Gift Wrapped (6 page)

‘You are blamed?' Carmen Pharoah sat forward. ‘Why ... in what sense are you to blame, or held to blame?'

‘Why ... why indeed ... well, I suppose it's because our marriage had its ups and downs,' Mrs Wenlock glanced up at the ceiling, ‘and I dare say that if I am to be at all honest it had more downs than ups ... rows ... such awful rows and such awful arguments ... you can imagine it, I am sure ... and the boys, my two dear sons, said I drove James away and they said that he just walked away into the wilderness and stumbled into a river somewhere, and his body was never found ... or it remains still to be found. If I hadn't been such a shrew of a woman then he just wouldn't have left this house looking for peace, which is all he ever wanted. Just a peaceful home. If I hadn't been such a harridan ... if ... if ... if. You know, they even found a copy of the Saint James' Bible – the Authorized version, and pushed it under my nose opened at the Book of Proverbs and pointed to the proverb “It is better to live alone in a hovel than to share a mansion with a difficult woman”. They were making their point, and I felt it was a waste of my limited time to point out that the whole of the Authorized version has a misogynistic quality, and that in the New International version the word “woman” has been replaced by the word “person”, but I did anyway, I told them so – I even showed them – but it did no good, no good at all. They said, “Woman or person, it's the same in this house – once we were up and grown he went away seeking peace ...” So there you are, I am to blame, and that's the long and the short of it.' Mrs Wenlock forced a smile. ‘But I have my dogs, Terry and Toni. They recognize their names and they have different personalities, though I treat them the same. I am always very careful to do that, always very careful.'

‘So are you to blame,' Carmen Pharoah asked, ‘or are your sons being wholly unfair? Are they seeking a scapegoat?'

‘I really don't know. I always thought that James gave as good as he got. He could stand up for himself and I walked out once ... Came back a few days later ...' Mrs Wenlock glanced out of the window. ‘So I don't know ... Perhaps they are being a little unfair.'

‘So ... what,' Pharoah asked, ‘do you know of his disappearance?'

‘Very little.' Mrs Wenlock's reply was prompt and, thought Webster, suddenly a little sharp-tongued. ‘All I know is that one evening he did not come home. Simple as that. One night his car's headlights did not sweep across our bedroom window as I dutifully lay in bed awaiting his return. He had, I recall, been keeping many late nights just prior to his disappearance and he'd often return with his breath reeking of alcohol. It was as if he would drink to avoid coming home and then he stupidly risks everything by driving his car while under the influence. You know, I dare say that I should have been a better wife ... a man needs a good, warm woman to come home to and it was the case that I was always icy when he returned, but that is how our marriage had become. I really should have done better, much, much better. James was an excellent provider. I mean, will you just look at this house – who could complain about living here? A five-bedroom detached house in a lovely, quiet, civilized town. If you live in a town which has a tourist industry then you have landed on your feet. You know, the small wood beyond our back lawn there is also part of this property. The house, this house, occupies a plot of one acre of ground, only one third of which is cultivated as a garden; the wood is left to nature but it belongs to this house.' Mrs Wenlock paused. ‘James did us really proud ... and if I did drive him away and he went walking on the moors and fell down a ravine ... oh ... that possibility I have been living with ...'

‘Well,' Reginald Webster spoke, ‘if the remains which have been found are those of your husband then he did not fall into a ravine. He was in fact a victim of foul play.'

‘Foul play?' Mrs Wenlock gasped. ‘You mean murder? You mean that he was murdered?'

‘It appears so ... in fact,' Reginald Webster quietly explained, ‘the skeleton in question has injuries, and the shallow grave ... it is clearly the remains of a murder victim but whether the skeleton is the remains of Mr Wenlock, your husband, remains to be established.'

‘Oh ... I see ... but the e-fit ...' Mrs Wenlock appealed to Webster then looked at Carmen Pharoah.

‘The e-fit is merely an approximation of the likely deceased's appearance,' Webster explained. ‘It is not proof of identity.'

‘What am I going to tell the boys?' Mrs Wenlock wailed. ‘Now they'll say I definitely sent him to his death ...'

‘Do you have anything which might contain your husband's DNA?' Pharoah asked, rapidly beginning to tire of what she strongly suspected was wallowing self-pity on the part of Mrs Wenlock.

‘DNA?' Mrs Wenlock asked. ‘Like what they talk about on television?'

‘Yes,' Pharoah explained. ‘A strand of his hair, a piece of fabric with a sweat stain on it ... his perspiration, I mean.'

‘I don't think that I can, sorry,' Mrs Wenlock said apologetically. ‘I keep a clean house; I am very particular about keeping a clean house, most particular.'

‘Yes,' Pharoah smiled, ‘we can see that. In fact, you would not believe some of the houses we have to visit.'

‘I can imagine ... This house is kept this way as a reaction to the house I grew up in ... it was the sort of household I think you are alluding to.'

‘I see,' Pharoah replied. ‘I fully understand you.'

‘Mrs Wenlock,' Reginald Webster interrupted, ‘can I ask you a bit of a delicate question?'

‘Of course.' Mrs Wenlock turned to him.

‘Your two sons,' Webster replied. ‘Your two boys?'

‘Yes? What of them?'

‘They were James Wenlock's children?'

‘Yes,' Mrs Wenlock frowned. ‘Who else's could they be?'

‘So they were not adopted,' Webster confirmed. ‘Adopted or fostered, or children from a previous relationship?'

‘No, no and no,' Mrs Wenlock replied firmly, sitting forwards as she did so. ‘They are both our natural children.'

‘Good, that will help us. You see, if you cannot provide something containing Mr Wenlock's DNA we can obtain DNA from your sons – with their permission, of course. It is called familial DNA and will enable us to establish whether the remains are those of your husband or not.'

‘Oh ... I see.' Mrs Wenlock relaxed her attitude and sat back in her chair. ‘I am sure that they will be only too pleased to help you, and they both live locally.'

‘Good, that will be very useful,' Carmen Pharoah replied. Then she asked, ‘We understand that your husband was an accountant?'

‘Yes, yes he was,' Mrs Wenlock replied with a clear note of pride in her voice. ‘He worked for Russell Square.'

‘In London?' Pharoah could not contain her surprise. ‘In Bloomsbury?
That
Russell Square?
The
Russell Square ... ?'

‘No, no ...' Mrs Wenlock stammered. ‘Well, yes,
the
Russell Square in central London as you say, in fact I know of no other town or city in the UK which also has a Russell Square, but the Russell Square in question is the name of the firm of accountants which employed my husband ... Russell Square Chartered Accountants, Saint Leonard's Place, York. I dare say their address had to be Saint Leonard's Place, among all the solicitors. It was, and still is, a very large firm of accountants. He ... James, my husband, went to work and returned from work. I know nothing of what went on in the between time. I know nothing of the world of accounting. I am not learned like he was ... We met through a hiking club ... When I was employed I was a nursing auxiliary. Nothing grand at all. Very modest, but as a nursing auxiliary I learned how to keep things clean. I learned the value of hygiene.'

‘A nurse is learned.' Carmen Pharoah smiled. ‘Nothing to feel demeaned about there. Nurses are valued.'

‘A theatre nurse who assists in operations is learned, but I was only an auxiliary. Nursing auxiliaries help patients to the toilet and empty the bedpans of those patients who can't go to the toilet, that sort of thing. I did not return to work upon marriage.' Mrs Wenlock sighed. ‘I did not want to go back to that. But I learned about hygiene and I kept a clean home for my family to grow up in.'

‘I see. So what is your income ... if I may ask?' Pharoah queried.

‘You may ask, of course you may ask, it is your job after all.' Mrs Wenlock paused. ‘I am living off the money James left me, and he did leave me reasonably well provided for. He left cash in the bank, he left stocks and shares. I inherited it all when, after two years from his reported disappearance, he was deemed to be deceased. I can't claim on his life insurance policy, of course – the insurance company need a death certificate before they will pay up. I was, and am, helped by the fact that the mortgage was paid off before James vanished. That was a mighty comfort but I still have to watch the pennies. I buy my clothes from charity shops and I have not had a holiday since he disappeared. My garden is tended by a kindly gentleman who is a fellow parishioner at Saint Luke's. He will not accept any money for his labour, just a home-cooked meal when he is here ... He is a widower, you see.'

‘I see.'

‘So that's how I survive. The image might seem impressive but my outgoings are few and the dependency upon charity in one form or another is great.' Mrs Wenlock sighed again, deeply so. ‘The money which we were putting aside for the cruise to celebrate his fiftieth birthday was used to buy food for myself over the years.'

‘So things were not all bad between you?' Carmen Pharoah suggested. ‘A cruise ... that can't be bad ... can't be bad at all.'

‘If I am honest, it was more for form's sake really.' Mrs Wenlock shook her head slowly. ‘For appearances' sake. So rather than tell the world that there were difficulties between us ... that things were stressed to breaking point, we decided to put on a show to celebrate that milestone in a man's life, to do something to give the right impression, but the money we had earmarked for the cruise has kept me in baked beans and tinned chilli con carne for the last few years. You know, I only really cook a proper meal when Eric Lucas calls to tend the garden.'

‘Can I ... can we,' Reginald Webster brought the interview back on track, ‘ask if your husband had any enemies? That is, any enemies that you knew of?'

‘Enemies? James?' Mrs Wenlock gasped. ‘None ... if he did I didn't hear of any ... no, I am sure ... none, no enemies. He was a professional man. He wasn't a businessman or a gangster; those sorts of people have enemies ... not mild-mannered accountants. Mind you, even if he did I doubt very much that he'd tell me. We just didn't have that level of communication – not at the time he vanished anyway. You know, we'd just sit here each evening in total silence ... not saying anything at all.' Again, she shook her head. ‘I should have been a better wife. I really should have. If I did drive him into the hands of someone who murdered him ... Oh,' Mrs Wenlock looked suddenly alert, ‘would you like his toothbrush?'

‘His ... toothbrush?' Carmen Pharoah queried. ‘Your husband's toothbrush, you mean?'

‘Yes ... for the DNA you have just mentioned. For some odd and strange reason I kept it; it's just about the one thing I didn't throw away. He had bad gums ... gum disease and, you see, they would bleed freely each time he brushed his teeth ...'

‘Sounds ideal,' Pharoah replied, glancing at Reginald Webster who nodded his agreement. ‘That sounds just the thing. And if DNA can't be extracted from it we can always ask your two sons to cooperate. So yes, thank you. It will be useful. Very useful indeed.'

Reginald Webster returned home after recording the visit he and Carmen Pharoah had made to Mrs James Wenlock, while Pharoah had arranged the conveyance of James Wenlock's bloodstained toothbrush to the forensic science laboratory at Wetherby for their attention. He drove leisurely, returning to Selby, though not to the prestigious home of Mrs Wenlock but his much more modest home on a modern housing estate which surrounded an ancient village on the edge of the town. As he approached the house he sounded the car's horn, giving the agreed and long-established sign of two short beeps. Doing so was a violation of traffic laws, he knew that, as did his neighbours, but none complained for they all knew the reason. He halted his car at the kerb outside his home just as Joyce opened the door and allowed Terry, their long-haired Alsatian out of the house, who bounded up to him with his tail wagging in greeting. He patted the dog and then strode up to the house, talking to his wife as he approached so that she could gauge the shortening distance between them. He embraced her and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘Sorry I'm late,' he said. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.'

Joyce Webster lifted the glass covering the face of her watch and ‘read' the time with her fingertips. ‘Not late at all,' she replied. ‘I have prepared a salad for us.'

‘Lovely,' Reginald Webster replied, knowing how his wife enjoyed summer, that being the only time of the year when she could prepare a meal for her husband because he forbade her to even attempt to prepare hot food. ‘A salad sounds perfect. I'll likely be busy over the next few days.' He slipped off his jacket and hung it in the wardrobe which stood in the hallway.

‘Big case?' Joyce Webster led the way to the dining kitchen.

‘New ... and yes, big enough. Dare say you'll hear about it – the boss seems keen to use the press as much as he can.'

Later that mellow summer evening as he took Terry for a walk, Reginald Webster once again found himself pondering what he always saw as his wife's indomitable courage. She had tragically lost her sight in a car accident when she was just twenty years of age and at university studying fine art, of all things, and nonetheless was forever feeling herself fortunate to have survived because her three companions had been fatally injured. Her fortitude and her optimism was, he thought, inspirational.