*Neither will the forensic pathologist,' Hennessey replied with a grin. He turned to the elderly sergeant. *Any identification?'

*None sir, unless it's well hidden in his clothing . . . no wallet that we can find, although we did find his library card.'

*That might do it.'

*It's been bagged and tagged, sir . . . local library with a valid date.'

*Well if it is his card, we have his ID.'

*Yes, sir.'

*So, he was not a wealthy man.' Hennessey pondered the corpse, cheap, inexpensive clothing and watch. *So, not murdered for his money but his wallet, if he had one, was taken, so it must have been taken to frustrate his being identified, but the killer missed the library card. So, in a hurry or just carelessly a.s.suming that his wallet contained all that could identify him.'

*Forensic pathologist has arrived, sir,' the young constable at the tape announced in a keen, eager to help manner.

Hennessey turned and felt his heart leap in his chest as he watched the slender figure of Dr D'Acre approach carrying a heavy Gladstone bag. *Take her bag for her,' he asked of the constable, who instantly ran towards Dr D'Acre and relieved her of her burden. He walked half a pace behind her until she reached the tape, upon which he stepped forward and lifted it for her. She smiled her thanks and retook possession of her bag.

Dr D'Acre glanced at the corpse and then gently set her Gladstone bag down upon the ground and opened it. She disturbed the clothing to take a rectal temperature and then a ground temperature. Stony-faced she glanced up at DCI Hennessey and said, *I know what you are going to ask, Chief Inspector, and you know what the answer is.'

*Yes, ma'am,' Hennessey smiled. *I have learned my lesson, made my journey . . . between the time he was last seen alive and the time the body was discovered is as close as medical science can get.'

*Except possibly in this case . . . maggot pupae are in evidence. I'll take one or two samples, but their presence means he died some time within the last forty-eight hours . . . but this heat,' she brushed flies from her face, *it could speed things. Rigor is established and you can see for yourself that as corpses go, this is quite a fresh corpse.' She paused. *I note bruising round the neck.'

*Yes, ma'am, Dr Mann mentioned those marks.'

*Could not fail to notice them . . . extensive . . . not linear, suggestive of manual strangulation. If he had been garrotted with rope, or a length of electrical flex, then we would expect linear bruising, but this is extensive . . . and . . .' she felt the scalp of the deceased, *a possible skull fracture. Possibly rendered unconscious with strangulation and then he sustained a ma.s.sive blow to the head to finish him off. I see no sign of a struggle hereabouts, so he was most likely conveyed here possibly within a container, such as a cabin trunk, and deposited where he was found. Definitely murder and within the last forty-eight hours, with a time window of twelve hours either side of that.'

*Understood and appreciated. It is at least something to go on.'

Dr D'Acre stood. *Well, if you have taken all the photographs you need to take, then from my point of view the body can be taken to York District Hospital for the post-mortem.'

*SOCO?' Hennessey turned to the uniformed sergeant.

*Still to arrive, sir.'

Hennessey glanced skywards in a gesture of despair, and noted a single wispy cloud in the canopy of blue. *We should bring them with us, then they won't keep getting lost all the time.'

*Yes, sir.'

*Contact them, if you can, hurry them along. We need their cameras here asap.'

The uniformed sergeant gripped the radio on his lapel and pressed the send b.u.t.ton, and walked towards the centre of the field as he did so, presumably, thought Hennessey, that he might achieve a better reception.

*I presume you are going to remove the scalp?' Hennessey turned to Dr D'Acre who, dressed in white coveralls in such bright sunshine, caused Hennessey to squint when looking at her.

*I'll have to,' Dr D'Acre replied matter-of-factly, *head injuries. I'll have to look at it. Why do you ask?'

*It will aid identification if you can delay doing the post-mortem.'

*I see. Yes, I can delay doing it.'

*We have what might be his library card. If it is his, it will give us his address, then we can get a next of kin to view the corpse.'

*Never easy, but yes, I can delay to allow that. Doesn't sound like you'll need a great deal of time?'

*I antic.i.p.ate it being done today.'

*Will you be observing for the police, Chief Inspector?'

*Yes, I will.'

*Very good. I'll return to York District, I have a post-mortem still to conduct . . . university student.'

*Oh . . . narcotics overdose?'

*Don't believe so, not alcohol either. Found lying in his bed with very blue lips, indication of carbon monoxide poisoning, probably caused by a faulty flue on his gas fire.'

*He had his gas fire on in this weather?'

*He was Malaysian; even this weather is cold for them.'

*I see.'

*So, how was he discovered?' Dr D'Acre pointed to the body on the ground covered with the tent.

*By a swarm of flies.'

*A swarm of flies?' she grinned at Hennessey.

*A sharp-eyed lady in those houses over there . . .' Hennessey pointed to a line of houses on the far side of the field, the ground floors of which were hidden from view. *She glanced out of her bedroom window and saw the column of black flies beside the trees. She knew the field is not being used for pastoral grazing at the moment and knew that flies in such numbers are attracted to newly deceased animals or humans, so she strolled across the field and . . . here we are.'

*New one on me, it's usually dog walkers or courting couples.'

George Hennessey smiled gently, *Yes, it is, isn't it?'

The middle-aged, smartly dressed man stood facing the heavy velvet curtain. He was a small man, so short in stature that Hennessey, standing beside him, felt that he was towering over the man. The room was dark, being dimly lit, heavily carpeted with darkly stained, heavily polished wood panelling on the walls. The man took a deep breath as he and Hennessey waited for the nurse.

*It won't be like what you . . .'

*I know,' the man turned to Hennessey and forced a smile, *I have done this before.'

*Really? I am sorry.'

*My wife, she was knocked down and killed by a drunken driver and I had to identify the body. As you say, it's not like it's portrayed in the films, lifting a sheet over a body that is in a metal drawer . . . more sensitive . . . the last image I had of my wife was of her sleeping in s.p.a.ce.'

At that moment, the smaller of the two doors to the room opened, silently, and a sombre looking nurse entered. She glanced at Hennessey who gave a single slight nod of his head. The nurse then pulled a cord and the velvet curtains slid open, again silently. What was revealed to Hennessey and the man was a pane of gla.s.s, and beyond the gla.s.s was the body of the man who had been found earlier that day when a householder had noticed a swarm of flies. The body was, by then, tightly swathed in clean white bandages with only the facial features showing. Nothing else could be discerned, just an endless seeming blackness. It was as the man had described, as if the person on the bed was at peace, floating in deep s.p.a.ce.

*Yes,' the man spoke quietly, *yes, that is James, James Post, my younger brother.'

*Thank you, and I am sorry.' He once again nodded to the nurse who pulled another cord and shut the curtains. *Can you answer some questions?'

*Here?'

*No, we'll go to the interview suite at the police station.'

Hennessey drove Mr Nigel Post, brother of James, to Micklegate Bar Police Station. The journey was pa.s.sed in silence.

In the interview suite, Nigel Post settled into the chair and glanced round the room at the orange coloured walls and the hard-wearing carpet of similar colour, though of a darker shade of the same. *Not as functional as I imagined,' he commented.

*We have more functional rooms for interviewing suspects,' Hennessey replied, *upright chairs, table, tape recorders set in the wall, but for less formal Q and As we use this room.' He sat opposite Nigel Post and rested his notebook on his lap.

*If you could tell me about your brother?'

Post reclined back in the chair and eyed Hennessey with a look of concern. *You would only bring me here and ask that question if there was some suspicion about his death. When my wife was killed by that idiot I was only asked to identify her body.'

*Yes . . .' Hennessey avoided eye contact with Nigel Post, *I am afraid that this is a murder inquiry.'

Post leaned forward. *What happened?'

*We don't know. Yet. The post-mortem has still to be conducted but injuries were noticed on your brother's body about his neck and head, and he was found in a field outside York with no identification, no wallet, but we found a library card which led us to your address.'

*Yes,' Nigel Post sighed, *James used my address as an accommodation address. It had a permanency about it, whereas he could never settle in one address, in the early days he moved from rented flat to rented flat as if he was looking for something and hoped to find it in the next flat he moved into. So it was easier to use my address for things like library membership . . . and he just kept up the practice.'

*I see.'

*I didn't mind. It enabled me to keep track of him. He was my brother . . . a complete wastrel, but my brother just the same.'

*Was he employed?'

*No, he virtually never worked all his life, never had a job.'

*Never?'

*Couldn't hold down any proper half decent job . . . tried his hand at self-employment but that was a disaster. Any jobs he did have was cash in hand labouring sort of work. He never seemed to accept adulthood, always dressing in the clothes he wore as a young man.'

*We noticed his shoes.'

*That's exactly what I mean. We both suffered from a lack of height. I am just five foot tall . . . both left school early but I got a job and held it down, Department of Highways, local authority, very safe, pays nothing but me and my wife could afford the rent on our house. We didn't have children.'

*I see.'

*But James, he just came and went, never knew what he did . . . then the drink took him.'

*Oh?'

*Yes, he was in a bad way with the drink for about ten years. That was a bad time. He became down-and-out, begging for money, filthy clothes. I shudder to think what went down his throat in those years . . . poison soup, but that is often the way of it.'

*Yes.'

*In this case, he was set upon, beaten up by a gang of youths; small, smelly guy, easy target. He got one h.e.l.l of a kicking but he was hospitalized, cleaned up, fed properly while the broken bones healed and he dried out. Sober for the first time in years. The hospital contacted me when he was due to be discharged . . . I never knew he had been admitted. He only gave them my address when he was about to be discharged. They had incinerated all his clothing as representing a health hazard, he needed some replacement kit so I looked out some of my old clothes and brought them to the hospital, and then dragged him to an AA meeting and sat with him throughout. To his credit he went back, and kept going back and kept dry. He even had a long term girlfriend . . . and took a council tenancy, and they had a son, but they split up after a while. Still never held down a job but he kept dry. So that was a big thing.'

*Good for him.'

*Yes, for him that was an achievement as I said, one man's floor being another man's ceiling. For him to stay dry was a big deal, a very big deal.'

*Yes, I can understand that. Do you know of anyone who would want to harm him?'

*I'm afraid I don't. I knew little of his life. I suspect it was not very . . . well . . . small guy, no employment to speak of. I suspect it was a quiet life he led. I knew of no friends and I knew of no enemies.'

*I see.' Hennessey tapped his notepad with his ballpoint. *Do you know what Mr Post's last known address was?'

*I have a note of it at home . . . but yes . . . I have a note of it.'

Carmen Pharoah and Thomson Ventnor walked up the inclined drive to the Malpa.s.s home in Hutton Cranswick. The house itself was interwar, large, two storeys, red-tiled roof, generous garden, noted Ventnor, very generous, as he pressed the doorbell. The bell rang a conventional double tone and did so loudly, so loudly that Ventnor did not think it appropriate to press the bell a second time. The door was opened, confidently so, soon upon the bell sounding, by an elegant seeming woman in her mid fifties, Pharoah estimated, who was dressed fetchingly in a yellow knee-length dress and white court shoes. She smiled warmly at the officers, *Mr and Mrs Blackhouse? You are a trifle early, but no matter, do come in.' She stepped to one side. Pharoah and Ventnor remained stationary and stone-faced as they showed the woman their ident.i.ty cards. *Police,' Ventnor said flatly.

*Oh.' The woman's face fell; her hand went up to her mouth. *I hope there's no trouble.'

*Plenty,' Ventnor replaced his ident.i.ty card in his wallet. *There's always plenty of trouble but probably not for this house.'

*How can I help?'

*We'd like to speak to Mr Malpa.s.s, if he is at home.'

*Yes . . . yes he is. I am Mrs Malpa.s.s by the way. Do come in. We are waiting for a Mr and Mrs Blackhouse, they have been referred to us.'

*Referred to you?' Carmen Pharoah stepped across the threshold of the house.

*Yes, we offer an alcohol abuse counselling service.'

*I see.'

*But . . . well . . . come in. My husband is in the living room, second door on the left.'

Carmen Pharoah, followed by Thomson Ventnor walked into the living room. A tall, well-dressed man stood as they entered. Carmen Pharoah read the room; she saw it neat, tastefully furnished with dark but highly patterned carpet, furniture covered in pastel shades of blues, with blue tinted wallpaper. The bay window looked out on to an equally neatly kept garden, surrounded on all sides by a ten foot high privet.

*The police, dear,' Mrs Malpa.s.s announced.

The man stepped forward and extended his hand. *Ronald Malpa.s.s. This is my wife, Sylvia. How can we help?' He was smartly dressed in white trousers, summer shoes, blue tee shirt.

*Just a little information, please,' Ventnor replied, noting how tall Malpa.s.s was, over six feet he guessed.

*In that case, please take a seat do.' He indicated the chairs and settee in the room as he resumed his seat in the armchair he had been occupying when the officers had entered. Pharoah and Ventnor sat side by side on the settee and Mrs Malpa.s.s sat in the vacant armchair. Carmen Pharoah thought Ronald Malpa.s.s overly confident and she also noticed a certain look of worry across Mrs Malpa.s.s's eyes.

*We understand you know, or knew, a lady called Angela Prebble?'

*Angie . . . Angela . . .' Ronald Malpa.s.s sat back in the armchair. *That's a name I have not heard for a while. She disappeared, I believe . . . some years ago.'

*Yes, she did,' Ventnor replied. *She's reappeared.'