A Dreadful Past, page 2
‘Yes,’ Ventnor nodded in agreement, ‘that would be a definite line of inquiry. It is exactly what we would do.’
‘The antiques dealer seemed to me to be above reproach,’ Middleton added. ‘You see, I am aware that, like the motor trade, the antiques trade can be a conduit to crime, but I did not think the dealer from whom I bought the vase to be in any way suspect. I am sure he would have kept a record of the purchase.’
‘Good.’ Ventnor nodded. ‘We’ll certainly interview the gentleman. Which shop was it?’
Middleton told Ventnor, who wrote the address of the antiques shop in his notebook. Then Middleton added, ‘I should also inform you that it was and still is my impression, and was also the impression of the police at the time, that the incident was a burglary that had gone badly awry – what I mean is it was a burglary that escalated into multiple murder. I am certain that my parents and my sister were not the targets of premeditated murder which was then made to look like a burglary. That was not the case at all. I am quite sure of that.’
‘I see.’ Ventnor pursed his lips. ‘That is indeed useful. It means that we do not have to look into your family’s private life for a motive for some person or persons unknown with a motive for murdering them.’
‘No … no it’s not … it was not at all the case.’ Middleton spoke softly but with definite conviction. ‘My father could be a difficult, irascible man. Few liked him – indeed, many disliked him, but I can’t think of anyone who disliked him sufficiently enough to want to kill him, and also his wife and his daughter.’
‘And you escaped?’ Ventnor observed. ‘I mean, clearly you escaped.’
‘Yes, quite simply by not being there. I was at university at the time, at Durham. It was a Wednesday when I was informed. I played in the Durham second eleven … cricket … and that day we took a right drubbing from Liverpool University’s second eleven. I got the news that evening when I was not fully sober. You may know how sports afternoons run into massive evening drinking sessions, but the state I was in helped to soften the blow somewhat.’
‘It would do,’ Ventnor agreed. ‘Alcohol can have its uses.’
‘Oh, yes … oh, indeed, I have found that to be the case in respect of other events as the years have gone by.’ Middleton glanced up at the low ceiling and suddenly smelled the gentle and pleasing aroma of air freshener in the room. ‘I can also tell you that the items stolen were all of a low bulk, high value nature – you know, watches, jewellery, that sort of thing, which makes the theft of the Wedgwood vase a bit of an anomaly, it being relatively bulky and fragile. It was as though it was grabbed at the last moment and on the spur of the moment, or perhaps as a container for the other items. But nonetheless the profile of the stolen goods further indicates that it was a planned burglary with unplanned consequences.’
‘Yes … good point,’ Ventnor agreed with a distinct nod of his head. ‘Good point.’
‘And,’ Middleton continued, ‘it also, in my view, points to the quite frightening coldness and detachment of the killers. By that I mean they would not have carried on with the burglary after my parents and sister had been murdered. I think it much, much more likely that what happened is that once the robbery was complete and the felons were ready to quit the house, just at that point they were disturbed. They then attacked my parents and sister, probably not intending to kill them, but kill them they did. Even then they didn’t panic; rather, instead they calmly picked up the loot, popped it into the vase and made good their escape, ensuring they left no trail or tracks for the police to follow. They simply vanished into the night.’
‘Very professional,’ Ventnor offered. ‘Very cold and detached and professional.’
‘Which is a gross misuse of the word,’ Middleton replied coldly. ‘There is nothing particularly professional about what they did, nothing at all, but I know what you mean. The burglars were evidently neither inexperienced nor were they opportunistic.’
It was Tuesday, 17.35 hours.
Wednesday, 4 May, 09.15 hours.
George Hennessey sat in a relaxed and a casual manner behind his desk and glanced quickly to his left out of the small window of his office at the ancient walls of the city of York at Micklegate Bar. He saw at that moment just two tourists, a man and a woman who were strolling calmly and contentedly, arm in arm, under the blue, near cloudless early May sky. Hennessey then turned back to face his assembled team who sat patiently in front of his desk and sipped from his mug of hot, steaming tea. He smiled briefly at his team of detectives who had, as usual, arranged themselves in a neat semicircle, and all of whom, like Hennessey, clutched a mug of hot tea. ‘There were,’ Hennessey began in a quiet voice, ‘developments late yesterday afternoon, so I believe, Thompson?’
‘Indeed, yes, sir. A very interesting development, it would seem.’ Thompson Ventnor sat forward and consulted a new, recently opened file which he held on his lap and reported, ‘Mr Noel Middleton presented at the enquiry desk carrying an antique Wedgwood vase.’ Thompson went on to further report the story Noel Middleton had related to him the previous afternoon. Ventnor then continued: ‘I have obtained the original file from the archives, as you can see.’ He patted an older second file which he had also placed on his lap and which all present privately thought was an embarrassingly thin file for a case of multiple murder. ‘And it seems,’ continued Ventnor, ‘that it was just as Mr Middleton stated: a burglary of a wealthy solicitor’s home some twenty years ago escalated into the murder of said solicitor and the murder of his wife and daughter. They were all, it is reported, murdered in what seemed to have been a sudden frenzy of violence. Quite extreme violence, in fact. The post-mortem reports speak of multiple blows causing contusions and fractures. Each victim apparently sustained severe head injuries as well as other injuries, but according to the pathologist’s reports here in the file, it was the head injuries in all cases which proved fatal. The murders appeared to have made quite a splash in the media.’ Ventnor opened the original file at the back and revealed many faded newspaper cuttings about the incident. ‘There were the usual appeals for witnesses and a substantial reward offered for information leading to a conviction,’ he added.
‘You know, I do remember that investigation – I remember it well.’ Hennessey ran a meaty, liver-spotted hand through his silver hair. ‘I was a youngish copper then – I seem to recall that I had just been promoted out of uniform. I was a detective constable, and although I was not part of the original investigating team still I recall the murders very well … a solicitor and his wife and daughter. Yes, I recall the case vividly. It’s all coming back to me. I remember the sense of determination in the building among the officers; they really wanted to apprehend the felons. Was there not something about the daughter which provoked a moral outrage and made the police and the public very angry?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ventnor replied. ‘I can well understand the anger. I’d feel the same – I think we all would. The daughter was blind.’
The assembled group of detectives groaned loudly in a shared feeling of dismay and disbelief.
‘She would not have been able to defend herself or run away,’ Thompson Ventnor continued solemnly. ‘She was also very young, just nineteen years old. The house was quite remote … it is probably still quite remote. It seems that there were no dogs – not even a guide dog – and no alarms. They were very vulnerable … particularly the daughter.’
‘Not even a guide dog?’ Hennessey echoed. ‘That is an aspect of the case of which I was unaware … or at least which I had forgotten. But I’m sorry, do please carry on, Thompson.’
‘Apparently not, sir,’ Ventnor carried on. ‘In reading the file it seems that the trail went cold very quickly. All known felons were questioned. No one seemed to know about the murders and, according to the recording made during the investigation, the criminal fraternity in the Vale of York were equally as angry about the robbery and murders as were the police and the general public … A blind girl being battered to death. I mean, as we can all imagine, that went wholly against the criminal code of honour and fair play. No one would have shielded them or anybody for that matter for doing that … no one. I say “them” – I should explain because the indications were that the burglary was carried out by a gang of thieves being more than two but no more than six. So the local villainy were unable to help but that is interesting in itself, we might think. It meant that they were either out-of-towners or that they had no criminal record prior to the incident, and also that they didn’t mix with the local felons.’ Thompson paused and then continued: ‘There were no fingerprints to be had and so, despite the effort and the press coverage, sadly the case went cold and it appears to have gone cold very quickly. There was then no further mention of the incident until Mr Noel Middleton, being the son/brother of the deceased, presented at the enquiry desk yesterday.’
‘And because, like all police forces the world over, we always look at the in-laws before we look at the out-laws,’ Hennessey commented, ‘I have to ask, is the son/brother, as you describe Mr Noel Middleton, free of suspicion?’
‘I would say wholly so, sir,’ Ventnor replied. ‘Wholly so. He was with his friends at university when the Durham Constabulary broke the news of the murders to him; the blow, he said, being softened by the fact that he had drunk much beer in the few hours before he was notified. Also, I do think he is unlikely to have brought the vase here, to the police station, and asked quite strongly that the case be reopened if he was in anyway implicated in the offence.’
‘Good point.’ Hennessey raised his index finger. ‘Yes, that is indeed a very fair point, so we can already eliminate Mr Noel Middleton from suspicion. What have we got on at the moment? Thompson?’
‘I am heading up the ongoing series of thefts of prestige motor cars from public places like hotel car parks and the like. No progress to report as yet I’m afraid but I am confident that they – the gang in question – will trip themselves up,’ Thompson Ventnor advised. ‘And, of course, this time of the month we’re all doing our returns, getting April’s statistics drawn up for the faceless ones at Home Office to examine.’
‘All right. Carmen,’ Hennessey addressed Carmen Pharoah, ‘what have you got on?’
‘I’m in the process of completing the paperwork for the Crown Prosecution Service in respect of the school dinner lady who was stealing food from the school where she worked. If you recall, sir, she was given to telling the children that they could not have second helpings and then taking the leftovers home to feed her husband with. In that way the couple ate a roast meal every school day evening. I confess that I still am unsure of the extent of the husband’s knowledge of his wife’s practice. He claims that his wife had always assured him that the food they ate would only have been thrown away if she hadn’t “reserved” it. It was she who used the word “reserved”, not me, I hasten to add.’ Carmen Pharoah spoke with a distinct London accent. ‘Anyway, when the husband found out that the children were going hungry so he could feast each evening he gave his wife quite a slap, but I have charged him with conspiracy to steal anyway and will shortly send the papers to the CPS. They can decide in their infinite wisdom after reading them whether to proceed against him or not, as well as against her.’
‘Very well. Reg?’ Hennessey turned to DS Reginald Webster. ‘What have you got on your plate at the moment?’
‘I still have the team of shoplifters to apprehend, sir,’ Webster replied. ‘We have some very good CCTV footage from which we have taken some equally good stills, but we have made no arrests to date. They seem to be very well organized and might already have left for pastures new. I say that because they seem to be itinerants but we don’t think they have. We have reason to believe that they are still in our area, so we are still hopeful.’
‘All right, so that just leaves you, Somerled.’ Hennessey smiled at his detective sergeant. ‘What is it that’s keeping you busy right now?’
‘Just a suspicious death to be wrapped up, sir,’ Yellich replied attentively. ‘We are still looking at the husband of the deceased as being the culprit. I think the CPS will be charging him – the case against him is very strong and, frankly, I can well see him admitting it in a day or two so as to negotiate a reduced sentence; if not murder then guilty of manslaughter. I still have the paperwork to wrap up but all the spadework has been done.’
‘So,’ Hennessey leaned slowly backwards and pyramided his fingers, ‘we can call this one of our quiet periods, and we can therefore let the rekindled case of the murders of the Middleton family which took place twenty years ago take priority … at least while it remains quiet. Are we happy to do that?’
There then followed a general nodding of heads and a murmur of agreement.
‘All right.’ Hennessey leaned forward and placed his meaty hands on his desk. ‘Twenty years on … a fresh look … let’s make another attempt to clear this dreadful fence. So, Somerled and Reginald, I’d like you two to team up, please. I’d like you to trace the ownership of the vase in question as far back as you can.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Yellich replied eagerly for both himself and Reginald Webster.
‘Thompson and Carmen, I’d like you two to team up. I’d like you to revisit Mr Middleton and interview him in as much depth as you can. You know the drill.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Carmen Pharoah nodded, also with eagerness. ‘We know what to do.’
‘For myself …’ Hennessey once again glanced to his left out of his office window, and on that occasion saw what appeared to be a party of pensioners walking the walls – Americans, he guessed, going by the plethora of brightly coloured clothing, ‘… I will go and pay a call on the officer who was in charge of the original investigation. What was his name, Thompson? Remind me, please.’
Thompson Ventnor consulted the original file. ‘He was, it says here, a Detective Inspector Jenny, sir,’ Ventnor advised. ‘Frank Jenny.’
‘Ah, yes … Frank Jenny.’ Hennessey smiled. ‘I remember that name. It rings many bells. He’ll be enjoying a well-earned retirement now wherever he is. I hope for my sake – for all our sakes – he hasn’t retired to Spain. I’ll phone him first; if he has retired locally I’ll visit him – just a gentle picking of brains. I’ll be seeking any late insights and anything of significance he might have realized in the last twenty years.’
‘Pride … pride … damned pride is the answer, pride and also with a great slice of Yorkshire stubbornness thrown into the mix and then the whole lot was baked until it was as hard as reinforced concrete. That’s the answer to your question, Miss Pharoah. That is the reason. Pride. It is as plain and as simple as that.’
‘Mrs’ Carmen Pharoah smiled. ‘It’s actually “Mrs”, but when I am on duty Detective Constable is preferred, if you don’t mind, sir.’
‘I’m so very sorry,’ Noel Middleton opened his left palm, ‘Detective Constable … but a mixture of pride and stubbornness is the answer to your question. It is, you might have noticed in other situations, a very dangerous combination.’ Noel Middleton sat in a low but comfortable-looking armchair in front of a black wood-burning stove which, at that moment, was empty. He wore a thick yellow woollen cardigan against what Ventnor and Pharoah both thought was a mild but nonetheless quite distinct chill in the room, as though he was a man who kept a cold house out of choice so as to avoid the soporific, sleep-inducing heat of a warm house. The heavy wooden mantelpiece above the stove was lined with expensively framed photographs all showing the same woman and the same three children. The house itself was old, with low wooden beams, darkly stained, running across the ceiling.
‘You see,’ Middleton continued, addressing Ventnor and Pharoah who sat in a relaxed posture side by side on a sofa which matched the chairs in the room, ‘when Sara, my sister, lost her sight, we found out that there are two types of blind person – that is to say totally blind, not just partially sighted. There are those who are born blind and there are those who lose their sight because of some misfortune or other, and the two are very easy to distinguish from each other. Very easy. The former, those who are born without sight, have little or no sense of self-image. I mean, why on earth should they? They have never seen anything and so, for example, you might note that their clothing always appears to be drab and functional, and because they “see” with their hearing, when such blind people walk their head is often turned to one side so as to give some assistance to one of their ears. Nor do such blind people appear to be self-conscious about carrying a white stick or using a guide dog.’ Middleton paused. Both Ventnor and Pharoah noted that he spoke with a quiet authority, as though he was a man who was used to being listened to. ‘The latter,’ he continued, ‘those who have lost their sight, by contrast, you might equally note, always appear to be very conscious of their appearance; for example, they always seem to wish to be well-dressed and will walk facing squarely ahead of themselves. Similarly they also seem to favour a folding white stick which can be easily concealed and use it only when it is needed. Such people also seem to be more resistant to using guide dogs. That, I fear, was the situation and the attitude of my sister, Sara. She lost her sight. She was in a car crash. She and her boyfriend, of whom neither my parents nor myself ever took a liking to, had been drinking and he got into a road race with another driver who was previously unknown to them, so Sara told us, and he, Sara’s boyfriend, lost control of his car as he drove round a corner at great speed. His car turned over and over a number of times and the other driver drove off into the night so the police never knew his identity. Her boyfriend sustained some minor injuries in the crash and made a full recovery. He never showed the slightest remorse. He just started looking for another girlfriend, putting Sara behind him as far and as fast as he could. Sara, on the other hand, sustained head injuries which caused her to lose her sight in both eyes. We were told that the signals between her eyes and her brain could never be re-routed and so she was left as a permanently blind person. She was seventeen.’
