Fear of Drowning

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘Foolish, ill-advised … more than generous … but the strange thing is that I don’t think he made any enemies.’

  ‘That’s interesting, especially for a businessman.’

  ‘I think the answer to that is that he was not a businessman. You see, I’ve been in banking all my life and it has been my experience that men who are businessmen are the ones who make enemies, and the ones who go from bungalows to eighteenth-century mansions, from Volvos to Rolls Royces. Going up you make enemies, coming down you don’t, not so much anyway. People on the way down make friends.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Of the sort who will be only too pleased to help you spend your money.’

  ‘Ah…’

  ‘Are you getting to see Mr Williams now? He wasn’t so much a businessman, no matter how he styled himself.’ Ffoulkes grimaced and raised his eyebrows. ‘He was more of a soft touch for cash. His reputation got round and he became the softest touch in the Vale of York and in ten years he blew six million pounds, with a little help from his friends, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘People starting up a money-minting business that just can’t fail … that sort of thing, just need a few thousand to launch them, and another few thousand to get them through the first quarter … you grasp the pattern?’

  ‘I do. I actually feel sorry for the man.’ Yellich doodled on his pad. ‘You couldn’t advise him?’

  ‘No. Can’t interfere and he wouldn’t listen. He seemed to live in a cloud-cuckoo-land. It wasn’t long ago that he sold his mansion and his Rolls Royce. Even the move to a cramped little bungalow and loss of his prestige motor car didn’t seem to bring home to him the enormity of his financial loss. Only recently he came to me for a loan of some money to have a house built … he got his loan but only upon surrender of the deeds to his bungalow, they’re in the vault. We can recover the money from his beneficiaries, so we won’t lose it – the bungalow is worth more than the loan. Feel sorry for his children … they’re not going to inherit the bungalow. But they’ve both got careers, they’ll survive … they won’t sink … but you know Mr Yellich, the only place Max and Amanda Williams were heading was the Salvation Army shelter.’ Ffoulkes paused. ‘Complex man.’

  ‘Williams?’

  ‘Yes … you know, I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead…’

  ‘Don’t then. Speak accurately of them.’

  Ffoulkes smiled. ‘Yes … once I saw a side to him I didn’t like. Didn’t like at all. Accepted an invitation to his house … not what I expected … the bumbling, jovial, dapper Williams was a sour individual at home … everything in its place … a tyrant, I thought … and the tension between him and his wife, you could cut it with a knife. Their son was there, on leave from the navy. There was a lot of tension between them, cold, simmering tension … him and his son, him and his wife … son and mother … just an impression. But it was a strong enough impression that I didn’t accept any further invitations to socialize with the family. All that vintage claret gone to waste.’

  Yellich walked out of the ancient stone doorway of the Yorkshire and Lancashire Bank and into Davygate. A hot, dry day in the ancient city; the tourists in one’s and two’s, family groups and school parties and the noise and the colour and the spectacle of the street entertainers; the buskers, the puppeteers, the fire-eater, the man on stilts. And the beggars in the doorways.

  Vibrancy.

  * * *

  ‘You know, Shored-up, I’ll never fathom you. Truly I never will.’

  ‘All part of the intrigue, Mr Hennessey, all part of the intrigue. How did you get here, car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I came by train. Pleasant ride from York. Especially this time of the year. Lovely countryside.’ Shored-up was, Hennessey found, to be in his usual confident manner. A tweed jacket, despite the heat, a Panama hat, a white shirt, tie with crest upon it, dark flannels, brogues, all cutting a dash, an English gentleman of military bearing, by manner and appearance. ‘Can’t get lost, just a short walk from the railway station to the abbey.’

  ‘And here we are.’ Hennessey and Shored-up strolled around the imposing building that was Selby Abbey, a mass of light grey stone against a blue sky, planted, it had always seemed to Hennessey, on the flat green landscape.

  ‘It’s your games, Shored-up. If it’s not a pub which only the devil would know existed in Doncaster, it’s the junction of two minor roads in the middle of nowhere … or it’s telephoning a public call box which turned out to be in Thirsk. Why Thirsk?’

  ‘Same as the pub in Doncaster, which I have heard referred to as “Donny”, same as the road junction, same reason as Selby Abbey … prying eyes, Mr Hennessey, prying eyes. If the criminal fraternity know that I give information to the boys in blue, I will be black-balled.’

  ‘The entire criminal fraternity gives information to the boys in blue, they do it all the time.’

  ‘Ah, but with what quality, what consistency? I am what is known as a grass. I want not my throat cut nor my body to be flung in the Ouse. The criminals in the Vale like me, Mr Hennessey, they know that with my background I offer them a touch of class.’

  ‘Which regiment did you serve in as the adjutant?’

  ‘The Green Howards.’

  ‘You’d better get your act straightened, Shored-up, the last time I asked you that question the answer was the Royal Welsh Fusiliers.’

  ‘Yes…’ Shored-up forced a smile.

  ‘You may impress your apprentice criminals who look to you as a father figure, but don’t try it on with me. You know and I know that the only army you’ve been near is the Salvation Army. Your mannerisms come from hanging around hotels and the like being a keen observer of the pukka, pukka English at play and your clothes show what can be had from the charity shops for less than a good night in the pub. So don’t put it on.’

  ‘Mr Hennessey, you do me a disservice.’

  ‘I’m coming up to retirement, Shored-up, long earned, long looked forward to and, I feel, much deserved, and you and I are going to meet on my second last day of employment.’

  ‘We are?’

  ‘We are. And just for my edification, for my ears and no other ears, you will tell me what you did that we don’t know about: how many scams have you been involved in, how many times have you sold partnerships in the Humber Bridge Company to unsuspecting widows? Or shares in Colombian tin mines?’

  ‘You know, I have a respect for you, Mr Hennessey, you are the only police officer to have secured a conviction against me.’

  ‘I remember. You got five years for fraud.’

  ‘It was, in effect, a three-year holiday in Ford open prison. On the first day they said, “If you go out, please don’t cut a hole in the fence, just walk out through the gate, we won’t stop you.” Then I knew I was home. Got fit in the gym, read a lot … missed the ladies though, did miss the ladies. And the occasional glass of chilled Frascati.’

  ‘So you have information for me?’

  ‘Good heavens, no.’ Shored-up looked and sounded shocked.

  ‘Shored-up…’ Hennessey stopped walking and menaced Shored-up with eye contact.

  ‘Nothing for you, old man. What’s that quaint Yorkshire expression, “nowt for nowt and damn little for sixpence”. No, I’ve got something to sell.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘At least two hundred pounds.’

  ‘Two hundred … my super will not run to that.’

  ‘He’ll have to.’ Shored-up continued to walk. Reluctantly, Hennessey fell in with him. ‘It’s worth it. I know the value of my information, my track record in these matters is good.’

  ‘I’ll give you that,’ Hennessey growled.

  ‘How much police time can be bought for two hundred pounds?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘About a man day when all travelling expenses and clerical and admin support are taken into account?’

  ‘About.’

  ‘With this inform
ation you can crack the case.’

  ‘Which case?’

  ‘The Williams murder case.’

  ‘What do you know about that?’

  ‘Two hundred pounds worth. It’s worth more, but seeing as it’s you, and seeing that Max Williams and I knew each other…’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Business partners … Max, good man, he put up some money to fund a venture I had devised, quite a lot of money … would have made us both rich … unfortunately, while the idea was brilliant, the timing was faulty and the public just were not ready for the product and poor Max lost his money and I had to go back to taking what work I could.’

  ‘I bet. How many Social Security numbers have you got, Shored-up?’

  ‘Oh, more than one, a fella can’t live on what the Social Security pay, oh no … you see, if the government would enable honest folk to live on Social Security, then honest folk wouldn’t have to be dishonest in order to make ends meet. So increase benefit levels. It would be less expensive in the long run, less thieving, less police needed, less court time.’

  ‘Never figured you for a liberal, Shored-up. You live and you learn.’

  ‘Two hundred pounds. Times are hard. And that’s cheap.’

  ‘All right, but if it turns out to be duff, not only will it be the last bit of grass I buy from you, but I’ll pull your ever expanding file and I’ll nail you for something, and your feet won’t touch.’

  ‘I do enjoy a challenge, Mr Hennessey.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, about ten years ago.’

  ‘Ten years?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Well, you know, the other day, I was talking to a fella and he told me that he was talking to a fella … and the upshot of this is that ten years ago poor Max Williams’s brother died.’

  ‘I didn’t know Max Williams had a brother.’

  ‘Well now, I’m earning my crust already, am I not?’

  ‘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 churchwarden, a venerable man of the Almighty, a pillar of the community in which he lived, which was out near Malton.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Well, said churchwarden 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 churchwarden 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.’

  7

  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 set back 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 i
n 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.’

  ‘Been here before, methinks.’

  ‘Aye … but they’re open and honest enough, you can walk up to the gate and ask to be shown round. We’re satisfied that they’ve nothing to hide, they’re just a bit soft in the head and are wasting valuable years, if you ask me.’