‘As you wish, sir.’
‘Contact Carmen Pharoah. Ask her to meet you at the address.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The man who had murdered James Post and his wife sat in silence in the living room of their home. The brains of both were active but there was just nothing to say once the man had said, ‘No point in burying. . not now.’
Carmen Pharoah followed Martyn Penta to the door of his house when the mobile phone vibrated in her handbag and played the ‘William Tell Overture’. ‘Excuse me.’ She halted and plunged her hand into her handbag.
‘Of course, and may I compliment you on your choice of ringtone? So many ringtones are for the brain dead.’
Carmen Pharoah smiled at the compliment and then, holding the device to her right ear, said, ‘Hello, Thompson.’ She fell silent before replying, ‘I’ll see you there. I am just leaving Mr Penta’s house now, I’ll see you there. I’ll look for your car.’ She smiled at Martyn Penta as she slid her mobile phone into her handbag. ‘Day in the life of a copper, one thing after the other.’
Martyn Penta opened the door of his house to allow her to egress the building. ‘Well, it’s better than being out of work and thanks, you’ve jolted me into a sense of urgency in respect of my work. I have balance sheets to address.’
In the event, it was Thomson Ventnor who identified Carmen Pharoah’s car and he halted behind it. He left his own car, walked to hers and sat in the front passenger seat. ‘Sorry, I took the wrong turning.’
‘I’ve only just got here myself.’ Carmen Pharoah gazed at the line of detached houses reaching away from her on the right-hand side, to the left was a large village green complete with duck pond and war memorial, beyond which stood a row of prestigious looking houses which seemed to represent the ‘posh’ side of the village green. ‘The address is just up there and round the corner. I enquired at the post office which I found inside the general store. It’s that sort of village.’ She started the engine of her car. ‘Following me or leaving yours here?’
‘Leaving it,’ Ventnor pulled the seat-belt across his chest, ‘pick it up on the way back. This fella has some previous I should tell you, all minor, drink related, all spent.’
‘Drink again?’
‘Yes, may not be anything but alcohol related. Demon drink is getting to be a bit of a common theme.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ Ventnor glanced at the war memorial as they drove past it. ‘Veronica Goodwin. .’
‘And Gladys Penta. I have just visited her husband. She was the cornerstone of the local chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous.’
‘That is interesting.’
Carmen Pharoah smiled. ‘That’s exactly what I said.’
‘Well it at least makes a change.’ Hennessey smiled as he made the remark. ‘In fact, I think it’s a first.’
‘It’s a new one on me also, sir.’ The uniformed sergeant of the police was, thought Hennessey, clearly of sufficient years’ service to be able to say that. ‘Usually it’s dog walkers or children’.
‘Or courting couples.’ Hennessey strode across the baked, hard ground, side by side with the sergeant, towards the small stand of trees by which stood a white inflatable tent, the location being cordoned off by a line of blue and white police tape. ‘That’s happened before, a young couple seeking some privacy, entering a secluded area and lo’ and behold, a dead body. . rather putting a damper on any romantic notion they might have been entertaining.’
‘I’ll say,’ the uniformed sergeant replied drily, and without any trace of humour. Hennessey had not met the man before and sensed he was in the company of a bitter man who probably felt he should have achieved a higher rank than he had achieved, and who was approaching his retirement from a modest station.
The police constable at the tape inclined his head in acknowledgement of Hennessey and the sergeant and lifted the tape to allow them to enter the restricted area. The interior of the wooded area was pleasantly shaded but unpleasantly, Hennessey thought, contaminated by the buzzing of a large swarm of flies. Hennessey entered the inflatable tent which stood beside the trees. Dr Mann was already present.
‘Adult male,’ Dr Mann announced, ‘adult of the male sex. I have confirmed life extinct at fourteen twenty hours, about twenty-five minutes ago.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
‘I have contacted York District Hospital and requested the attendance of a forensic pathologist.’
‘Understood. . and again, thank you.’ Hennessey looked at the body. ‘The commander won’t like me being here, he has me desk-bound these days out of concern for my health, but all my team are committed so it’s all hands to the pump.’ He saw the remains, recent remains of a small man, with a pinched and pointed face of the type that often makes appearances before magistrates, and often does so with an air of resentment and indignation that his day has been interrupted for the purpose. Hennessey thought the man had almost ferret-like features. He wore tight-fitting clothing with pointy-toed shoes upon his feet. Hennessey had met the type before, not punching other people but, once the victim had been knocked to the ground, he would wade in, kicking with his pointy-toed shoes and doing considerable damage thereby. ‘Winkle-pickers.’
‘Sorry, sir?’ Dr Man smiled.
‘These shoes, they were fashionable when I left the navy in the 1950s, used to be called “winkle-pickers”. I didn’t know they were still available and worn by the likes of him. He doesn’t look like he could have put up any kind of fight but he wears that sort of shoe, a man in need of victims methinks.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘His age, what do you think?’
‘Middle years,’ Dr Mann replied. ‘Fifties perhaps, he could even be older.’
‘Yes, closer to drawing his state pension than his embittered teenage years, yet still in his teens in his head. I mean, those shoes at that sort of age. Suspicious death though.’
‘Very,’ Dr Mann replied softly, ‘the bruising round his neck, can’t miss it.’
‘Can’t, can you? How long do you think he’s been here?’
‘That’s one for the pathologist but, I’d say he was killed within the last forty-eight hours. . probably twenty-four if no attempt has been made to chill his body,’ the slender turbaned police surgeon replied. ‘But I can’t be drawn, it is not my place.’
‘Neither will the forensic pathologist,’ Hennessey replied with a grin. He turned to the elderly sergeant. ‘Any identification?’
‘None sir, unless it’s well hidden in his clothing. . no wallet that we can find, although we did find his library card.’
‘That might do it.’
‘It’s been bagged and tagged, sir. . local library with a valid date.’
‘Well if it is his card, we have his ID.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So, he was not a wealthy man.’ Hennessey pondered the corpse, cheap, inexpensive clothing and watch. ‘So, not murdered for his money but his wallet, if he had one, was taken, so it must have been taken to frustrate his being identified, but the killer missed the library card. So, in a hurry or just carelessly assuming that his wallet contained all that could identify him.’
‘Forensic pathologist has arrived, sir,’ the young constable at the tape announced in a keen, eager to help manner.
Hennessey turned and felt his heart leap in his chest as he watched the slender figure of Dr D’Acre approach carrying a heavy Gladstone bag. ‘Take her bag for her,’ he asked of the constable, who instantly ran towards Dr D’Acre and relieved her of her burden. He walked half a pace behind her until she reached the tape, upon which he stepped forward and lifted it for her. She smiled her thanks and retook possession of her bag.
Dr D’Acre glanced at the corpse and then gently set her Gladstone bag down upon the ground and opened it. She disturbed the clothing to take a rectal temperature and then a ground temperature. Stony-faced she glanced up at DCI Hennessey and said, ‘I know what you are going to ask, Chief Inspector, and you know what the answer is.’