‘Too late for me to learn new skills, Mr H, far too late, I’m an old dog now.’
‘And keep your appointments with Miss Pratt.’
‘She’s a tyrant, still only in her twenties and a tyrant already.’
‘That,’ Hennessey buttoned his coat, ‘sounds exactly like the probation officer you need.’
The owner of the Broomfield Hotel smiled a warm, wide smile and opened the booking ledger. She was a small framed woman, dressed in a business suit and giving off a soft aroma of perfume. ‘Two rooms, gentlemen?’
‘No rooms,’ Yellich showed his ID. ‘Sorry,’ he added with a smile.
He thought the woman’s smile in response was forced. Business could not be good for the Broomfield Hotel, Malton. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
‘Well, it is a seasonal sort of business, winter is always a low time and this winter seems to be hanging on, quite reluctant to go. We get a few businessmen in the winter, that carries us through, or folk staying here while they are looking up relatives. So how can I help you?’ Mrs Stand continued to smile warmly.
‘We were told you recently put up a Canadian gentleman, tall man, beard, chequered or tartan jacket, seemed to like local beer. Quite recently. . a matter of days ago.’
‘Yes. . yes, we did. What would you like to know about him?’
‘All you can tell us.’
The dining room of the Broomfield Hotel was, said the proprietor, ‘as good a place as any to talk’ and she escorted them there. The room had ten tables; all the tables had white cloths and cutlery lay neatly in wooden trays upon a sideboard. The room smelled of furniture polish and air freshener. The world passed the room on the other side of net curtains.
‘Well, he came,’ said the woman as she and the officers sat at one of the larger tables. ‘His name. . can’t recall his last name but his first name was Piers. . he liked to be called Piers.’
‘Yes, the publican gave that name.’
‘He paid cash as I recall, so never any cheque or credit card, so I never found out his surname. Doubt if I would remember it if I did. . my memory. . it was never good and now it’s getting worse.’
‘You remember his Christian name though,’ Yellich spoke softly.
‘Only because Piers is a name that has personal significance for me. It’s my brother’s name.’
‘I see. So what sort, what manner of man was he?’
‘Well I remember he had a warm manner but his mind was focused. He was not here on holiday. He was one of those guests who stay here because he had a task to fulfil. He came here a few times over the years. First time must have been about two years ago. . last time was a few days ago, as you said. If you are in this business you remember the good guests and you remember the bad guests and you remember the regulars. You also get a feel for guests. I grew up in a guest house in the Lake District so I have been in this game one way or another all my life and you do get a feel. . and Piers was a man with a mission.’
‘He never said what that mission was?’ Yellich probed. ‘No indication even?’
‘No,’ the proprietor shook her head, ‘no, he played his cards close to his chest. Piers was a good guest, clean. . neat. . well spoken. . quiet. . reserved. He went out each morning and returned each evening with beer on his breath but his conduct was still perfect so he didn’t drink a lot. He was always in by ten which is when I lock the door. I can’t keep the door open all night like a big hotel can. I have a maid who helps but at night, in the evenings, I am by myself, I don’t even have a dog. I can’t retire for the night and leave the front door unlocked. That would be asking for trouble.’
‘Of course,’ Webster agreed, ‘that would be unwise. . even in civilized Malton.’
‘Do you know how he travelled about?’ Yellich asked.
‘Car.’
‘You didn’t get the registration number?’ Yellich asked hopefully.
The proprietor shook her head and smiled sheepishly as if to say, ‘sorry, no’.
‘So when did he leave this last time?’
‘See. . Thursday today, it would be Tuesday, Tuesday in the evening. Yes, my bridge night. I host a bridge school here each Tuesday and I remember that I had to leave the table to allow him to settle his bill. . so Tuesday. Definitely Tuesday, two evenings ago.’
‘You will have cleaned his room by now?’
‘Yes and re-let it but if you wish to inspect it to look for fingerprints or whatever, then please do so.’
‘Thank you, we’ll do that,’ Yellich nodded. ‘He might have left us a print on an obscure surface. Is the room being let out at the moment?’
‘No, the guest who had that room left this morning.’
‘Well, if you could keep it empty, the SOCO boys will be here tomorrow.’
‘SOCO?’
‘Scene of Crime Officers.’
‘Ah. . but yes, of course. I am quiet at the moment, as you have seen. . no problem about keeping one room un-let.’
‘Thank you. He didn’t leave any item, any possession behind him?’
‘No, sorry, he didn’t. Some guests leave their room looking like one large dustbin; just leave anything they don’t want and leave it anywhere they wish, floor. . on the bed. . anywhere, but Piers, he picked up after himself. He was one of the good guests. I could do with more like him.’
‘I see. Did he ever ask directions or seek local knowledge or any other information?’ Yellich asked.
‘No. . no. . Piers was very independent, very self-reliant. He did have a road map of the area, I saw him looking very studiously at it over breakfast one morning. But he never asked directions or where anything was, he was just the quiet Canadian who only spoke if he was spoken to. Quiet but also with a purpose, who cleaned up his room after him, paid in cash, and left.’
Hennessey grunted in response to the gentle and reverent tap on his office door. He glanced up and saw Carmen Pharoah standing at the door frame. He thought she looked worried. He said so.
‘Yes, sir,’ Carmen Pharoah entered the room and stood in front of Hennessey’s desk. She held a piece of paper in her hand. ‘I have contacted the Canadians, sir, to notify them of the death of Edith Hemmings nee Avrille, just to note them of her death; it is really up to her husband to notify the next of kin.’
‘Yes.’
‘But. .’ she sank unbidden on to the chair in front of Hennessey’s desk, ‘there is a lot more to this. .’
‘As we are finding out.’ Hennessey put down his pen with clear resignation and sat back in his chair. ‘Go on, tell me.’
‘Well, the upshot is that she is known to the Canadian police. . Edith Avrille, date of birth. . place of birth. . same woman. . also known as Lecointe.’
‘Oh, interesting.’
‘Well, she was known to the Canadian authorities. Just petty stuff a long time ago.’
‘Was?’ Hennessey’s eyebrows closed, his brow furrowed.
‘She died three years ago,’ Carmen Pharoah explained calmly. ‘Whoever it is who’s in the metal drawer at York District Hospital, it is not Edith Avrille.’
Reginald Webster drove home, taking the quieter, more picturesque B1222 from York via Stillingfleet and Cawood to Selby. He drove up to his house and pumped the horn twice followed by a single third blast. . one-two. . pause. . three. It was the long agreed signal between himself and Joyce. If the neighbours didn’t like it, none of them complained and he only ever used the signal during the day or early evening. Never at night when his neighbours would be abed. As he left the car, Joyce opened the door and smiled in his direction and allowed herself to be pushed aside by Terry as he darted out of the house to greet Webster. Webster walked up to the house with Terry and embraced his wife and she responded warmly and they closed the door behind the three of them.