After the Flood

by Peter Turnbull

  ‘I presume so…she never went out in the evening unless it was to attend the reading-group meetings, and didn’t particularly dress up for them. She was always smart in a casual way, but on that occasion she was extra smart, perfumed too. She never wore perfume, a little blusher and some lipstick, but never perfume.’

  ‘But on that occasion she did?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Going to a dinner party?’

  ‘I presume so.’

  Hennessey paused. ‘From which she didn’t return?’

  ‘No. That was the last anybody saw of her.’

  ‘She never had contact from anybody else in the reading group in the interval between the monthly meetings?’

  ‘Not that I was aware of, and I am sure I would have known about it if there had been contact. I collect the mail each morning and place it on the table in the hall, so I know who is receiving letters, and I also answer the phone and ask who it is that wishes to speak to whom. Amanda received no personal mail on a frequent basis—the previously mentioned Christmas card from her brother was about the extent of her personal mail—and no one ever phoned her.’

  ‘So she wouldn’t be likely to discuss the forthcoming dinner party with anyone else in the reading group?’

  ‘No…she wouldn’t.’

  ‘And you don’t remember the address at which the dinner party was being held?’

  ‘I don’t. I remember the envelope arriving for her—she received so few letters, you see—and I did note a York postmark, but that means nothing, of course. My grandson with the computer and my daughter live in Scarborough, and letters posted in Scarborough will have a York postmark, as I have noticed. So the envelope could have been posted anywhere in North Yorkshire, but she clearly valued it: she stuck it to the mirror of her dressing table.’

  ‘You go into your residents’ rooms?’

  ‘Of course.’ Gwen Pedder seemed surprised at the question. ‘I have a lady who comes and “does” for me, and I go round with her. All the girls know that; it is explained when they look at the available room or rooms.’

  ‘I see. So she clearly valued the invitation?’

  ‘I had that impression. She had certainly never displayed one before. My residents are not really partygoers…I don’t like good-time girls, and anyway such females would not want to live in this house. It also came at a difficult time for her; she was in trouble at work—actually suspended I believe—so it must have been doubly valued.’ She paused. ‘Why do you ask? You think she was being lured to her death? Oh, my…’

  George Hennessey stood and thanked Mrs Pedder for her time and her information.

  Cynthia Ferguson cocked her head slightly sideways and smiled at the silver-haired man who sat opposite her. In his eyes she saw both wisdom and wounding in equal measure. She also saw a warmth and a kindliness that shone through like a light in the night-time woodland. Two visits from the police in nearly as many days, quite remarkable, but I don’t think I can add anything to that which I told the other officer, Mr Hennessey.’

  ‘The inquiry is now a little more focused, Mrs Ferguson. Now we are seeking a man who may be described as “fastidious”.’

  ‘Fastidious? Hard to please, highly discriminating—that is what I understand by that word. I don’t think anybody in our group has ever been fastidious; all are pleased with the group, which is and has always been composed of learned professional persons, but nothing exceptional, not highly learned, not top professional. As in the case of Miss Dunney, in fact: she was a middle-aged nurse and not a very good one at that, or so we found out. And was any of the group fastidious about the books we chose?’ She gave a slight shrug of the shoulders. ‘We chose middle-brow books in the main and nobody objected to any of the choices. So, no, I don’t think anyone was ever “fastidious”.’

  There was a pause.

  Cynthia Ferguson sat in a green dress with a ruby brooch on her left shoulder, legs together and angled to one side, hands clasped on her lap. A cocking of the head, a slight shrug of the shoulders seemed to be the only movement she conceded. At all other times, she was very rigid, as if carved in stone. He wondered if ‘supercilious’ was the right word. She seemed to him to be a woman who liked playing word games rather than reading. She read the books so that she could score points during the discussion of them, not for the pleasure of the books.

  ‘I don’t think any of the group has ever been fastidious. Perhaps you are looking for another word?’

  ‘Neat?’ Hennessey shrugged. He thought he had known what Dr Joseph had meant by the word ‘fastidious’, but now he wished she was there at that moment to clarify.

  ‘Well, there was no dress code, but all arrived smart but casually, so’—Cynthia Ferguson smiled—‘no evening gowns or dinner jackets, but no denims either. “Office smart” is, I believe, the term.’

  ‘Anyone, how shall I say?—excessively neat, who might also have been a little overbearing—pushy, wanting his own way?’

  ‘At the time Amanda disappeared?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You could try Mr Preston.’

  ‘Mr Preston?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That wasn’t a name you gave to my sergeant when he called.’

  ‘No it wasn’t. You see for some reason he slipped my mind. He was a little loudmouthed, but like many loudmouthed people he failed to make a lasting impression. He slipped from my mind, rapidly so, but what does strike me as being of possible interest to the police is that he left the group about the time Amanda disappeared.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  ‘Yes, now. He did.’

  ‘You don’t have his address?’

  ‘No, I don’t, not after twelve years.’

  ‘I see.’ Hennessey paused. ‘Could you perhaps describe him.’

  ‘Well, in terms of appearance he was very neatly dressed, exceptionally so. Clean, pressed clothing, highly polished shoes, cleanshaven, not a hair out of place. Tall man, six foot plus, light-coloured hair. Personality: dominant in the group, by voice, not intellect. He wasn’t as intelligent as he liked to think. It was easy to win an argument with him, which he didn’t like. A man who liked to have his own way. For many years I pitied his wife, and imagined her to be a timid, waiflike creature, then we found out he wasn’t married. So he had a servant to attend to his clothes and shoes, or he managed to turn himself out like that unaided, not easy for a man. Not impossible, but not easy. Men, you see, Mr Hennessey, never fail to marvel at the wondrous nature of clothes, how they can be deposited on the floor after being worn and then miraculously appear in the right drawer in a washed-and-ironed, ready-to-wear condition. Astounding. I had three sons, you see.’

  Hennessey smiled. He would allow this woman her word games; she accepted people and had a sense of humour.

  ‘But to return to Mr Preston…he had the polished manners and confidence of a product of the public-school system. I don’t know which one he went to but I don’t think it was minor, but probably not one of the Clarendon schools either.’

  ‘The Clarendon schools?’

  ‘Eton, Harrow, Winchester, Charterhouse, et cetera. There are nine of them, all established in the eighteenth century. Four hundred grammar schools were established at the same time, for the teaching of the classical languages. It was a great growth in the number of schools, akin to the establishment of the new universities in the closing years of the twentieth century.’

  ‘I see. I went to Trafalgar Road School in Greenwich myself. It was demolished to make way for a block of flats.’

  ‘Yes. I was at Leeds Girls’ Grammar. It’s still there. Or it was, the last time I was in Leeds.’ She sat in a high-backed armchair in a room which Hennessey found had a solid feel: furniture of old stained wood, wooden shelves containing hardback books, not a softback book in sight that Hennessey could see, nor a flimsy trinket of any kind. Tall windows let in late-afternoon sunlight. The back garden backed on to fields where a blue tractor, followed by a flo
ck of birds, ploughed furrows.

  ‘But, Mr Preston?’ The smell of artificial fragrance in the room brought Hennessey’s mind back to the matter in hand.

  ‘Ah, yes…not a top-public-school man, nor minor-public-school either. Middle-ranking school.’

  ‘I see… Age?’

  ‘Then? Forties, I’d say.’

  ‘What was his Christian name?’

  ‘Miles. Miles Preston.’

  ‘Occupation?’

  ‘Solicitor, I think he said.’

  ‘Easy to trace then?’

  ‘I would have thought so. Why, will he be helping with your enquiries? I love that phrase.’

  ‘Probably no more than you are, Mrs Ferguson.’

  ‘But you are showing more interest in him than your younger colleague showed in any of the other members of the reading group.’

  ‘That is because the focus has narrowed, as I said.’

  ‘Oh yes, fastidious.’

  ‘And because he left the group at about the same time Amanda Dunney disappeared.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You say you believe he was a solicitor?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what he told us. We had no reason to disbelieve him, and of course it was a social circle so we didn’t ask for references or anything. We just met once a month in this very room for one and a half hours, the first Wednesday of each month, at seven thirty, discussed until nine, had tea and biscuits, and the company had departed by ten. And it still meets. We’re reading Dracula at the moment.’

  ‘Dracula?’

  ‘I told you, it is a middle-brow group, but don’t dismiss the novel: it’s a sophisticated piece, has many levels.’

  ‘I believe you. I’ve never been one for fiction. You have a fairly remote house, Mrs Ferguson; I presume the members of the group arrived by car?’

  ‘They did. Amanda came by bus and would be offered a lift back into York, but I don’t think she got a lift with the same person on a regular basis. The group members “shared” her. She wasn’t popular.’

  ‘I have already formed that impression. Mr Preston’s car?’

  ‘A silver BMW with a Ferguson’s sticker in the rear window.’

  ‘Ferguson’s, the BMW dealership in York?’

  ‘Yes. Same name as me, you see, so I remember it. Any other dealership and I wouldn’t have remembered, but it chimed a personal bell.’

  ‘That could be very useful, very useful indeed.’

  The front door of the house opened and then shut with a heavy clunk. A dog barked. Mrs Ferguson called out, ‘Hello, dear,’ then smiled at George Hennessey. ‘My husband. He teaches at the university and often finishes early on Mondays.’

  The door of the living room opened and a tall, well-dressed man entered. Hennessey stood.

  ‘Darling, this is Chief Inspector Hennessey.’

  ‘Mr Hennessey.’ Mr Ferguson extended his hand.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Hennessey shook Ferguson’s hand warmly. Ferguson had a healthy handshake, hand perfectly horizontal. It had once been his experience to have his hand twisted to the horizontal and moved up and down by a particularly aggressive personality. Ferguson’s grip was strong, but not vicelike, nor was it the offensive ‘wet lettuce’ handshake with no grip at all.

  ‘I wondered who the car belonged to.’ Ferguson relinquished Hennessey’s hand. ‘So, the police. No trouble, I hope?’

  ‘Oh, plenty,’ Hennessey smiled, ‘but not in respect of your household, sir.’

  ‘Mr Hennessey is trying to trace someone who was in our reading group, dear.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you at it; I’ll take barking mad there for a walk. Nice to have met you, Mr Hennessey.’

  ‘And you, sir.’ Hennessey resumed his seat. ‘I think I’ve concluded really, Mrs Ferguson. I think that about wraps it up.’

  ‘You know, there’s one thing that did strike me as a little out of the ordinary about Miles Preston: he always paid cash.’

  ‘Cash?’

  ‘Occasionally the reading group went on an outing with a literary theme. We once hired a small motor coach and went to Haworth for the day, to the Bronte Parsonage and a walk on the moor behind the Parsonage.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We did one such outing a year…Miles Preston accompanied us on two or three outings, but always paid cash. He paid his share of the coach hire with cash, and on the trip I never saw him use a credit card once, either to buy souvenirs or to obtain money from a cashpoint. Other group members paid by cheque and used credit cards on occasion during the day.’

  ‘But not Miles Preston?’

  ‘No. For some reason he didn’t. Odd behaviour for a solicitor.’

  ‘Was rather, wasn’t it?’ Hennessey paused. ‘So it would be fair to say that you never had confirmation of his identity?’

  ‘Yes…’ Cynthia Ferguson spoke slowly, softly. ‘Yes, that would be fair. He made telephone contact with me after reading our notice in Pages Bookshop, and I had no reason to suspect he was using an alias. If, indeed, he was.’

  ‘As you say, but when we cut to the chase, all we know about him was that he was in the group contemporary with Amanda Dunney, left at about the time she disappeared—did he leave by announcement?’

  ‘No, he just stopped coming.’

  ‘I see. And he drove a silver BMW which may have been obtained from Ferguson’s. And he had the manners of a public-school-educated man. ‘Quite a man of mystery.’

  ‘Wasn’t he just? So, I didn’t really know who I had in my living room once a month?’

  George Hennessey drove the short distance back to York, to Micklegate Bar Police Station, signed in at the enquiry desk and checked his pigeonhole. Two circulars had been placed in it while he was out of the building. One referred to cost-saving devices: use both sides of a piece of writing paper, make phone calls after 2 p.m. where possible, use second-class postage stamps…the same memo was circulated once every six months. The second was an open invitation to the retirement party of DS Sam George. Hennessey knew and liked Sam George and made a mental note to attend the party. He glanced in as he passed Yellich’s office: the sergeant was out.

  He reached his own office, took the Amanda Dunney file from the cabinet and wrote the recording of his visits to Mrs Ferguson and Mrs Pedder. He glanced at the clock on the wall: four o’clock. The visit to Ferguson’s BMW dealership was the next logical step, to attempt to determine the identity of the man who might or might not be named Miles Preston. Unlike the police, Ferguson’s would work office hours: no time to get there and ask them to trawl their records of twelve-plus years ago before they shut for the day. That is, if they kept records for that length of time. He drummed his fingers on the desk, and noted the sagging skin and the liver spots on his hands. But they were distinctly more appealing than the alternative, which had been dear Jennifer’s lot, and also the lot of—

  His phone rang. ‘Hennessey.’ He spoke calmly.

  ‘Cox speaking.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Cox?’ Cox…that name rang a bell.

  ‘I phoned earlier. They said you were out. I didn’t leave a message. I am Leopold Cox the younger, of Salop.’

  ‘Salop?’

  ‘Yes. Now I understand that a body has been found in the York area?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of a middle-aged woman. It made the national press, you see, just a filler on an inside page. That’s how I found out about it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, my wife disappeared in the vicinity of York more than ten years ago now.’

  Cox…Of course, Hennessey realised: one of the women reported missing at the time of Amanda Dunney disappearance.

  ‘Just alerting you to the fact that it may be my wife. I haven’t given up hope of finding her. She would not walk out on us like that.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘Me and the children. We had four children. All doing very well, confounded the pundits—’


  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We were once told by a psychologist that if a couple have four children, one will underachieve. Confounded that fella; all have done well. But it’s Marian I’m concerned about. She went looking for her brother.’

  ‘Her brother?’

  ‘Yes. Long time estranged. She went to look him up, to trace him, really.’

  ‘Salop is…?’

  ‘Shropshire to most folk. But I am a medievalist; I prefer the alternative of Salop, evolved from the Middle English “Salopescire”, which in turn evolved from the old English “Scrobbesbyrigcir”, both infinitely preferable to “Shropshire”, but still a delightful county.’

  ‘I don’t know it well, I confess.’

  ‘Well. I’m in Bridgnorth.’

  ‘I think I’d like to visit you, Mr Cox. Take a statement. It may be that we have found the body of your wife. The indication is that this female skeleton—’

  ‘Skeleton?’

  ‘Yes, I’m very sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right. I was not ready for “skeleton”, but after this length of time… In other respects if it is her I will be relieved. We can bury her then, you see, say goodbye, put an end to the not knowing.’

  ‘That I fully understand. The skeleton is that of a middle-aged lady who had given birth more than once.’

  ‘Well four times is more than once.’

  ‘And we can date the death to about twelve years ago.’

  ‘Well, it’s April now; this coming November will be the thirteenth anniversary of my wife’s disappearance. So, how can you pinpoint the date of death?’

  ‘I’d rather not say over the phone, Mr Cox. I do warn you it may be painful news.’

  ‘Very well. You said you wish to see me, take a statement, as they say?’

  ‘Yes, please, as soon as possible.’

  ‘You’ll travel here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. When would be convenient?’

  ‘For Marian, any time is convenient. You tell me when you’re coming and I’ll be here.’

  ‘Well, how about tomorrow?’

  ‘Good. From York you won’t get here much before midday. So I’ll expect you in the afternoon. Will you be driving?’