‘Nothing special about that. The cheap land is reflected in the low rents.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘Unpopular place to work though, very unpopular. One firm had to bus its employees in; no facilities for the workforce during the day, nowhere to spend their lunch breaks. . especially in the winter. All the workforce could do was shelter and eat their packed lunches. Then the businesses all went bust anyway.’
‘Yes, but the remoteness suggests local knowledge.’
‘You think so?’
‘We believe it might. . it’s a distinct possibility.’
‘Frankly, I think the remoteness doesn’t imply local knowledge. It doesn’t imply anything at all.’
Thomson Ventnor groaned as he sensed a promising lead evaporate.
‘A bit of research, I would have thought, a bit of exploration, a glance at a map. . just driving about looking for an out-of-the-way place,’ Blackwood explained, ‘or anyone could just have stumbled upon the site.’
It was, conceded Ventnor, a fair and reasonable argument. Local knowledge could not be safely implied. He glanced round Blackwood’s office within the offices of The Ouse, Derwent and Trent Property Company. He saw it to be small, cramped even, but made more bearable by what he thought was intelligent use of available space. He looked out of the window at Stonebow. All concrete and glass. A modern part of the ancient city and not at all to his liking. Parts of ancient York could only be in York but Stonebow was, he often argued, any town in Western Europe.
‘I would think the location would have to be researched. What’s the word? Some reconnaissance would have had to be done, but that’s your business, I do not want to intrude, not really my place to do so. Would need strength though.’
‘Strength?’
‘Yes, I would have thought so. The units were left well secured despite the remoteness of the location. . heavy duty chain and very large padlocks. It would need a bolt cutter and some muscle to get through them.’
‘Good point, I’ll pass that up,’ Ventnor smiled. ‘Has anyone expressed an interest in renting one of the units? Wanting to view them. . very recently?’
‘No and I would have known, any such request would have landed here.’ Roger Blackwood patted the top of his desk. ‘Those units are in my portfolio which is why you are talking to me, not another under manager. So, no, no recent interest.’
‘Thank you anyway,’ Ventnor stood, ‘just covering all our bases.’
‘Of course. . you’ll be paying for the damage of course. . where do we send the invoice?’
‘What damage?’
‘Well, following your phone call I took a quick trip out there to see what was going on.’
‘Yes. .?’
‘And all the units had been forced open. Now new chains and locks will be needed. . so where do we send the invoice?’
‘Well, one person was held in one of the units against her will, we had to check them all. . no time to get warrants or find the key holder. . life might have been at risk. So, no, we won’t be paying for any damage. Good day.’
Hennessey drove sedately home. It was a little early for him to leave Micklegate Bar Police Station but an officer of his rank was permitted a little fluidity in timekeeping in recognition of the extra hours he often, very often, worked. With Yellich and Webster still out visiting there was, he reasoned, little else he could do that day and so he enjoyed an early finish. Upon entering Easingwold and finding the town quiet, he stopped his car on Long Street where the houses and shops were joined, each with the other, to form a continuous roofline along the length of the road. He walked with a heavy heart to where she had fallen, all those years ago, a young woman in the very prime of her life, just three months after the birth of her first child, the first of a planned three for her and her husband George. She had collapsed. Suddenly. People rushed to her aid assuming she had fainted but no pulse could be found. She was declared dead on arrival at the hospital, or Condition Purple, in ambulance speak. Her post-mortem findings led the coroner to rule that she had died of Sudden Death Syndrome, which, Hennessey had come to learn, attacks young people in their twenties and who are in excellent health, causing the life within them to leave as if a light had been switched off and switched at random, and for no clear purpose. Hennessey, holding his three-month-old son in one arm, had used the other to scatter Jennifer’s ashes on the rear lawn of their home in Easingwold, and had then set about rebuilding the garden according to the design she had carefully drawn whilst heavily pregnant with Charles. George Hennessey never thought his wife was here, in Long Street, but felt her presence to be in the garden at the rear of their house. Even as a widower of a cruelly short marriage he always thought that he lived in ‘their’ house and, at the end of each day’s work, no matter what the weather, he would stand on the rear patio and tell Jennifer about his day. During the previous summer he had also told her of a new relationship in his life, whilst assuring her that his love for her was not and never would be diminished, and then he had felt a warmth surround him which could not be explained as coming from the sun alone. It was something deeper, something much, much richer and something very specific to him and him alone.
Carmen Pharoah got out of her car as she saw Stanley Hemmings amble in a lost, dream-like state towards his house. He cut, she thought, a helpless and a hapless figure — small with a battered look about him. He forced a smile when she showed him her ID.
‘Didn’t expect you, Miss, sorry. I just went out for a walk; don’t know what to do now our Edith is no more. Now she’s gone before. Just feel too alone in the house so I go out and walk round, can’t seem to stay settled. I’ll go back to work soon, that’ll keep my mind occupied.’
‘No matter, I thought I’d wait to see if you returned.’
‘Do come in, please.’ He walked up the drive of his house, past a small red van from which ‘EIIR’ had been removed from the sides but a trace of the lettering remained. Ex-Post Office van, deduced Pharoah, most likely bought at an auction. ‘One day I’ll go and see where she was held. . when you tell me where that is.’
‘Keeping it to ourselves for the time being, sir. Don’t want to contaminate the crime scene any.’
‘Oh, yes, like on television. . I watch those television programmes.’
‘Yes.’
‘I laid a bunch of flowers on the canal bank, though, assumed that was all right.’
‘Yes,’ Carmen Pharoah smiled, ‘no harm done there. The principal crime scene is where Mrs Hemmings was held captive.’
Hemmings put his hand inside his jacket pocket and took out a house key. ‘Do come in, Miss,’ he repeated as he unlocked and opened the door. Pharoah noticed how the key turned smoothly in a well lubricated lock. ‘Sorry about the mess, I haven’t tidied up for a bit, didn’t realize how much my wife did until I had to do it all myself.’
‘No matter.’ Carmen Pharoah stepped up the step and over the threshold and into the small kitchen. ‘You should see the houses we have to visit from time to time.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘The reason I have been asked to call is that I wonder if it’s possible for us, the police, to look at Mrs Hemmings’s personal possessions?’
‘Yes, of course. . by all means.’ Hemmings peeled off his jacket, reached for the kettle and filled it with water from the tap, and did so as if on autopilot, Carmen Pharoah observed, as if in a state of shock or as if a lifetime’s habit was to boil a kettle of water immediately upon returning home. ‘Her room is the back bedroom. Please. .’ he indicated the hallway which led to the stairs.
‘Her room? You don’t. . you didn’t. .?’
‘No,’ he turned to her with an icy expression, ‘we didn’t share a marital bed. Not lately anyway. We had an understanding, you see. It suited us both.’
‘I see. Can I go up?’
‘Yes,’ Hemmings lit the gas ring and placed the kettle upon it, ‘the back bedroom. . that is. . that was Edith’s room.’