Aftermath (9 page)

‘So you left at different times?'

‘Yes, sir . . . at different times over many years . . . it seems as he sort of retreated he let his staff go, old Mr Housecarl, God rest him. I mean at first it was the grounds, so the under gardeners went, then the garden got too much. I mean he had staff to look after the grounds but in here,' for the second time in the interview she tapped the side of head, ‘I mean in here he couldn't cope with the grounds. Then he couldn't cope with the garden in his head, he couldn't, that's when he let Jeff Sparrow go. Then room by room it all got too much and so the domestics went, one by one, until I was the last one. He lived in just two rooms by then. Then I heard he just lived in one room . . . lived . . . I mean ate and slept in one room within that huge, huge house. He was the last of his line, you see, no more Housecarls after him . . . not from him anyway.'

‘So we understand.'

‘But he didn't betray his ancestry, no he didn't. A proud man he was, sir, principled, a real gentleman of the old school. They say he was camping in the end, cooking on a camping gas stove, getting Meals on Wheels a few days each week and had a nurse looking in on him.'

‘But no one bothered him?'

‘Tormented him, you mean?'

‘Yes.'

‘No, sir. The village wouldn't have stood for it. It kept its own children in check, sir, well in check, you can believe me on that one, and if any youths from another village tried to torment him then they would have been well sorted out. They would have gone home with very sore faces; you can believe me on that one, sir. The men of the village poached his land, sir, tables in this village have all been laid with a roast pheasant or a duck taken from Bromyards, but in return, the poachers kept an eye on him. They would have seen any strangers well off the land.'

‘Poachers?' Yellich inclined his head.

‘This is the country, sir, poaching happens. You hear shotguns being fired around here each day, they're not toffs shooting clay pigeons, no they're not, you can believe me on that one, sir.'

‘Understand that, and I am not going to get anyone into trouble for shooting a pheasant or setting a rabbit snare, but I am interested to learn that men went on to Mr Housecarl's land at night, and, as you say, kept an eye on him and would have recognized a stranger.'

‘During the day time also, sir. Poaching goes on twenty-four hours. Bromyards . . . that is Bromyards estate, has been a source of meat for this village for years now, and a source of fruit. He has apples and pears in his orchard . . . dripping with fruit in the season, sir. Folk didn't do no damage, they just . . . don't know the word . . .'

‘Harvested?'

Penny Merryweather smiled, ‘Yes, I like that word to describe what went on, we just harvested the Bromyard estate for game and fruit.'

‘But not vegetables?'

‘None to be had, sir.'

‘So no one ever went into the kitchen garden?'

‘No, sir, no reason, any vegetables in the kitchen garden would be long rotten in the ground and vegetables need planting each year. Fruit grows each year anyway once the tree is established. Fruit farmers have an easy time of it compared to vegetable growers. No annual planting for fruit farmers, just maintain their old trees and harvest every September. Jeff Sparrow will be the man to ask about the kitchen garden, he'll know when the last vegetables were taken up . . . but that'll be ten years ago now. Fish too.'

‘Fish?'

‘Yes, he had a trout pond . . . never did taste better trout . . . the villagers harvested that as well. Never took all the fish, left some to keep the stock alive . . . trout can look after themselves . . . so we had grilled trout for supper, roast pheasant for Sunday lunch with apple pie afterwards, and fruit in the fruit bowl, and it all came from Bromyards, well, the estate, even venison, the poachers brought in deer hounds to bring a deer down. All the while, Mr Housecarl was retreating room by room. This village enjoyed good living for the last twenty years. Now there'll be new owners, but I dare say all good things come to an end.'

‘You don't feel guilty?'

‘About accepting food from Bromyards estate, you mean?'

‘Yes, that's what I mean . . . just curious . . . not being accusative.'

‘No, like I said, the village was keeping an eye on Mr Housecarl and the poachers were careful to not ever take too much, just what the estate could afford to give and that benefited the estate. It keeps the game and fish numbers healthy and the poachers would never bring down young or male deer, just the old females . . . healthy . . . good to eat but not going to reproduce any more. They knew what they were doing. Like all villages, we look after our own and Mr Housecarl and the Bromyards estate belonged to Milking Nook so we looked after him and it.'

‘So no one harmed Mr Housecarl, but quite a few men went on his land?'

‘Quite a few, and a lot of women when the apples and pears were ripe. Fruit harvesting has always been women's work you see, sir, you can believe me on that one.'

‘Interesting.' Yellich stood. ‘Thank you for your information. Where do I find Jeff Sparrow?'

The slender woman with short, close-cropped hair stood quite still and looked down at the neatly cut area of grass. She might, to an observer, have made a curious spectacle, had it not been for the fact that the small area of grass in question was within Fulford Cemetery, and had it not also been for the fact that on that summer's day the cemetery was being visited by a small number of people, each, as individuals or in pairs, also visiting a specific grave of some relevance to them. Any curiosity the woman might have attracted to herself would have been instantly evaporated as she knelt on one knee and gently laid a single red rose on the unmarked grave.

‘Veronica . . .' the woman sighed as she placed the carrycot containing a slumbering newborn upon the table in the living room of her small terraced house in Holgate. The smell within the room was of warm milk and rusks and baby food. The washing machine in the kitchen whirred on its spin cycle. Carmen Pharoah had the impression that the machine was in constant use and she thought the young woman looked weary. ‘“Ronny” . . . sometimes she was called “Ronny” or “Ronica” . . . but how could I forget her? We grew up together . . . we were great mates in fact. Can we talk in the kitchen? He'll wake up if we talk in here.'

In the kitchen of the house Carmen Pharoah and Thomson Ventnor and Susan Boyd, née Kent, sat round a small, inexpensive metal table with a Formica top. Thompson read the room and did so quickly and discreetly, and found it all appropriate for Susan Boyd's age and situation. All the contents seemed recently purchased and ‘low end', a young couple just starting out in life, just as he would expect, a newly qualified primary school teacher, his wife, and their new born firstborn to have as a home.

‘I think about her often. My mother phoned and said that you had called on her. She phoned me . . .' Susan Boyd patted the small mobile phone, which was lodged amid oranges in a plastic fruit bowl on the table. ‘She told me to expect you . . . asking about Ronny.'

‘Yes.'

‘So you have found her body?'

‘Have we?'

‘Well, haven't you? I mean, why else would you call?' Susan Boyd held eye contact with Carmen Pharoah and then glanced at Ventnor. ‘I mean she disappears eighteen months ago, not a dicky bird is heard, police show no interest . . . just silence as the world continues to turn, then, out of the blue, the police come knocking on doors. It means there has been a development. I just hope it is not connected with the discovery out in the Wolds, the garden of that old house. It said they were chained together . . .'

‘I am afraid the answer is yes,' Carmen Pharoah spoke slowly softly, ‘Veronica was one of those victims.'

‘The poor cow.' Susan Boyd noticed the look of surprise in Carmen Pharoah's eyes. ‘It's all right,' she forced a smile, ‘we used to call each other “cow” . . . “you lucky cow” . . . “you silly cow”, phrases like that, but if a man called us a cow he'd get his face slapped.'

‘I understand,' Carmen Pharoah smiled reassuringly. ‘I realized that was what you meant, took me a couple of seconds but eventually the penny dropped.'

‘Thank you. We were very close, me and Veronica.'

‘Yes, both her mother and your mother said the same thing, how special you were to each other. So now we need you to help us . . . we really need your help.'

‘Of course, anything I can tell you, anything I can do.'

‘Good.'

‘But, having said that, I remember telling the police everything I could when we reported her . . . her mother reported her missing and told the police I was her best friend and the police visited me. I was at my mum's then in Cemetery Road.'

‘Let's go over it again.'

‘All right. Well, it was the last winter but one, we went out together, four girls . . . young women. We were all at that stage between leaving school and getting married, we went out “on the pull”.'

‘Looking for boys?'

‘Yes,' Susan Boyd shrugged. ‘In the event I pulled on a walk in the Dales organized by our church, it's a lot healthier than pulling in a nightclub or a pub.'

‘Yes, I'll say . . . a different approach.'

‘More relaxed . . . sober . . . broad daylight and there for the pleasure of the walk, much healthier. My mother-in-law belonged to a rambling club and in the book of the club's annual newsletter was a list of all the couples who had met through the club and who had got married . . . the list went back decades. In a nightclub you don't find passion, you find bodily function . . . and all the losers that you meet, no hopers and multiple divorcees.'

Thomson Ventnor winced inwardly.

‘Yes,' Carmen Pharoah smiled briefly, ‘not a happy hunting ground. I wouldn't go to one, but let's talk about that night . . . the night in question.'

‘The night in question,' Susan Boyd echoed, ‘you sound like a lawyer in a courtroom, but anyway, we went for a drink on Micklegate . . . no shortage of pubs there. Then we went to Caesar's nightclub, you get more of a younger sort there than Augusta's, Augusta's is for the older set. We got a bit of attention but no bites . . . especially not Ronny, so tall, so beautiful, but so tall. She just wasn't interested in a guy who was shorter than her, but that's where all the attention came from. So we left the club after midnight and Ronny walked away with Liz Calderwood.'

‘Liz Calderwood?'

‘One of the gang . . . one of the four of us.'

‘You didn't go with her? You lived in the same street.'

‘No, after a few drinks . . . it's just a year and a half ago but I had a different attitude then. Me and the other girl, Moira Little, we decided to slum it and went to Augusta's. We suddenly had the drunken notion of pulling a sugar daddy but Ronny and Liz had had enough and wanted to go home. They were both a right mess.'

‘I see . . . carry on, please.'

‘Liz and Ronny left to walk to the railway station to get a taxi for Liz, who is very small and because of that very vulnerable, so Veronica was going to walk her there. She was going to see Liz safe into a taxi and then walk home. The railway station to Cemetery Road is no distance at all.'

‘Where can we find Liz Calderwood? We'll have to speak to her.'

‘Liz . . .' Susan Boyd grimaced, ‘Liz . . . poor Liz. She went off the rails big time . . . I mean, big style.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yes, she married but did so badly, her man led her into a life of crime, she's inside.'

‘Prison?'

‘Yes. So you'll have all the details you need.'

‘As you say,' Carmen Pharoah and Thomson Ventnor glanced at each other. ‘Makes things easier for us,' she said.

‘Much,' Thompson replied, ‘much easier.'

‘She's in Langley Vale.'

‘Convenient.'

‘So, no one paid Veronica any attention in the nightclub, or earlier in the pub.'

‘No.'

‘And you'd know if she had any such attention?'

‘I'm sure she would have told me. She never mentioned any problem like that. She was quiet when sober but when she had a drink in her she got talkative. It's then she'd blurt something out, as she once did. She had an abusive boyfriend once. I only found out because she told me when she'd had a few rum and cokes. He knew how to hit her so she wouldn't show any bruising . . . fist to her scalp . . . he'd raise lumps on her head. I ran my fingers through her hair that night, it was like feeling a cobbled road surface, but she had such a fine head of hair that it never showed. He was clever like that.'

‘What was his name? Do you know?'

‘Piers Driver.'

Thomson Ventnor wrote the name in his notebook.

‘She was well finished with him before she went missing though.'

‘Even so, it's a stone we'll have to turn over. Violent men are often very possessive.'

‘OK, but in the event, it was more like he left her. He found another punchbag he liked better than Veronica.'

‘I see. That's another feature of the possessive personality, they can discard “possessions” very quickly, especially if acquiring a replacement, but please, carry on.'

‘It seemed that the only thing that Veronica liked about Piers Driver was that he was taller than her, her one big weakness, and it made her fall for a street rat like Driver.'

‘I am beginning to understand her need,' Carmen Pharoah glanced out of the kitchen window at a backyard and the roof tops of black terraced houses that formed the adjacent street, ‘but we'll still have to interview him again. You see our point of view, someone who used her as a “punch bag” prior to her disappearing, he sounds interesting.'