‘Was he employed?’
‘No, he virtually never worked all his life, never had a job.’
‘Never?’
‘Couldn’t hold down any proper half decent job. . tried his hand at self-employment but that was a disaster. Any jobs he did have was cash in hand labouring sort of work. He never seemed to accept adulthood, always dressing in the clothes he wore as a young man.’
‘We noticed his shoes.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. We both suffered from a lack of height. I am just five foot tall. . both left school early but I got a job and held it down, Department of Highways, local authority, very safe, pays nothing but me and my wife could afford the rent on our house. We didn’t have children.’
‘I see.’
‘But James, he just came and went, never knew what he did. . then the drink took him.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, he was in a bad way with the drink for about ten years. That was a bad time. He became down-and-out, begging for money, filthy clothes. I shudder to think what went down his throat in those years. . poison soup, but that is often the way of it.’
‘Yes.’
‘In this case, he was set upon, beaten up by a gang of youths; small, smelly guy, easy target. He got one hell of a kicking but he was hospitalized, cleaned up, fed properly while the broken bones healed and he dried out. Sober for the first time in years. The hospital contacted me when he was due to be discharged. . I never knew he had been admitted. He only gave them my address when he was about to be discharged. They had incinerated all his clothing as representing a health hazard, he needed some replacement kit so I looked out some of my old clothes and brought them to the hospital, and then dragged him to an AA meeting and sat with him throughout. To his credit he went back, and kept going back and kept dry. He even had a long term girlfriend. . and took a council tenancy, and they had a son, but they split up after a while. Still never held down a job but he kept dry. So that was a big thing.’
‘Good for him.’
‘Yes, for him that was an achievement as I said, one man’s floor being another man’s ceiling. For him to stay dry was a big deal, a very big deal.’
‘Yes, I can understand that. Do you know of anyone who would want to harm him?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t. I knew little of his life. I suspect it was not very. . well. . small guy, no employment to speak of. I suspect it was a quiet life he led. I knew of no friends and I knew of no enemies.’
‘I see.’ Hennessey tapped his notepad with his ballpoint. ‘Do you know what Mr Post’s last known address was?’
‘I have a note of it at home. . but yes. . I have a note of it.’
Carmen Pharoah and Thomson Ventnor walked up the inclined drive to the Malpass home in Hutton Cranswick. The house itself was interwar, large, two storeys, red-tiled roof, generous garden, noted Ventnor, very generous, as he pressed the doorbell. The bell rang a conventional double tone and did so loudly, so loudly that Ventnor did not think it appropriate to press the bell a second time. The door was opened, confidently so, soon upon the bell sounding, by an elegant seeming woman in her mid fifties, Pharoah estimated, who was dressed fetchingly in a yellow knee-length dress and white court shoes. She smiled warmly at the officers, ‘Mr and Mrs Blackhouse? You are a trifle early, but no matter, do come in.’ She stepped to one side. Pharoah and Ventnor remained stationary and stone-faced as they showed the woman their identity cards. ‘Police,’ Ventnor said flatly.
‘Oh.’ The woman’s face fell; her hand went up to her mouth. ‘I hope there’s no trouble.’
‘Plenty,’ Ventnor replaced his identity card in his wallet. ‘There’s always plenty of trouble but probably not for this house.’
‘How can I help?’
‘We’d like to speak to Mr Malpass, if he is at home.’
‘Yes. . yes he is. I am Mrs Malpass by the way. Do come in. We are waiting for a Mr and Mrs Blackhouse, they have been referred to us.’
‘Referred to you?’ Carmen Pharoah stepped across the threshold of the house.
‘Yes, we offer an alcohol abuse counselling service.’
‘I see.’
‘But. . well. . come in. My husband is in the living room, second door on the left.’
Carmen Pharoah, followed by Thomson Ventnor walked into the living room. A tall, well-dressed man stood as they entered. Carmen Pharoah read the room; she saw it neat, tastefully furnished with dark but highly patterned carpet, furniture covered in pastel shades of blues, with blue tinted wallpaper. The bay window looked out on to an equally neatly kept garden, surrounded on all sides by a ten foot high privet.
‘The police, dear,’ Mrs Malpass announced.
The man stepped forward and extended his hand. ‘Ronald Malpass. This is my wife, Sylvia. How can we help?’ He was smartly dressed in white trousers, summer shoes, blue tee shirt.
‘Just a little information, please,’ Ventnor replied, noting how tall Malpass was, over six feet he guessed.
‘In that case, please take a seat do.’ He indicated the chairs and settee in the room as he resumed his seat in the armchair he had been occupying when the officers had entered. Pharoah and Ventnor sat side by side on the settee and Mrs Malpass sat in the vacant armchair. Carmen Pharoah thought Ronald Malpass overly confident and she also noticed a certain look of worry across Mrs Malpass’s eyes.
‘We understand you know, or knew, a lady called Angela Prebble?’
‘Angie. . Angela. .’ Ronald Malpass sat back in the armchair. ‘That’s a name I have not heard for a while. She disappeared, I believe. . some years ago.’
‘Yes, she did,’ Ventnor replied. ‘She’s reappeared.’
‘Oh. .’ Malpass looked alert, interested. ‘How is she?’
‘Deceased.’
Sylvia Malpass gasped. Ronald Malpass’s brow knitted. He remained silent for a few moments and then asked, ‘What happened?’
‘We don’t know but she has been identified as being one of the bodies found at Bromyards.’
‘Bromyards?’ Malpass queried.
‘The big house,’ Sylvia Malpass explained. ‘It’s been on the news. . in the papers.’
‘Ah. . yes, of course. Oh dear, poor Angela. . we did wonder.’
‘How did you know her?’
‘Socially. . not really very close but we knew her.’
‘How? How did you know her?’
‘Socially. As I said.’
‘Can you be a bit more specific, please?’
‘We were in the same bunch of people, the same group.’
Carmen Pharoah sighed, ‘If you could be. .’
‘Alcoholics Anonymous,’ Sylvia Malpass explained. Then she addressed her husband. ‘It was going to come out.’
‘Thank you,’ Carmen Pharoah smiled at Sylvia Malpass. ‘No shame there, alcoholism is a disease. . no shame at all.’
‘There shouldn’t be,’ Ronald Malpass added, ‘but there is the stigma, it’s always there. But I am dry now. . we both are.’ He held his right hand outstretched, palm down, fingers pressed together. ‘Rock steady,’ he said with a note of pride in his voice. ‘I couldn’t have done that at one time, I would have been shaking like a leaf. Dried out about fifteen years ago, before that there is a ten year gap in my memory, can’t remember a thing I did in those ten years. . but now. . I still enjoy the sensation of waking up with a clear head.’
‘Good for you,’ Thomson Ventnor said. ‘I know it can be quite a battle.’
‘Yes. Why? Are you. .’
‘No,’ Ventnor said. ‘I’m not.’
‘So,’ Carmen Pharoah attempted to pull the conversation back to the relevancy of their visit. ‘Angela Prebble was in Alcoholics Anonymous?’
‘Yes, she was.’
‘And that was the extent of you knowing her?’
‘More or less. . well. . we became friends but not close friends. She was from the West Coast of Scotland and had difficulty settling in Yorkshire, though I confess you do hear Scottish accents quite a lot in Yorkshire, in the pubs and the shops.’
‘You go into pubs?’
‘Oh yes,’ Malpass smiled. ‘Why not? I enjoy pubs. . I. . we. . Sylvia and I, just don’t touch alcohol but pubs are enjoyable places. We are aware that just one drop of alcohol and we’d both be off the wagon. We watch each other.’