A Full Churchyard (25 page)

‘Weren't you suspicious of some of the recurring facts? Several deceased lying on a cold floor, doors and windows standing open?'

‘I thought it odd, but old folks do get themselves into some strange situations. I once dealt with a man who died in his outside coalhouse and another who was found dead in a dog kennel . . . I must say, however, that in these cases when I felt things were not quite as one would expect, I did alert the policeman who had been called to the scene – but what happened thereafter was not my concern. If I could certify the cause of death, the matter was concluded very swiftly. If not, the post mortem confirmed the death was not suspicious and so there was no coroner's inquest.'

‘So despite the curious scenes of death, you did not feel compelled to alert anyone in authority?'

‘As I said just now, I did tell the police officer who had been called to the scene, but it was a different officer on each occasion. I had done my job, Wayne, nothing more, nothing less.'

‘Thanks, that's a help,' said Wayne. ‘Now I must go elsewhere. . . .'

‘Sorry I couldn't help more,' said the doctor, emerging to call in his next patient.

When Wayne reached the offices of Crickledale Volunteer Carers, Wayne tapped on the door marked ‘Secretary' and was invited to enter. Mrs Allanby was behind the counter, busy with her computer and a pile of files.

‘Detective Sergeant Wain!' she smiled warmly. ‘How can I help you?'

‘I'm sorry to arrive unannounced but I was hoping to catch Mr Furnival.'

‘Oh dear, he doesn't come in on Wednesday afternoons or evenings, it's his day off.'

‘So where can I find him? It's rather important? Will he be at home? Or does he have a mobile phone?'

‘He has one but never switches it on when he's off duty. This is his only time off; he works very hard and needs time for himself, Sergeant, just like anyone else. And I'm not at liberty to reveal his home address.'

‘So how does he occupy himself off duty? Is he a golfer, does he go fishing?'

‘Nothing like that. He's very keen on antiques and goes off to places like Leeds or Harrogate to look around second-hand shops, market stalls, car boot sales and the smarter antique dealers that sell items like jewellery, gold, silver, pocket watches, precious stones, artwork, trinkets, that sort of stuff. He does a spot of dealing too, buying good stuff and selling it to dealers. He's quite knowledgeable.'

‘There's good money in such things, they're wise investments.'

‘That's his view. He's not into larger items like furniture or grandfather clocks!'

‘Any idea where he's gone today?'

‘Sorry, no, except it's not in Crickledale. He always gets away from the town – his job makes him very well known so he needs to get away from those who stop him in the street to discuss personal problems. He keeps his private life very private.'

‘So what happens if there is a really serious emergency that requires his immediate attention?'

‘That has never happened to my knowledge, Sergeant, and I hope it never will. Sadly, deaths among our clients are not considered emergencies by this organization. . . .'

‘Well, my purpose is not all that urgent. I've other visits to make. If I can't resolve my enquiry, I can always make arrangements for a formal meeting.'

‘Is it anything I can deal with?' she asked. ‘Or perhaps one of our professional carers could help? Both are out at the moment but Mrs Jarvis deputizes for Mr Furnival when he's away for any reason.'

‘Not to worry, Mrs Allanby. Please inform Mr Furnival that I called and say that I wish to discuss something we talked about earlier; tell him I'll return when it's convenient.'

And so he left Crickledale Volunteer Carers without achieving much success – except it appeared that Furnival was a devotee of antique shops and car boot sales, places that sold small goods. That was useful information. Now he must begin his interviews with some of the carers' patients; he had a list in his pocket. He was pleased Mrs Plumpton had divided them into two sections. One group comprised those who were elderly and lived alone, and who were allocated regular care by the CVC; the second did not necessarily live alone but received occasional care when required, say after an accident or illness, or perhaps following a period in hospital. That was also arranged through the CVC office. He knew that the two professional carers ensured that all clients received as much attention as was either possible or feasible, with due emphasis on night-time care. There were times when a carer may be expected to stay overnight – that task usually fell to the professionals. He decided not to visit Mrs Cardwell because Mrs Pluke would be there, nor would he visit any of the clients who lived remotely close to Shipton Avenue.

He would select one of the elderly clients who lived alone – someone he considered vulnerable. He recalled Mrs Plumpton's suggestion of Joe Knowles and Pluke's suggestion about interviewing the old fellow. As a consequence he found himself heading for 17, Hauxwell Street. He did not know this gentleman and had no idea of his circumstances, although he hoped he would be able to communicate.

He did not want any of the carers to be present and so in many ways this visit was something of a gamble. Hauxwell Street lay off the main road that passed the eastern outskirts of Crickledale; it was opposite the Tesco supermarket and about a five or six minute walk from the town centre. It was a terrace of brick-built houses on a large estate dating to around World War I. Each house had three rooms downstairs – a kitchen with an adjoining pantry, dining room and lounge with a toilet off the kitchen, and upstairs there may be two or three bedrooms, and a bathroom with a separate toilet. These houses were traditional, very warm and dry, quiet internally and ideal when living with good neighbours at each side. They were cool on hot days, with the pantry being ideal for the storage of food long before refrigerators had been invented. And now, it was possible for old folks to live downstairs. If they needed upstairs regularly then chair lifts could be fitted.

When he arrived at No. 17, Hauxwell Street, he found the exterior rather neglected. There was an uncut lawn the size of a doormat, a couple of unpruned rose bushes and a surplus of weeds. Wayne strode purposefully up to the front door, pressed the bell-push and walked in, shouting, ‘Hello Mr Knowles, it's Wayne.'

This was a well-tried and tested tactic employed by police officers and the performance was also for the benefit of any neighbours who may be watching or listening. Inside he closed the door, stood in the entrance hall and shouted, ‘Mr Knowles. It's me, Wayne.'

‘Hello,' returned a weak voice.

‘Where are you?'

‘In here.'

The voice was downstairs.

He peered into the front lounge that overlooked the street with a bow window, but there was no one. The room contained a settee and two easy chairs. It looked very comfortable and well tended. Next to it as he headed into the kitchen, was the dining room – but he found it had been converted into Mr Knowles' bedroom. His single bed, a dressing table and wardrobe had been squeezed into the limited space, but it was comfortable.

‘Hello?' called Wayne before entering. ‘Is that Mr Knowles?'

‘I didn't know you were with the carers now, Wayne? Have you just joined? And have you brought the tickets?' his voice was barely above a whisper.

‘I'm with the carers,' he did not want to confuse the old fellow or alarm him by explaining his real purpose. ‘I'm helping out today but you know my name?'

‘You said it when you came in.'

‘So I did! So what are tickets you're waiting for?'

He found an elderly and very frail bearded man sitting in a comfortable chair beside the bed. He looked very thin with skin like grey parchment. The bed had been made and the room was tidy, so clearly the morning carer had been here. Mr Knowles was watching television; beside his chair was a small table bearing drinks of orange squash, packets of biscuits and a paperback book. The old man had the courtesy to switch off the television, muttering, ‘They put such a load of rubbish on nowadays. I don't know why we can't have wrestling like we used to. So you're the new chap, Wayne, and I'm Joe, they all call me Joe.'

‘Pleased to meet you, Joe.' And they shook hands.

‘I've seen you around, Wayne, not in here though, in town I mean but I'm no trouble to anybody. I can't get about very easily so I spend most of my time here. I can't do much energetic stuff, I'm 89 you know. I used to be very active, football, cricket, cross-country racing, high jump, hundred yards, all that sort o' stuff but my heart started to go wonky . . . it's not in very good shape right now. When I was younger, there wasn't much I couldn't do on a sports field but now I couldn't even walk halfway across a football pitch.'

‘So is there anything I can get you whilst I'm here?'

‘I wouldn't say no to a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit, Wayne. Help yourself, you have one an' all. You'll find all the stuff in the kitchen, and milk on the pantry floor where it's cold. So did you bring the tickets?'

‘Which tickets are they, Joe? I'm new, you see, I didn't know about the tickets.'

‘Cup Final tickets, Wayne. Two, one for me and t'other for my pal. Jack Vivers, you mebbe know him. That other chap promised he could get some for me and either send them on with one of the other carers or fetch 'em himself. He promised I'd have 'em later today.'

‘What other chap?'

‘Him off the telly, Wayne, he comes here sometimes. Nice chap. He reckons he has a pal who can get Cup Final tickets cheap.'

‘It's a bit early to be thinking of the Cup Final, Joe.'

‘Is it? I thought Middlesbrough was playing.'

‘Not to my knowledge but they did get into the quarter-finals recently. So are you fit to go the Final, Joe?'

‘Not on my own I'm not, no, but my pal said he would look after me. I'm not ill, you know, just old. We'd go on a bus, they do bus trips from Crickledale to t'Final so I'd be looked after. I hope he hasn't forgotten about them tickets. Mebbe you could ask when you see him?'

‘I'll do that, Joe. Now is he the only man who comes to care for you?'

‘He doesn't come to care for me, Wayne, not like getting me out of bed and washing me and all that, or tidying up and cooking. Them young lasses come and do all that, mornings and afternoons. Sometimes evenings. This feller, you know him, you must know him. He's that feller off t'telly, he comes and fixings things when they go wrong. My kettle kept blowing fuses, everything went off and he came to fettle it. Fettle my kettle, that's good, eh? Fettle my kettle. . . .'

‘So when does this man come to see you?' asked Wayne.

‘Not regular, not like them lasses. He'll come when they call him in, when summat goes wrong. Like t'drains getting blocked, fuses blowing, new dabs o' paint needed here and there, window catches not working properly. . . .'

‘And he's one of the carers?'

‘So he says.'

‘So what's his name?'

‘Summat to do with the telly, he is. I can't think of his name right now.'

‘And the carer, the young woman. Who is she?'

‘Now you've got me there, Wayne. I can't remember. Bonny young lass, very nice to me. Not Fiona, she's here a lot, nice lass. Mrs Pluke comes sometimes if other folks can get here. Of an evening usually.'

‘But you've had the man before?'

‘Oh, aye. He can turn his hand to anything, he can even knock a meal up for me or write a letter t'Council if I have a complaint about 'em not emptying my bins, or grumble about folks dropping rubbish on t'street outside or t'street lights not working. Good folks, them carers. Very talented and helpful.'

‘So is there anything you want now, Joe?'

‘No thanks, Wayne, except that cuppa. Then there's just them tickets when you can fix that. One of the lasses will be here later to see to my supper and wash up. . . .'

‘I could do with a cup of tea myself,' said Wayne as he went through to find the kitchen and the tea-making necessities.

‘Everything's in t'kitchen, Wayne,' Joe tried to shout but his voice was too frail. ‘Help yourself then come in here and we can have a chat.'

‘I'll do that.'

‘I'll tell you all about my younger days when I was a top athlete . . . won cups I have, you'll see 'em on that shelf in my bedroom upstairs . . . solid silver some of 'em . . . go and have a look while t'kettle's boiling. Some are more than seventy years old, that ages me, eh?'

‘You're still very fit, but thanks, Joe. I'll be back in a minute.'

Wayne left Joe for a while as he found the kitchen, filled the kettle and switched it on. He found a couple of mugs, some milk in a bottle on the cement floor, a teapot and caddy full of teabags. Whilst the kettle began to sing, he went upstairs to look at Joe's collection of trophies. On the landing, all the doors were closed and so he opened the first and peered inside – it was a small room but fitted out with shelves with glass fronted doors and on the shelves were hundreds of scent bottles arranged in neat rows. Now they had dust gathering upon them and around them despite the protection of their glass doors.

There was a single bed in the room, along with a small wardrobe and dressing table, and the pink décor with its floral theme suggested it had been a woman's room. He closed the door and tried the next – it was a bathroom with a toilet incorporated; next to it was another door, also closed. When he opened it, it was clearly a man's room, plainly decorated with magnolia paint and corresponding walls covered with emulsion of the same colour.

Another single bed stood near the far wall, with a wardrobe, dressing table and armchair nearby. But here the walls were covered with more shelves, this time full of silver cups and shields, all being sporting trophies from Joe's past. Most looked rather cheap but some were certainly hallmarked silver. There were ancient faded photographs on the walls too, all showing the young Joe in his sports gear and invariably holding a trophy of some kind.