were on their sides rather than upright, the rug on the carpet had ridden up against the tiles of the hearth. Homely, in a word, he thought. It was made more and especially homely by a live fire in the grate burning faggots. Webster had been welcomed into the house upon production of his ID and had received an instant assurance that ‘wood is all right . . . can’t burn coal, they get upset about coal smoke but wood is permitted. A smokeless zone means no coal fires – but wood is all right’ and from the kitchen his wife had added, ‘No complaints so far . . . tea, sir?’

  ‘So you do the walk daily?’ Webster asked, finding himself rapidly relaxing in the Cookridge house.

  ‘As I said . . .’ Cookridge sank into an armchair and indicated for Webster to do the same, adding ‘please’ as he did so. ‘Five miles from here to the road bridge over the canal and out along the towpath as far as Middle Walsham . . . lovely village . . . then get the bus to York and another bus out . . . pensioner’s bus pass you see, doesn’t cost anything, not a single penny piece.’

  ‘So I understand,’ Webster replied with a smile. ‘Age has its compensations.’

  ‘Indeed it does . . . so, out by eight a.m. each day . . . that way I get to walk by myself, that’s pleasant and much less dangerous.’

  ‘Dangerous?’

  ‘There’s the real danger of being pushed into the canal. Not funny, especially in winter time. It has happened. Youths round here think it’s funny to push people into the canal if they’re vulnerable . . . like elderly or a bit soft in the head . . . or cyclists. Cyclists are another easy target but youths like that sleep late, real couch potatoes. So I think I am safe, and in fact I am safe, in the early mornings. Done the walk since I retired and never had a bad experience because I rise early to do it. Only taken to exercising late in life . . . never really been one for it before.’

  ‘Yes, so you said. So, you saw nothing yesterday?’

  ‘No . . . of the woman, you mean? No I didn’t. She could have been there for a couple of days in this weather without being found had it not been for me. No traffic on the canal in the winter, occasional tourist narrowboat in the summer and quite a few people walk the towpath then. So she was not there yesterday, at least not at about eight thirty a.m. which is when I get to that part of the towpath. It’s early on in my walk you see. The whole walk takes an hour and a half. I am one third into it when I get to where I found the lady.’

  ‘Rum do.’ Mrs Cookridge emerged calmly and confidently from the kitchen holding a tray of tea and two cups. She set the tray down on the coffee table and said, ‘I’ll let you do the honours, Charlie,’ and ambled back into the kitchen, leaving a trail of perfume behind her.

  ‘That’s useful to know, helps a lot.’

  ‘It does?’ Charles Cookridge carefully stirred the tea in the white porcelain flow
er patterned teapot.

  ‘Well, yes . . . the freezing conditions and the remoteness mean that it is possible that she could have been there for a day or two, but your daily morning routine means she arrived there alive or dead, but we think alive, sometime after you did your walk yesterday. It narrows down the time frame very nicely, very nicely indeed.’

  ‘Well yes, I see what you mean . . . and I often get the impression that I am the only person to walk the towpath during this time of the year. In fact I came across my own footprints last week . . . it was quite strange. Just before this cold snap the towpath was muddy in places and I walked in the mud leaving about a dozen footprints, and the following morning I did the walk as normal and there were my footprints but no other footprints or bicycle tyre tracks over them. So not one person, not one single solitary person, had walked or cycled along the towpath in the twenty-four hours since I had left my footprints in the mud.’

  ‘That is hugely interesting. As you say, it clearly illustrates how much traffic uses the towpath at this time of the year.’

  Cookridge handed Webster a cup of tea. ‘Yes it does . . . not much used at all in the winter. In fact you have to live locally to even know it’s there. Sugar?’

  ‘No, thank you. Now, that point about local knowledge, that is very interesting indeed. It could be hugely significant.’

  ‘Well, by local I mean York and the surrounding area . . . but it’s not a well advertised canal for tourists, in fact it isn’t advertised at all. You could stumble across it if you’re a stranger to the area but it’s not signposted or anything and you can’t see it from the road until you are going over the bridge, or you see a cyclist riding steadily over the fields and then you realize that he’s cycling along the towpath.’

  ‘I see, still very interesting though, very interesting indeed.’ Webster paused. ‘So you saw nothing or nobody of suspicion . . . other than the deceased?’

  ‘No, I am sorry, nothing else at all. No person, no thing . . . just the lady . . . dare say that is suspicious enough.’

  George Hennessey sat somewhat uncomfortably on a small swivel chair beside the desk in Louise D’Acre’s cramped office and, as he glanced quickly round the room, which was so small that it made him feel larger than he actually was, he noticed little alteration since his last visit. The cramped confines were made even more claustrophobic, he felt, by an absence of a source of natural light. Dr D’Acre’s desk with its small, ludicrously so, he believed, working surface, the photographs on the wall of her family, Daniel, Diana and Fiona, standing with Samson, the family’s magnificent black stallion. He also glanced once, very quickly, at Louise D’Acre herself, slender, short dark hair very close cropped, a soft face, yet a woman who, it seemed to Hennessey, carried authority as quietly and as naturally as she breathed and who wore no make-up at all save for a slight trace of a light shade of lipstick. He then looked at the piece of printed paper within the self-sealing cellophane sachet. ‘She knew she was going to die.’

  ‘So it seems,’ Louise D’Acre replied calmly, quietly. ‘The lady was leaving you a present and that showed some considerable presence of mind, if you ask me.’

  ‘Yes, I agree . . . inside her shoe you say . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, we were removing the clothing prior to beginning the post-mortem, standard procedure for which the police presence is not required so long as we save and secure each item and of course anything else we find.’

  ‘Yes . . . of course.’

  ‘Eric slipped off the shoes and did so with his characteristic gentleness . . . he has a sincere reverence for the dead, a real respect. Didn’t pull off the shoes with a rough and ready “she’s-past-caring” attitude as many pathology laboratory assistants might well have done but slipped each one off as if the lady were still with us. I mean to suggest nothing untoward, it is just that I think Eric is a particularly conscientious young man and I believe that we are lucky to have him.’

  ‘Understood,’ Hennessey smiled, ‘and I assure you, I didn’t suspect you meant anything else at all. I too in fact have formed the same impression of him. A very good man to have on your team.’

  ‘Good. Well, the paper slid out from between the bottom of her nylons and her shoe, so that it was compressed by her weight as she stood and/or walked. It was neatly folded, as you see. We picked it up with tweezers and put it straight into the sachet . . . that was about thirty minutes ago.’ Louise D’Acre glanced at the small gold watch which hung loosely on her left wrist, ‘nearer an hour in fact . . . time is going quickly today.’

  ‘OK . . . an hour ago . . . about.’ Hennessey carefully turned the sachet over and over as he examined the paper within. ‘Seems like a utility bill.’

  ‘So we also thought. In fact that is exactly what it is although in my report I will have to write “what appears to be a utility bill”. Dare say we all get enough gas or electricity bills to be able to recognize one when we see one,’ she added with a smile.

  Hennessey grinned. He thought Dr D’Acre to be clearly in a good mood, even that modest injection of humour in her working environment was, he thought, a little out of character for her. ‘Shall we see?’

  He opened the sachet and carefully extracted the paper, holding it by the edge, and gingerly unfolded it. ‘Electricity bill for Unit Five, Ryecroft Glen Road, York . . . and it’s two years old . . . but it does give an address for us to call on. Sounds like an industrial estate though; I cannot say I am even remotely familiar with the address. It rings no bells at all.’ He took his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and jabbed a pre-entered number. ‘Hate these things sometimes,’ he said apologetically, ‘but there’s no denying their frequent usefulness.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean . . . all those ruined train journeys.’

  ‘Hennessey,’ he said as his call was answered. ‘Is that you, Somerled? I did get the correct number? Good . . . listen . . . take someone from the team with you plus a couple of constables, get over to Unit Five, Ryecroft Glen Road, York . . . no, I haven’t heard of it either. Secure the premises on the assumption that it is a crime scene . . . it is in respect of the victim discovered this morning, the lady on the canal bank . . . frozen to death. As Dr D’Acre has just said, the deceased left us a present in the form of an electricity bill for that address folded up inside her shoe . . . two years old, but the address is clear . . . the link is significant. She evidently wanted to tell us something. She would not have hidden it in her shoe otherwise. Doubt if we’ll get any relevant prints off it . . . two years old . . . but I’ll send it to Wetherby anyway. OK, thank you . . . I’ll observe the PM and then come and join you there directly afterwards.’ He switched off the mobile and slid it back into his jacket pocket.

  ‘Suggest with respect that you look at the clothing before I send it to the forensic science laboratory.’ Dr D’Acre held eye contact with Hennessey.

  ‘Oh?’ Hennessey was puzzled.

  ‘Yes, I think you’ll find it interesting. They are not British.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No . . . North American sizes, and with both English and French labelling.’

  ‘English and French?’

  ‘Canadian,’ Louise D’Acre spoke matter-of-factly. ‘It’s your area of expertise and I am reluctant to encroach but I am familiar with your “encroach all you like” attitude . . . which I value and admire and wholly agree with.’

  ‘Yes . . . that way we don’t leave any gaps.’

  ‘No . . . none at all . . . anyway madam was clothed head to foot in Canadian outer clothing, coat, shoes, blouse, slacks . . . all Canadian . . . her underwear was British. So, as a woman myself, and knowing how nylons and underwear wear out much more rapidly than outerwear, I would guess that she is a Canadian woman who has been fairly medium to long term resident in the UK.’

  ‘Long enough to have had to replace her underwear but not her outer garments . . . so not a visitor . . . on holiday or a business trip?’

  ‘I would think not,
depending upon how much she had brought over here with her, but we could still be talking about a few months . . . possibly even a couple of years. I have a coat that is ten years old . . . also slacks and shoes of that selfsame vintage . . . hardly worn these days I concede, and readily so, but ten years old nonetheless. At least ten years old, come to think about it.’

  ‘Thank you, that is a useful observation.’ Hennessey again looked at the utility bill. ‘Dirty, grubby . . . as though it has lain on a floor for a long time. You know, Yellich is going to find an empty industrial unit which has had no tenant for a quite a while but where some person, or persons, as yet unknown, forced entry and used the premises to keep this lady against her will long enough for her to realize that she was going to be murdered, but with such lax supervision that she was able to pick up this electricity bill and hide it about her person, leaving us a present, as you say.’

  ‘You can deduce all that from a utility bill?’ Louise D’Acre smiled briefly.

  ‘Well . . . I’ve been a copper for a long time, whether I am right or not still remains to be seen but I think it’s a pretty straightforward and reasonable deduction. It’s not a domestic dwelling, Unit Five, and the bill itself is grimy and two years old. The premises have not been cleaned in that time but somebody, somebody, will own the building, someone will have a record of the last tenant, so, thank you for this.’

  ‘Very welcome. We didn’t search the pockets; the people at Wetherby will do that, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So, shall we get into our party clothes?’

  Hennessey stood. ‘Yes. I’ll see you in there.’

  Some few minutes later DCI Hennessey, having removed his outer clothing and changed into green lightweight disposable coveralls which included slippers and a comfortable to wear hat with an elastic rim, stood calmly and quietly against the wall of the pathology laboratory. Also in the room and similarly dressed were Dr Louise D’Acre and Eric Filey, the pathology laboratory assistant. It did not surprise Hennessey to hear that Dr D’Acre had nothing but praise for Filey for he too, as he had said, had, over the years, warmed to the man, finding him not only respectful of the dead but also, unlike any of his calling Hennessey had ever met, a warm and a jovial young man. The deceased lay upon one of the four stainless steel tables in the room with a starched white towel draped stiffly over her genitalia so as to preserve her dignity, even in death. All other parts of her body were open to full view and Hennessey saw a woman in her middle years, a little short in stature but not remarkably so. Perhaps she had thought herself to have been a little overweight but again not remarkably so, especially given her years.