Yellich returned to Malton, and parking his car in front of the police station, ensuring that the ‘police’ sign was in the windscreen, he set off on foot, seeking the firm of Ibbotson, Utley and Swales. He amused himself by looking for it, rather than enquiring as to its location. Exercising logic, and the benefit of previous observation, he confined his search to the older part of Malton where he found one solicitors’ office, then another, then an estate agent’s, then beyond that, the building occupied by the firm of Ibbotson, Utley and Swales.

‘Our juniors never let up, not allowed to.’ Julian Ibbotson reclined in his chair in an oak-panelled room which reminded Yellich of Ffoulkes’s office in the Yorkshire and Lancashire Bank in York, the same solid, timeless quality. ‘Every ten minutes has to be accounted for. Not like that when I started, I doubt I could stand the pace. I belong to a different era, thank goodness. Too fast-paced for me, even in sleepy Malton. Retirement beckons, oh my, how it beckons.’

‘You have plans for your retirement, sir?’

‘Oh yes…plans, plans and yet more plans. But enough, I understand that you wish to see me about a client of ours?’

‘Ex-client. Marcus Williams.’

‘Oh yes…Oakfield House, open verdict…eight, ten years ago?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘If you want to access the documents you’ll need a warrant, but I wish to help and so I’ll answer any questions as accurately as I can.’

‘Why do you wish to help?’

‘The open verdict. I’m a lawyer, you are a police officer, we both know what an open verdict means.’ Ibbotson smiled, a thin smile from a long face.

‘A piece of the puzzle is missing?’

‘Yes…his death was no accident, he wasn’t the suicidal type…he had a physical condition which may, nay, certainly would have taken some coming to terms with, but once he’d made the adjustment he had a lot to live for. Foul play cannot be ruled out.’

‘It can’t?’

‘And a police officer from York, not our local branch of the North Yorkshire Constabulary, what, I ask myself is this to do with the double murder of Mr and Mrs Williams of which I read all agog in the Yorkshire Post a day or two ago?’

‘Much,’ said Yellich. ‘Possibly. We are pursuing a line of enquiry, more than one, in fact. Can I ask you who benefited from Mr Marcus Williams’s estate?’

‘His brother. The now also deceased Mr Max Williams.’

‘Quite a sum was involved?’

‘About six million pounds. And that was after death duties. Later he came into another half-million pounds when Oakfield House was sold to those who have come to save us. They and their oxen.’

‘Yes…’

‘Confess I’m more than a little surprised that Mr Max Williams should be living in such a modest bungalow when he died. I saw the photograph in the Post and I nearly fell off my chair. Can you tell me if it was by choice or necessity that he lived in such a small house?’

‘Necessity.’

‘That takes skill.’ Ibbotson fixed Yellich with steely eyes.

‘Getting rid of six million pounds in ten years is an act of consummate skill.’

‘Any other beneficiaries?’

‘Scanner appeal at the hospital in York, plus a charity for disabled persons, quite generous, I suppose, in comparison to the usual donations they receive,, but neither sum made a dent in his estate.’

‘What about his niece and nephew?’

‘I didn’t know he had a niece and nephew and thereby I answer your question. All went to his brother, save a hundred thousand to the scanner appeal and a similar amount to the disabled persons charity.’

As he drove back to York, Louise D’Acre entered Yellich’s mind. He had always seen the Home Office pathologist as being headmistressy in a prim and stuffy sort of way, driving the old Riley as if fashion and modernity didn’t reach her, yet all the time she had been cherishing her father’s memory by nurturing his one and only motor car so that it still gave sterling service long after its design life had expired.

Frightening, he thought, frightening how you can be wrong about people.

Friday

…in which Chief Inspector Hennessey lunches with the Senior Service and afterwards pays a house call.

‘I’m only prepared to speak off the record.’

‘Fair enough,’ grunted Hennessey.

‘Good.’ The man paused. ‘Well, there’s a pub in the village near the base, the Dog and Duck, they do a passable ploughman’s lunch. Shall we say between twelve and twelve-thirty?’

‘Excellent, thank you, sir. I’ll be there.’ Hennessey replaced the receiver gently. Suddenly Patrick Wood came to mind. Patrick, of course…a good bloke, a very good bloke. One more name for the list. He spent the remainder of the morning addressing administrative matters and at eleven-thirty, signed out and drove out towards Knaresborough where he located HMS Halley and the village, and finally the Dog and Duck.

‘Mr Hennessey?’ Commander Timmins revealed himself to be a short man, bespectacled, with a grey suit and white shirt with blue stripes and a dark-blue tie, black shoes. He approached Hennessey confidently as Hennessey entered the pub, lowering his head against the low beams.

‘That’s me.’ The two men shook hands. Each ordered a ham ploughman’s and each a pint of Black Sheep Best. They carried their beer to a table in a bay window composed of many small panes of glass. ‘Nice pub.’

‘Don’t use it often.’ Timmins sipped his beer. ‘It’s the policy of all military bases not to use pubs in the immediate location of the base. It means we don’t dominate the local area in the way that university students dominate their local area, keeps the relationship within the local community more positive than would otherwise be the case. We don’t allow our boys or girls to drink in groups of four or more less than four miles from the base. We call it the “fours rule”. It means that our impact is dissolved over a wider area. But a one-off in mufti, as you see, that’s not against the rules.’

‘Well, thanks for seeing me. It may or may not come to nothing, but it concerns Lieutenant Williams.’

‘Yes?’

‘His parents have been murdered.’

‘I know. He’s told me. He hasn’t given much away, he hasn’t requested compassionate leave, says he doesn’t want it. He says the job keeps his mind occupied and by fortunate coincidence he was based close to home when tragedy struck. Even in today’s shrinking navy, he could still have been anywhere in the world, even as a shore-based officer, yet when tragedy strikes his family, he is based within three hours’ walk of his parents’ house.’

‘Coincidence, as you say.’

‘He’s not a suspect, I hope?’

‘He has no motivation, he won’t benefit from their deaths. They were broke, even their home was about to be repossessed, so we think.’

‘Really? I wonder where he got it from?’

‘It?’

‘The money. He has only a modest salary, but has a sports car and rents accommodation off the base.’

‘He’s allowed to do that?’

‘Oh yes, only the most junior personnel, both officers and other ranks, are kept inside the fence. But once someone has got some time in they can live off the base. So long as they report when they’re expected to report, there isn’t a problem. The real obstacle of living off the base is the cost of accommodation, even with the rent allowance. But money never seemed to be an obstacle to Lieutenant Williams.’

Timmins ceased speaking and both men leaned backwards as a generous ploughman’s lunch was laid before each of them. Timmins smiled at the young waitress and Hennessey said, ‘Thank you. I’ll remember this pub.’

Hennessey took his knife and fork from the paper napkin.

‘So, Williams…yes, he definitely had private means, but so do my other officers. You can’t afford the lifestyle that is expected of you on the salary a junior officer is paid…expected to put in appearances at every party, expected to contribute to parties you know you won’t be attending. Not my lifestyle. Too hectic. The services are a way of life. It’s either for you or it isn’t.’