‘If it was, it was done privately. It was not made to the Farrents through this firm. We did talk to the Farrents and suggested they agree to relinquish a proportion of the land as a settlement of the claim.’ Elizabeth Nosser scratched her left palm with her right thumb.
‘How often did you meet the Farrents?’
‘Once or twice, here in our chambers, and also once at their home . . . a bungalow, very newly built then . . . out at Catton Hill,’ Nosser explained.
‘Yes, I have been there.’
‘Modest bungalow, for the owners of such a vast amount of land,’ Nosser commented. ‘I was disappointed when I saw it; I expected something grander. Hostile family, I thought. Their friends were there, young Thomas’ friends . . . the son . . . he is the owner now; inherited the whole estate. His friends were there, southerners by their accents. I took a dislike to Thomas and his friends. No reason, just feminine intuition. You learn to listen to it; it has never let me down. Thomas was married by then but it was clear that, even at the early stages of their marriage, his wife was already frightened of him.’
‘And the case itself?’ Hennessey asked.
‘Still open. We received no word from the Parrs’ solicitors, largely, I assume, because it was about then that the family vanished.’ Elizabeth Nosser paused. ‘There is a story there.’
‘Did you think it suspicious?’
‘Only in hindsight,’ Elizabeth Nosser replied. ‘Life moved on, other work came in . . . had to be addressed, but in hindsight, yes, I think it suspicious. You know you could try . . . what’s his name . . . William . . . William . . .’ Elizabeth Nosser bowed her head and held it with both hands. ‘What was his name . . .? Pargeter.’ She looked up smiling. ‘William Pargeter.’
‘Who is he?’ Hennessey took his notepad from his pocket.
‘Don’t know his designation. He just seemed to be in with the bricks of the Farrent household, as though he was an old family retainer. Again, so I assumed, with nothing more than feminine intuition. I felt he was not at all happy with whatever was going on in the Farrent family.’
‘Where might we find him? Do you know?’
‘I’d try the pub if I were you. If he is still with us; he was middle-aged then, thirty years ago.’
The two men sat at the same table, facing each other in the restaurant. They had both enjoyed the first course of soup and had settled most enjoyably into the second course of haddock and chips. The two men had also settled into each other’s company, as they had always done and as they always did. After a brief lull in the conversation, George Hennessey, the elder of the two men, said, ‘So, you’re in Newcastle next week? Lovely city; it has a certain vibrancy, I have always found. What’s the story?’
‘Yes, I do like Newcastle as well.’ Charles Hennessey sipped his tea and glanced round the restaurant. Quiet. Just two other tables occupied despite the excellence of the meal, but, he pondered, it was a little late for lunch and he and his father must represent the tail end of the midday trade for the restaurateur. ‘It’s the old story. I am representing an old lag who should know better. He is insisting on going NG . . . He really did not commit the offence despite a pub full of witnesses.’
‘One of those.’ Hennessey senior sighed. ‘We meet them all the time.’
‘Deny everything and it will go away, such a juvenile attitude. He is certain the CPS will drop the case if he pleads not guilty.’
‘That’s a new one.’ George Hennessey grinned. ‘Where on earth did he obtain that notion? I mean, the Crown Prosecution Service is under pressure to get convictions. The public do not like to see felons walk.’
‘Don’t I know that, and do you think I haven’t done my best to explain that to him? He is a simple-minded heavyweight thug, but apparently he is adamant he’ll be released from custody because that is what happened to a couple of lads who live on the same housing estate as he does and they have been bragging in the pub about it.’
‘Have they now?’ George Hennessey’s brow furrowed.
‘So he says, father.’ Charles Hennessey paused to eat another mouthful of fish. ‘This really is excellent. How did you find this restaurant?’
‘By chance, I was visiting Knaresborough and felt peckish . . .’
‘Serendipity?’ Charles Hennessey replied.
‘Yes.’ Hennessey senior cut another mouthful of fish. ‘Pure serendipity, but do go on.’
‘Oh, yes . . . well, apparently what happened is that the two lads in question were caught red-handed stealing Yorkshire stone paving slabs at four o’clock one morning. The police caught them in the act and also found them to be in possession of a stolen vehicle.’
‘Straightforward.’ George Hennessey looked up as a slender young waitress with neat black hair, white blouse and black skirt and a pleasant manner approached their table to ask if everything was all right. Hennessey smiled his thanks and said, ‘Perfect, thank you.’
‘So you might think,’ Charles Hennessey continued. ‘But it is the case that they must have been given advice to go NG by a solicitor who knows the game and the dodges. It is true that the CPS is under pressure to obtain convictions, but it is also the case that, like all government departments, it has to work within a budget.’
‘Ah . . .’ George Hennessey held eye contact with his son. ‘I think I can see where you are going with this.’
‘Yes, so the gamble their solicitor probably suggested,’ Charles Hennessey continued, ‘is that if you plead guilty you’ll get an immediate one-third reduction in your sentence, but if you plead not guilty the CPS might decide not to run the case because it will not be cost-effective; court time being as hugely expensive as it is. So they took the gamble and it paid off. But the theft was frustrated and the two felons were remanded for a few weeks before being released on bail, meaning they had a taste of prison life. They were also exposed to their families as being criminals and they became known to the police.’
‘So what you’re saying is that the CPS accepted that as a won game and dropped the charges to avoid a costly trial for what, in the overall scheme of things, was a minor offence?’ George Hennessey clarified.
‘Precisely. So, my man, having heard that story, is now convinced that if he pleads not guilty he’ll walk free.’
‘Not so simple.’ George Hennessey ate a piece of buttered bread.
‘But will he be dissuaded?’ Charles Hennessey gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. ‘Both myself and his solicitor have pointed out to him that he glassed someone in a pub for no reason at all, and that the only reason he is not looking at a murder charge is that his victim was taken to hospital just in time to save his life. That is quite different from being caught for lifting paving slabs . . . but will he listen?’
‘We arrest them and charge them, and then you fight their corner.’ Hennessey smiled. ‘But it doesn’t sound like you’ll be getting this one off the hook.’
Charles Hennessey shook his head. ‘Heavens, father, I don’t want to see him walk. If you ask me, prison is indeed the best place for him. It is apparently the case that he is the bully-boy of the housing estate. People who live there are in fear of him. His wife walks into the shop on the estate, a small supermarket, and when she has got her purchases she always walks to the head of the queue; it’s that sort of situation. Now she’s worried because if her husband gets gaol—’
‘Which he will.’
‘Without a doubt,’ Hennessey junior continued. ‘Then she fears she’ll be hounded off the estate; bricks through her window, the lot. Her husband has made a lot of enemies on the estate.’
‘It’s the way of it.’
‘Yes, I told her to begin to pack her bags.’ Charles Hennessey placed his knife and fork on the plate, having finished his lunch. ‘Because her husband is going down for a long time.’
‘So it seems.’ George Hennessey also finished his lunch. ‘So how are the children?’
‘Thriving, just thriving, thanks.’ Charles Hennessey smiled.
‘As always they want to know when granddad Hennessey is coming to see them again. Granddad Hennessey’s visits always excite them.’
‘As soon as I can.’ George Hennessey chuckled. ‘I like spoiling them.’
‘And we are anxious to meet your lady friend. I am sure she’s a lovely lady; she clearly makes you very happy. You look so fulfilled these days.’ Charles Hennessey leaned back in his chair. ‘You deserve it, father. It’s only when I became a parent that I realized how hard it was for you to bring me up by yourself.’
‘I didn’t do it by myself.’
‘A housekeeper and a nursery place isn’t the same as a partner; it’s not the same at all. You deserve a medal for what you did.’
‘Whatever.’ George Hennessey beckoned the young waitress. ‘Can we have our bill, please?’ he asked as she approached the table.
Somerled Yellich and Carmen Pharoah stood calmly side by side in front of the front door of Thomas Farrent’s bungalow, having rung the doorbell, twice, to announce their presence. After a brief period of waiting Thomas Farrent pulled the door open and, standing firmly and squarely on the threshold, he glared angrily at the two officers. ‘What do you want!’ he demanded.
‘Police.’ Yellich showed Farrent his ID.
‘I know,’ Farrent snarled. ‘I recognize you. You were here before and I saw you talking to my wife the day she disappeared. So where is she? What are you putting into her head?’ He turned to Carmen Pharoah. ‘Don’t recognize you, never seen you before.’
‘She’s a police officer also,’ Yellich said calmly. ‘We don’t know where your wife is. We are here in response to the missing person report you made.’
‘We always make a house call upon such reports being filed,’ Carmen Pharoah added. ‘It’s routine.’
‘Why?’ Farrent gripped the door with his right hand, causing his knuckles to whiten.
‘To confirm the report; to check that she is not here.’
‘Well, she isn’t.’ Thomas Farrent made to close the door. Somerled Yellich extended his hand and held the door open. ‘It’s not a question of myself and my partner disbelieving you, sir, it is just that we have to check inside the house.’
‘Search it?’ Farrent gasped.
‘And the outbuildings.’ Carmen Pharoah smiled. ‘Just to make sure. Anywhere she might be hiding.’
‘Or anywhere I might have stashed her body, isn’t that what you really mean?’ Farrent’s anger showed no sign of abating. He was, thought Yellich, a man who, when threatened, responds with fight not flight, and Farrent’s fight was the fight of a man who felt frightened, very frightened indeed.
‘If you like, sir.’ Yellich retained his calm attitude. ‘But we still have to check the house, room by room, even cupboard by cupboard.’
‘Cupboards!’ Farrent wailed.
‘Yes, sir. Rooms, cupboards, anywhere that is large enough to conceal an adult human being,’ Carmen Pharoah explained.
‘And the outbuildings?’ Farrent growled.
‘Yes, sir,’ Carmen Pharoah replied. ‘The outbuildings as well.’
‘Everything . . . everywhere,’ Yellich said calmly. ‘Everything.’
Somerled Yellich and Carmen Pharoah stepped over the threshold and entered Farrent’s bungalow. A musty smell greeted them. From the hallway they walked into a living room which was noticeably untidy; not particularly unclean or unhygienic, thought Carmen Pharoah, but untidy, with many items just lying about and not put away. There was also an atmosphere about the room which she sensed, and she began to feel unnerved and very appreciative of the presence of Somerled Yellich. The lounge led on to a corridor from which bedrooms were accessed, and also a wide and spacious bathroom, which, like the living room, was in an untidy state, as was the master bedroom. The two officers made a detailed search of the house, opening cupboards, checking under beds, and Yellich accumulated dust when investigating the loft space. There was no sign of Mrs Farrent.
‘Satisfied?’ Farrent asked with a certain undisguised smugness.
‘Yes,’ Somerled Yellich replied, ‘yes, we are.’
‘Your cooperation is appreciated. Thank you.’ Carmen Pharoah spoke softly. ‘Just the outbuildings now.’
‘When did you last see your wife?’ Yellich asked.
‘The day before I reported her as missing.’ Farrent paused. ‘That was the day I saw you talking to her in the middle of York.’
‘Actually,’ Yellich replied, ‘we didn’t talk.’
‘I saw you!’ Farrent raised his voice.
‘We did not talk. Hardly one word was exchanged, I assure you. You pulled her away before either of us could really say anything.’
‘Why don’t I believe you?’ Farrent growled.
‘I can only repeat what I have told you.’ Yellich fought to remain calm. ‘We did not say anything to each other.’
‘Well, she’d gone the next day. She brought me tea in bed then ran my morning bath, but when I had got dressed and went to the kitchen for her to serve me my breakfast, she wasn’t there. Her car was still in the garage but she had gone. She took the housekeeping money with her and she has a credit card to buy petrol, but she can also use it to obtain cash from a cash machine. She’s not really allowed to do that,’ Farrent added, ‘but I’m not there to stop her and the card is in her name.’
‘Has she made any contact with you?’ Yellich asked.
‘None.’
‘Was there any trouble between you at around the time she left the house?’
‘None,’ Farrent replied adamantly. ‘No trouble at all. There never has been, she’s a good woman. She does as she’s told so we never have any trouble.’
Carmen Pharoah felt her scalp crawl.
When Yellich and Pharoah were driving away, having made a thorough search of the outbuildings, Carmen Pharoah said, ‘That house is a crime scene.’
‘Thirty years ago, you mean,’ Yellich replied, ‘when the Parrs were murdered there by the Farrents?’
‘No . . . well, that as well, that as well.’ Pharoah glanced to her left as Yellich halted the car at the end of the driveway before joining the public highway. ‘But also recently. The disarray, as if things had been more or less put back in place after a fight, but only more or less in place, with other things left lying about; and the atmosphere, a very strange sense of something’s happened. Didn’t you pick it up?’
‘No.’ Yellich drove away, joining the public highway which at that moment was free of traffic. ‘Confess I didn’t sense anything like that.’
‘I did,’ Carmen Pharoah said flatly. ‘I did, very strongly. I tell you a woman was battered in that living room, and out there somewhere Mrs Farrent is walking about with extensive bruising and a lumpy skull, but no marks are showing on her face or arms or legs; he’s too clever and too self-controlled to allow that.’
‘You’ve come a long way to see me, my old darlings, a long old way.’ Florence Nightingale scrutinized Webster’s ID card but declined to see Ventnor’s. ‘No, pet, if his nibs here is real, then so are you.’ She turned. ‘You’d better come in. York . . . that’s Yorkshire, right? Me, I’ve never been north of London and I don’t ever want to, darlings. I don’t ever want to.’ Florence Nightingale led the two officers into her cramped bedsit in a large, converted house. The view from her window showed a terrace of similar houses, all painted white and all of which gleamed in the strong sunlight. ‘Take you long to get here?’ Florence Nightingale sank on to an unmade single bed and crossed her legs in what the officers thought was a childlike posture. ‘There’s only the one, old gents.’ She pointed to an elderly armchair which occupied floor space by the door. ‘You can fight for it.’
‘We’ll stand, thanks.’ Ventnor glanced round the cluttered, seemingly uncared for room.
‘We’d prefer to stand,’ Webster added diplomatically. ‘We’ve been sitting all day. And to answer your question, about five hours from door to door; two hours from York to King’s Cross, half an hour by tube
to Waterloo—’
‘Less,’ Ventnor said.
‘Yes . . . less,’ Webster agreed. ‘One hour to Bournemouth . . . taxi here. There is in fact a direct service between York and Bournemouth but it takes a geological age, and that sort of time we do not have. So about five hours from our door to yours.’
‘Fair enough. You’re not lucky to find me in; I never go out, not these days. So, how can I help the Yorkshire plod?’ Florence Nightingale glanced up at Ventnor, then at Webster. ‘Not much is it?’
‘What isn’t?’
‘This.’ Florence Nightingale shrugged. ‘Not much of a home for a woman in her middle-age; not much to show for fifty plus years of life, have I?’ She reached for a tobacco tin, opened it and began to roll a cigarette, creating a thin roll-up. Tobacco was evidently in short supply for Florence Nightingale.
‘Well, Miss Nightingale,’ Webster began.
‘Why did they do that? Why? I mean, love us and save us, why not go the whole road and call me Hiawatha or Pocahontas?’
Ventnor held up his hand. ‘If it makes you feel better, I once met a girl called Marilyn Monroe.’
‘Really? Oh . . .’ Florence Nightingale sighed. ‘The poor cow.’
‘And I,’ Webster offered, ‘once escorted two runaway girls back to their children’s home, their names being Tina Turner and Diana Ross.’
‘Is that true?’
‘Yes, in fact they were picked up by the York Railway Police getting on to a London train and the officers wouldn’t believe them when they gave their names.’
Florence Nightingale giggled.
‘They put them in separate rooms,’ Webster continued, ‘until they gave the police their real names.’
Florence Nightingale laughed. ‘I feel better already. So, how can I help you, gentlemen? I am so pleased I am not alone with my name, alone in every other way but not with a silly name.’ She lit her cigarette. ‘Mind you, we girls can always be rescued by marriage, but that didn’t happen to me.’
‘You could have changed your name by deed poll,’ Ventnor suggested.
‘Don’t you think I thought of that? But it seemed like cheating somehow.’ She took a deep drag on the cigarette. ‘So I clung to the hope of marriage . . . some hope.’ Florence Nightingale patted her stomach. ‘Fat little me, with two short, fat, little legs.’
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