*And you'd also better have Denise Clay as well.'

*Understood, sir.'

*Review here at nine tomorrow. Sunday working I know, but needs must.'

*Yes, sir.'

*For myself, I have a summons to see the Commander and then a press conference. I think I know what he wants.'

The man killed James Post by strangling him.

The man knew the other man was not up to it, not up to it at all, too weak, utterly spineless. So, when it was that James Post came running up the drive of the man's house, his face red with exertion, and panting so desperately that the man considered stepping back and letting the Post's heart do the job for him. But James Post calmed and sat on the man's couch, his face getting progressively paler as his breathing eased and he became a small man . . . worried . . . scared . . . a man who was childlike in his fear, so the other man, the householder, had always thought . . . and childlike in the absence of patience, childlike in his cruelty to his victims . . . to their victims. The householder had always scoffed at the notion of childhood innocence. Children, he had always argued, are psychopaths, damaging living things and each other with their absence of empathy. That is why scissors in primary schools are blunt with rounded ends, so that children do not stab each other. And here he is, he that can be so gleefully cruel, shaking with fear on the sofa, whimpering, *What are we going to do? What are we going to do?' And so the second man, the calmer of the two, the householder, advanced on the whimpering man with his huge hands outstretched and calmly encircled the second man's neck with them and began to squeeze, and when James Post looked at him with terror in his eyes, the second man smiled at him and he continued smiling at him until James Post had stopped clawing at his hands and his body fallen limp. He carried James Post's body into his study and laid it on the floor and then drove into York looking for a suitable container. He found one in a charity shop. It was sufficiently large and robust, and he paid twice the asking price for it and left the shop with, *Thank you, sir, very generous,' singing in his ears.

It was with no little reluctance that George Hennessey tapped on Commander Sharkey's door, and it was with no little reluctance that he accepted the invitation to sit in the chair in front of the Commander's desk.

*Things all right for you, George?' Sharkey asked warmly, but there was a nervousness in the warmth. *I mean, I have no complaints about you but I am still worried. Not overburdened?'

*No, sir, thank you all the same.'

*It's just that Johnny Taighe won't happen on my watch. It was a bad show. You know, I think about him more and more often. Our very able maths teacher left our school to advance himself and Johnny Taighe, who taught lower school maths, was told to teach final year maths to national certificate level. He just couldn't do it. He once froze in front of the blackboard because he couldn't understand the problem he'd put up, and he went and sat in a vacant seat next to a very able pupil and said, "What do you think we should do now?" That stays with me, George, a teacher leaving the front of the cla.s.s to go and sit among the pupils because he couldn't understand the subject he was supposed to teach.'

*That is . . . unfortunate . . . yes, sir.'

*And he had a beer belly and a large, red nose, so he was drinking heavily . . . self-medicating with alcohol, and smoking too much . . . and was full of false good humour, all the indicators, and none of his colleagues picked up on them. He went home one night, complained of feeling unwell and had a ma.s.sive coronary. That is not going to happen on my watch, so if things are getting too much for you, then let me know.'

*I am all right, sir,' Hennessey held up his hand. *Thank you, but I am well on top of things now I have Pharoah, Webster and Ventnor to a.s.sist me, and Sergeant Yellich. I am more desk-bound than anything. I do miss front line policing though and go out when I can.'

*Yes, I have noticed . . . but you are sure you're on top of things?'

*Fully.'

*Good . . . well, like I said, I have no indications to the contrary but I want you to reach retirement. You don't have long to go, unlike me.' Sharkey smiled, he was fully ten years Hennessey's junior. He was a short man, short for a police officer, and an observer would perhaps see him as being immaculately dressed. His desktop was, to Hennessey's mind, always unhealthily neat and uncluttered, very precise and with everything *just so'. Sharkey would not, thought Hennessey, be an easy man to live with. Behind him, on the wall of his office, were two framed photographs, one showing a younger Sharkey in the uniform of an officer in the British Army, and the other showing a similar younger Sharkey in the uniform of an officer in the Royal Hong Kong Police. *The other thing, George . . . it concerns me . . . is what I was part of when I wore that uniform.' He half turned and indicated the photograph of him in the Royal Hong Kong Police. *I keep it there as a kind of presence . . . this photograph,' he indicated the photograph of himself in the Army, *this I am proud of . . . but the Hong Kong experience. I was and remain contaminated. It wasn't what you might call active corruption, it was of a pa.s.sive nature and I was only there for a brief period of time but . . . I was told not to go into a certain area of the city on a specific night and I did not, I took my patrol elsewhere and the following morning there would be a brown paper envelope full of cash in my desk drawer. That's just the way it was. If I had blown the whistle or taken my patrol where I was told not to take it, I would have had my throat cut, I'd disappear, be found floating in the harbour. I got out when I could but I couldn't cope with anything like that here in Micklegate Bar. You must tell me if there is a whiff of anything like that.'

*Yes, sir, I will . . . you have my word.'

*Thank you, George. Thank you.'

The man eyed Yellich with what seemed to Yellich to be an expression of approval and appreciation and also a degree of recognition of a kindred spirit. *You're a hunter,' he said.

Yellich smiled. *A hunter? Confess I have been called many things in my life but a hunter, that's a new one. Why do you say that?'

*It's in your eyes . . . looking, constantly looking . . . left to right . . . noticing but you stand still.'

Yellich pursed his lips. *I'll be careful not to give myself away.'

*You can't hide it, not from someone that can recognize it.'

The man stood in his front garden, spade in hand. He was of a lean, sinewy build. He wore baggy gardening trousers and he had rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. His head was shielded from the sun with a white wide-brimmed canvas cricketer's hat. Beyond the man's garden was a field of ripening wheat and beyond that a small stand of trees, and then began the undulating gra.s.s covered hills of the Yorkshire Wolds, all beneath a vast canopy of blue, scarred at that moment with the vapour trail of an airliner flying high over England from Continental Europe to North America, within which, thought Yellich, the pa.s.sengers in the window seats would be looking down on a panorama of England. *So, they told you where to find me at the pub?' He glanced questioningly at his watch.

*The publican told me. He was outside the pub stacking empty beer kegs. I a.s.sured him that I was making inquiries re the dead bodies found at Bromyards and I only wanted information about poaching on the estate. I told him I wouldn't be getting anybody charged. We're looking for a felon, or felons, who murdered nine women; we are not bothered about a pheasant or two being taken, especially if we haven't received a complaint from the landowner.'

*Fair enough.'

*The publican said that you hadn't done it for a long time and you might have given up the game, but he said that you'd be the man to ask.'

*Charlie? Yes, he's good like that but I haven't retired . . . no poacher ever retires, just stop when they have to but they never decide to stop. If their health fails they'll stop . . . if they get gaoled they'll stop. So, anyway, how can I help you?'

*Well, it's simply this, d.i.c.k,' Yellich said. *You don't mind if I call you d.i.c.k?'

*No . . . d.i.c.k is fine,' d.i.c.k Fallon replied, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. Yellich thought that he also had hunter's eyes, searching, searching and missing little. He drove the spade into the soil and rested one hand upon the handle.

*We have spoken to a few people and they told us that the poachers on the Bromyards estate kept an eye on Mr Housecarl.'

*Yes . . . yes, that's a fair thing to say. He was very good to the village . . . he'll be missed.'

*So we understand. So, the question is, what difficulty would a man or men have in getting a body on to the estate, from the public highway right up to Bromyards and depositing it in the kitchen garden, and do that about once a year for about ten years?'

*Ten bodies?'

*Nine . . .'

d.i.c.k Fallon glanced at the soil he had turned, creating neat lines of deep trenches in the ground, opening it in good time to let the first of the frost in, when autumn arrives. *That is a question because not a lot goes unseen here. Like all villages, you can walk for miles without seeing anybody, but you can put good money on the chance that someone will have their eyes on you at any one time.' Fallon looked around him. *Bad weather would be a good time . . . less game about in the winter; the trout pond will have frozen over . . .'

*Good point.'

*But poachers set snares and will go and check on them all year round.'

*Yes, but less so in the winter?'

*Yes . . . and a rainy, stormy night, that sort of weather keeps the game well down and the poachers well at home.'

*That's a good point. Weekends or weekday?'

*Weekday . . . too many of the village children exploring the grounds at weekends, especially in the summer, but they wouldn't go near the house for fear of disturbing Mr Housecarl, they were very well warned about that.'

*I see,' Yellich nodded, *that is another good point.'

*He or they wouldn't go near the estate in the snow.'

*You think not?'

*I think not. They'd leave tracks and there'd be the danger of getting stuck in a snow drift. The drive is a mile long and not kept clear of snow.'

*Again . . . useful.' Yellich's eye was caught by a yellowhammer which alighted a nearby fence post, one of a number of black pitch pointed staves which separated d.i.c.k Fallon's garden from the adjacent field. He had not seen an example of that species in many, many years and the sight of a relatively rare bird uplifted his spirits.

*You know, if I were up to no good I'd go on the estate in the forenoon come to think of it.'

*Really?'

*Yes, poachers don't like staying out all night; they like to go to bed . . . some have jobs to go to. If they don't, they'll sleep late. So about seven, eight, nine a.m. that would be a good time to drive on to the estate with headlights off and dump a body in the kitchen garden and drive away again, and if the rain was really siling down and the wind was blowing it sideways then, that would be a very good time to do it with little risk of being seen, and if you didn't drive through the village, if you approached from the south and left by the south, you wouldn't have to go through Milking Nook.'

*This has been very useful.'

*I'll put the word round the village. If anyone knows anything, they'll contact you.'

*A tall, well-built man was seen, a "townie". Could be unconnected but we'd like to trace him, though it was about ten years ago that he was seen on the estate . . .'

Fallon smiled a wry knowing smile, *About when it all started, like he was checking the place out? I'll say you want to talk to him . . . but, yes . . . tall, well-built townie. I'll put the word out for you about him as well, though it's probably out already if you've talked to other villagers, but I'll mention it this lunchtime. I take lunch at the pub you see.'

Crestfallen. It was the only word Ventnor could think of to describe David Prebble. He seemed utterly crestfallen. *I did wonder, you couldn't help but wonder.' Prebble looked down at the ground and seemed unable to take his gaze anywhere else. Ventnor saw him as a short, st.u.r.dy man with receding grey hair and who was casually dressed in khaki shorts, leather sandals and a white tee shirt with, somewhat incongruously, Ventnor thought, *Hawaii' emblazoned upon it in eye-catching blue. He seemed to Ventnor to dress like Ventnor did when off duty, sleepily grabbing the first clean item of clothing which came to hand each morning and caring nothing about the image he presented. *You'd better come in, sir.' He stepped aside to allow Ventnor to enter his house. Ventnor found the interior of Prebble's house to be untidy and poorly ventilated and as such, having a musty smell. Ventnor counted three flies buzzing against the window pane and saw a further two contentedly walking across the gla.s.s. *See me,' Prebble smiled meekly, *I'm just not the best housekeeper in the world.' He spoke with a distinct Scottish accent of the Western Isles, softer than the harsh sounding accent of Scotland's Central Belt. *I let things go a wee bit after Angela disappeared and,' he indicated the room, *this is tidy, sir. I mean, I keep things clean, as clean as I can, but I let things lie where I drop them. I know where everything is though. I mean, see that pile of clothes there?' Prebble pointed to a collection of outer garments which occupied an armchair. *In that lot, about halfway down is a pair of binoculars. I haven't used them since spring time two years ago when I took them to the Dales to look for the peregrine falcon that was reported to be there, and they'll stay there until I need them again. My wallet's in my other pair of shorts. This is how I live but our Angie, she couldn't bear anything out of place. Fussy she was and I did wonder if she was one of the women that had been found. Milking Nook . . . what a name for a village, eh?'

*You are Mr Prebble?' Ventnor spoke firmly. *I'm sorry but I have to be certain as to whom I am talking.'

*Yes, sir.' Prebble answered promptly, sharply, deferentially. He was significantly older than Ventnor. *David, "Davy", Prebble . . . railwayman all my days, ticket office clerk. It pays our . . . my, it pays my mortgage. As you see, the house is no fancy mansion.'

*It's very cosy,' Ventnor smiled. It was, he thought, a fair description of the Prebble household, at the back of the railway station, clearly conveniently close to Davy Prebble's place of work. *These are solid houses. There's a lot to be said for houses of this vintage. I would not buy a modern house . . . nothing later than 1939 for me. I have an inter-war house.'

*Good for you, sir. As you say, solidly built, it did me and Angie all right.'

*Good. So . . . I read the missing persons report on Angela. You are . . . you were Mr and Mrs Prebble?'

*No, sir. We were Mr and Miss Prebble, brother and sister. We used to live in a small town, a village really on the Isle of Lewis, it was very Free Church of Scotland, which is really anything but free in its att.i.tude . . . Sabbath observation, no alcohol on Sundays, all amus.e.m.e.nt is sinful and then when our Angie fell pregnant to a local boy . . . well, the shame was too much for her to bear, so she allowed the bairn to be put up for adoption and she grew to regret that decision so she did, and she especially regretted it after moving to England where folk don't think the same . . . not having a wedded parent is not seen as being so bad.'

*No, it's not shameful at all,' Ventnor agreed, *not any more at least.'

*So, well, I'd been out . . . out of the "Wee Free's" influence. I joined the RAF and did three years with them, just the minimum service . . . the air force regiment . . . guarding air fields with my rifle and Alsatian, but it did what I wanted it to do, it freed me from the "Free's", it got me out of Stornoway, got me away from all that att.i.tude. So, when Angie said she couldn't go to the Kirk and be made to stand up in front of the congregation to be named along with all the other fallen women of the town and so was going to leave the island, I said I'd go with her. We pooled our money together, so we did, and worked out how far we could get to, and the answer was York. That was twenty years ago, about that sort of time. We rented accommodation and then got jobs, got a mortgage on this wee house and we moved in and let the neighbours think we were man and wife, until they got to be friends and then we told them the truth, but emphasized we had separate rooms. There was nothing like that going on, sir, not ever, nothing untoward at all.'

*All right . . . all right.'

*Well, do sit down if you can find a s.p.a.ce,' Dave Prebble said with a sheepish smile, *it's all clean. Untidy, yes, but clean. I scrub the bath and toilet and change the bed linen each week, and take clothes to the launderette each week, but things sort of stay where I drop them.'

Ventnor mumbled his thanks and sat on the settee next to a pile of railway enthusiast magazines.

*So, she has been found,' Prebble lowered himself on to a pile of clothing and settled as if perched on them, working his way into them until he was comfortable. *Her body has been found?'

*Possibly. We still have to confirm the ident.i.ty.'

*I understand, but it's going to be her. We were very close and I knew harm had come to her when she didn't return home. She had no reason to run away . . . she had no one to go to. She pined for the bairn but she hated Stornoway and she wouldn't return there. I walked the streets looking for her. I knew I wouldn't find her but I couldn't stay at home . . . those long nights, then they became weeks, then months . . . then years, nearly ten years. I accepted the inevitable a long time ago and realized the only reason the police would call on me was if she had been found.'

*Well, as I say, there is no definite match but a woman . . . the remains of a woman, who was Angela's height and age at the time of Angela's disappearance is one of the remains you have heard about.'

*Yes . . . I did wonder, as I told you. How can I help you?'

*With her positive identification. A full-face photograph, anything with her DNA on it . . . failing that, anything with your DNA will do.'

*DNA. Yes, I heard about that, better at eliminating than proving, I believe?'

*Yes. British courts cannot convict on DNA evidence alone, but as you say, it's useful for eliminating suspects and very useful for establishing ident.i.ties, as in this case.'

*I see. I don't think I have a photograph you can use; we didn't photograph each other as a married couple might. We holidayed separately which is when you'd likely take photographs of each other.'

*All right, but we'll need something of hers.'

*I'll see what's in her room.'

*So what can you tell me about your sister which you think might be relevant to her disappearance?'

*Glad you added that bit at the end,' Prebble grinned, *because I can tell you a lot about her.'

*Yes, imagine you can,' Ventnor smiled. *Did she have any enemies, for instance?'

Prebble teetered back on the pile of clothes. *No, I don't think she did. I think it's safe for me to say that. She had folk she didn't like . . . like all those petty minded Wee Free's at home. She hated the social worker who persuaded her to give up the bairn for adoption when she should have supported her and encouraged her to keep it, and that was before it was born . . . so he was taken from her immediately. She didn't even get to hold him, not even for a few seconds, that "holier than thou" b.i.t.c.h, Angela hated her, but she wasn't even sixteen at the time, she was little more than a child herself. He'll be a man in his twenties now. We don't even know what his Christian name is. So she had a lot of bad feelings for all that crew up there, but I know of no one who'd want to harm her.'

*Fair enough. What did your sister do for a living?'

*Nursery nurse, she worked in a nursery, next best thing to having her own child I suppose.'

*Which nursery was that?'

*St Urban's "First Steps" nursery . . . it's still there, attached to St Urban's Primary School in Escrick, all part of the St Urban's experience. Start at eighteen months, or two years, or three years, go right through to eighteen and leave to attend university. Roman Catholic foundation, a very good school; leave full of Catholic guilt, so they say, but they get excellent results . . . so they say.'

*I see.'

*Well, Angie was down the soft end before they start filling them with the notion of sin and eternal d.a.m.nation. She was all cuddly toys and beginning of speech . . . toilet training. Paid badly but she was content and we survived.'

*Did she have any friends?'

*A few . . . colleagues mostly, but by and large we kept to ourselves.'

*Understood. So what was she like as a person?'

*Angie?' Davy Prebble inclined his head to one side. *I'd describe her as quiet. She would go out occasionally but was always home by nine p.m.'

*Did she meet up with her colleagues in the evening? That is on those evenings that she did go out?'

*I can't tell you, sir, I didn't pry. She just said she had been with "friends".'

*OK . . . but you wouldn't know the names of any of her friends?' Ventnor pressed Prebble.

*Just one, as I recall, she mentioned him once or twice, a guy by the name of Ronald Malpa.s.s.'

Ventnor wrote *Malpa.s.s, Ronald', in his notebook.

*Aye, Ronald, our Angie seemed fair fond of him so she did, fair fond . . . had a lot of time for him.'

*Do you know of his address?'

*Yes . . .' Davy Prebble's eyes brightened and he held up his index finger. *Yes, I do . . . excuse me.' He slid off the pile of clothes and left the room returning a few moments later with a handful of letters. He held them up triumphantly. *This is the mail that Angie received after she went missing. I kept them all, not many, but I kept them all. After a while all that was addressed to her was junk mail, which I put in the bin, but these came for her. So, she disappeared in late November of that year and she got these Christmas cards and one of them,' he looked on the reverse of each card, *one of them . . . yes, this one . . . has the sender's address on the back of the envelope, in the continental style of doing things. Here you are . . .'