Gift Wrapped (25 page)

‘Good, so the net is closing.'

‘Slowly and steadily,' Alice Mellish replied, still examining the nails of her left hand, ‘slowly and steadily, as we planned.'

‘Is the file still where you put it?'

‘I will of course go and check,' Alice Mellish replied calmly, ‘but really you know there's no reason why it shouldn't be there ... no reason at all.'

‘It's essential that you do confirm it's there before I send the final card,' Julia Bartlem advised. ‘We'll look like very silly sisters if it has been removed by someone at some point. Ten years is a long time for anything to happen.'

‘Will do. I'll have to phone him at work, tell him the boys in blue are on their way – it'll too look suspicious if I don't. Then I'll make sure where the file is and phone you back.'

‘Very well, you've waited a long time for this, so don't mess it all up now. Keep calm. Don't do anything inappropriate.'

Peregrine Mellish showed himself to be a powerfully built man. He was, thought both Webster and Ventnor, well over six feet tall. Both officers had the unusual and the unnerving experience of having to look up at him. He was square-jawed with piercing brown eyes, broad-chested, and he betrayed no sense of humour or warmth. He was in fact cold, angry and determined, so found the officers. He was, they thought, the sort of ruthless individual who makes fortunes at the expense of the ruination of other people's lives. Peregrine Mellish dwarfed his small office in a new-built development at Stonebow in the centre of York. His surroundings were spartan: there were no comforting or softening photographs or prints of paintings, and there were no photographs of loved ones proudly displayed. It was, Ventnor and Webster both felt, as if Mellish was a robotic moneymaking machine and his office was one of the components. ‘My wife phoned me a few moments ago.' Mellish had a cold, hard voice with a slight trace of a local regional accent. ‘She told me that you'd be calling.'

‘Yes, she said that she would notify you,' Webster replied. ‘We are making enquiries about a man called Wenlock, James Wenlock.'

‘I don't know anyone of that name,' Mellish snarled.

‘Really?' Webster smiled. ‘That's a strange thing for you to say to us because he was once your accountant when he was employed by Russell Square.'

‘I still don't know anyone of that name,' Mellish repeated the snarl. ‘Note the present tense, if you will. Yes, I did once know a man of that name and yes, he looked after my finances ... but I don't know of him now. He vanished, I believe? Disappeared, as some people do.'

‘All right, fair point,' Webster nodded briefly, ‘but at least we are talking about the same man.'

‘Yes, and I thought you might be calling about him at some point, trying to unravel his life, calling on his family and his colleagues and his business contacts. I've seen the TV news and read the newspapers; his body has been found and my wife said that you mentioned his name when you called on her just now.'

‘What do you know about his murder?' Ventnor asked quietly.

‘Nothing at all.' Mellish snarled again as he spoke and his eyes pierced Ventnor's eyes. ‘I know nothing at all about it.'

‘We understand that you had a business interest in Scarborough?' Webster probed, not liking Ventnor's more direct, aggressive approach. ‘Is that true?'

‘Yes. That is not a past tense issue,' Mellish replied. ‘I still have a business in Scarborough, a go-kart track. It makes very good money, especially in the holiday season, but it's an all-year-round business really. Bad weather shuts it down but we can keep going most of the time. Coastal weather, you see. It rains, it's very windy ... that east wind, I tell you that can bite through anything, but it rarely snows and it's snow and ice that stops the track from operating, not wind or rain.'

‘So you have a number of business interests?' Ventnor queried.

‘Yes ... yes I have.' Mellish paused. ‘But ... also in a sense I have none; in a sense I am penniless.'

‘In what sense?'

‘Well, I am trying to put together a park and ride scheme ... park your car outside the city in a large car park and get bussed in and bussed back out again.'

‘Your wife mentioned that to us,' Ventnor replied.

‘I am just getting it off the ground but it's been a bit expensive purchasing the land outside York, concreting it over to make it a year-round car park,' Mellish explained, still speaking in a cold, hard voice. ‘Purchasing the buses ... they're not cheap. Four of them Volvos I had liveried, bright red with “Park 'n Ride” in yellow. I borrowed all the money. OPM – it's the business golden rule in business.'

‘OPM?' Webster queried.

‘Other people's money.' Mellish smiled an unpleasant smile. ‘If it takes off then I can pay off the debt; if it folds, well, they lose their money and I escape, because all my money and property, all my business interests are in my wife's name. The creditors can't touch it; they can't get their paws on it. Standard business practice, like OPM.'

‘You must trust your wife?' Webster observed.

‘Oh, I do, you know, we have a marriage made in heaven. We have done this numerous times before. She has always re-signed them back over to me.' Mellish began to sound smug. ‘She's a good woman. She does her duty.'

‘I see ... that's quite interesting,' Webster spoke softly. ‘So you have no idea of anyone who would want to murder James Wenlock?'

‘No, no one. James, I remember him – he was a quiet, home-loving family man. He had no enemies. Not that I knew of,' Mellish replied confidently. ‘He was a nice bloke. Can't imagine anyone wanting to hurt James, let alone murder him. I can't imagine that at all.'

‘Well, he was murdered, that's a fact, as you have read in the papers, and he was buried in a deep sort of shallow grave, as shallow graves go,' Ventnor replied icily. ‘So someone didn't like him and that someone didn't want his body to be found. Not ever. Interesting, don't you think?'

‘If that sort of thing tickles your fancy then it could be interesting ... but me ... the only thing that is tickling my fancy right now is getting my park and ride scheme up and running. So, gentlemen,' Mellish gave another icy smile, ‘if you have no more questions, I have work to do.'

‘No more questions,' Ventnor replied equally icily. ‘For now.'

‘For now!' Mellish snapped angrily. ‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘It means we have no more questions ... for now,' Webster replied.

‘Am I under suspicion?' Mellish sounded alarmed.

‘Yes,' Ventnor replied, ‘you are. But only because everybody who knew Mr Wenlock in any capacity whatsoever is under suspicion.'

‘Inquiries are continuing,' Webster replied calmly. ‘Let's just leave it like that. For now.'

George Hennessey thought that the man had a hard face, with a thin-lipped, spiteful, cruel-looking mouth and cold, cold eyes. The room in which the man was slumped in a wheelchair beside a single, unmade bed had an odour about it, which seemed to Hennessey to come from the man and which Hennessey could only describe as a stench.

‘I only see the top man,' the man wheezed. ‘Only ever see the top man. Only the top man for me because I am the top man.' The man caught his breath and winced with pain. Outside the building another man, in short sleeves and a wide-brimmed straw hat, was cutting a privet hedge with a large pair of shears. Clip, clip clip. The man spoke with difficulty. ‘Hear that?' he demanded aggressively.

‘Yes,' Hennessey replied, ‘I hear it.'

‘That sound I recall from my boyhood, my father cutting the privet in our back garden. That sound hasn't changed in nearly a century. No reason why it should. Same plant, same sort of tool.'

‘No reason at all,' Hennessey replied. He had received the phone call in the middle of the afternoon when he was alone in the CID room at Micklegate Bar Police Station, all the other members of the team having been committed to investigative visits. He had let the phone ring thrice before picking it up, leisurely so. The switchboard operator had then advised Hennessey that he had a call from the matron of a hospice in Malton who was most anxious to speak to the officer in charge of the James Wenlock murder inquiry. ‘I reckon that must be me,' Hennessey replied warmly. ‘Please put her through.'

‘It's one of our patients,' the matron had explained, having introduced herself as Matron Temple. ‘He is a difficult patient, with the name Grypewell, spelled with a “y”, but pronounced “Gripewell”, and I tell you, sir, he does nothing but gripe. Ever since he has been here he does nothing but complain ... griping about this, griping about that.'

Hennessey had then ‘allowed' his smile to be heard down the phone.

‘Oh, I kid you not; you could not find a more appropriately named man, especially given his Christian name of Earnest.'

Hennessey laughed, ‘Really?' Earnest Grypewell the complainer ... ?

‘Really ... griping in earnest from morn till night, and if he's awake, from dusk till dawn. And it's not a sudden change of personality; he's been like this all his life, so we believe. No one ever visits him, though we know he has blood relatives. He has apparently succeeded in driving everybody away from him during his life with his terrible and insufferable personality.'

‘I know the type,' Hennessey replied. ‘Then they wonder why they are alone.'

‘Oh ... exactly,' Matron Temple replied. ‘Exactly.' She paused. ‘Now, the reason I am calling is that, despite his awkward personality, he is fully compos mentis. His body is ravaged but his mind is still as sharp as a tack. He keeps abreast of current affairs by watching his little black and white portable television and he has requested – nay, insisted – that I contact the senior police officer in charge of the James Wenlock murder.'

‘I see.' Hennessey reached for his ballpoint pen and his notepad. ‘He has information, do you believe?'

‘It would seem so, but he will only talk to the most senior officer involved in the case or the “top man”, as he says. So even if you are not the senior man you'd better tell him you are or he'll take his information to the grave ... and frankly that could be any time now. So if you believe he has credibility, then time is of the essence.'

‘Is he serious, do you think? Is he genuine?' Hennessey leaned forward, becoming very interested in what he was being told. ‘What do you think about the issue of his credibility, Matron Temple?'

‘Yes ... you see, as he complains about the slightest pain it is significant, perhaps, that he has refused morphine. He wants to remain conscious to make his statement.'

‘Oh ...' Hennessey leaned forward. ‘That does give him quite some credibility. Well, pleasing for him, I am the “top man”. I'll leave immediately and be with you shortly.'

‘Thank you. It's Saint Simon's Hospice, 12 Crossley Close, Malton, new building, single storey, flat roof, large sign at the entrance. You can't miss it.'

‘Can you give him a little morphine,' Hennessey asked, ‘to take the edge off the pain but keep him conscious?'

‘Yes, yes I'll do that – he won't gripe about that.' Matron Temple also allowed her smile to be heard down the phone.

‘Thank you,' Hennessey replied. ‘I'll be there within the hour.'

Alice Mellish walked to the bottom of her garden, stood by the side of an old potting shed and then slipped on a pair of washing- up gloves. She knelt by the shed, probed underneath it and, locating an object within a plastic bag, she then withdrew her hand and, smiling gently to herself, stood by the shed. Surrounded by rich foliage and birdsong under a blue sky she took her mobile phone and keyed a pre-dialled number. When her call was answered she said, ‘Yes, it's all right. It's still here.'

When George Hennessey arrived at the address he found it to be exactly as Matron Temple described it to be: new built, bricks gleaming in the sun, single storey, flat roof, and set in large grounds to afford peace and privacy to those in their final days, hours, minutes. He walked up to the front door and at the reception desk swept off his panama, identified himself to the receptionist and asked for Matron Temple. Matron Temple, when she arrived hurriedly in the reception area, revealed herself to be a small, somewhat overweight lady with a brisk manner yet a warm and deeply caring attitude. She shook hands with Hennessey and escorted him to Earnest Grypewell's room, where Hennessey sat in the bedside chair and matron stood beside him with her hands held together in front of her.

‘I only ever seen the top man,' Grypewell hissed, giving the clear impression that he was fighting great pain.

‘I am he,' Hennessey replied softly. ‘I am the top man in the Wenlock murder investigation.'

‘That's good because I am the top man and I only speak to other top men,' Grypewell gasped.

‘Fair enough.' Hennessey held eye contact with Grypewell's icy stare. ‘I am told you wanted to talk to me, Mr Grypewell. Do you have information for us?'

‘Yes ...' He pointed to the portable TV set which stood on a chest of drawers beside his bed. ‘The news about James Wenlock,' Grypewell wheezed. ‘I know what happened. I know all about what happened.'

‘Yes, sir?' Hennessey prompted gently.

‘I was on Scarborough Council, years ago. I was the only councillor who was worth anything ... none of the others were up to the job. Only me.'

There was a short pause.

‘Mellish put in his application to build a go-kart track ... little cars racing each other. He got a lot of opposition because he wanted to build it in an area of natural beauty, important for wildlife ... small wildlife ... newts and butterflies, things like that.' Earnest Grypewell winced with pain and took a shallow breath before continuing. ‘But there was a lot of approval as well. In the end it was a hung jury ... one vote either way ... and Mellish made it worth my while. Who'd want to end up like me? I mean, look at me ... I struggle all my days, never do anyone any harm and this is what I get. I never had any justice, never no fairness ... never.'