‘Yes, sounds like her,’ Hennessey groaned, ‘and Becky is yet another alias, Julia and Edith being two others. Doubtless there will be more.’
‘Well, this is a small town, Mr Hennessey, and the brothers and sisters all know each other . . . she gave her name as Becky Lecointe.’
Hennessey stood and walked to the serving hatch. He returned with another whisky and placed it in front of the man and said, ‘So, tell me what you know about Becky Lecointe.’
‘Well, she got to know the boys and girls in the Den.’
‘Being the taproom of The Mitre in Blossom Street?’
‘Might be . . .’ The man picked up the glass of whisky and savoured the bouquet.
‘It is . . . but carry on.’
‘Well, it explains why I drink in here at lunchtimes. I have to be discreet, you understand. It’s a long way from Blossom Street in York terms, and it also explains why sometimes I insist on meeting your good self out of town.’
‘I remember,’ Hennessey growled. ‘I can’t decide whether or not my abiding dislike for Rotherham is greater than my abiding dislike for Doncaster . . . but thank you for introducing me to both towns. My life is enriched by the experiences of visiting both.’
‘Please,’ the man sipped his drink lovingly, ‘but it is necessary to be discreet, as I said. I play a dangerous game, Mr Hennessey, it’s part of the thrill and while we all will meet our maker I do not wish to bring that unique event upon me any sooner than I have to.’
‘That I can understand,’ and again pain ran deep within Hennessey’s chest, two shafts, one for Jennifer and one for Graham. ‘So . . . in your own words . . .’
‘The Canadian . . . thief.’
‘Yes.’
‘Selling jewellery she’d half inched. She got a better price for it in the Den than in the pawnbrokers. Folk only do that if it’s half inched. If it’s theirs and they want it back then they pawn it. But she was interested only in getting all the cash she could. So it was pinched. Also a few wallets.’
‘She dipped?’
‘Oh yes . . . a woman’s touch you understand, more adept at getting inside a man’s inside pocket.’
‘Strange we never got to know her . . . she must have been good . . . in a criminal sense of the word.’
‘The Canadian police do.’
‘Do they?’
‘So she said. She was anxious to return to Canada, she was unhappy in the UK. Me, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere but the UK, dare say she feels the same way about Canada, or felt the same, I should say. Home being home . . . wherever the heart is an’ all that stuff.’
‘Yes.’ Hennessey glanced up at the frosted glass of The Speculation Inn. Through the areas of clear glass he saw dark clouds looming ominously and rapidly.
‘So she told us she was waiting until the heat died down before going back; it seems that for her it was a case of any port in a storm.’
‘I see.’ Hennessey sipped his drink. ‘Strange she found The Mitre.’
‘She was in the area for a good few months before she found us, but like always finds like. If you hang around any city long enough you’ll find your own kind. Story was that she needed a fence, someone to take the stolen stuff off her, and eventually she found The Mitre. She really was in a good way of business. She even turned windows. Very unusual for a woman, and a woman of her years as well.’
‘Turned windows!’
‘Yes, she was a most adept burglar. Most adept. Or she could con and would con and charm her way into an old person’s house. She had a calm manner and a ready smile. She also had an ID card.’
‘Of?’
‘A social worker. She had dipped a social worker, found his ID in his wallet and realizing its usefulness she had kept it. The photo was a clean shaven, dark-haired young male, but it was all that was needed to con a partially sighted elderly person desperate for company, as so many of them are. So she would get into the elderly person’s house, leave with something of value and unload it in the Den. She wanted cash . . . only cash, as we all do. Wouldn’t take it to a jeweller who’d be suspicious, and they have CCTV in their shops. So it was either the Den or the pawnbroker but she preferred the Den. If she couldn’t sell it in the Den only then would she pawn it. I used to feel sorry for her husband, poor soul.’
‘Oh . . .’ Hennessey sipped his tonic water. ‘Why?’
‘Well, he’s thinking he’s got a nice wife to come home to and all the while she’s roaming the Vale . . . and out to the coast.’
‘The coast?’
‘Oh yes, where do you go when you retire but the coast? Lots of easy pickings on the coast.’ He sipped his whisky.
‘She was doing this recently?’
‘Last week. She did a house last week somewhere and had got herself a bag of gold and ice. It was all worth thousands but she sold it for hundreds.’
‘Some woman,’ Hennessey shook his head. ‘We think someone was looking for her. Do you know anything about that?’
‘Yes,’ the man leaned forwards, ‘she was a frightened woman. Someone was on her trail, hunting her, and she was frightened of him. The wig, you see, an attempt at disguise. She’d take it off in the Den but put it on when it was time to leave.’
‘Did she drink?’
‘No, well always only fruit juice. Never touched booze. Playing safe. Can’t be the dutiful wife, his to come home to, with breath smelling of booze.’
‘Astounding.’
‘Not a nice woman at all. Couldn’t trust her, even among thieves. It doesn’t surprise me at all that someone offed her. Does not surprise me at all. Not in the slightest.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me either.’ Hennessey glanced round the room, the hard bench which stood against the wall, the circular brass-topped tables with stools around them, low ceiling, no decoration at all, hardwearing floor surface. The Speculation had not ever been modernized, as if, it seemed to Hennessey, it was waiting to be discovered by the real ale real pub brigade. ‘Just who was she?’
The man shrugged and smiled and pushed his glass across the shiny brass surface of the table, holding a pleading manner of eye contact with Hennessey as he did so.
‘No more for you, Shored-Up, not from my pocket, but if you get a line on the fella that was looking for her, then contact me. If it’s good news you’ll get a serious wedge.’
‘And perhaps also a good word in for me with my probation officer, Miss Pratt? Oh my . . . a tyrant . . . what with her and the youth who informed on me . . . my life is a trifle difficult at the moment.’
‘Maybe. The fella who was looking for Becky is also a Canadian, well built, chequered or tartan jacket, beard, fur hat, likes British beer. Strange that, stalking someone to kill them but finding time to enjoy the local beer as though he was on holiday.’ Hennessey stood. ‘But do try and get by on the dole. No more Lt Colonel Smythe (retired) of the Devon and Dorsets, or you’ll be back in the slammer. And you know how much you like all those rough boys.’
‘Too late for me to learn new skills, Mr H, far too late, I’m an old dog now.’
‘And keep your appointments with Miss Pratt.’
‘She’s a tyrant, still only in her twenties and a tyrant already.’
‘That,’ Hennessey buttoned his coat, ‘sounds exactly like the probation officer you need.’
The owner of the Broomfield Hotel smiled a warm, wide smile and opened the booking ledger. She was a small framed woman, dressed in a business suit and giving off a soft aroma of perfume. ‘Two rooms, gentlemen?’
‘No rooms,’ Yellich showed his ID. ‘Sorry,’ he added with a smile.
He thought the woman’s smile in response was forced. Business could not be good for the Broomfield Hotel, Malton. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
‘Well, it is a seasonal sort of business, winter is always a low time and this winter seems to be hanging on, quite reluctant to go. We get a few businessmen in the winter, that carries us through, or folk staying here while they are looking up relatives. So how can I help you?’ Mrs Stand continued to smile warmly.
‘We were told you recently put up a Canadian gentleman, tall man, beard, chequered or tartan jacket, seemed to like local beer. Quite recently . . . a matter of days ago.’
‘Yes . . . yes, we did. What would you like to know about him?’
‘All you can tell us.’
The dining room of the Broomfield Hotel was, said the proprietor, ‘as good a place as any to talk’ and she escorted them there. The room had ten tables; all the tables had white cloths and cutlery lay neatly in wooden trays upon a sideboard. The room smelled of furniture polish and air freshener. The world passed the room on the other side of net curtains.
‘Well, he came,’ said the woman as she and the officers sat at one of the larger tables. ‘His name . . . can’t recall his last name but his first name was Piers . . . he liked to be called Piers.’
‘Yes, the publican gave that name.’
‘He paid cash as I recall, so never any cheque or credit card, so I never found out his surname. Doubt if I would remember it if I did . . . my memory . . . it was never good and now it’s getting worse.’
‘You remember his Christian name though,’ Yellich spoke softly.
‘Only because Piers is a name that has personal significance for me. It’s my brother’s name.’
‘I see. So what sort, what manner of man was he?’
‘Well I remember he had a warm manner but his mind was focused. He was not here on holiday. He was one of those guests who stay here because he had a task to fulfil. He came here a few times over the years. First time must have been about two years ago . . . last time was a few days ago, as you said. If you are in this business you remember the good guests and you remember the bad guests and you remember the regulars. You also get a feel for guests. I grew up in a guest house in the Lake District so I have been in this game one way or another all my life and you do get a feel . . . and Piers was a man with a mission.’
‘He never said what that mission was?’ Yellich probed. ‘No indication even?’
‘No,’ the proprietor shook her head, ‘no, he played his cards close to his chest. Piers was a good guest, clean . . . neat . . . well spoken . . . quiet . . . reserved. He went out each morning and returned each evening with beer on his breath but his conduct was still perfect so he didn’t drink a lot. He was always in by ten which is when I lock the door. I can’t keep the door open all night like a big hotel can. I have a maid who helps but at night, in the evenings, I am by myself, I don’t even have a dog. I can’t retire for the night and leave the front door unlocked. That would be asking for trouble.’
‘Of course,’ Webster agreed, ‘that would be unwise . . . even in civilized Malton.’
‘Do you know how he travelled about?’ Yellich asked.
‘Car.’
‘You didn’t get the registration number?’ Yellich asked hopefully.
The proprietor shook her head and smiled sheepishly as if to say, ‘sorry, no’.
‘So when did he leave this last time?’
‘See . . . Thursday today, it would be Tuesday, Tuesday in the evening. Yes, my bridge night. I host a bridge school here each Tuesday and I remember that I had to leave the table to allow him to settle his bill . . . so Tuesday. Definitely Tuesday, two evenings ago.’
‘You will have cleaned his room by now?’
‘Yes and re-let it but if you wish to inspect it to look for fingerprints or whatever, then please do so.’
‘Thank you, we’ll do that,’ Yellich nodded. ‘He might have left us a print on an obscure surface. Is the room being let out at the moment?’
‘No, the guest who had that room left this morning.’
‘Well, if you could keep it empty, the SOCO boys will be here tomorrow.’
‘SOCO?’
‘Scene of Crime Officers.’
‘Ah . . . but yes, of course. I am quiet at the moment, as you have seen . . . no problem about keeping one room un-let.’
‘Thank you. He didn’t leave any item, any possession behind him?’
‘No, sorry, he didn’t. Some guests leave their room looking like one large dustbin; just leave anything they don’t want and leave it anywhere they wish, floor . . . on the bed . . . anywhere, but Piers, he picked up after himself. He was one of the good guests. I could do with more like him.’
‘I see. Did he ever ask directions or seek local knowledge or any other information?’ Yellich asked.
‘No . . . no . . . Piers was very independent, very self-reliant. He did have a road map of the area, I saw him looking very studiously at it over breakfast one morning. But he never asked directions or where anything was, he was just the quiet Canadian who only spoke if he was spoken to. Quiet but also with a purpose, who cleaned up his room after him, paid in cash, and left.’
Hennessey grunted in response to the gentle and reverent tap on his office door. He glanced up and saw Carmen Pharoah standing at the door frame. He thought she looked worried. He said so.
‘Yes, sir,’ Carmen Pharoah entered the room and stood in front of Hennessey’s desk. She held a piece of paper in her hand. ‘I have contacted the Canadians, sir, to notify them of the death of Edith Hemmings née Avrillé, just to note them of her death; it is really up to her husband to notify the next of kin.’
‘Yes.’
‘But . . .’ she sank unbidden on to the chair in front of Hennessey’s desk, ‘there is a lot more to this . . .’
‘As we are finding out.’ Hennessey put down his pen with clear resignation and sat back in his chair. ‘Go on, tell me.’
‘Well, the upshot is that she is known to the Canadian police . . . Edith Avrillé, date of birth . . . place of birth . . . same woman . . . also known as Lecointe.’
‘Oh, interesting.’
‘Well, she was known to the Canadian authorities. Just petty stuff a long time ago.’
‘Was?’ Hennessey’s eyebrows closed, his brow furrowed.
‘She died three years ago,’ Carmen Pharoah explained calmly. ‘Whoever it is who’s in the metal drawer at York District Hospital, it is not Edith Avrillé.’
Reginald Webster drove home, taking the quieter, more picturesque B1222 from York via Stillingfleet and Cawood to Selby. He drove up to his house and pumped the horn twice followed by a single third blast . . . one-two . . . pause . . . three. It was the long agreed signal between himself and Joyce. If the neighbours didn’t like it, none of them complained and he only ever used the signal during the day or early evening. Never at night when his neighbours would be abed. As he left the car, Joyce opened the door and smiled in his direction and allowed herself to be pushed aside by Terry as he darted out of the house to greet Webster. Webster walked up to the house with Terry and embraced his wife and she responded warmly and they closed the door behind the three of them.