Текст книги "Fear of Drowning"

Автор книги: Peter Turnbull

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Fear Of Drowning

by

Peter Turnbull

About the author

Peter Turnbull was born in Yorkshire and educated locally. He has had a variety of jobs, and was a social worker for the last twenty three years, an occupation he has recently given up to become a full-time writer. His work has taken him to Sheffield, Glasgow (where his acclaimed P Division novels are set) and Leeds, where he now lives.

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollins

77-85 Fulham Palace Road,

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollins 1999

Copyright © Peter Turnbull 1999

Peter Turnbull asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  The word ‘snickelways’ is used with permission of Mark W. Jones

ISBN 0 00 651362 X

Set in Meridien and Bodoni

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Omnia Books Limited, Glasgow

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Tuesday morning

…in which the alarum is sounded.

He was unsure exactly when it came about, exactly when it occurred, but at some point, the very ordinariness of it became suspicious.

For the third successive evening, the lights in the Williamses’ bungalow, the living room light and the bedroom light, went on at the same time—at the same time each evening and also at the same time as each other—and then two hours later went off at the same time, at the same time each evening, at the same time as each other. The man at first thought it only careless to arrange the timing switches so that the lights in the house go on and off at the same time. Far more sensible, he thought, to stagger them, as was his practice, ensuring that the light in the bedroom was off half an hour after the light in the living room.

For the first night that the house was clearly unoccupied, all was normal. The Williamses were out for the evening. Out with their son home from the navy and their daughter up from London for the weekend. The two sports cars in the drive and the absence of the Williamses’ Volvo estate said so. That had been the Saturday evening and the man had noticed the lights of the bungalow go on as he walked his dog past the building. Later that night he was putting the empty milk bottles out on his front step when he caught sight of the Williamses’ bungalow through the small copse which separated his house from their bungalow, just as the lights in both rooms went out at the same time, almost, perhaps thirty seconds between the living room light going out and the bedroom light also going out. But to all intents and purposes, he thought, they went out at the same time and so telegraphed a clear signal to any potential burglar that the property was unoccupied. The man remained indoors all the following Sunday, leaving his home only in the evening to exercise his dog, walking him the mile and a half to the Horse and Hounds in the next village, a pint of beer before last orders and the mile and a half back. Three miles a day, good for man, good for dog. He glanced at the Williamses’ bungalow as he walked past and saw that the two sports cars had gone and the Williamses’ Volvo parked in the drive, though not as it usually was parked. Usually, it was reversed in and left nearer the road than the house. When he saw it on the Sunday, it had been fronted in and left close to the garage doors. As he passed the bungalow again at approximately 11.15 p.m. on the return leg of his evening walk, he noticed the lights go out, one after the other, as an owl hooted from a nearby wood; the only sound on the rich summer’s evening.

The man did not look for the Williamses on the Monday, but whenever he was in a place in his house, or in his garden, that allowed him to see the Williamses’ bungalow, he would stop and observe it for a few seconds, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ebullient Max or of the soft-spoken Amanda, as he had come to know them in the short time that they had been neighbours. But there was still nothing to be alarmed about, he didn’t know them well enough to know their habits, their daily routine, and it was summer, the time when people take their holidays. But he did know that Max, who had described himself as a ‘financier’ when he had come to introduce himself, worked at home, and so far as he could tell, Amanda was not employed. And, also so far as he could tell, they used their car each day, lazily so, for he had seen Amanda drive away and return ten minutes later and enter their home clutching a loaf of bread. Nothing yet to be alarmed about, but a worry nagged in his mind. So much so that when that evening he walked his dog to the Horse and Hounds he stopped outside the Williamses’ house and looked at the building for about ten minutes, hoping to catch a glimpse of one or the other, or both. But he saw nothing and on his return journey, he, being a man of habit, passed the bungalow just as the lights in the living room and the bedroom went out at the same time. More or less.

It was the Tuesday morning, at about ten o’clock, that the man acted out of concern because, by then, what had been normal had become suspicious. He walked slowly up the drive, and pressed the doorbell by the front porch door, noting uncollected post lying inside the porch. The bell rang the Westminster chimes and echoed loudly in the bungalow but produced no reaction.

‘Not right,’ he said to himself as much as to his Labrador.

‘Not right at all.’

He returned to his house and phoned the police and asked that they attend the bungalow, the last house on Old Pond Road in the village of Bramley on Ouse. He explained why and said he’d make himself known to the constable. He returned to the grass verge outside the Williamses’ house and enjoyed a pipe while he waited for the police to arrive.

He had finished a large bowl of St Bruno, enjoying the flat, lush landscape, dotted here and there with small woods, but in the main, fields of green or yellow, and a few, he thought too few, hedgerows, when the area car arrived.

‘Morning,’ he said cheerfully to the constable.

‘Morning, sir.’

‘It was myself who phoned you.’ The man had long stopped wondering at the youth of police officers.

‘Yes, sir. Worried about a household, I believe?’

‘This one here.’

‘Oh, yes?’ For his part, the officer saw a genial-looking man in his late middle years, relaxed in light-coloured trousers, a T-shirt and a wide-brimmed cricket hat. He also noted the black Labrador sitting patiently at his side and detected a strong bond between man and dog. ‘What appears to be the problem?’

‘Well, I hope nothing, but I haven’t seen my neighbours since Saturday. I don’t know them very well, they moved in only about…well, I’ll tell you…June now, they arrived after Easter, so…’

‘Just a few weeks then?’

‘Yes. Not sufficient for me to get to know them, so I don’t know their routine, except that he works from home and they tend to go everywhere by car. So not being seen for a day or two and the car not having moved, and also parked unusually.’

‘Unusually?’

‘They normally reverse it into the drive and leave it closer to the road than the house.’

‘Do you know their names, sir?’

‘Williams. Max and Amanda, couple in their fifties, late fifties.’

‘And you last saw them on Saturday?’

‘About three o’clock. Their adult children visited. The son is an officer in the Royal Navy, their daughter is a civil servant and normally lives in London. They did tell me once that when their son and daughter visit they invariably go to the Mill.’

‘The Mill?’

‘It’s a restaurant, well out of my price range, but they enthused about it. It’s near Stamford Bridge. I noticed two sports cars in the drive on Saturday evening, they’d gone by the Sunday evening and the Volvo was parked in the drive, but not, as I said, as it usually is. I assume that their children had visited and they had gone for a meal, as is their wont on such occasions. I caught a glimpse of Amanda on the Saturday afternoon, just caught a glimpse of her as she entered the house, but nothing since. I don’t want to be alarmist, they could be on holiday…the lights are going on and off as if on timer switches, there is uncollected post…they have a glass-panelled porch, as you see.’

‘I think you’re right to be concerned, sir. Sorry, your name is…?’

‘Thorn. T.H.O.M. Schoolmaster, retired. History.’

The constable wrote on his pad. ‘And your address, Mr Thorn?’

‘Number twenty-six, Old Pond Road. That’s my house there.’ He turned and pointed to his house. ‘Next property to the Williamses’, they’re twenty-eight, Old Pond Road, the last house in the village on this road, not a building beyond their bungalow on this road until you get to Upper Leemans, a mile and a half distant. Me and my best friend here do that walk each day. We do it in the evening this time of year. He’s a black dog, as you see, and, like all black dogs, he suffers dreadfully in the heat. That’s when I thought something was odd, walking past the Williamses’ on our way home, the lights went out at about eleven-fifteen on successive evenings.’

‘Any other neighbours share your concern?’

‘I am the only neighbour really. The people across the street are away and have been for a week or so. You see, they have asked me to keep an eye on their property, which I am pleased to do. I don’t know the Williamses well, but we are on friendly enough terms for them to be able to ask me to keep an eye on their house if they went away for a few days. Which all adds to my worry. The thing to do, I would suggest with utmost respect, is to contact their son.’

‘He’s in the navy?’

‘Yes, by sheer coincidence, he’s shore-based at Knaresborough.

At least, he was when Max and Amanda moved in. Could have been posted on by now, of course, but he’s not so distant that he can’t come home for the weekend.

Max told me about their son when they moved in. Anyway, it’s over to you, but I feel better for having reported it.’

‘You were right to do so. I’ll go and have a closer look at the building. If there’s nothing out of the ordinary, I think I will take up your suggestion and phone the Andrew.’

The Andrew?’

The navy.’

‘George.’

‘Sir?’ Hennessey looked up at the small, for a police officer, dapper, immaculately groomed man who stood in the door frame of his office.

‘Got a disappearance, I hear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Anything in it, you think?’ Commander Sharkey held an old-looking book in his hands.

Too early in the piece to say yet, sir.’ Hennessey picked up the phone. ‘Just contacting the relatives now.’

‘I see.’ Sharkey approached Hennessey’s desk. ‘Actually, I just stopped by to show you this. I found it in a charity shop, it’s a first-hand account of the Battle of Waterloo.’

‘Oh…’ Hennessey took the book from Sharkey. ‘How interesting.’

‘Knowing your interest, I thought that would be right up your street.’

‘I’ll read it this evening, sir. Thank you. I’ll let you have it back as soon as.’

‘Oh no, keep it. It hardly cost me anything, a few pence…I can run to that.’ Sharkey paused. ‘Speaking of pence…you’ll let me know if…’

‘Sir.’ George Hennessey smiled. ‘Please don’t worry…about the corruption, I mean. If there is anything going on, I’ll know and I’ll be the first to tell you.’

‘Yes.’ Sharkey nodded. ‘It’s just that I saw enough of that in Hong Kong to last a lifetime, enough to see me well out.’

‘Sir, believe me. There’s nothing, nothing for you to worry about. This isn’t Hong Kong. We are not in anybody’s pocket.’

Thanks, George. That’s a great comfort. I mean that.’

Sharkey left the room looking, thought Hennessey, a relieved man. He continued to dial the number. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said when his call was answered.

‘Morning, Lieutenant Home-Dawson, Officer Watch One.’

‘Chief Inspector Hennessey, North Yorkshire Police.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Wonder if you could help us?’

‘If we can.’ The speaker was a young-sounding, confident-sounding man.

‘Do you have a Lieutenant Williams with you at present?’

‘We might.’

‘I see. I can understand your caution. I might be anybody.’

‘Quite,’ but said with good humour.

‘Well, should you have a Lieutenant Williams stationed with you at the moment, would you be good enough to ask him to phone myself, please, Chief Inspector Hennessey, Micklegate Bar Police Station in York?’ Hennessey relayed the phone number. He added, ‘You could tell him not to be worried, it may well be nothing to be concerned about.’

‘Very good, sir. He’ll appreciate that.’

Hennessey replaced the phone and glanced out of his office window at Micklegate Bar, where the severed heads of traitors, rebels and enemies of the Crown were once displayed.

He glanced at his office, the police mutual calendar and the Home Office issue filing cabinet, of battleship grey.

It was, he felt, a dull, hard, cold office but any softening would be frowned on by the police authority. He had on occasion visited other places of work, offices in the private sector and the public sector, and had been envious of the comfort offered by a potted plant or a poster of a faraway place. He stood and made himself a mug of coffee in the detective constables’ room, carried the steaming mug of liquid through to his office and sat sipping it as he leafed through memos, reading each one and then initialling it to denote that he had ‘read and absorbed it’ and then returned them to the wire basket prior to carrying the basket of memos through to the detective constables’ room for each officer there to read and initial the memos.

Then his phone rang.

‘Hennessey,’ he said as he snatched it up.

‘Phone call for you, sir,’ said a nervous young woman on the switchboard. ‘A Lieutenant Williams.’

‘Oh yes. Put him through please…hello…Lieutenant Williams?’

‘Speaking.’ The voice was cold and aloof. Quite, quite different, thought Hennessey, from the warmth and friendliness of Lieutenant Home-Dawson. He also thought that Williams sounded older. Somehow, the enthusiasm of Home-Dawson did not extend to Williams.

Thank you for coming back to me so soon.’ Hennessey leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the desk top.

‘Shore-based,’ Williams said, and Hennessey picked up a sour note in his voice. He found it interesting, always having believed that a good measure of a person can be taken from their speaking voice, and because of this valued ‘meeting’ people by means of telephone. Here was sourness.

‘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.

‘Take a pew, Yellich. The Williamses’ house.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Just finish your sandwich and let me have your impressions of it.’

‘Neat,’ said Yellich, with food in his mouth. He swallowed.

‘Very neat. Wouldn’t like to live there.’

‘Not a place where a man could put his feet up, speak with his mouth full and feel at home?’

Yellich didn’t reply.

‘But no sign of violence?’

‘No, boss.’

‘Forced entry?’

‘No. Nothing at all like that.’

‘And no bodies?’

‘No, boss.’

‘Yet you think it’s a crime scene?’

‘Aye, I do, boss.’ Yellich leaned back in his chair. He was a man in his thirties, short, dark hair, balanced features, clean-shaven.

‘Why?’

‘Well, boss, the son says they should be there, there was cash and a cheque book in the house, things which would not be left if they were going away for any length of time, the cheque book especially. The neighbour; Mr Thorn, he told the constable that they don’t go anywhere without their car, they’d only leave their car, I suppose, if they were going on a foreign holiday, or suchlike.’

‘And we’d know if they were on a planned period of absence. Go on, you’re convincing me.’

‘It’s out of character. By all accounts. A well-set-up couple in middle age, wealthy enough to run a Volvo estate and live in a smart bungalow—bit cramped inside, but smart enough—don’t vanish into thin air.’

‘Do we know them?’

‘No. I ran their names and approximate ages through the computer as a matter of course. Negative.’

‘So, no criminal acquaintances that we know of.’

‘No, boss.’

‘And they’re known to dine at the Mill, according to their neighbour. So they’ve got money and successful children. I have to say that you’re right. Sergeant, I too feel that all is not well, not well at all. My waters tell me.’

‘Aye, sir?’

‘Aye, Yellich, aye. You and I have two places to visit.’

‘We have, boss?’

‘We have. First you wash your sandwich down with another of the obligatory mugs of tea, and make me one while you’re at it.’

‘So, where are we going?’ Yellich stood.

‘We’re going to a stone frigate.’

‘A what?’

‘That’s what the navy call their shore establishments, and then we’re going to the Mill.’

HMS Halley stood off the A6055 Knaresborough to Borough bridge Road, it was surrounded by a wire fence and shrubs and signs warning of dog patrols. Hennessey drove his car up to the main gate and halted. A young sailor, carrying a machine pistol, approached the driver’s side of Hennessey’s car. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ His manner was polite but serious.

‘Morning, son.’ Hennessey thought the man too young to be carrying a gun. ‘North Yorkshire Police to see Lieutenant Williams.’

‘Yes, sir. Do you have ID?’

The officers showed their identity cards.

‘If you’d like to wait here, please, gentlemen.’ The young sailor returned to the gatehouse and was seen by Hennessey and Yellich to pick up a phone, speak briefly and then listen for a longer period than the time he spent talking, and then replace the phone. He didn’t leave the gatehouse nor even glance at Hennessey and Yellich, who sat in the car listening to the sounds of the summer foliage, the birdsong, the occasional rustling as a small animal moved over dried vegetation. Beyond the gatepost the drive led to rows of huts and a parade ground on which a white ensign hung limply on a mast. Above was an expanse of blue, with few clouds, and a jet plane’s vapour trail, high, very high up, and disappearing rapidly.

Eventually a dark-blue Land Rover approached the gate from within the base, shimmering through a heat haze. As it drew closer the police officers were able to make out the words ‘Provost Marshal’ painted on a sign which was bolted to the Land Rover’s front bumper. The vehicle halted at the main gate and the occupant of the passenger seat got out of the vehicle and approached Hennessey and Yellich, while the driver executed a rapid three-point turn.

‘I understand you gentlemen wish to see Mr Williams?’

The member of the provost marshal’s corps leaned forwards as he spoke to Hennessey.

‘We do.’

‘Have to ask you to leave your vehicle here, sir, we’re on Bikini Amber because of terrorist activity in London.’

‘I see.’

‘Apart from anything else, it means that no civilian vehicles are allowed on Ministry land.’

‘Fair enough.’ Hennessey got out of the car. Yellich did likewise. They followed the man to the Land Rover and climbed, as invited, into the rear of the vehicle. Hennessey felt strange that his car should be seen as civilian. He felt it odd to be a civilian, to be seen as a civilian, after all, did not the police now refer to folk as civilians rather than members of the public, as was the case in his early years? He did not think it boded well for his retirement, which loomed, he felt, like a shortening shadow.

The Land Rover started with a jolt and sped across the base, halting, precisely, it seemed to Hennessey and Yellich, not an inch out of place. They alighted outside the provost marshal’s office, by the sign by the door. A raised wooden platform stood by the door on which a young rating stood, rigidly in the ‘at ease’ position. Hennessey and Yellich couldn’t help but look at the man, a boy really, and both noted how pale and fearful he seemed.

Hennessey and Yellich were shown into a room in which stood a steel table and three chairs, two on one side of the table, the third facing them on the other side. There was no other furniture or fittings in the room. The light bulb was naked, the floor was of brown tile, heavily disinfected, the walls and the ceiling were whitewashed.

‘Some interview room,’ Yellich growled. ‘It makes me feel guilty just being here.’

Hennessey didn’t reply, but thought that Yellich had a point; the room, he felt, would make a saint confess to something. Not for the Ministry of Defence the niceties of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, the recorded interviews and the presence of a solicitor.

Outside the building a strong-sounding, assertive football was heard approaching. The boy on the platform was heard to snap to attention, a door opened and three pairs of boots similarly snapped to attention. A clipped voice said, ‘Good afternoon, sir. Interview room one, sir.’ Hennessey and Yellich had just time to glance at each other before Lieutenant Rufus Williams R.N. entered the room. He revealed himself to be a powerfully built man in his thirties with glaring eyes.

‘Lieutenant Williams?’ Hennessey asked.

‘Yes. And you are?’

‘Chief Inspector Hennessey. This is Sergeant Yellich. We spoke on the phone this morning.’

‘Yes.’

‘Shall we sit down?’ Hennessey spoke softly, he wanted to resist being drawn into Williams’s snappy naval way of speaking. He found it oddly contagious, as if waking a ghost in him. He also wanted to control the interview. A look of anger flashed across Williams’s eyes, as if angry that Hennessey should take the initiative about whether to sit or not. But he said, ‘Yes, if you like.’