Aftermath. Part 3

*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.'

*I'll see what Webster comes back with before I find a job for DS Yellich.'

*Mr Yellich seems to be fighting his way through a mountain of paperwork at the minute, sir.' Pharoah turned to leave Hennessey's office.

*Imagine he is . . . but the Bromyard investigation has to take priority.'

*Two p.m. tomorrow.' Sydney Canverrie, by the nameplate on his desk, seemed to Webster to be doing very well out of the undertaking business and he further seemed to be untouched by the ever-present presence of death. He was a young man, still in his twenties, so Webster guessed. He seemed to be very well nourished, was expensively dressed in a blue suit and shirt and tie, and had what Webster thought was an inappropriately jocular att.i.tude. He could only hope that the man adopted a more sombre manner when dealing with the distraught relatives of the deceased. The office in which both men sat was lined with light-coloured, highly polished pine wood panelling and a deep pile carpet of dark red. Canverrie's desk was large, both long and wide, and he sat in a reclinable, executive-style chair. The window of his office looked out across a neatly cut lawn to a nearby brick built building which appeared to Webster to also be part of the premises of Canverrie & Son of York. *The deceased will be interred at Heslington Cemetery on Fordham Road after a brief Anglican service in the cemetery chapel. That is the new cemetery, not the old Victorian one.'

*Yes, I know the one you mean.'

*And it has some interest to the police?'

*Yes, it does, but we are more interested in observing who might be attending, rather than paying our respects to the deceased.'

*The old boy wasn't a felon, surely?' A note of alarm crept into Canverrie's voice.

*No,' Webster held up his hand and gave a brief and slight shake of his head, *he appeared to have been a good man who led a blameless life, so you can bury him with all due dignity and reverence.'

*Good,' Canverrie seemed relieved, *we would do anyway, but it's all an act . . . it's all for show.'

*It is?'

*Yes, it is all for show. It was my grandfather who started the company; my father is in fact the actual "son" of the name. The undertaking business is a display of ceremony, all very serious, but that is just the image.'

*Oh really?' Webster scowled.

*Yes, really . . . it all starts with my introducing myself to the grieving next-of-kin and saying, "h.e.l.lo, my name's Sydney and I'll be looking after you today . . .", with me all dressed up in my grey pinstripe and tails with a top hat, looking every inch the Victorian gentleman or bank manager. Then I walk in front of the hea.r.s.e for the first few feet of the journey to the chapel, as all the relatives and friend's cars join the convoy, and then I get into the hea.r.s.e, beside the driver, and we pick up speed. So, we drop the box in the ground or hide it away behind the velvet curtains, depending on whether it's a burial or a cremation. Then we drop the rellies off at a pub where some grub has been laid on and that's our job done, then we do the next job.'

*That's interesting.'

*You think so? d.a.m.ned superficial and sometimes excruciatingly embarra.s.sing in the case of poorly attended funerals . . . one coffin and just two mourners . . . a full church or chapel and a well-attended funeral is less stressful, but I am here, for better or worse.'

*Not a happy man, I think?'

*I am here because I am expected to carry on the family business. I'd rather be a yacht broker on the Mediterranean coast, Spain or Greece, pulling down ten to fifteen per cent on every sale, and the same percentage of any charter fee I can negotiate. So no, I am not happy in my job but I would have been disinherited if I didn't agree to sit behind this desk, cast into ye wilderness without a penny, no seed money for my yacht and powerboat brokerage.'

*I understand you are, sir, a pressed man.'

*Yes. I plan to sell the business but that will only be when I inherit it, and that won't be for a likely time.'

*How was it you were chosen to undertake Nicholas Housecarl's funeral?'

*The police called us . . . you lot. It was just our turn on the duty rota to attend to the recovery of the body and convey it to the Chapel of Rest. No one came forward to instruct another undertaker, and so we made all arrangements and will send our invoice to Mr Hoursecarl's solicitors . . . they have contacted us and asked us to do that. We have no instructions to cremate Mr Housecarl and so we will inter the gentleman's remains as is the established procedure. You can always dig up a coffin if, at some future point, a next-of-kin comes forward and instructs a cremation, but you can't un-cremate if a next-of-kin wants a burial.'

*Fair enough.'

*So we will always bury, it's the rule, always bury in the absence of a clear request from the family to cremate.'

*So, when you recovered the body from the house-'

*Amazing old building.'

*Yes . . . you didn't notice anyone taking an interest in the removal of the body?'

*No, we didn't . . . I didn't . . . it was myself and three of our employees, a police constable and the doctor. All very normal, no suspicious circ.u.mstances, natural death, old boy just expired.'

Reginald Webster walked out of the air-conditioned chill of the premises of the undertakers and into the heat of the midday sun. He made a mental note that that evening he would tell Joyce that should she ever have to arrange his funeral, she should not engage the services of Canverrie & Son. He did not want to be planted by an uninterested man who would rather be selling yachts on the Mediterranean coast of Spain or Greece.

The Goodwin home on Cemetery Road revealed itself to be a stone-built villa, dating from the late Victorian era, within a terrace of similar houses. It had a small and neatly kept front garden which ab.u.t.ted the pavement. The house itself was painted white; white door and white window frames, the rest was left as naked stone. The street on which the house stood was quiet and sun drenched, causing heat hazes to rise above the asphalt surface of the road. Carmen Pharoah parked the car close to the Goodwin home though not directly outside it. She and Thomson Ventnor exited the vehicle, leaving the windows open by a matter of an inch or two, thus allowing the pa.s.senger area of the vehicle to *breathe' in their absence. They then walked solemnly up to the door of the house of Goodwin. They stood for a moment before the front door as Carmen Pharoah turned to Ventnor and whispered, *Here we go', and then pressed the doorbell, which made a harsh continuous buzzing sound, ceasing only when she retracted her finger.

*Prefer the "ding dong" type myself,' she commented, half turning to Ventnor, *the ones powered with batteries rather than this type which is wired to the mains.'

*So do I,' Ventnor paused. *In fact, I have a tale to tell about a battery powered doorbell.'

*Oh?'

*Yes, it defies logical explanation, so it's going to form the in-flight entertainment for the journey back to Micklegate Bar.'

*Sounds intriguing . . .' Carmen Pharoah's voice trailed off as the sound of a security chain was heard being unhooked from within the house.

The door was opened calmly and clearly, in her own time and on her own terms by a tall, though finely built middle-aged woman whose complexion drained of colour as she realized that Carmen Pharoah and Thomson Ventnor were police officers.

She collected herself, took a deep breath and said, *Veronica?'

*Possibly,' Carmen Pharoah replied, she paused for a second and then added, *in fact it's more than possible . . . we can say highly probable.'

The woman glanced downwards and then briefly closed her eyes. *You'd better come in.' She stepped aside with a lightness of step, which both officers noticed, and allowed them to enter her home. She invited the officers to enter her front room, being evidently the *best' room of the house, which stood to the left of the hallway. Ventnor and Pharoah entered a tidy and cleanly kept lounge containing a three piece suite of an immediate post-World War Two style, with deep seating between high-sided arms, a television stood on a mobile table in the corner of the room, a mirror hung above the fireplace and a bookcase stood in the alcove on the further side of the fireplace. The room was, thought Ventnor, very 1950s and it immediately reminded him of his grandmother's house a she had refused to redecorate her house out of respect to her husband who died tragically young in 1960. The room smelled a trifle musty through under use, being the nature of *best' rooms in houses such as those which lined Cemetery Road, which were used only to receive respected visitors or for other special occasions. The officers were invited to take a seat and did so, sitting side by side on the settee, at either end of it, leaving a gap between them. The lady of the house sank silently into one of the armchairs, wearing an expression of fear, worry, trepidation. She rested her hands together on the lap of her green dress.

*DC Pharoah and DC Ventnor from Micklegate Bar Police Station.' Carmen Pharoah held her ID for the householder's inspection, who nodded in acknowledgement. *Can I ask your name, ma'am?'

*Philippa Goodwin.'

*Veronica's mother?'

*Yes.'

*Is there a Mr Goodwin?'

*There was.'

*Deceased?'

*Probably, I wouldn't know, he left us when Veronica was two years old.'

*I see . . . I'm sorry.'

*Thank you, but I wasn't sorry to see him go, he was a violent drunkard. If he had not left, it would have been a messy divorce. I went back to work . . . I am a nurse . . . I was then, a nursing sister now.'

*I see.'

*So you have bad news for me?'

*You seem to know that.' Carmen Pharoah was struck by the absence of tone of query in Goodwin's intonation.

*I work in Accident and Emergency, breaking bad news is part of the job. Doctors do it and so do the police . . . nurses are on hand and so we witness it, and I have noticed that the police most often break bad news in pairs. Good news can be given by an individual officer but a pair of officers are preferred when dealing with the alternative . . . and news of long-lost relatives or relatives who were occupants of cars which have crashed is either good or bad. So, for a while now, I have known that if two police officers call at my door then they will not be bringing good news.'

Carmen Pharoah nodded briefly. It was, she thought, a fair observation, a reasonable deduction. She said, *A body has been found.'

*A body . . .' Philippa Goodwin's voice cracked and then failed.

*Yes . . . I am afraid so.'

Ventnor remained silent. Carmen Pharoah and Philippa Goodwin seemed to him to be developing a rapport. It would, he believed, be insensitive of him to involve himself unless needed.

*The body is partially decomposed and the pathologist suggests a time of death of between one and two years ago.'

*That would fit. Veronica went missing eighteen months ago . . . winter before last.'

*And the remains are those of a very tall female in her early twenties.'

*That's Veronica . . . twenty-three and she was a tall girl, nearly six feet tall. She didn't like being tall, she would complain that it severely limited her choice of men. Women don't like partners who are shorter than they are . . . very limited sense of protection.'

*Yes,' Carmen Pharoah smiled, *I know.'

*But you are married,' Philippa Goodwin stroked her ring finger. *You're a tall girl and you found someone.'

*Widowed.'

*So young,' Philippa Goodwin gasped. *I am so sorry.'

*Thank you, but we all heal. We have to. Life must go on. But, to your daughter.'

*Yes, hated being tall, especially in the north of England where people tend to be shorter than southerners . . . it was a real barrier to her finding a partner . . . only those over six feet need apply . . . so few of them, fewer unattached and even fewer are suitable in terms of social position and character.'

*I can appreciate her difficulty.' Carmen Pharoah paused. *I am afraid you must prepare yourself for bad news.'

*Bad news? Over and above the death of my daughter?

*Yes.'

*What could be worse?'

Carmen Pharoah paused before replying. *There will be a press release; it will make the early evening television news and tomorrow's newspapers.'

Philippa Goodwin sat back in the armchair. *Just tell me,' she spoke softly, *just tell me. She was a young woman and as a parent you fear the worst . . . and we see rape victims in A and E.'

*Well . . . I can tell you that there is no indication of any such violation. It may have happened but there is no definite indication.'

*So what then?' A note of alarm crept into Philippa Goodwin's voice.

*The bad news is that your daughter, Veronica, appears to have been one of . . . the last of a number of deceased women whose corpses . . . whose remains have all been found in the same place.'

*A serial killer!'

*So-called, yes.' Carmen Pharoah remained silent for a few seconds and then added. *We know nothing of the existence of this man . . . or these people because they left their victims . . . or his victims . . . in a concealed location rather than leaving them to be found, as is most often the case.'

*So I have noticed . . . as if taunting the police?'

*Yes, but in this case the victims would probably have remained hidden . . . that is to say their remains-'

*Yes, I know what you mean.'

*. . . remained hidden for many years because they were left on private land.'

*Where was she found?'

Carmen Pharoah and Thomson Ventnor glanced at each other. Ventnor said, *It'll be in the press release.'

Carmen Pharoah turned to Philippa Goodwin and said, *In the grounds of an old house in the Vale . . . at the edge of the Wolds.'

*You mean the house owner . . . he collected victims?'

*No,' Carmen Pharoah held up her hand, *no, no . . . he was elderly and housebound . . . he died recently. It was when an inventory was being taken of the contents of the house by a solicitor that he, the solicitor, found the remains. They seem to have been taken there and left there in the ignorance of the householder.'

*I see.' Philippa Goodwin glanced across her living room to the window and to the cemetery that lay on the opposite side of the road to her house. *You know, it never bothered me to live opposite a cemetery, especially one which is full and no longer used. I enjoyed the peace and quiet, especially at night. When Veronica was little we would sit in the upstairs room if there was a thunderstorm at night holding hands and looking for ghosts during the flashes of lightning . . . but now . . . those stones . . . they have a different meaning now. I dare say I'll soon be choosing a stone for her, but at least I now know what happened. I'll have her buried . . . I will definitely have her buried. I will need a grave to visit and a bit of carved granite to talk to and a little plot of land to attend to . . . make sure it's watered if there is a dry summer.' Philippa Goodwin turned to Carmen Pharoah, *An inventory? A list of things? So Veronica was not buried?'

*No,' Carmen Pharoah held eye contact with Philippa Goodwin. *No, her remains were exposed.'

*I always thought of her lying in a shallow grave somewhere but she was lying on the surface of the ground?'

*Yes . . . I am sorry . . . partially concealed by undergrowth but yes, lying on the ground.'

*Does it get worse? Your eyes . . . your eyes seem to be saying that there is more to come and I won't like any of it.'

Carmen Pharoah swallowed and bowed her head slightly, and then looked up at Philippa Goodwin. *Yes, it does get worse . . . it is in the press release but it is probably better it comes from us . . .'