A Dreadful Past (5 page)

‘Well, really only by reputation. As I said, I am a lawyer,' Middleton explained, ‘and a criminal lawyer to boot. I specialize in crime rather than in civil law. I do a little family law work but I am perhaps, I could say, nine fingers in crime and one little finger in the family courts … so I know Tang Hall, whether because of the accused or because of the victim. I am certain that there are many good people who live on that estate but it does seem to keep the police in gainful employment.'

‘Yes … you could say that,' Carmen Pharoah offered with a smile and raised eyebrows. ‘There are an awful lot of good people on that estate but a minority has given it a bad name. It sounds like Mrs Graham was, and possibly still is, one of the good ones. I mean, having a key to the house indicates that she had earned your parents' trust.'

‘It does indeed … it does indeed,' Middleton replied with a slight nod of his head. ‘And, in fact, I never felt any dislike or distrust or suspicion of Mrs Graham at all, not even in the slightest, even as a child, and children are very intuitive. Children have an intuition which evaporates as they grow older, especially in the males. Women tend to retain a certain intuition and I would never dismiss a woman's intuition. My sister and I left the house on Wednesdays, when we were not at school anyway, to escape the whirlwind that was her cleaning presence, not because of any ill feeling towards Mrs Graham – whom we had to address as “Mrs Graham”, by the way – nor because of any fear of her. Father disliked first-name terms in such circumstances – the cleaning lady would never be “Annie” but always “Mrs Graham”, and she addressed us and referred to us as “Master Noel” and “Miss Sara”. It was all very proper,' Middleton advised. ‘It was just that sort of household.'

Driving away from Noel Middleton's house, back towards York, as a slight and brief rain shower began to fall from a low, grey cloud base, Thompson Ventnor in the front passenger seat said, ‘Look, I'm sorry for my ignorance but what on earth is the Tees-Exe Line?'

‘An imaginary line.' Carmen Pharoah slowed on the approach to a tight bend. ‘It runs from the mouth of the River Tees in the north-east of England to the mouth of the River Exe in the south-west. To the west and north of that line is all the high ground in the UK and to the east and south is all the low-lying flat land.'

‘Interesting,' Ventnor replied. ‘So we are to the east of the Tees-Exe Line just here?'

‘Yes,' Carmen Pharoah grinned, ‘and that is me telling you that with a Caribbean education, and you with your British schooling didn't know that? Shame on your teachers.'

George Hennessey knocked reverentially on the blue-and-green painted door of the modest bungalow on the outskirts of Fridaythorpe. He had never been to the village and found the name as pleasing as the appearance. ‘Thorpe' he knew to be an ancient Norse word for settlement but ‘Friday' was unexplained. There was, he thought, probably an interesting story to the name. He drove slowly along the winding road through the neatly kept houses and small business premises that comprised Fridaythorpe, past the Farmer's Arms which seemed to be the only pub in the village, all the while looking for a road called Wold View, which he had been assured would be on his right-hand side given the direction from which he would be arriving. ‘Ours is the only two-tone door in the street' had been a confident addition to the directions with which he had been provided. ‘We ran out of blue paint when we had painted the bottom half of the new door so we covered the rest up with some green paint we had left over from another project rather than leave naked wood exposed to the elements. We intended to buy more blue paint to complete the job but just never got round to it.' Hennessey had quickly and easily found Wold View and had further found it not to be the ‘street' he had imagined but a small, circular cul-de-sac. He had had no difficulty in further finding the only house with a blue-and-green door.

After introductions and pleasantries the householder had deemed it sufficiently dry for Hennessey and himself to sit outside, ‘though it might rain anytime going by those grey clouds over there. It will likely be raining in York right now'. Hennessey and Frank Jenny thus went into the Jenny's back garden and sat on thickly varnished wooden chairs with an equally thickly varnished wooden table standing between them upon which, some moments later, the very homely-looking Alison Jenny, whom Hennessey had never met, placed a metal tray holding two steaming mugs of tea and a plate containing a generous amount of toasted muffins. Hennessey and Jenny sat in silence for a few moments looking down the long garden which was bordered by hawthorn and which, on that day, was resplendent with white blossom. Hennessey saw that there was a line of small trees at the foot of the garden with the remainder of the land given over to neatly mown lawn, cut so as to give alternate light and dark shading.

A magpie landed on the lawn a few feet from Hennessey and Jenny and began to strut confidently on the grass until, to Hennessey's surprise, Frank Jenny took the muffin he was eating from his plate and skimmed the plate at the magpie, which took to flight in fright.

‘Wretched birds,' he explained, by then using his left palm as a plate to hold his muffin. ‘It is traditionally a rare bird, as you may know, but their numbers have exploded in recent years. I have no time for them, no time at all, awful barking sound they make, and they attack other birds. I had to run to the rescue of a thrush once – just the other day, in fact. A magpie had pinned the thrush to the ground, breast down, and it was standing on the thrush's wings pecking at its head while a second thrush flew around sounding an alarm. The magpie flew away as I approached but only just out of my reach – he wasn't giving up easily. The thrush lay doggo while I stood guarding it and the second thrush and the magpie remained in the vicinity. I thought the second thrush demonstrated great loyalty. Eventually the magpie gave up and flew away, and the first thrush got to its feet. He didn't seem to be damaged by the magpie pecking at its head and he flew off with his mate. But wretched birds are magpies, utterly loathsome creatures.'

‘Yes,' Hennessey replied, eating a muffin, ‘I confess I care not for them, though I don't feel as strongly as you clearly do. You know the children's rhyme about magpies, “One for sorrow, Two for joy …”?'

‘“Three for a girl, four for a boy”?' Jenny quoted. ‘Yes, I know it.'

‘Well, apparently it has some basis in fact.' Hennessey reached for another muffin.

‘Really?' Jenny turned to Hennessey, who noticed that the elderly, retired police officer had a distinct sparkle and a look of alertness in his eyes.

‘Oh, yes.' Hennessey surveyed the garden, noted how well-ordered it was and realized that a lot of hard work had been expended in it, either by the Jennys' or by a contract gardener. ‘Yes,' he repeated, ‘the magpie is a gregarious bird … it likes company and it flies in flocks, but occasionally one sees a lone magpie who hasn't got any mates.'

‘Like the one I just threw my plate at,' Jenny growled. ‘Like him?'

‘Yes … exactly,' Hennessey replied, ‘just like him. Well, he, the single magpie, is the thieving magpie. It isn't a flock of magpies which fly into your bedroom via the open window and steel the engagement ring and anything else which glints in the sun, it's the lone magpie … hence “One for sorrow”.'

‘Well, I never knew that.' Jenny grinned. ‘You're never too old to learn. Our lass will be interested to hear that … “One for sorrow” has some basis in fact.' Jenny paused. ‘So, the Middleton murders, which is why you are here, George, not to chat about English folklore and let me spout off about my dislike of magpies.'

‘Yes, sir.' Hennessey adjusted his position on the highly varnished wooden chair. ‘Irish folklore as well, in fact, before we move on to business. In Ireland the custom is to salute the single magpie to avoid sorrow coming your way but yes, the Middleton murders is the issue, sir. That is why I am here.'

‘Oh, Frank, please,' Jenny replied warmly. ‘Please, call me Frank. I am in comfortable retirement so “Frank” is preferred. “Sir” is so reminiscent of those long hours and limited home life. You know, I once went home after a long day and my son was in the living room. As I walked in, he said, “Who are you?”'

‘Oh,' Hennessey groaned, ‘that's not funny, not funny at all. That can't have been a good experience.'

‘You can say that again,' Jenny nodded, ‘but it brought things home to me and did so with quite an impact.' He took a deep breath. ‘I resolved to find ways of spending more time with my family after that.'

‘Yes, I can understand why, Frank. I confess I have never had that sort of experience but I can understand how it can happen. We poor coppers burn the candle at both ends, right enough.'

‘We certainly do. Are you married, George?' Jenny asked.

‘Widowed, one son now an adult and making his own way in life quite successfully as well … he is a barrister, no less. I arrest and charge them and he uses public money to get them off.' Hennessey smiled. ‘It's the way of it. It's how the world turns.'

‘A barrister … nonetheless, you must feel so proud,' Jenny observed. ‘But the Middleton family murders. I assume that there has been a development? I mean, I don't think that you'd be here otherwise.'

Hennessey explained how Noel Middleton had seen the Wedgwood vase which had been stolen during the burglary in the window of an antiques shop and had purchased it, brought it into the police station and told DC Ventnor the story.

‘How hugely interesting.' Jenny raised an eyebrow. ‘That could be potentially quite a significant development. You'll be tracing the ownership of the vase back, I assume?'

‘Yes, among other things,' Hennessey replied. ‘Two of my officers are doing that at the moment, even as we speak.' He glanced to his right and saw the grey cloud edging steadily closer to Fridaythorpe. ‘Rain soon, methinks,' he added.

‘Might hold off,' Jenny grunted as he followed Hennessey's gaze. ‘With a bit of luck it might hold off.'

‘So yes, the Middleton murders is a cold case which has just been warmed up,' Hennessey confirmed. ‘We seem to be in a relatively quiet period at the moment, which has provided us with time to take another look at the case.'

‘Well, good for you,' Jenny grunted. ‘Good for you. I confess it has always annoyed me that we never felt anybody's collar for those murders. Three members of the same family, one blind, battered to death in their own home and with no evident motive. It was a very high-profile case and it was a real tragedy, but with no leads and no information forthcoming the inquiry went cold very rapidly. Have you read the file, George?'

‘We have recovered it from the archives,' Hennessey told Jenny, ‘but I have not personally had the opportunity to read it, although I fully intend to, of course. One of my team has read it.' Hennessey paused. ‘So it's really a question of anything you can tell us, Frank – anything at all that you can recall. You know the sketch – anything, no matter how trivial and which may not have seemed relevant at the time, but with all the advantages of hindsight might now seem to be relevant.'

‘Yes … yes, I know what you are looking for. I know exactly. As you say, I know the sketch.' Jenny glanced skyward as a zephyr blew across the landscape for a few seconds, causing the trees at the bottom of the garden to sway to the left. ‘Are you going public with the fact that you are poking the embers of the case?'

‘Oh, yes … yes, we are,' Hennessey advised. ‘We certainly are. The press release will go out later today in time for the evening papers and the local television news.'

‘Good. Good.' Frank Jenny smiled contentedly. ‘By doing that you'll rattle a few cages. Some persons out there will be thinking that they have gotten away with it. After twenty years they'll be feeling quite smug. I'd like to be a fly on the wall when they turn on their television sets this evening. So … well …' Jenny paused, ‘… my first and lasting impression is that the felons were outside the criminal fraternity or were out-of-towners.'

‘Yes, we are also of that opinion,' Hennessey replied. ‘Any burglar with a modicum of common sense and experience would know to break into a house only when the occupants were absent or in bed. That gang must have known the Middletons were up and awake yet they still broke in … they must have been brain-dead.'

‘Yes, we thought the same at the time. Real cowboys,' Frank Jenny snorted. ‘We thought there was a team of thugs … three, four, five, perhaps six. We were not able to lift any fingerprints, as you'll know, and the only blood was from the victims. That wretched bird is back …'

Hennessey looked down the garden and saw a magpie, possibly the same one as earlier, swaggering confidently across the lawn. ‘It's well out of range, Frank.' He grinned. ‘It's keeping a respectful distance from you.'

‘And he knows it,' Jenny growled. ‘I tell you he knows what he's doing – the damn thing is taunting me. It's taunting me. I promise I am going to buy an air rifle, one that is both powerful and accurate. I would have done it a long time ago but it would have distressed Alison … The time is coming, though. I tell you the time is nigh. Well nigh. She attends elderly persons' yoga every Monday and Friday afternoon in the village hall, and that's when I'll lay in wait for the blighter and any friends he cares to bring with him. If he has any. But to continue … the lock puzzled me. It puzzled all of us.'

‘The lock?' Hennessey turned and glanced at Jenny.

‘Yes, the lock on the main door through which the felons gained entry. I suspected the son …'

‘Noel,' Hennessey reminded him.

‘Yes, Noel Middleton. Hasn't he mentioned it?' Jenny continued. ‘The door had two locks.'