‘Well yes, I see what you mean. . and I often get the impression that I am the only person to walk the towpath during this time of the year. In fact I came across my own footprints last week. . it was quite strange. Just before this cold snap the towpath was muddy in places and I walked in the mud leaving about a dozen footprints, and the following morning I did the walk as normal and there were my footprints but no other footprints or bicycle tyre tracks over them. So not one person, not one single solitary person, had walked or cycled along the towpath in the twenty-four hours since I had left my footprints in the mud.’
‘That is hugely interesting. As you say, it clearly illustrates how much traffic uses the towpath at this time of the year.’
Cookridge handed Webster a cup of tea. ‘Yes it does. . not much used at all in the winter. In fact you have to live locally to even know it’s there. Sugar?’
‘No, thank you. Now, that point about local knowledge, that is very interesting indeed. It could be hugely significant.’
‘Well, by local I mean York and the surrounding area. . but it’s not a well advertised canal for tourists, in fact it isn’t advertised at all. You could stumble across it if you’re a stranger to the area but it’s not signposted or anything and you can’t see it from the road until you are going over the bridge, or you see a cyclist riding steadily over the fields and then you realize that he’s cycling along the towpath.’
‘I see, still very interesting though, very interesting indeed.’ Webster paused. ‘So you saw nothing or nobody of suspicion. . other than the deceased?’
‘No, I am sorry, nothing else at all. No person, no thing. . just the lady. . dare say that is suspicious enough.’
George Hennessey sat somewhat uncomfortably on a small swivel chair beside the desk in Louise D’Acre’s cramped office and, as he glanced quickly round the room, which was so small that it made him feel larger than he actually was, he noticed little alteration since his last visit. The cramped confines were made even more claustrophobic, he felt, by an absence of a source of natural light. Dr D’Acre’s desk with its small, ludicrously so, he believed, working surface, the photographs on the wall of her family, Daniel, Diana and Fiona, standing with Samson, the family’s magnificent black stallion. He also glanced once, very quickly, at Louise D’Acre herself, slender, short dark hair very close cropped, a soft face, yet a woman who, it seemed to Hennessey, carried authority as quietly and as naturally as she breathed and who wore no make-up at all save for a slight trace of a light shade of lipstick. He then looked at the piece of printed paper within the self-sealing cellophane sachet. ‘She knew she was going to die.’
‘So it seems,’ Louise D’Acre replied calmly, quietly. ‘The lady was leaving you a present and that showed some considerable presence of mind, if you ask me.’
‘Yes, I agree. . inside her shoe you say. .?’
‘Yes, we were removing the clothing prior to beginning the post-mortem, standard procedure for which the police presence is not required so long as we save and secure each item and of course anything else we find.’
‘Yes. . of course.’
‘Eric slipped off the shoes and did so with his characteristic gentleness. . he has a sincere reverence for the dead, a real respect. Didn’t pull off the shoes with a rough and ready “she’s-past-caring” attitude as many pathology laboratory assistants might well have done but slipped each one off as if the lady were still with us. I mean to suggest nothing untoward, it is just that I think Eric is a particularly conscientious young man and I believe that we are lucky to have him.’
‘Understood,’ Hennessey smiled, ‘and I assure you, I didn’t suspect you meant anything else at all. I too in fact have formed the same impression of him. A very good man to have on your team.’
‘Good. Well, the paper slid out from between the bottom of her nylons and her shoe, so that it was compressed by her weight as she stood and/or walked. It was neatly folded, as you see. We picked it up with tweezers and put it straight into the sachet. . that was about thirty minutes ago.’ Louise D’Acre glanced at the small gold watch which hung loosely on her left wrist, ‘nearer an hour in fact. . time is going quickly today.’
‘OK. . an hour ago. . about.’ Hennessey carefully turned the sachet over and over as he examined the paper within. ‘Seems like a utility bill.’
‘So we also thought. In fact that is exactly what it is although in my report I will have to write “what appears to be a utility bill”. Dare say we all get enough gas or electricity bills to be able to recognize one when we see one,’ she added with a smile.
Hennessey grinned. He thought Dr D’Acre to be clearly in a good mood, even that modest injection of humour in her working environment was, he thought, a little out of character for her. ‘Shall we see?’
He opened the sachet and carefully extracted the paper, holding it by the edge, and gingerly unfolded it. ‘Electricity bill for Unit Five, Ryecroft Glen Road, York. . and it’s two years old. . but it does give an address for us to call on. Sounds like an industrial estate though; I cannot say I am even remotely familiar with the address. It rings no bells at all.’ He took his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and jabbed a pre-entered number. ‘Hate these things sometimes,’ he said apologetically, ‘but there’s no denying their frequent usefulness.’
‘I know exactly what you mean. . all those ruined train journeys.’
‘Hennessey,’ he said as his call was answered. ‘Is that you, Somerled? I did get the correct number? Good. . listen. . take someone from the team with you plus a couple of constables, get over to Unit Five, Ryecroft Glen Road, York. . no, I haven’t heard of it either. Secure the premises on the assumption that it is a crime scene. . it is in respect of the victim discovered this morning, the lady on the canal bank. . frozen to death. As Dr D’Acre has just said, the deceased left us a present in the form of an electricity bill for that address folded up inside her shoe. . two years old, but the address is clear. . the link is significant. She evidently wanted to tell us something. She would not have hidden it in her shoe otherwise. Doubt if we’ll get any relevant prints off it. . two years old. . but I’ll send it to Wetherby anyway. OK, thank you. . I’ll observe the PM and then come and join you there directly afterwards.’ He switched off the mobile and slid it back into his jacket pocket.
‘Suggest with respect that you look at the clothing before I send it to the forensic science laboratory.’ Dr D’Acre held eye contact with Hennessey.
‘Oh?’ Hennessey was puzzled.
‘Yes, I think you’ll find it interesting. They are not British.’
‘No?’
‘No. . North American sizes, and with both English and French labelling.’
‘English and French?’
‘Canadian,’ Louise D’Acre spoke matter-of-factly. ‘It’s your area of expertise and I am reluctant to encroach but I am familiar with your “encroach all you like” attitude. . which I value and admire and wholly agree with.’
‘Yes. . that way we don’t leave any gaps.’
‘No. . none at all. . anyway madam was clothed head to foot in Canadian outer clothing, coat, shoes, blouse, slacks. . all Canadian. . her underwear was British. So, as a woman myself, and knowing how nylons and underwear wear out much more rapidly than outerwear, I would guess that she is a Canadian woman who has been fairly medium to long term resident in the UK.’
‘Long enough to have had to replace her underwear but not her outer garments. . so not a visitor. . on holiday or a business trip?’
‘I would think not, depending upon how much she had brought over here with her, but we could still be talking about a few months. . possibly even a couple of years. I have a coat that is ten years old. . also slacks and shoes of that selfsame vintage. . hardly worn these days I concede, and readily so, but ten years old nonetheless. At least ten years old, come to think about it.’