Aftermath (12 page)

‘Not bad.'

‘Not bad at all . . . and we do other similar things for our own, but at the end of the day we have to make money and so we have to have workers, not passengers. Veronica was one of the telephonists and as such she was in direct contact with the public . . . paying customers . . . voice only but that is still direct contact.'

‘Of course, it's vital for the telephonists to have a pleasant speaking voice.'

‘Yes . . . Veronica had, in the forenoon, and only in the forenoon. In the afternoon her voice was slurred and she became short-tempered. So . . . verbal warning at first, given by me in my capacity as Personnel Manager, and then when she didn't alter her ways . . . or when she could not . . . because I understand alcoholism . . . I have had personal experience of it.'

‘I see . . . I'm sorry.'

‘Long time ago now but it gave me insight into the illness.' Farthing paused. ‘Well, anyway, she received a second written warning and strong advice that she seek help from her doctor or by joining Alcoholics Anonymous. She was then taken from the switchboard, for everybody's sake, and given a job in the stores on a reduced income . . . and that was a real comedown for her. The stores have invited some very cruel names from the workforce. “The bat cave” being one of the kinder ones. It's where the disadvantaged people work. Again, it's Gordon and Moxon's policy to engage people who would, for one reason or another, find it difficult to get a job but we can't put them on the sales floors.'

‘Appreciate that.'

‘So our senior store clerk is a man who is in a wheelchair because he was born without legs, and damned efficient he is too. Another employee has a glandular problem and rapidly starts to smell of sweat. He has to bring a change of clothing with him each day and take a shower at lunchtime. He's also a very good worker. And so taking Veronica from the switchboard, where the telephonists regard themselves as a bit of an elite in the company, and sending her to the stores, was a massive comedown for her but it was the only thing I could do, short of dismissing her, and I also thought it might be the jolt, just the sort of wake-up call she needed.'

‘I was thinking the same thing.'

‘And if she sobered up, we'd have her back on the switchboard . . . and I told her that. But it was just about then that she disappeared. She'd been in the stores for less than a month . . . and the tragedy of it was that she seemed to be getting on top of her drink problem . . . she was on her way back to the switchboard, so no reason to run away.'

The agent's room in HM Prison Langley Vale was square in terms of floor area, about eight foot by eight foot, guessed Thomson Ventnor, who sat at a metal table. It smelled strongly of bleach. The walls were tiled with glazed white and blue tiles, which had been laid alternating with each other laterally, and which had been offset like bricks in a wall. A filament bulb behind a Perspex screen in the ceiling illuminated the room. An opaque glass brick at the top of the outside wall opposite the door allowed in ultraviolet light. Ventnor heard the jangling of keys and the opening and shutting of a large, heavy door, then the agent's room door was unlocked and opened.

Liz Calderwood was dressed in a blue tee shirt, faded blue denims and white sports shoes. She grinned at Ventnor as she entered the agent's room and, unbidden, sat down opposite him. She was small, frail, innocent-looking and, thought Ventnor, she could pass for a fourteen-year-old. He saw at once how her charm and innocent-looking appearance would help her defraud gullible people, which she had done, and for which she had collected three years' imprisonment.

‘Yeah . . . I heard,' she replied in a soft voice after Ventnor had explained his reason for visiting. ‘We get the television news to watch and the newspapers to read and so, yeah, I heard about her being found . . . one of a number of women. Nine bodies it is now. Nine. I saw the latest press release. I did wonder what she was doing. Now I know.'

‘We understand that you were the last person to see her alive?'

‘No,' Liz Calderwood smiled and showed that her eyes had a most un-criminal like sparkle about them. ‘No, that was the person who murdered her. Point to me I think.'

‘Point to you, agreed,' Ventnor inclined his head in acknowledgement, ‘but of her friends and acquaintances, you were the last known person to see her alive. You left the nightclub together, we understand?'

‘Yes . . . that is true . . . I remember it well. I didn't drink as much as she did so I can remember things that happened and I can remember that night all right . . . like it was yesterday. She was a mess . . . Veronica was a mess. She was drunk and she had vomited in the washbasin in the ladies toilets, it was in her hair . . . it was on her clothes . . . everywhere . . . her tights were torn. She was mumbling about having to get home and rinse her hair but she didn't want her mother to see her. So we walked. Well, she stumbled and I held her up, even though she was taller than me, and we got to the railway station to try to use the toilets in there to clean her up but by then they had been locked up for the night . . . so we hung around. Her old mum would go to bed at midnight she said and it was well after that by this time. So she planned to sneak in quietly, wash her hair and get some sleep. She was tired and that, plus the booze . . . well you can imagine what a handful she was . . . and she still kept taking nips from her flask. There were no cabs but eventually a car stopped . . . I don't know whether it was a cab or not but I got the impression the driver knew her.'

‘That could be significant.' Ventnor leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table to. ‘Did you see the driver?'

‘No . . . it was dark.'

‘Recognize the car?'

‘No . . . I'm an “all-cars-look-the-same-to-me” merchant. I seem to recall that it was a dark coloured car but can't be clearer than that. So I helped . . . no, I poured her into the car and that was the last time I saw Veronica Goodwin.'

Reginald Webster sat heavily and resignedly into one of the chairs in front of George Hennessey's desk. He held a number of manila folders in his hands.

‘You've had some luck, I think.' Hennessey put his pen down.

‘Yes, sir, I believe that I have matched seven of the nine bodies now known to have been found in the kitchen garden to missing person's reports.'

‘Good.'

‘Not a difficult job, there are not many mis per reports of females in the Vale, not of the age group we are talking about and helped in the case of Gladys Penta by a disfiguring head injury she had sustained earlier in her life . . . the result of a climbing accident in fact.'

‘You look puzzled Webster.'

Webster forced a smile, ‘Does it show?'

‘It shows,' Hennessey replied. ‘So what is it?'

‘It's their ages, sir . . . the ages of the victims.'

‘Oh?'

‘That is, if they are who I think that they are, we still have to confirm the identity in all the cases, only Veronica Goodwin is confirmed up to now.'

‘Go on.'

‘Well . . . the female victims of all serial killers, which is what we seem to be looking at here . . .'

‘Seems so . . . agreed'

‘Well, in all documented cases the victims tend to be women in young adulthood . . .'

‘Yes . . . all right.'

‘Because they go out at night . . . easy victims.'

‘Yes,' Hennessey settled back in his chair, ‘and they have their youthful attraction, and you are going to say those ladies do not fit that victim profile?'

‘Yes, sir, that is what I am trying to say.' Webster held eye contact with Hennessey and then, deferentially, looked down. ‘The first victim, or the last victim, but the first we identified, Miss Goodwin, she stands out as different from the others.'

‘An anomaly?'

‘Yes, sir, that's the very word. An anomaly.' He handed Hennessey a piece of paper. ‘Going by height and date of disappearance, I believe these are the names of the victims in order of their age when they disappeared.'

Hennessey took the piece of paper from Webster. He read:

‘I see what you mean;' Hennessey spoke softly, ‘the youngest is thirty-three years, the oldest sixty-three years, not at all the typical victim profile of serial killers of female victims.'

‘There is one more victim, sir.'

‘One more?'

‘Yes, I can't fit her with any of our mis per reports but Dr D'Acre confirms she is, or was, middle-aged.'

‘So we have nine victims, these seven, Veronica Goodwin and the as yet unidentified victim?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And, as you say, Veronica Goodwin at a tender twenty-three years is a distinct anomaly . . . but something will link them. They're all from the Vale? Yes, sorry, of course they are otherwise we wouldn't have their mis per files.'

‘Yes, sir, just the one victim who might be foreign to the Vale, she is a short-term resident who had no social network, so no one to report her missing.'

‘But eight out of the nine are definitely local to the Vale, they were left locally and in the same place . . . the perpetrator is local. The kitchen garden at Bromyards speaks loudly of local knowledge, no outsider here coming to the Vale to look for his victims, he knows this area . . . he's local.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘And the victims, apart from the unidentified one, are local?'

‘Furthest address from the city of York is at Shipton and that's only five miles away, a gentle stroll for a person in reasonable health, ten minutes by car and failing either, a frequent bus service.'

‘Anything about the time sequence of their disappearances?'

‘It seems there is a gap of between ten and twelve months between each disappearance. They all disappeared in the winter months.'

‘Dark nights . . . poor visibility. Interesting. It could be a coincidence but I tend to think it isn't.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘But it does mean that death came quickly to them . . . it suggests a quicker and more merciful death by hypothermia than the slower death by thirst that we were worried might be the case.'

‘Yes . . . a small comfort.'

‘Well, Yellich is gathering what information he can about the murder scene. Ventnor and Pharoah are interviewing people who knew Veronica Goodwin, so you and I will finish early for today. We'll review at nine tomorrow.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Have a restful night. I think we'll all be working hard for the foreseeable future.'

Reginald Webster, not at all displeased to be able to return home earlier than he had anticipated, drove to Selby via the quieter and more rural B1222 via Stillingfleet and Cawood. He turned into the housing estate in which he lived and announced his arrival by sounding his car horn twice, which he knew was, strictly speaking, a moving traffic offence, it being unlawful to sound a car's horn if (a) the car is stationary or (b) for any other purpose than to announce danger should the car be in motion. He was, however, known to his neighbours, all of whom knew and understood and approved of his method of announcing his arrival to his wife. As he parked his car the front door of his house opened and Joyce stood there smiling. He called a greeting to her, walked up the driveway and as he drew near he deliberately scuffed the gravel beside the concrete of the driveway. At the sound of the scuffed gravel his wife, blonde, short, slender, extended her arms. He embraced her and she responded instantly. Terry similarly greeted him by nudging his nose against his leg and wagging his tail.

That evening they sat down to a filling salad which had been lovingly prepared by Joyce, it being the only meal that he allowed her to prepare because hot food, and especially when created with boiling water, was too dangerous to risk. Later, as evening fell, Webster took Terry for a walk in the nearby woodland, because even working dogs need free time, and as he listened to a close by but unseen skylark he wondered at his wife's courage. Blinded at just twenty years of age when she was studying fine art at university and yet considering herself lucky because, of the four occupants in the car, she alone had survived.

George Hennessey did not do well in heat. He never understood why people would spend hard-earned money to bake in Corfu in July or August when they could visit Iceland instead, and leave it until January to visit the Mediterranean fleshpots when the weather there is bearable. He often said that if he were to be given a choice of Crete in August or Aberdeen in January, he would choose the latter without a moment's hesitation, it being preferable, in his mind, to keep warm in a cold climate rather than to try to keep cool in a hot climate. Because of his discomfort in heat he found sleep evaded him that evening. The hot day had given way to a warm evening and as he lay abed underneath just a single lightweight duvet with the window of his bedroom fully open, he still found it impossible to sleep. He was, though, at rest emotionally speaking and thinking of but not particularly preoccupied with the following day's tasks . . . and then he heard the noise. Low at first but getting louder and louder and louder as it approached his house and then faded as the selfsame noise had once before faded into a similar summer's night. It was a motorbike. And at the sound his state of emotional rest erupted into turmoil.

The gap then appeared, the gap left by Graham, a void, huge, unmissable, a place which should have been filled by his elder brother who died in a motorbike accident when Hennessey was eight years old. An emptiness, always there . . .