A Dreadful Past (11 page)

‘I know.' The first man smiled at the memory. ‘Then we burned out. The thrill had gone. The thrill wasn't there any more. It's called “maturing”.'

‘It is?' The second man turned to glance at the first man. ‘Maturing?'

‘Yes, it is,' the first man confirmed. ‘I know, professionally speaking, that we “matured”. I attended an in-service training course on serial killing and the concept of the psychopath: How to Identity a Latent Serial Killer. One part of the course looked at why serial killers stop killing.'

‘They get arrested,' the second man suggested. ‘The police get their man?'

‘Is one reason …' the first man agreed. ‘The second is that he or she is arrested and imprisoned for a lengthy sentence on an unrelated crime and the police don't connect him, or her, to the string of murders. Another reason is that he loses his life by some means, and another is that he or she leaves the area in the case of localized murders. The final reason is that he or she “matures” and whatever drove him or her to kill leaves them. They “mature”.'

‘Which is what happened to us,' the second man offered. ‘The urge just left us. You know, I don't feel at all guilty. I have not the slightest sense of guilt.'

‘You wouldn't. I don't either,' the first man smiled. ‘We wouldn't be a pair of proper dyed-in-the-wool psychopaths if we felt guilty. I have not the slightest sense of guilt.'

‘So which one first?' the second man asked.

‘Womack,' the first man replied with a distinct certainty. ‘He is the weakest. But once we do Womack we have to do Silcock ASAP. Once “Mad” Silcock hears about Womack, well, Silcock will squeal like a stuck pig.'

‘Yes, I think you're right … Womack then Silcock.' The second man nodded. ‘It has to be done.'

‘OK.' The first man also nodded. ‘I'll find them then I'll contact you. I'll use a public call box and suggest we “have another beer” – you'll know that means I've found them, and we'll meet up and plan the job … or jobs.'

‘That's a bit cloak-and-dagger,' the second man spoke softly, ‘but I think you're right. We can't be too careful, so public call boxes and coded messages suit me. I'll wait to hear from you, otherwise life goes on as normal.'

It was a case of a remarkable, though perhaps – if not certainly – a distressing coincidence. Reginald Webster, by then dressed casually in denims and a fleece jacket, bent down and slipped Terry off the leash and the dog bounded away from Webster to explore the small woodland which stood near Webster's house.

Webster had returned home to his house in Selby and announced his arrival by two rapid blasts of his car's horn. It was a practice which, while strictly illegal, was wholly accepted by his good neighbours. He had turned the car into the driveway of the house and as he did so the pleasant-natured, long-haired Alsatian ran up to greet him. Moments later he embraced his wife, who proudly told him that she had prepared a salad for their supper. It was still too early in the year for a cold meal, he thought, but he knew that cold food was the only food she could prepare, and indeed it was the only food he would permit her to prepare. In the colder months he was the partner who prepared the food. She did the washing up and skilfully returned each item to its correct place in the kitchen. But Joyce Webster was a woman who loved her husband and she loved preparing a meal for him to come home to, and Reginald Webster fully understood the reasons for his wife's action. He had thanked her for the salad and promised that he would enjoy eating it.

Later, after supper, and after he had changed into more comfortable and more casual clothing, he took Terry the guide dog for an ‘off-duty' walk. As he watched the dog lithely weave in and out of the new growth in the woodland he pondered upon the coincidence. His wife had lost her sight because of brain damage sustained in a car accident in which her friends had been killed and she considered herself fortunate. So had, and so did by all accounts, Sara Middleton. His wife was at university at the time of the accident, where she was reading for a degree in fine art. Sara Middleton had been hoping to get to university, also to read for a degree in fine art. But there the coincidence ended. His wife had lived, she had married, she managed a home and she and her husband planned to start a family. Sara Middleton, on the other hand, had lost her sight when she was seventeen and been murdered at the age of nineteen. It was, he again thought, a coincidence which was as remarkable as it was distressing.

‘Hello, Dad.' Thompson Ventnor knelt in front of the elderly man who sat quietly in an armchair in the corner of the television lounge.

Thompson Ventnor had returned to his house in Bishopton and placed a ‘ready to cook' supermarket meal in the microwave. He ate it hurriedly and placed the plate on the pile of unwashed dishes which had accumulated in the sink. He left his house and took a bus to the outer suburbs of York. He alighted from the bus and scanned the townscape. It was by then early evening, and the street lighting had been switched on in the narrow streets of the city which famously has a church for every Sunday in the year and a pub for every other day, and at that moment Thompson Ventnor was interested only in the latter. He visited six pubs and had a pint in each, not wanting to be seen as the sad man drinking alone but rather the busy man who called in for a beer while on his way somewhere. Eventually he fetched up at the Augustus night club and sat at the bar buying drinks for a woman called Doreen who was divorced, worked as a waitress and wore a dress one size too small, so guessed Ventnor. At least one size too small.

Later, well after midnight, he took a taxi home and slept a fitful and shallow sleep, and did so while still partially clothed.

It was Thursday, 01.35 hours.

In which a return visit to Fridaythorpe is made, the number four assumes a sinister significance, and a murder is planned.

‘I
confess, George, I think this weather hasn't a clue what it's doing. It just can't seem to make its mind up.'

‘Yes.' George Hennessey nodded in agreement, although he thought it an inane comment.

‘It's strange to think that just yesterday we sat outside drinking tea and eating toasted muffins. Now look at it,' Jenny grumbled. ‘It's more like autumn than spring.'

George Hennessey and Frank Jenny sat together in the conservatory of Frank Jenny's house in Fridaythorpe as drizzle fell monotonously from a low, grey cloud base.

‘And look, there's that damned magpie again,' Jenny hissed. Then in a normal voice, added: ‘And I must thank you for telling me the reason for the “one for sorrow” superstition. It interested Alison greatly. I knew it would do so … the old thieving magpie is always the lone bird.'

‘Yes, well.' Hennessey glanced out across the damp expanse of Frank and Alison Jenny's back garden. ‘I really am very sorry to put upon you like this once again, Frank. It's very good of you to see me. Really very good. I do feel bad about it … a fella should be left in peace to enjoy his retirement.'

‘Not to worry, George. Not to worry.' Jenny smiled. ‘Thanks anyway, but frankly it makes me feel good about myself. I feel I still have some use, and the days do tend to blend and merge with each other, which is not a very healthy sign, so your visit is very welcome. I really should be more active, I dare say that's the key … keep fit, keep active.' Jenny had a long, thin face, an observer would note, and a good head of silver hair. He wore a loud yellow cardigan over a blue shirt, a pair of white summer trousers and a pair of leather sandals. He did, thought Hennessey, look very well for a man of sixty-seven summers. Very well indeed. ‘In fact, I'll do that. Now that winter is behind us I'll get out more, get up into the Dales. I tell you I'm still good for a fifteen-mile hike with a small rucksack for my essentials, the waterproofs, water bottle, a bit of food …'

‘Well, good for you, Frank,' Hennessey replied. ‘You know my own retirement loometh, so methinks I could do worse than to take a leaf out of your book. What did you say? Keep fit, keep active?'

‘You're on your own, aren't you, George?' Jenny turned to Hennessey.

‘Yes … yes, I am in that I live alone, just me and my dog; we are very good friends but no … I never remarried. I talk to Jennifer each day. I return home, usually make myself a mug of tea and take it outside and stand on the patio telling her about my day. Very few people know I do that, Frank, so keep it to yourself, will you? I scattered her ashes there, you see, and I feel that she is there; I believe that she can hear me which is why I'll never sell that house. When I leave that house it will be feet first.'

‘I can understand that attitude.' Jenny pursed his lips. ‘Yes, I can well understand it … and yes … mum's the word. No one will hear from me that you do that. Lovely gesture, though.'

‘I do have someone,' Hennessey continued. ‘I do have a significant other, a lady in my life. I have a son who is married and I have grandchildren whom I spoil rotten … so … I live alone, that is true, apart from the dog, but I do not consider myself lonely. In fact, I am very content. I like the peace and space of living alone, just me and my dog and, as I said, we are the best of friends.'

‘You make that sound very inviting.' Jenny raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, very appealing indeed – alone but not lonely. I can understand that. So, to business … a gang of four, you say?'

‘Yes.' Hennessey nodded and sipped the tea which had been warmly pressed into his hand by an insistent Alison Jenny. Frank Jenny had declined to join him, claiming he had just had a cup and was by then ‘awash' with the liquid. ‘As I said on the phone, they were apparently seen gazing at the Middleton house on the day after the murder which wasn't unusual. It was, after all, a high-profile murder, and the police activity attracted a lot of attention. Quite a few people came out and stood on the roadside looking across the field at the house, but what is of interest is that those same four were seen a day or two before the murder looking at the Middleton house as if sighting it up prior to breaking into it.'

‘That is interesting, very interesting.' Frank Jenny fixed his eye with distaste on the magpie which was strutting nonchalantly across his lawn despite the rain. ‘I tell you, that damn bird is taunting me … but yes, four men – that is very interesting indeed. It's also news to me. I wonder why we never picked that up in the initial investigation? It seems an embarrassingly large – unforgivable, even – oversight.'

‘Well, probably, as you said yourself, Frank,' Hennessey replied, ‘your net inquiring of the neighbours was not cast wide enough.'

‘Yes,' Jenny groaned, ‘I feel very uncomfortable about that now, very embarrassed … It was unpardonable of us.'

‘Well,' Hennessey replied, ‘if it makes you feel any better, I can tell you that the neighbouring house in question was only visited by two of my team due to your observation that you didn't inquire widely enough and the house in question was of such a distance from the Middleton house that they would not have seen or heard anything during the night of the murders. So we have that to thank you for.'

‘Well, so long as some good has come out of it.' Frank Jenny continued to glare at the strutting magpie. ‘That bird is on borrowed time … but a gang of four, twenty years ago.' Jenny fell silent, then said, ‘You know something, George? I tell you, bells are ringing, very distantly, very softly, but they are ringing. Was there any description of the gang of four at all?'

‘Not a helpful one,' Hennessey replied. ‘Four males, two tall, one of whom was well-built … and two short ones. Not much to go on.'

‘But it's something,' Jenny grunted, ‘and it's still early days.'

‘Indeed, and they seemed to divide into two pairs of twos with the big geezers palling up and the two short geezers palling up, according to our witness. They stood and stared at the house and then walked away, the day or two days before the murders and also on the day after the murders.'

‘I see … so what bells do I hear? I hear four … four has a significance. Do you know, it's all coming back … It's yet another case we didn't solve … Yes, I remember, I remember now, it was the murder of an elderly farmworker. He was battered to death … out in the sticks. He was wheeling his bike across the fields, along a path at the end of the working day. No, no … he wasn't battered … I am wrong there … I recall it now, he was knifed to death. The pathologist identified four different types of blade, and that's the “four” I recall. He had a non-fatal head injury which would have incapacitated him and that's the confusion I had with battered to death. So he was battered but not fatally, and then suffered multiple stab wounds caused by four different blades.'

‘So four attackers,' Hennessey commented.

‘So we assumed.' Jenny looked thoughtfully out of the window of the conservatory. ‘That murder, I am almost certain, took place near the time of the murder of the Middleton family. They both happened at a similar time. I am sure they did.'

‘You didn't connect them then? The two incidents, I mean.' Hennessey sipped his tea. ‘They were seen as unconnected?'

‘Yes, you see, in fairness to us, we had no reason to connect them. Not at the time. Remember, we didn't know then about the four males showing an interest in the Middleton home,' Jenny replied defensively. ‘The victims were different. The farmworker was knifed to death; the Middletons were battered to death. The Middletons were murdered indoors; the farmworker was murdered outdoors. Each incident was some distance from the other, geographically speaking. The farmworker was murdered with such frenzy it seemed that someone or some persons had a motive to murder him. The Middletons appeared to have disturbed intruders. So no, we didn't connect them.'