*Love to, thank you.'

Once again settled, each with a mug of herbal tea, which was not to George Hennessey's taste, he said, *I recall you talking about a couple . . . one Mr and Mrs Malpa.s.s.'

Tilly Pakenham shuddered. *Yes, I will never forget them . . . oh . . . will I ever.'

*Tell me about them.'

*Why? Have they come to your attention? I knew they would.'

*Just tell me about them . . . how you met . . . why you didn't see them again? If you recall, you told me once. I was not really interested in them then.'

*But you are now?'

*Well, let's just say, let's just say things have developed.'

*I see . . . well Ronald and Sylvia, what can I tell you? We met in an AA meeting. They were different from the others, they had confidence, self-respect. If they were alcoholics they had made a full recovery. Not just dry, but they had recovered their self-confidence, self-respect, self-worth. He was tall and handsome and she was elegant . . . both well dressed. In fact, he put me in mind of my husband, the charming salesman and equally vicious wife beater. He wouldn't have sold as many cars and kitchen units as he did if the customers knew how often he put my blood on the wall.'

*Indeed.' Hennessey sipped the herbal tea.

*Well, they approached me and said they offered an alternative for one or two evenings a week, and I asked them what they meant. They said that it's more of a drink avoidance group . . . for people who get fed up with the usual AA routine of people boasting how they overcame it. It does get routine and they said it came to the point that they realized that they were sitting in the AA meetings as a means of avoiding sitting in a pub. It was seen as an alternative place to go, but you had to sit in rows like you were in a cinema and listen to one or two people's life stories, and what they really needed was a pleasant evening's chat, like spending the evening in the pub with your mates but without the alcohol.'

*All right.'

*Well, it sounded inviting, so I went along, met in a cafe in the centre of York, one that opens in the evening, and we drank coffee, had a nibble to eat and just chatted until we felt we had killed the evening, by which time we just wanted to go home and sleep.'

*Just the three of you?'

*Oh no . . . no . . . there could have been six or seven sometimes, but those two were always there, it was their group, Ronald and Sylvia's . . . and a small bloke who rarely said much. I can't remember his name, but Ron and Sylvia were all charm and smiles and approving looks, and it's that which got me on edge. I had just escaped from a man who had lured me into a violent marriage with exactly that selfsame sort of charm and approval.'

A heavy footfall was heard pa.s.sing the window, a click, click, click of steel-heeled stilettos which echoed in the narrow street. *That woman,' Tilly Pakenham inclined her head to the window, *she lives three doors down. I tell you, she can't go into her backyard to put her rubbish out or hang her washing on the line without wearing those shoes, so that the whole terrace hears her. When she walks out of doors the world has to know about it.'

*It could be worse,' Hennessey drained his cup, *could be a lot worse.'

*Dare say. So, where was I?'

*The charming Ronald.'

*Ah, yes . . . and the equally charming Sylvia, they were like two peas in a pod.'

*How long did you attend their evening get-togethers?'

*For a few months over one winter.'

*And you stopped going?'

*Yes, when they asked me if I'd like to go to the coast with them . . . just a day's run to the coast.'

*In winter?'

*Yes. I thought that was strange. I saw a small palm tree in a hailstorm once . . . winter hail . . . that is a coastal resort in the winter, so I didn't think it sounded inviting, and then there was that smile . . . that charm . . . alarm bells rang. I thought, I've been here before, so I declined, and when I did a look of anger flashed across his eyes and I knew then that I had made the right choice.'

*Did he extend the invitation to others?'

*Not on that occasion, that evening there was only myself, the quiet little guy and Ronald and Sylvia. It was when the little guy had gone to buy more coffee for us that they asked me if I wanted to go with them to the coast for the day. That was the last I saw of them.'

*I see. When was that?'

*Oh . . . about two winters ago.'

*Do you remember anyone else there?'

*One or two, mostly women, varying ages.'

*Any in particular?'

*Yes, a really sweet girl called Veronica, she came quite often then just stopped, probably got the same sort of vibes off Ronald and Sylvia that I got.'

*Yes,' Hennessey rose from his chair. *She probably did.'

Dr D'Acre pushed the microphone away from her and up towards the ceiling, it being mounted on a long anglepoise arm, and peeled off her latex gloves as Eric Filey wheeled the corpse of the late James Post towards the mortuary. *Well, that's it,' she announced calmly, *ma.s.sive head injuries and also ma.s.sive injuries to the throat. Someone wanted him deceased all right, and frankly either injury would have been fatal.'

*A belt and bracer job,' Hennessey offered. He stood against the wall of the mortuary laboratory dressed in green disposable paper coveralls.

*Yes . . . yes . . . I dare say that you could say that, dare say you could describe it thusly . . . a belt and bracers job. The injuries are certainly contemporary with each other and I would guess, but only guess, that he was strangled before sustaining the head injury, though . . . though . . . there is no reason why they have to be in that order, but it was someone making sure . . . belt and bracers job as you say. Total absence of blood under his fingernails. He didn't put up much of a fight, or he clawed at nothing, or couldn't fight at all, so perhaps the blow to the head was the first injury to be sustained after all . . . but a blow to the head has more of a making sure feel about it than does strangulation.'

*Yes, I would think the same.'

*If he was strangled by someone much larger than he, then that would also help explain the absence of blood; he simply could not reach his attacker's face and being a very small man that means that his attacker would not have to be abnormally tall . . . he might have tried to pull his attacker's hands off him but he wouldn't have clawed at them . . . people in that situation just don't.'

*I see.'

*His kidneys have been damaged by alcohol consumption over many years and his liver showed signs of recovery from alcohol damage. Very useful organ is the liver, in that it can recover from sustained abuse . . . the kidneys can't. So he was a dried out alcoholic. His body was clean, he washed, but the kidney damage was unmissable, he had hit the bottle in his life and the bottle had hit back.'

*Very well.'

*So tell me,' Dr D'Acre turned to Hennessey, *have you identified the last remaining unidentified corpse in the kitchen garden murders case?'

*No. Not yet.'

*I see . . . that will be another grave for me to visit.'

*Another?'

*Yes, I visit John Brown's grave from time to time . . . you recall the bloated floater?'

*Ah, yes . . . you evacuated this room, put on all extractor fans, took a deep breath, stabbed the stomach and ran for the door?'

*Yes, that one. He was given a name and buried in a pauper's grave in Fulford Cemetery, but he was somebody's son, possibly somebody's brother, maybe somebody's father . . . so they gave him a name and buried him, and I go and lay a flower on his grave every now and again. So I might be doing the same for that wretched woman. Just sufficient of her remained for me to be able to tell that her liver and kidneys were shot to h.e.l.l; just a derelict bag lady, no one missed her. But she was somebody's daughter, maybe somebody's sister, and possibly somebody's mother and no one reported her missing. She'll be given a name and buried in the paupers section of the cemetery close to John Brown . . . another grave for me to visit.'

Webster turned the key in the lock of James Post's flat. Ventnor stood beside him. Both officers wore latex gloves. Without a word pa.s.sing between them the two officers entered the flat, which was on the second floor of a block of low rise flats and accessed from a neatly kept common staircase. They proceeded with caution and with Webster announcing their presence by calling out *Police'. Receiving no answer, the officers stepped into the corridor carefully observing the six foot rule, that they must continually be within six feet of each other at all times to witness any findings of evidence, and to witness that neither was light-fingered should the householder or relative accuse the police of theft.

The flat had five rooms and a bathroom and a kitchen, three of the rooms being bedrooms. It was clearly not a flat intended for single person occupancy. The possibility which occurred to both Webster and Ventnor was that James Post was once married, his spouse and children had left and he had retained the tenancy, as would have been his right, and he would have resisted all moves by the Housing Department to accept a smaller flat, tenants rights being tenants rights.

The sitting room of the flat was found to be airless, with all windows closed, and in an untidy and unclean state. As so often, during the summer months, the fireplace had become a receptacle for all things inflammable, awaiting the first chill of autumn before being ignited. The furniture was inexpensive, covered with a fine layer of dust and the carpet was sticky to walk on. Two of the bedrooms had beds without bedding and wardrobes which proved, upon inspection, to be empty. The third, and largest, bedroom contained a double bed covered with crumpled sheets and there was male clothing strewn liberally about the floor and atop a chest of drawers.

*Definitely a teenager,' growled Webster.

*Sorry?'

*Well, the Chief's recording stated he wore youthful clothing and footwear, and clearly still hasn't learned to tidy his room.'

Ventnor laughed softly. *Reminds me of a sticker I once saw on a teenager's bedroom door, "Why should I tidy my room when your generation has made such a mess of the world?"'

*Hard to argue with that.' Webster turned and stepped from the room and Ventnor followed, to complete the *sweep' before commencing a detailed drawer by drawer, shelf by shelf, cupboard by cupboard, search of James Post's home. The officers opened the door of the last of the rooms to be entered and stopped short at the threshold. The room was a small box room or store room close to the entrance of the flat. It had no natural light and smelled strongly of chemicals. Webster switched on the light which glowed a soft red. A bench ran across one wall containing phials of chemicals, film negatives hung by clothes pegs from a length of cord which was suspended from wall to wall across the room.

*Well, now we know how he spent his free time,' Webster commented.

*Serious kit,' Ventnor said.

*The plastic tools?'

*No . . . that,' Ventnor pointed to a camera lying on the bench furthest from the well, *a Nikon I think, very nice piece of kit.'

*You're a photographer?'

*Hardly, just dabble in it, but I know enough to know I'd be hard pressed to afford a camera like that.'

*I see.'

*But it's at odds with the rest of the contents of the flat, everything is cheap and tacky.'

*Stolen, you think?'

*Possibly, or he might have bought it, if he had a little undeclared business going on here . . . printing naughty pics, the sort that folk wouldn't want to send to the chemists . . .'

*Where would he keep any prints?'

*Somewhere flat, like the inside of a drawer or an alb.u.m . . . even a large envelope, somewhere out of natural light which will make prints fade.'

A drawer underneath the bench on which the developing chemicals stood did indeed contain a number of large padded envelopes, which contained prints of a risque nature, as Ventnor suggested, not the sort of film one would send to the high street chemist to develop, but one envelope caught his eye, it was labelled *Bromyards'. He picked it up gingerly and pointed the label out to Ventnor, *Small world,' he said.

*Wheels within wheels,' Ventnor gasped.

Webster took the photographs from the envelope. Each photograph was of one of the victims of the Bromyards kitchen garden murders, all were naked, all were attached by their ankle to the length of chain. Some of the victims had a blank expression as if accepting their fate, others displayed a look of extreme fear, others were pleading with their eyes . . . and each was labelled by name on the reverse of the print, each with their full name: Angela Prebble . . . Veronica Goodwin . . . save for one which seemed to the officers to be a photograph of the one victim that had not been identified, who was known to Post as simply *Old Annie'. *Old Annie' had clearly kept her ident.i.ty a closely guarded secret, even to the end.

The two officers laid the photographs on the bench and withdrew from the room, and from the flat, touching as little as they could.

Webster went calmly but quickly down the stairs and out into the gardens at the front of the building to contact DCI Hennessey on his mobile phone, to notify him of the discovery in James Post's flat and request his attendance and the attendance of scene of crime officers. Ventnor began to knock on the doors of the neighbours of James Post, and found he took an instant dislike to the first woman who opened her door upon his calling. It was her eyes, he thought, all in her eyes. The woman seemed to be smirking at him. So natural was her look that Ventnor guessed she would probably be smirking at the world, as if it was all a joke and all beneath her in some way, as though she was above all, superior to all; her and her little flat on the Tang Hall Estate of the city of York where the tourists never venture.

*Don't know much about him,' she said, smiling with her eyes and her mouth as if she was giving an eager to please act, thought Ventnor, but he also sensed that she was about to burst into laughter at his expense, and she also seemed to know that she was annoying him and delighted in doing so. She was, he sensed, the sort of woman who would provoke any male partner to punch her. *He was just the little man across the landing who didn't say much and who kept strange hours . . . strange man with strange hours.'

*Oh?'

*Yes, coming and going at all hours of the day and night. He used to have a drink problem many years ago, that's why she left him.'

*She?'

*A woman and her children. They were not married, they cohabited.'

*Did you see anyone call . . . any friends, for example?'

*Him! With friends?' She snorted with laughter. *He just kept himself to himself, never even knocked on my door to borrow a drop of milk if he ran out of the stuff. He was the quiet man on the stair but always seemed preoccupied.'

*But you don't know with what?'

*No, not in the twenty years I have been here. The others on the stair will probably say the same about him. Ask them if you like.'

*Don't worry,' Ventnor turned away, *we will.' Then he turned back and asked of the woman as an afterthought, *Did Mr Post own a car?'

*No.' The woman answered clearly. *He walked from his home and walked back. I never even saw him get out of a car, or into one as a pa.s.senger.'

Somerled Yellich handed the photographs back to Hennessey, all printed in black and white on coa.r.s.e matt finish, sixteen prints, some of which showed a victim, clearly a victim, a middle-aged man or woman, dressed in ill-fitting rags, the men with distinct facial hair and all with matted scalp hair, all lying or kneeling or on all fours, all with that look of resignation or despair or bewilderment, which was also in the eyes of the victims photographed in the kitchen garden at Bromyards. Yet, in the photographs of the victims taken out of doors, the photographer had clearly knelt to get the camera angle level with the eyes, so that he not only captured the look therein but also a distinct landmark. In one, the background showed the unmistakable outline of the Forth Railway Bridge, another showed the entrance to the Box Railway Tunnel in Wiltshire. Yet another showing Boston Stump in Lincolnshire, and yet another which showed not a famous landmark but a road signpost which was easily distinguished and read *St Mabyn a 1 mile'.

*St Mabyn?' Hennessey queried taking back the prints from Yellich.

*It's in Cornwall, boss. I looked it up in my road atlas.'

*Cornwall,' Hennessey sighed, *Cornwall . . . so we have Scotland, Wiltshire, Lincolnshire and Cornwall, as well as others whose landmarks have still to be identified.'

*Yes, sir . . . and then five showing no body at all, just Post standing in a Hindley-esque manner, looking down at the ground on which he is standing, and, like Myra Hindley, he seems to have favoured moorland.'

*Yes, sir, and also like Hindley, he is unlikely to have taken those pictures of himself by himself. It's possible with a delayed shutter mechanism, but the remoteness of all the locations and Post did not drive . . . he had an accomplice or accomplices.'

*Yes.' Hennessey looked at the five photographs which just showed James Post, small, diminutive, standing over a small plot of land which clearly had some dreadful significance for him, but a significance, despite its dread nature, which was evidently also a source of pride for him.

*So we have twenty-five victims and that is the twenty-five which they catalogued. There'll be more.'

*Yes, sir.'

*We need to know more about James Post.'

*Yes, sir.'

*He's the key to this.'

*Yes, sir.' Yellich stood.

*I am going to take learned advice.'