‘Yes, ma’am.’ Carmen Pharoah stood back against the wall of the laboratory.
‘So . . . so . . . not a tall man . . . quite short in fact.’ Dr D’Acre read the measurement of the tape. ‘We have a measurement of five feet two inches, or one hundred and fifty-seven centimetres tall, when he reached adulthood. He was not the sort of bloke to attract admiring glances from females as he walked along the pavement.’
‘Not a tall old geezer then, ma’am,’ Carmen Pharoah offered.
‘Nope.’ Louise D’Acre grinned. ‘You know I like the word “geezer”. We don’t ever seem to hear it up North. It is a London expression, I believe?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Carmen Pharoah returned the grin. ‘I believe it is.’
‘Where are you from? In London, I mean, Miss Pharoah.’
‘Leytonstone, ma’am,’ Carmen Pharoah replied in answer to Dr D’Acre’s unexpected question, ‘in the East End.’
‘Ah . . . can’t say I know it. Can’t say I know London at all well, in fact. Anyway, to continue.’ Dr D’Acre returned her attention to the skeleton. ‘So, a small but all in proportion old geezer . . . How old when he died is the next step. I will extract a tooth, cut it in half, and that will provide us with evidence of his age at time of death plus or minus one year. It is really a very accurate recording we achieve using that method. I will do so for all five skeletons.’ She paused. ‘But once again I repeat that I am not going to be of much help when it comes to determining the cause of death, unless we find diatoms in the marrow of the long bones. However, even finding diatoms will not be absolute proof of drowning per se, it will only prove the inhalation of water was peri-mortem, but not certain to be the cause of death.’ She paused again. ‘Sorry, I ramble.’ Dr D’Acre drummed her fingertips on the rim of the table. ‘You know what puzzles me . . . what foxes me, is the complete absence of anything which is not biodegradable; apart from the gold filling, there are no zip fasteners, no bra hooks, no belt buckles, no wooden toggles or plastic buttons, et cetera, and with a burial of just thirty years earlier you would expect such items to be found with the skeleton as any clothing decayed around the bones . . . shoes also . . . There should be a trace of remnants of their footwear. So there is only one inescapable conclusion . . .’
‘They were naked when they were buried, ma’am?’ Carmen Pharoah suggested.
‘Yes,’ Dr D’Acre replied. ‘Unless a sifting of the soil removed from atop the skeletons reveals such items as I have mentioned, then that is the inescapable conclusion, so yes, naked when buried, all five victims. You know I have the distinct impression that a very unpleasant tale is beginning to unfold here, a very unpleasant story indeed.’
‘Seems so, ma’am,’ Carmen Pharoah replied as she too surveyed the five skeletons. ‘It does certainly seem so.’
‘Well, let’s crack on, let’s look at the other skeletons.’ Dr D’Acre spoke with forced good humour as she added, ‘We have our daily crust to earn.’
In the event, the other remaining four skeletons did not reveal anything new. None of them exhibited any sign of trauma; all had dentistry which was both British and contemporary. Four of the five skeletons were short of stature but were in proportion, none having abnormally short legs or abnormally long spines. One of the five skeletons would have been a significantly taller person when alive than the other four persons. The male would have been five feet two inches tall or one hundred and fifty-seven centimetres tall. The three shorter females would have been about five feet or one hundred and fifty-four centimetres tall. The fourth female, on the other hand, would have been a lofty five feet eight inches or one hundred and seventy-two centimetres tall. Dr D’Acre stroked the back of her hand under her chin in a seemingly absent-minded gesture. ‘You know, these people, these goodly folk will have been noticed to be missing. A missing family . . . there will definitely be a missing person report filed somewhere in the country in respect of those five people.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Carmen Pharoah replied.
‘The older female skeleton had given birth; pelvic scarring is evident, so at least two breech deliveries, being the minimum required to cause such scarring, which fits in neatly with the impression that these five persons were a family. And again, I repeat, no injuries are noted. Can you see anything, Eric?’
‘No, ma’am,’ Eric Filey replied quickly, ‘and I have been looking.’
‘A second pair of eyes is always useful and you don’t need to be an MD to be able to identify a hairline fracture in the bone or bones of a skeleton,’ Dr D’Acre explained, ‘and Eric has been useful before.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Carmen Pharoah smiled approvingly at Eric Filey who shifted uncomfortably at the compliment and approval.
‘So,’ Dr D’Acre continued, ‘all these five people died without damage to their bones, which is how the great majority of us meet our end if you would care to think about it.’
‘I suppose so, ma’am,’ Carmen Pharoah replied. ‘I confess I have never thought about it like that before.’
‘Well, death by old age or serious illness takes most of us in the Western world anyway. But five wholly intact and undamaged skeletons is . . . is . . . what would you call it, Eric?’
‘Unusual, ma’am.’ Eric Filey beamed in response to his opinion being sought. ‘I’d say it is unusual.’
‘I would say so too, unusual in the extreme.’ Dr D’Acre leaned on the table upon which lay the skeleton of the oldest female, the skeleton assumed to be that of the wife and mother. ‘None of the other female skeletons show signs of having given birth, though they are quite old enough to have done so. Late teenagers I would say, probably early twenties. My findings will be spartan and wholly inconclusive, though we must wait for the DNA and diatom test results, as I said.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Carmen Pharoah replied. ‘I will inform Mr Hennessey.’
‘Yes, please do . . . please do . . . but we are looking at death by poisoning, suffocation, exsanguination, but that is unlikely because it’s too messy, forty pints of blood will leave quite a trace . . . or drowning or asphyxiation . . . and possibly thirst or even starvation. Definitely some form of death which did not involve trauma.’
‘They were not large,’ Carmen Pharoah said, ‘apart from one. I mean it would not have taken a great deal of strength to overpower them, tie them up and then leave them in a garage where there is a car with its engine running, something like that.’
‘Yes, that’s the sort of death we . . . you should be looking for and, yes, their lack of stature might indeed have been a factor which worked against them.’
‘It was quite a deep hole,’ Carmen Pharoah observed, ‘or so I am led to believe.’
‘It was,’ Dr D’Acre replied, ‘it was a deep grave in heavy soil, believed to have been buried in the September of the year. It gets light at about five thirty a.m. these days and dark at nine thirty p.m., approximately. I can’t see a grave being dug during the hours of daylight unless some form of subterfuge was employed.’
‘Nor can I, ma’am.’
‘Mind you,’ Dr D’Acre continued, ‘here I encroach on your territory.’
‘Mr Hennessey won’t mind, ma’am,’ Carmen Pharoah replied, ‘he won’t mind at all, not the Mr Hennessey I know.’
‘Nor the one I know; he is a very open-minded police officer,’ Dr D’Acre said, ‘not at all jealous of his remit. Mr Hennessey’s response would be “encroach all you like, all help gratefully received”.’ She paused and then added, ‘Hardly remote.’
‘Ma’am?’ Carmen Pharoah queried. ‘Remote, ma’am?’
‘The field, the scene of the burial. You haven’t been there but I can tell you that it is hardly remote. It is a rural location, that I grant you, but the rooftops of the nearest village are easily visible from the field to one side of a wooded area. The hole must have been dug and the victims brought to the graveside already deceased, and already naked, and conveyed in the sort of vehicle which is capable of driving over
a field without getting bogged down.’
‘A tractor and a trailer,’ Carmen Pharoah suggested.
‘That sort of thing. My heavens!’ Dr D’Acre gasped then fell silent as she put one hand up to her mouth.
‘Ma’am?’ Carmen Pharoah stepped forward as did Eric Filey. ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’
‘Yes . . . yes, I am all right . . . I am all right.’ Dr D’Acre raised her right hand and pointed to the larger of the female skeletons. ‘In myself I am all right but I am wrong, very wrong.’
‘Wrong, ma’am?’ Carmen Pharoah asked.
‘Yes, wrong, how wrong I am. You know,’ Dr D’Acre said quietly, ‘after twenty years of cutting corpses and examining skeletons you develop an eye for detail. You see, all human skulls look the same at first glance and often remain to look the same to the untrained eye, but in fact they have minute differences that are accentuated by the overlaying of layers of flesh and muscle, which explains why human faces look so different from each other.’
‘Yes, ma’am?’ Carmen Pharoah replied curiously.
‘But, just now, in running my eye along the line of skulls, three of the females have the sort of familial similarity that you would expect in people who are related, but the fourth, the taller female, is different. Two females grew up to look like their mother, but the third female, she is taller because she is not a relative. Her height is not the result of a dormant gene, it is because she is, or was, wholly unrelated. The DNA results will confirm whether I am correct or not, but now I think that this is not a family of five, but a family of four plus a fifth unrelated person who was murdered and buried with them. Of that I am sure, as sure as I can be without the DNA results.’
‘Oh,’ Carmen Pharoah gasped as she looked at the skeletons, ‘but the fifth skeleton, the tall girl, she is or was of the same age as the daughters I think you said, ma’am.’
‘Yes . . . prior to tests confirming age . . . but yes,’ Dr D’Acre replied, ‘the younger three females were of the same age group, late teens to early twenties.’
‘So a family plus a friend of the daughters?’
Dr D’Acre nodded. ‘Yes, possibly, possibly. The tall girl was just in the wrong place at the wrong time or she was murdered for another, unconnected motive, and since a grave was being dug anyway . . . As I said, a very unpleasant tale is unfolding and it’s just got a little bit more unpleasant.’
If anyone, if any single soul on this planet, thought Hennessey – even before he and Somerled Yellich saw the farmhouse of Blue Jay Farm – harbours the illusion that farming is a pleasant and a romantic occupation, then let him or her come here to Blue Jay Farm with its delightful but wholly misleading name. Blue Jay Farm might sound, he felt, as if it belonged in a children’s book but the first thing that met Hennessey and Yellich’s gaze was a wooden building, just one storey high, which was of such misshapen appearance because of age and rottenness that Hennessey felt it would collapse in the next strong wind or at the push of a man of but average strength. For his part, Yellich was astounded that the structure was still more or less upright. Two rusting motor cars stood in the long grass beside the building and clearly had not moved in many, many years, and which equally clearly would never move again. Beside the cars stood rusting bed frames, an old-fashioned wood burning stove and an equally ancient mangle. Strewn about amid the weeds and the long grass were rusted metal buckets, the bottoms of which had long vanished with decay, old prams and old bicycle frames. A hollow-cheeked, sunken-eyed youth stared at Hennessey and Yellich with what seemed to the officers to be an attitude of detached curiosity, as if wondering who the officers were and what their business at the farm was, but not questioning them or seeming threatened or concerned by their presence. It was, thought Hennessey, as if the youth was looking at a rare bird which had lighted there, the arrival of which might merit a passing comment over that day’s evening meal.
George Hennessey and Somerled Yellich walked silently onwards, nodding to the youth as they passed. The youth, for his part, remained motionless to the point that he reminded Hennessey of one who was held in a passive catatonic state. Only the sunken eyes of the youth moved as Hennessey and Yellich made their cautious and unsteady way across the farmyard. The youth made no response to Hennessey’s cheery, ‘Hello there,’ and Yellich’s equally cheery, ‘Good morning to you; lovely day.’ Not a sound passed the lips of the youth, not a fraction did his head even nod in response to either officer, but yet his eyes remained fixed upon the visitors. Hennessey and Yellich walked onwards, past the rotten wooden shed, beyond which, to the right-hand side, was the farmhouse. When seen, the house revealed itself to be a low, squat-looking building which, by its state of disrepair, blended neatly with the wooden shed and general detritus of the yard that had greeted Hennessey and Yellich upon their arrival. The wood of the door and the window frames were clearly rotten, badly so, with peeling paintwork. many of the black tiles on the roof, which sagged in the middle, were loose, dislodged and, in some cases, missing altogether.
The officers walked slowly up to the door of the house and Hennessey knocked on it with a certain respect and a certain, quite unusual, gentleness. It did not seem to him to be at all appropriate that he should knock loudly, despite being a police officer conducting a murder inquiry. Hennessey intuitively felt that neither the house was structurally strong enough, nor the family emotionally strong enough for either to withstand a sudden and an aggressive declaration of the presence of two police officers. Further, they had, after all, been seen by, he assumed, one member of the household and he further sensed that the farm had an atmosphere of wariness, of being hostile to strangers, and said atmosphere reached him, strongly so.
The woman who opened the door, and did so slowly and cautiously in response to Hennessey’s soft tap, tap, was middle-aged, short and stocky, with large hands, so observed Hennessey. The woman’s hair was an unkempt mop of grey and black and her eyes a matching steel-grey colour. Her woollen cardigan was grey, her blouse was grey, her tweed skirt was grey and her legs ended in a pair of faded red carpet slippers. The lady of the house held eye contact with Hennessey and then with Yellich, and did so with evident coldness and aggression.
Just as Hennessey was about to introduce himself and Yellich the woman turned and yelled into the gloom of the house, ‘Father! Father!’ She then turned and walked into said gloom, leaving Hennessey on the doorstep being stared at from behind by the sunken-eyed youth, who had followed the officers as they had walked towards the house but who had always retained a wary distance. Moments later a man appeared at the door, emerging slowly from its interior and he, like the woman, Hennessey and Yellich noted, was also short and squat. He wore baggy brown trousers, an unclean white shirt and a black waistcoat. He wore heavy industrial footwear. The man was, evidently, thought Hennessey, ‘Father’, and speaking in a thick Yorkshire accent he said gruffly, ‘Mother said you wanted something?’ He then reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved a small pipe which he placed in his mouth and commenced to suck it loudly.
‘Yes, we do.’ Hennessey produced his ID and showed it to the man. ‘I am DCI Hennessey and this gentleman is DS Yellich, of Micklegate Bar police station, of the Vale of York.’
‘Aye.’ The man scrutinized Hennessey’s warrant card and gave but a cursory glance at Yellich’s warrant card. ‘Micklegate Bar, that be in York itself.’
‘Yes, quite right, sir, it is just without the walls at the top of Queen Street, at the junction with Blossom Street.’
‘Them road names mean nothing to me, but I do know the bars . . . the gateways in the walls. Mind, I have not been in York since . . . well, since I don’t know when. You’ll be here in connection with the goings on in the five acre?’
‘The five acre?’
‘The field by the wood near Catton Hill village, the police vehicles, the equipment, the mechanical digger, the blow-up tent and the screen, and the men with cameras. So what is happening?’
‘We have u
nearthed human remains,’ Hennessey replied, relieved that the man, unlike the youth, was obviously willing to talk.
‘I thought as much and I told mother as much. Either dead bodies or digging up the loot from a bank robbery. Not much else would cause the bobbies to dig a big hole in the ground, especially in a wet field like the five acre, hard work that would be. So, human remains . . . a grave? Well, dare say you wouldn’t be knocking on my door if you had dug up a dead dog.’
‘Hardly, sir.’ Hennessey forced a smile.
‘I did wonder,’ the man replied. ‘Thought it had to be something important.’
‘You saw us, I assume?’ Yellich asked.
‘Aye . . . the country is like that. You might not see anybody but it would be wrong to think that you were not being watched, or heard. You know the old saying, “The fields have eyes and the woods have ears”? It’s very true is that old saying. So yes, I saw you, so did a few others. So why come here? Why knock on my old door?’
‘Mr Farrent told us you rent that field . . . so we came here to pick your brains.’
‘Farrent . . .’ The man made a low, growling sound.
‘You are Mr Bowler, Mr Francis Bowler?’
‘Aye, that I am.’
‘And you do rent that field, the five acre?’
‘Aye, that I do . . . and another two hundred and fifty more on top of that.’
‘A large farm?’
‘Only a townie would think that it was large. You need to farm the best part of a thousand acres to make a decent living. I rent the land and the house but will Farrent put up any money towards the upkeep?’ He tapped the door frame. ‘See . . . rotten . . . it’ll fall down on top of us any day now.’
The Altered Case Page 5