A metal detector.

She had always found such devices loathsome. Men walking across fields, sweeping the thing from side to side before them; scavenging. If they were birds, they'd be vultures. And here he was still wanting to be called "Gaz" as he had been when six years old, tearing off the wrapping of his new toy, with six weeks of uninterrupted school holidays to play with it in. And while his wife and children wanted attention, and despite his complaining about the tightness of the household budget, he'd flashed his credit card and had indulged himself. It was then that Sandra Schofield "saw" her husband, and when she did, her home in Dorset beckoned, and beckoned warmly.

Gary "Gaz" Schofield, insensitive to his wife's coldness, to her ever-increasing emotional distance, not even noticing that she was rummaging in the cupboard where their suitcases were kept, announced that he was going out for the day, but he'd be back for dinner. Without waiting for her reply, he left the house, metal detector, instruction manual and small spade in hand, and walked to where his gleaming car stood in the driveway.

He drove to the countryside east of York, to the area of Roman roads and ancient settlements. It was a hot day, flat field of golden corn or yellow oil seed lay about him, a distant horizon, a vast blue sky. He drove off the main road onto a "B" road, and from the "B" road he turned up an unmarked track on which he parked the car. From the track he walked up a path to a small wood, one of many small woods which serve to break up the landscape in the Vale of York. As he approached the wood, detector in hand, he saw a sign nailed to a tree at the edge of the wood "Private Wood Keep Out". He smiled. That sign he thought would serve to keep many people out and so with luck, he'd be the first metal detector owner to use his device in this location.

He stepped into the shade of the wood, in which many flies swarmed, and saw that the wood with its smooth mossy floor leant itself well to detecting. He put on the headphones, switched on the machine and began to criss-cross the wood, sweeping the machine widely before him. At first he found nothing, but he kept on sweeping because like all who pursue the hobby, he knew that the next sweep could bring about the earthenware pot of coins that had been buried in order to prevent the Romans from looting them, or another such similar discovery: such discoveries being made from time to time in the soil of England.

Then his headphones buzzed. He took them off and laid down the detector, and began to dig with the small spade. About a foot down he came across a metal torch, about twenty years old. He went down further and came across a rucksack also of a design which he recalled being popular about twenty years ago, an aluminium frame on a Terylene sack, still red in colour. Digging further, he struck a hard object, but not metal. He sc.r.a.ped the soil away. He saw it was a skull.

A human skull.

Harriet Cooper was a tortured woman. A haunted, tortured woman, and she knew the torture now would be endless. She would take it to her grave. If she was by herself she would have gone to the police and confessed, but she had a husband to consider, a man of standing, the scandal would ruin him and he knew nothing of what had happened all those years earlier, before they had met. And she had teenage children, both settled in school, both wanting to become doctors like their father.

The memory, when it returned, came in pieces. It came suddenly, the first bit, sewing a patch on her son's jeans: the night in the wood, the hole, the smell of freshly turned soil, the scent of summer vegetation, sharpened because of the recent shower of rain . . . then all she could do was sit there, wondering whether she had remembered a dream. Two days later she had accepted that it was no dream, but that she really had once helped to bury a body.

And the body was that of Norbert Parkes. Poor Norbert, little Norbert, university life for him was not a good experience, just another rejection in a life which had been a series of rejections . . . then two days later, the memory of the murder itself. Miles swinging the pick axe handle down on Norbert's head from behind . . . and the sound of a woman screaming, then realizing that she had been the only woman present. And what was it that Miles had said as he looked down on the body . . . what was it? Oh, yes, "Take death easy, Norbert, take death easy".

Then at the moment if either she or Cameron had picked up the phone, called the police, it would have been alright, not for Norbert, not for Miles, but for them, she and Cameron, because they had no idea what Miles was going to do, even Miles didn't seem to premeditate it. That's what it seemed like. Miles just couldn't contain his contempt for Norbert any longer, and then Norbert's head sticking up above the back of the chair, Miles just happened to be walking past with a pick axe handle in his hand . . . everything conspired at one to make Norbert's head an irresistible target.

But Miles had a way of controlling people and before she knew what she was doing, she was helping Miles and Cameron bundle Norbert's little body into the back of Cameron's old Land Rover to carry it to where Miles knew was a private wood. And there they buried him, possessions and all, cheap, inexpensive possessions. Then they had returned to Miles' parents house and collected the rest of Norbert's possessions, his bus ticket, his cheap sleeping bag, the small pile of coins on the bedside cabinet. And when they had finished, Norbert Parkes had never been in the house.

The very next day Miles' parents had returned from their holiday in Jamaica and thanked Miles and his two university friends for "sitting" the house for them, and hoped that the "three of you" had had a pleasant two weeks in "our house". After lunch that day, she and Cameron had driven back to York in total silence. At York Station she had gotten out of the Land Rover without a word being spoken or without a backward glance. And that had been the last she had seen of Cameron McKay or Miles Trewlawney.

She and Miles and Cameron were all now in their early forties. She, until she recovered the memory, had been a fulfilled and privileged woman, and all three had remained in the vale. McKay Electronics was Cameron's contribution to the micro technology boom, and Trewlawney, Wells and Isles was a feared firm of solicitors, and had acted for one of her husband's patients when he had tried, unsuccessfully, to sue for medical negligence. The headed notepaper described Miles Trewlawney as one of the "senior partners".

She began to return to the wood. When they had left the wood that day dawn had broken and they had sat, the three of them side by side in a stunned silence, in Cameron's Land Rover. She remembered the journey back to the Trewlawney house, white painted, standing in its own grounds, and so twenty years later, she had little difficulty retracing the route to the vicinity of the wood. The next step was to visit each small wood and copse in the location until she found one marked "Private Wood Keep Out" which she found with ease. In the wood she located the spot where Norbert had been buried. She began to re-visit the wood, near twice weekly, drawn by some horrific fascination, drawn as she had read all murderers are to the scene of their crime, over and over again. But that Monday, blisteringly hot, the first Monday in August, the wood was different. Not standing in isolation as usual with no activity about it, it had now become a focus of much activity.

Police activity.

Harriet Cooper drove on but she knew from that moment her life was effectively over.

In which Chief Inspector Hennessey takes charge.

George Hennessey woke with the sun as he found he often did, early rising in the summer, rising on time but with difficulty in the deep mid-winter. He dressed, went downstairs, breakfasted, let Oscar romp in the rear garden of his house. He propped the main back door open but locked the grill with its dog flap so that Oscar could come and go as he pleased during the day. He drove from Thirsk across flat country to York, to Micklegate Bar Police Station and was at his desk by 8.30 a.m. He had then driven to Northallerton and the H.Q. of the North Yorkshire Police to attend the monthly "Chief Inspector Meeting". He returned to York for lunch to be informed that Sergeant Yellich required his attendance at a location to the east of the city. "Body discovered, sir," the uniformed officer said. "Shallow grave job, I believe." Hennessey decided to forego lunch.

"Gentleman here found it, skipper." Yellich indicated to Schofield who stood with his metal detector looking pleased with himself. "Or rather his metal detector did."

Hennessey glanced at the screen which encircled a small area of the wood. "Who's here?"

"Dr D'Acre, skipper."

Hennessey nodded and walked to the screen, opened the flap and stepped inside. Louise D'Acre, slender, short hair, slightly greying, knelt over the body in the shallow grave, by now completely uncovered. She glanced up at Hennessey and then she looked down at the body again. "Young male," she said, "early twenties, short and slight of build, distinctive red hair, there's a few strands remaining. He sustained a ma.s.sive blow to the back of the head. That would have killed him, if he hadn't been already dead."

"Already dead?"

"Well, we can't rule out the possibility that he was poisoned or strangled or suffocated, and the blow on the head was just to make sure or if he had been suffocated and his body dropped head first from a high place to make it look as though he fell to his death, but I doubt that will be the case." She stood and peeled off her latex gloves. "No point in burying him then is there?"

"Point taken."

"There were some possessions buried with him."

"Were there indeed?"

"Beyond the screen."

Hennessey stepped out from the screen to where Yellich stood. "Items found with the body?"

"Here, skipper." Yellich bent down and picked up a production bag, one rucksack, pockets contained a few things, one of which . . . he delved into the bag and brought out a small clearer bag of cellophane, which contained an I.D. card. "Norbert Parkes, a member of the National Union of Students, least he was twenty years ago. University of York." He handed the cellophane sachet to Hennessey who pondered the photograph. A thin-faced youth with striking red hair, the I.D. card clearly having been preserved by the thick plastic wallet it was held in, and the Terylene of the rucksack, and several feet of soil to keep out the sun's rays and the frost's damage.

"Get on to the university please Yellich, have an address of one of their students of twenty years hence . . . you know the name."

"He's in a meeting."

"Tell him it's personal and urgent." The phone line clicked and the Blue Danube Waltz was played, reached the end of the tune then started again.

"McKay!" The voice was angry, ill-tempered.

"It's Harriet Cooper."

"I don't know a Harriet Cooper. I'm in an important meeting, I have to get back to it."

"Harriet . . . 'Hat' . . . 'Hat' Sewell."

A pause.

"Hat . . ."

"Cameron, they've found Norbert's body."

A sigh. A longer pause.

"Cameron . . ."

"Yes, I'm still here. We've got to meet."

"Yes."

"I'll phone Miles."

"Are you still in touch with him?"

"No. Not since that day."

"I only recently remembered doing it."

"I never forgot it, not a single day goes by . . . but . . . When is a good time to phone?"

"Mid afternoon but not at weekends. My husband's a doctor, this will ruin him. I've got two children at school."

"I've got a business worth three million pounds which will sink if I don't stay at the helm. And three children. And a wife."

"What are we going to do? But we owe Norbert. We owe his family."

"Nothing. Do nothing. If in doubt, do nothing. I'll phone you at home. You'd better let me have your number."

The University Registrar provided the police with Norbert Parkes' address as recorded by them. It was in Bridlington. Hennessey and Yellich drove there. The address proved to be in small hotel land, near the beach, tall, thin terraced houses with names like "Seaview", "Holmlea" and "Morevilla". Many had "no vacancies" signs in the window, attesting to the busy August period, when the coal mines and steelworks in the industrial north close for two or three weeks, the "stop weeks" for maintenance when the steel workers and miners take their families to "Brid" for a fortnight and stay at "Seaview" or "Holmlea" or "Morevilla": bed, breakfast and evening meal.

The address provided by the university specifically was 147, Cannaby Terrace. Hennessey and Yellich parked their car as close as they could and then walked to 147, along the terrace, savouring the sea air, the smell of fish and the glimpse of the blue North Sea upon which, a long way out, a white ship sailed northwards. Number 147 was called "Sandene" and had c.o.c.klesh.e.l.ls cemented to the stone gateposts and also a "no vacancies" sign in the window. Hennessey and Yellich stepped up to the front door and rang the bell. Half an hour later the worst was over.

"They wouldn't sell the hotel in case Norbert returned." Thomas Parkes, a heavily jowled man, remained to speak to Hennessey and Yellich after Mrs Parkes had left the house tearfully to go to their church to light a candle, and Mr Parkes had excused himself to be by himself for a while. "They retired about ten years ago. Their living room is in the bas.e.m.e.nt, their bedroom is in the attic, the middle bit of the house was the guests area, all gone a bit musty now as you see."

"What did you know of your brother's last movements?"

"Movements or moments?"

"Movements."

"Pleased you said that," Thomas Parkes forced a smile, "because of his last moments I know nothing. I don't want to know anything. But at least now the waiting is over. Now we bury him. Say goodbye properly. Last time I saw Norbert he was off to visit some university friends. He'd just graduated, not a good cla.s.s of degree, but he could use it and said that he'd been invited to help sit a house."

"Sit a house?"

"As in babysitting. Live in a house while the occupants are away so as to keep the property occupied to deter burglars."

"I see. You don't know were that was or whose house?"

"I don't. Norbert only had one friend at university. It wasn't a good experience for him. He was out of his depth, intellectually and socially. Didn't get acceptance, always a bit of a hanger-on."

"You saw that?"

"No . . . just things he said. Messages he gave out. When he visited home he always caught the last train back. Sometimes he managed to miss that and had an extra night at home . . . messages like that. I went to teacher training college, less taxing, not as pukka . . . I got on better for that. Norbert would have been better going to a teacher training college, more his level. Less of a bad experience for him. He came away using an expression . . . 'take life easy' . . . which irritated me."

"It would irritate me too." Hennessey glanced out of the grimy window which looked out to the rear of the house and to the backs of the houses which lined the next street.

"He had no confidence. Ask him what he was going to do with his degree and he'd say he was going to 'take life easy for a while'. He allowed it to enter his thinking and was an excuse for doing nothing. He was like a hippy from the 1960s but without the culture; 'laid back' all by himself but it was a reaction to a lack of confidence. So the body, it's definitely Norbert?"

"More than likely. Your description fits the description given by the pathologist Dr D'Acre of the appearance of the body as it would be in life. The NUS ID card was found in the rucksack."

"I remember his rucksack, a red one."

"Sounds like it is him. The dental check will confirm it. You'll be able to let us have the name of Norbert's dentist?"

"Mr Vere, Station Terrace, Bridlington."

Yellich wrote the name and address in his notebook.

"And Norbert's friend?"

"Fella called Joe, Joe Patterson. I have Norbert's address book upstairs, if that would help you."

"Ideal," Hennessey smiled. "Ideal."

In which a man of the cloth provides three names and the police decide to rattle a cage or two.

By virtue of the address book, the only "Joe" in the book was deemed to be Joseph Patterson. The phone number beside the name was twenty years old but was rung nonetheless. It proved to be the number of "Joe's" mother, who provided the police with "dear Joseph's" present address, in Harrogate. One hour later Hennessey and Yellich knocked on his door.

"Oh, Norbert." Joe Patterson had invited the police officers through the pleasant chaos of his house, wife, children, dog, cat, hamsters, to the sanct.i.ty and the tranquillity of his study. "He didn't have an easy time of it. It's difficult to be accepted if you're not particularly bright, don't have a perceptible personality, don't come from the middle cla.s.ses."

"Which was Norbert Parkes?"

"As you say." Patterson sat back, wearing his clerical collar and smooth front, b.u.t.tonless shirt. "He had nothing to offer, basically that was his problem, no image, no academic skills, no interest outside the course that he could talk about or that would give himself an aspect to himself. He wanted to belong, as we all do, but had nothing to offer as a means of gaining acceptance. So he became a bit of a hanger-on."

"Do you remember your social circle at the university?"

"Oh, like yesterday. Let me see. I suppose the leader of the group was Miles Trewlawney, came from a well established legal family in the Vale of York. He had a real down on Norbert, gave him a hard time, resented people like Norbert attending the university. He was a real sn.o.b. I didn't take to him, but I did like 'Hat' Sewell, Harriet to give her her full name, and a Scots lad called Cameron McKay. I was accepted by them and Norbert latched on to me. And we socialized together throughout the three years of the course, with Norbert 'taking life easy' all the time."

"That's an expression we've heard before today."

"It was Norbert's catch phrase. His excuse for not applying himself. He'd 'dropped out' without ever really having 'dropped in'. I don't know the full extent of his home circ.u.mstances, his background, his growing up, but he wasn't equipped for life. The overindulged younger son perhaps? I don't know. But university was a shock when he found he wasn't the centre of attention and that he was expected to work for his grades. A bit 'disabled' in a sense. I suppose that's why I allowed him to latch on to me."

"The last time you saw him?"

"After graduation. The last time I heard of him though was when I was invited to help Miles housesit his parent's house. He phoned me up and added with a sn.i.g.g.e.r that 'Norbert will be there'. I declined. I knew Miles Trewlawney, I knew his invitation to Norbert was only so as to show Norbert what he was missing in terms of quality of lifestyle and to have him there as the b.u.t.t of all jokes and patronizing comments. And I also thought I'd done enough for Norbert. That was the summer after graduation, twenty years ago. How time flies."

Driving back to York Hennessey asked Yellich to prepare a press release, stating that the body discarded in the wood in the Vale of York "is believed to be that of Norbert Parkes who disappeared, aged twenty-one years, twenty years ago".

"That," said Hennessey, "ought to rattle a cage."

"Or two," added Yellich, keeping his eyes on the road.

Tuesday In which three well-set, middle-cla.s.s felons learn the meaning of Dame Agatha Christie's observation that "the past casts long shadows".

Harriet Cooper noted with distaste how overweight Miles Trewlawney had grown and was impressed how, despite his wealth, how youthful and slender Cameron McKay had remained. They had arranged the meeting at short notice, a rapid ringing round, a meeting place had been agreed as being the car park behind the Rising Sun, a pub they used to drive out to in their student days. The three had arrived within five minutes of each other. She had the modest Ford, her family's second car, Cameron McKay had a Mercedes Benz, and Miles, of course, had a Rolls Royce. They approached each other, nodding sheepishly. This was not the sort of joyful, hugging, hand-shaking reunion that they might have envisaged having when in their youth.

"It was on the mid-evening news last night," Harriet Cooper said.

"I heard it too," Cameron McKay nodded. "Believed to be Norbert Parkes. It's only a matter of time before they confirm ident.i.ty. I read they can match dental records because teeth don't decay, well not like flesh. I mean that . . ."

"We know what you mean." Miles Trewlawney cut him off.

"We've got to go to the police." Harriet Cooper was urgent, agitated. "Make a clean breast of it."

"No." Trewlawney avoided eye contact. "There'll be no police."

"Thought you might say that, Miles." Cameron McKay glanced coldly at him. "You've more to lose than we have. And further from grace to fall, not only your position, but your family's hard earned reputation in the Vale. What are you, third generation in the firm?"

"Fifth actually. Well fifth in the family. Third since we amalgamated with Wells and Isles and Co."