‘Sailing a desk,’ Williams continued. ‘You tend to be a little more accessible than you would be if you were at sea.’

‘Where a sailor belongs?’

‘I’ll say. But you wanted me to phone you?’

‘Yes. It’s concerning your parents.’

‘My parents?’

They are Max and Amanda Williams of Old Pond Road in?’

‘Yes. Yes. Those are they.’

‘We responded to a call from a concerned neighbour, this morning, who reported that he has not seen your parents since Saturday last, but would in the course of events expect to see them near daily, by all accounts. I didn’t attend myself.’

‘They should be at home.’

‘Well, this is the reason for my call. I didn’t want to force entry if they were on holiday, for example.’

‘Yes…but no…they should be there.’ A note of concern crept into Williams’s voice. ‘Could I ask you to go and have a look inside the house?’

‘Is there a key?’

‘In the garage. The garage door is held on a latch but isn’t locked as such. Shelf right-hand side, two glass jars full of paraffin and nuts and bolts. Between the two jars…it’s just above head height, can’t see the key but you can reach it very easily. It’s the key to the back door of the bungalow. If you come to need the front door key that’ll be hanging up in the kitchen.’

‘We’ll get back to you.’ Hennessey replaced the phone and shouted, ‘Sergeant Yellich!’

‘Yes, boss?’

Hennessey stood and reached for his hat as Yellich came into his office.

‘I want you to take a couple of constables and make a brief search at this address; twenty-eight, Old Pond Road, Bramley on Ouse. It’s a village, north of York off the A19.’

‘Yes, boss.’ Yellich nodded vigorously.‘Two middle-aged householders reported missing. Their son says they should be at home. There’s a key for the back door in the garage.’ Hennessey told him exactly where. ‘Go and see what you find, but tread carefully. Even if you don’t find anything immediately suspicious, still treat it as a crime scene.’

‘’Course, boss. You’re not coming?’

‘No. I’m going to have some lunch.’

Sergeant Yellich, followed by two constables, entered the Williamses’ bungalow by the rear door, having located the key exactly where they had been told it would be found.

Inside, 28, Old Pond Road revealed itself to be a bungalow of even more modest proportions than was suggested by the modest exterior lines. The kitchen Yellich found to be small and cramped, the main bedroom had space only for the double bed and a dressing table and wardrobe. The living room and dining room seemed swamped by the furniture they contained, so much so that Yellich was put in mind of the new build estates, the show houses of which have scaled-down furniture; buy one and then try making the double bed fit into the bedroom. The bungalow was kept neatly, to an everything-in-its-place perfection. The only thing possibly out of place was the Sunday Times ‘Culture’ section, left sprawling on the settee opened at last Saturday’s television listings. A small alcove off the dining room had been turned into a study, with a bureau pushed in sideways and a chair hard up against it for want of floor space, so that any person sitting on the chair would have to have his, or her, legs splayed on either side of it. Yellich lifted up the bureau lid and found the interior to be a neat ordering of documents and papers. Nothing appeared to have been touched. There was no sign of violence, no sign of unlawful entry. And most importantly, there were no dead bodies. A neat, well-ordered house; clean too, thought Yellich. Very clean, a strong smell of bleach and disinfectant, perhaps accentuated by the hothouse effect of all windows and doors being shut on a succession of very hot days. That would cause a staleness of the air and enhance odours. The garden too, like the house, was kept to millimetre-exact perfection: a neat lawn, a weedless border in which grew flowers. A garden hut stood to one side of the lawn. He returned his attention to the interior of the house. He found a cheque book in the joint names of Max and Amanda Williams. On the dressing table in the bedroom, he found a ladies’ watch and a little hard cash, about twenty pounds, he guessed. He also found a ladies’ handbag, cluttered with possessions. Clearly the handbag in present use by the lady of the house. This worried him. It was his observation that women do not go far without their handbag. Not voluntarily anyway.

The house, he decided, was a crime scene. He left one constable and a car at the house, in the front drive, and returned to Micklegate Bar with the other constable. He opened a ‘mis per’ file on Max and Amanda Williams. He then phoned HMS Halley, Knaresborough, and asked to speak to Lieutenant Williams. He told the lieutenant what he had found and obtained a description of Max and Amanda Williams.

Having lunched to his great satisfaction at the fish restaurant on Lendal, Hennessey walked the walls back to Micklegate Bar, joining the ancient battlements at Lendal Bridge. The walls were crowded with tourists who weaved skilfully in and out of each other, and again he thought, as he often did on such occasions, that the York Tourist Board would be well advised to introduce a one-way system for the walking of the walls, at least in the summer months. He fell in behind a party of schoolchildren, about thirty in number, about twelve years of age, all sensibly, he thought, dressed in yellow T-shirts and scarlet baseball-style caps, making each very conspicuous for the four teachers he saw to be in charge of the group. Very, very sensible in such a crowded city. To his right across Station Road was the railway station with its expensive canopy, which when it was built in 1877, was the largest structure in the world. To his left he could discern the roof and platform of the original station which was built ‘within the walls’. The original archways for which he could identify under Queen Street as it climbed up to Micklegate Bar. Hennessey enjoyed working in York, though it was not his native city. He enjoyed its compactness, especially of the city centre, really the size of a small town, but benefiting from being steeped in history, an important town from Roman times to the present day, with a magnificent minster, one of the great churches of Europe, which was allowed to dominate the townscape.

No angular high-rises here. The prestigious university, he thought, diplomatically placed on the edge of the town, in parkland with lakes and wide spaces and of brick buildings of only medium-rise proportions. Sometimes the underside of York, less pleasant, would reveal itself, when the agricultural workers or the miners came into town on a Saturday evening, wanting their beer. But Hennessey was well content to work in the city and live a little way outside it. He left the walls at Micklegate Bar and entered the narrow entrance of the police station. He checked his pigeonhole, just a handwritten note from Sergeant Yellich, who felt the bungalow at 28, Old Pond Road, Bramley on Ouse, ought to merit the status of crime scene, and he had opened a missing persons file in the first instance in respect of Max and Amanda Williams.

He went to the CID rooms and found Yellich in his office, sitting with his feet up on his desk, eating sandwiches and reading an early edition of the Yorkshire Evening Post.

‘Sandwiches again, Yellich?’

‘My wife makes them up, boss. Cheap and convenient.’

‘Haven’t you noticed that they make you sleepy in the afternoon? All those enzymes.’

‘What, boss?’

‘Enzymes, Yellich, enzymes. It’s the stuff in bread that makes you sleepy. My office when you’re ready.’ Hennessey returned to his office. He had avoided eating bread at lunchtime since that terrible day very early in his career when, as a young constable, he had eaten sandwiches in the police canteen and had a few hours later fallen asleep in the rear of an airless court, his snores bringing on an acid comment from His Honour, followed the next morning by an ‘interview’ with the Chief Constable. But he had observed that the best lessons in life are often the hardest learned, and had from that day hence avoided bread at lunchtime and found himself exhorting others to do the same. He lowered himself into his chair as Yellich appeared at the doorway of his office, mug of tea in one hand, the last of a sandwich in the other.