‘Go on.’
‘Well, not only did Max Williams’s brother die about ten years ago, but many and much were the questions and rumours surrounding his death.’
‘Ah…’
‘What is said is that a man who was a church warden, a venerable man of the Almighty, a pillar of the community in which he lived, which was out near Malton.’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Well, said church warden saw a young man in a sports car in the vicinity of the deceased’s house at about the time he died in mysterious circumstances, it could even have been the same day.’
‘Yes?’
‘The church warden saw the young man again at the funeral of the man, Marcus Williams by name.’
‘A relative?’
‘Probably. Young man in a naval officer’s uniform.’
Hennessey shot a glance at Shored-up but said nothing.
‘The real significance is that Marcus Williams was a recluse. Just wouldn’t let anybody near him unless he knew them.’
Yellich returned to Micklegate Bar Police Station, choosing to walk the walls from Lendal Bridge to Micklegate Bar. He went to Hennessey’s office and tapped the door frame, the door being ajar, Hennessey at his desk with furrowed brows.
‘You look worried, boss.’
‘It’ll keep. How did you get on?’
‘Went into a time warp. Apart from the size of their cheque books and the computers, the Yorkshire and Lancashire Bank belongs to a different era, Bakelite telephones, bell pulls to summon the staff…tell you, Dr D’Acre would be at home there.’
‘What do you mean, Yellich?’
‘Well, her and that old car she runs…’
‘You do her a disservice; she told me once that “that old car she runs”, was her father’s first and only car, he cherished it, she loved him, when he died she clung on to it. Has it looked after by a small independent garage, the proprietor and mechanics drool over the machine and the proprietor has won her promise to let him have first refusal if she ever comes to sell it.’
‘Guarantees good service, if nothing else.’
‘Cynicism doesn’t really become you, Yellich. How did you get on?’
‘Well, in a nutshell, Mrs Richardson doesn’t really have an alibi. Says she was in Ireland over the last weekend but can’t prove it.’
‘How convenient for her.’
‘Max Williams, according to his bank manager, inherited six million pounds ten years ago and blew the lot. Inherited it from his brother who lived…’
‘Near Malton.’
‘Yes, how did you know that, boss?’
Hennessey told Yellich about his meeting with Shored-up.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Tomorrow, I want you to drive out to Malton.’
Friday
…in which Sergeant Yellich probes a poignant life.
Yellich drove from York to Malton through the rich countryside of North Yorkshire. It was, he reflected, rich in many ways, rich in terms of nature’s bounty, and he felt indeed fortunate to be living and working in this part of the world.
And it was rich in terms of the wealth of the folk who live here. Here is old farming money, as evinced by large houses setback from the road, of John Deeres in the field, of Mercedes Benz and Range Rovers parked outside grocery stores. The area between York and Malton is an area where the main roads are narrow and not heavily occupied with traffic, of villages which give the impression of having changed little in the last two or three generations, of gently undulating landscape, a patchwork of fields under corn, of green pasture, of darker green woodland. Yellich entered Malton, located the police station and parked in a ‘police only’ parking bay, leaving a yellow ‘police’ sticker on his windscreen.
Later, sitting at a vacant desk over a hospitable cup of coffee, with a warm invitation to help himself to further cups, and enjoying the calm of Malton Police Station, he settled back and read the file about the death of Marcus Williams, some ten years previous.
Marcus Williams, it had been recorded, had lived for many years at Oakfield House, Little Asham, Malton. A young officer who was clearly destined to go far in the police had compiled the report and had put much detail into it. Oakfield House, he had recorded, was a seven-bedroomed mansion dating from the early nineteenth century and stood in five acres of grounds, which were all that remained of the original estate. The officer had further revealed his dedication to his career by providing not just a detailed description of Oakfield House, but a map as well, hand drawn, but neat, as if lifted from rough workings, which showed that Oakfield House was geographically remote. It was not so much in Little Asham, rather that was the nearest village. It probably, thought Yellich, stood within the ancient parish boundary of Little Asham, but only just. He saw that to reach Oakfield House, he had to take a minor road from Malton towards Asham-on-the-hill, then to proceed to the village of Great Asham, beyond which was Little Asham, and beyond which, at the end of an unadopted road, stood Oakfield House. The distance between Malton Police Station/Post Office, the alternative centres of any town, and Oakfield House, was given as seven miles: approx.
Marcus Williams lived alone at Oakfield House. He had a caretaker and a gardener, both of whom attended ‘near daily’, and both lived in Little Asham. Their addresses were recorded and Yellich took a note of them.
Of the death itself, it was recorded that Mrs O’Shea had found the deceased Marcus Williams drowned in his bath.
It was noted that the death, whilst not suspicious in itself, was curious, because Marcus Williams was known to favour showers, and was not known to take baths. On this occasion he had and it appeared to have cost him his life. It was strange, Yellich thought, that an open verdict should be recorded because there was no sign of any other hand in the affair. It was a man who lived alone, drew a bath, fell asleep and drowned. About ten people a year die in such a manner in the United Kingdom. It seemed to Yellich that an open verdict in this case was an unduly cautious verdict.
There seemed to him no reason to return a verdict which in lay speak means ‘here we are not told the whole story’. But he read on.
Of the man himself, it was recorded that he was a recluse who would not let anyone near him unless he knew and trusted them. He had amassed a fortune on the stock exchange, by consulting the Financial Times each day, telephoning his stockbroker if he thought fit, and conducting all other business via his solicitors, Ibbotson, Utley and Swales of Malton.
If a document needed to be signed, a representative of the firm would visit him. It was also recorded, almost as a footnote, that Marcus Williams stood just over three feet tall, suffering as he did from cretinism.
Yellich closed the file and handed it to the duty sergeant.
‘Got all you want, sir?’ The duty sergeant signed for the file.
‘Not sure,’ said Yellich. ‘Not sure at all. I think I’d like to visit the house itself. Who lives there now?’
‘Oh my, bane of our lives, thorn in our side.’
‘A rock star?’
‘I wish it was. No, all I can say is that it’s now inhabited, and that’s the only word I can use, inhabited by a team of weirdos who call themselves “the World Union of God”.’
‘Ah-ha…a cult. You’ve got problems.’
‘One we’ve got to live with. Seems to me it consists of a lot of young people in robes who look very lost and needy.’
The portly duty sergeant shook his head slowly. ‘Occasionally we used to see them in the streets with a gaily painted covered wagon pulled by a cow, asking for “alms”, as they put it. Don’t seem to do that now. A local journalist did some digging and found out that the World Union of God is American-based, its guru, who has some fancy name, lives with his female acolytes in a “temple” in California, and has a sacred chariot which sounded to the journalist to be very similar to a Lear jet. They pay in money to the local banks here which is credited to an account in Geneva. But they have a font of knowledge in the form of a tree in India which is in permanent bloom and which only their guru in his private jet and one or two acolytes can visit. So they say.’