Aftermath (21 page)

‘I can see how that can make sense.' Freda McQueen grappled for another cigarette and lit it with a flourish of a dull gold-plated lighter.

‘So, you've retired from all that anyway?'

‘Yes, old and past it and on the scrap heap with one or two boyfriends, like him upstairs,' she pointed to the ceiling just as the toilet was heard to flush, the bathroom door unlock and a heavy footfall return to the bedroom. ‘He's stamping his feet because he doesn't like visitors, but it's not his house is it and he's not paying. Last Christmas Day my dinner was beans on toast. Well . . . it was just another day wasn't it, darling?'

‘For some . . . sadly, it's like that.' Ventnor spoke with some finality. He wanted to get the interview back on track. ‘So, James Post?'

‘Yes . . . what about him?'

‘What do you know about him?'

‘Pretty well everything there is to know . . . and that isn't much . . . little man in every way. I tell you, even if they cremate him and put his ashes in an urn he'll occupy a bigger space than he ever carved out for himself in this world. We kept each other company and yes, we knew each other in the biblical sense, didn't mean anything to either of us. Then I realized just how low I had sunk when I woke up to the fact that I'd taken him for a partner. He lived at the bottom of the pit, right at the end of the line . . . five feet nothing of me . . . me . . . me . . . all about him and full of resentment, burning up with it and wanting victims, not just one, but more than one. It was then I thought I can't do this, I can do better, even I can do better. I didn't want to be seen with him. Who you are seen with is who you are, that's why I used to work in Hull and Leeds in the main.'

‘We noticed from your arrest record.'

‘Well, York's a small city; there are people I don't want to know what I was. A lot of girls go out of York to work for that reason.'

‘Yes, so we believe.'

‘Jim Post,' Ventnor growled. ‘How did you meet him?'

Furlong Freda nodded to the television set in the far corner of the room, on top of which was a half-full bottle of vodka. ‘I'm on top of it now.' She flicked the ash from her cigarette into the fire grate. ‘Half a bottle between the two of us last night, just half a bottle, time was when I could sink two bottles a day by myself. Time was when that half-bottle would have been my breakfast. Time was, if it was booze it went down my neck. Never got as far as drinking brass polish but I was on my way there. I can't . . . I don't want to think what my insides are like,' she shook her head vigorously. ‘I carry a kidney donor card but when they lift my kidneys they'll take one look at them and then show them to medical students as an example of what an alcoholic's kidneys get to look like. Mind you, I suppose that is still some use, not the use I intended, but still use. Anyway, I woke up in the gutter once too often and thought that's it, AA for me, darling girl.'

‘I thought you might say that,' Webster spoke softly. ‘It's a theme in this inquiry.'

‘About Jim Post?'

‘That and a wider inquiry. So you went to AA?'

‘Yes, and that's where we met. We helped each other get dry and then he introduced me to a couple he knew, and I joined their breakaway group.'

‘Breakaway group?'

‘Jim Post introduced me. He took me along one night to a cafe in York and I met this really nice couple, Ronald and Sylvia . . . really charming. They just were able to make me feel good about myself. They said that they had been part of AA and got tired of it . . . same old same old . . . folk talking about how much they used to drink, and clearly exaggerating, and meeting the same people who were just addicts. Once addicted to booze they had become addicted to AA and lived just to attend the meetings. I was beginning to feel the same about AA. They got me off the booze . . . but those meetings . . . and Ronald explained that his group was just an alternative, but instead of listening to guest speaker's talk about their battle, we'd just sit in a cafe and chat, drinking coffee and killing the evening. So, I began to go along to that, met a few people.'

‘Remember any names?'

‘Helena and Roslyn . . . just two names . . . no surnames, sorry.'

‘It's OK.'

‘Once, twice a week, different people, men as well as women, but then I fell out with little Jimmy Post and never went again. I also found out that they were not friends with Jim Post, they used him, he was their gofer. I didn't want a boyfriend who was somebody's gofer.'

‘I see.'

‘But there was something going on. Jim used to have me photograph him in remote places.'

‘How did you get there?'

‘He was Ronald and Sylvia's gofer, he used their car. He'd got a driving licence when he was sober and never lost it. He just never drove; he never could afford a car, so never got done for drunken driving. So when he dried out he had a clean licence, very useful for someone who just runs errands.'

‘All right, that explains something we wondered about.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yes, we have acquired some photographs showing Post standing in rural locations, sometimes he is looking at the ground. Someone had to have taken them or he used a timer device, or both.'

‘Well probably both because I took some photographs of him. He was very insistent about the place, the place seemed more important than the photograph of himself somehow.'

‘Can you remember any of the locations?'

‘Just one with any certainty.'

‘One out of how many?'

Freda McQueen shrugged, ‘Twenty? He took me all over the Vale from here to the coast, up into North Yorkshire and down into Lincolnshire.'

‘We have some photographs of him but not that many.'

‘He took a lot. He did his own developing.'

‘Yes, we found his dark room.'

‘He will have stashed his negatives somewhere,' she paused. ‘You know he said something once. We were driving back in their Lord and Ladyship's car and he said, “This is my insurance” . . . or—'

‘Insurance?'

‘Or protection . . . he might have said protection. In fact I think he did say protection. Then he said, “If I go down, they come with me”.'

‘If I go down they come with me?' Webster repeated.

‘Yes, word for word that's what he said. I asked him what he meant and he said “nothing” or “never mind” or something like that.'

‘And you can only remember one of the twenty or so locations?'

‘Yes, he seemed to know where he was going, didn't mess about, always took us right there. The booze had left some of his brain without damage.'

‘Can you show us?'

‘Yes,' Freda McQueen smiled, ‘buy me a pub lunch and I'll show you exactly where.'

‘You're on,' Ventnor replied. ‘It's a deal.'

Freda McQueen stood. ‘Just let me claw my kit on. I can't go out to a posh village dressed like this.'

Forty-five minutes later, Webster slowed to a stop in the car park of the Black Bull pub in the village of Temple Chitton, having followed Freda McQueen's directions. They stepped out of the car into fierce sunlight.

‘See what I mean?' Freda McQueen announced, ‘About this being a posh village?'

The two officers looked about them. Near at hand, the car park of the Black Bull contained Range Rovers, a Bentley, two BMWs and a large, very large Mercedes. Further afield the houses of the village seemed to be mainly conjoined, each painted in bright blue and yellow pastel shades and each with a sound roof; clearly very well maintained properties. Further afield there stood larger houses in their own grounds, the land clearly marked by black painted metal railings or generously varnished wooden fencing.

‘Yes,' Ventnor felt a bead of sweat run down his forehead, ‘there's money here all right. How do you know about this village, Freda?'

‘You mean, the likes of me should come here?' Freda McQueen grinned. ‘You mean, I'm not posh enough, darling?'

She had changed into a long denim skirt with a red blouse and red shoes. Cheap clothing but she seemed to have done all she could to ‘look her best'.

‘I didn't mean that, Freda. I didn't know this village existed, it's off the beaten track but it shouts of money.'

‘Old money, darling, they like to keep themselves to themselves. I know it because I used to visit the colonel here; he was one of my regulars. He lived in that house over there.' Freda McQueen pointed to a well-appointed cottage painted in brilliant white, with the wooden beam and doors and window frames painted in equally bright gloss black paint. ‘He died some years ago.'

‘You visited him here?' Webster could not hide his astonishment.

‘Yes, during the day as well,' McQueen grinned then she tapped the side of her nose. ‘Didn't dress like a working girl, see, though I was discreet. I dressed in a tracksuit and carried a bag. Arrived on the morning bus and actually did housework, washed down the door and the ground floor windows in me pinafore, walked to the shop for cleaning stuff and furniture polish, then went inside so no one thought anything else but that Mrs Mop was calling to “do” for the colonel . . . once a week. Then I left on the afternoon bus back to York, but that's why I remember this being one of the places that Jim Post took me to take a photo of him. He never knew that I knew this village and I never told him. He paid well. The colonel I mean, not Jim Post.'

‘So where is the place Jim Post had you photograph him standing?'

‘Not yet, darling, I'm hungry, I haven't had a proper meal for two days. Hope you have a lovely thick wallet; food doesn't come cheap in the Bull. Not cheap at all, darling. Once I've eaten, then I'll take you there, where he had me photograph him.'

The man smiled at the woman and softly spoke, ‘It is time,' he said.

The woman returned the smile and replied, ‘Yes, if you say so, then it is time.'

Dr D'Acre emerged from the heat of the white tent which had been erected in a corner of a field, some half a mile from the village of Temple Chitton, and brushed a fly from her face. ‘Male,' she said, ‘comparatively recent burial . . . some clothing still intact, but definitely male. Some flesh still in evidence but almost skeletal. Strange place to dig a shallow grave,' she glanced around her. ‘Well tilled soil, not very remote. I would have thought someone would have noticed that some digging and burial had gone on . . . but . . . that's your neck of the woods Chief Inspector.'

‘I was thinking much the same but that's for later discussion. Right now we have a deceased male in a shallow grave exactly where an informant said it would be.'

‘You've got more than that.' Dr D'Acre smiled and allowed herself a brief and fleeting eye contact with Hennessey.

‘Oh?'

‘Yes . . . you've got a corpse with a present for you.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, really, there's something in the mouth. It's a plastic bag. It could have been used for a gag, but it would be difficult to force into someone's mouth, and I can think of more convenient forms of gagging someone.'

‘So can I.'

‘So I felt it with my fingertips and there is something inside it . . . small and thin . . . difficult to tell what because of the layers of plastic, like a lump in a carpet which feels like it should be caused by a child's glass marble, but when you lift the carpet you find it's caused by something the size of a pea. So it's probably smaller than it feels to me but there is something in the mouth. I could take it out now but I'd prefer to do it in laboratory conditions.'

‘Yes,' Hennessey spoke softly, ‘I think that would be better especially since there might be other “presents” for us.'

‘Good point. Will you be observing for the police?'

‘Yes, definitely.' Hennessey also looked about him, the field of wheat, the small stands of woodland, the green rolling hills beyond and the ridge of skyline which gave to a clear blue sky. ‘Yes,' he turned to Dr D'Acre, ‘yes, I will definitely be attending this one.'

Nigel Post, pale of face, drawn of expression, opened the door of his house to Carmen Pharoah. ‘Yes!' he said, with a mixture of curiosity and aggression borne out of a sense of being threatened.

‘Police,' Carmen Pharoah showed him her identity.

‘Yes?'

‘About your brother . . . your late brother, James Post.'

‘Yes?'

‘My boss, Mr Hennessey, asked me to call and see you.'

‘Mr Hennessey?' Short Nigel Post looked up at the statuesque Carmen Pharoah. ‘He's the gentleman . . .'

‘Yes, he was with you when you identified James Post.'

‘Yes, nice man,' he glanced across the road and noticed curtains begin to twitch. ‘You'd better come in, keep the nosies guessing.'

Carmen Pharoah read Nigel Post's house, neat, clean, cramped. All seemed appropriate to her for a man of Nigel Post's age and social standing. She accepted his invitation to sit. ‘There has been a number of developments in respect of Mr James Post's murder.'

‘Oh?' Nigel Post sank into an armchair opposite Carmen Pharoah.

‘Yes. I am not at liberty to disclose anything, I'm afraid, not yet.'

‘I understand, miss.'

Carmen Pharoah thought Nigel Post seemed lost. ‘This can't be easy for you?'

‘Well, first it was my wife, now it's my brother, both taken before their time. My wife was knocked down and killed by a drunken driver and now James. You can't help just sitting here and thinking about them when they were alive . . . what we did together . . . the conversations we had . . .'

‘Yes, I do understand. Really I do.'

‘You've lost someone?'

‘Yes . . . yes, I have,' Carmen Pharoah remained stone-faced, ‘but can we keep this relevant, it's about James.'