Aftermath (7 page)

Carmen Pharoah nodded briefly. It was, she thought, a fair observation, a reasonable deduction. She said, ‘A body has been found.'

‘A body . . .' Philippa Goodwin's voice cracked and then failed.

‘Yes . . . I am afraid so.'

Ventnor remained silent. Carmen Pharoah and Philippa Goodwin seemed to him to be developing a rapport. It would, he believed, be insensitive of him to involve himself unless needed.

‘The body is partially decomposed and the pathologist suggests a time of death of between one and two years ago.'

‘That would fit. Veronica went missing eighteen months ago . . . winter before last.'

‘And the remains are those of a very tall female in her early twenties.'

‘That's Veronica . . . twenty-three and she was a tall girl, nearly six feet tall. She didn't like being tall, she would complain that it severely limited her choice of men. Women don't like partners who are shorter than they are . . . very limited sense of protection.'

‘Yes,' Carmen Pharoah smiled, ‘I know.'

‘But you are married,' Philippa Goodwin stroked her ring finger. ‘You're a tall girl and you found someone.'

‘Widowed.'

‘So young,' Philippa Goodwin gasped. ‘I am so sorry.'

‘Thank you, but we all heal. We have to. Life must go on. But, to your daughter.'

‘Yes, hated being tall, especially in the north of England where people tend to be shorter than southerners . . . it was a real barrier to her finding a partner . . . only those over six feet need apply . . . so few of them, fewer unattached and even fewer are suitable in terms of social position and character.'

‘I can appreciate her difficulty.' Carmen Pharoah paused. ‘I am afraid you must prepare yourself for bad news.'

‘Bad news? Over and above the death of my daughter?

‘Yes.'

‘What could be worse?'

Carmen Pharoah paused before replying. ‘There will be a press release; it will make the early evening television news and tomorrow's newspapers.'

Philippa Goodwin sat back in the armchair. ‘Just tell me,' she spoke softly, ‘just tell me. She was a young woman and as a parent you fear the worst . . . and we see rape victims in A and E.'

‘Well . . . I can tell you that there is no indication of any such violation. It may have happened but there is no definite indication.'

‘So what then?' A note of alarm crept into Philippa Goodwin's voice.

‘The bad news is that your daughter, Veronica, appears to have been one of . . . the last of a number of deceased women whose corpses . . . whose remains have all been found in the same place.'

‘A serial killer!'

‘So-called, yes.' Carmen Pharoah remained silent for a few seconds and then added. ‘We know nothing of the existence of this man . . . or these people because they left their victims . . . or his victims . . . in a concealed location rather than leaving them to be found, as is most often the case.'

‘So I have noticed . . . as if taunting the police?'

‘Yes, but in this case the victims would probably have remained hidden . . . that is to say their remains—'

‘Yes, I know what you mean.'

‘. . . remained hidden for many years because they were left on private land.'

‘Where was she found?'

Carmen Pharoah and Thomson Ventnor glanced at each other. Ventnor said, ‘It'll be in the press release.'

Carmen Pharoah turned to Philippa Goodwin and said, ‘In the grounds of an old house in the Vale . . . at the edge of the Wolds.'

‘You mean the house owner . . . he collected victims?'

‘No,' Carmen Pharoah held up her hand, ‘no, no . . . he was elderly and housebound . . . he died recently. It was when an inventory was being taken of the contents of the house by a solicitor that he, the solicitor, found the remains. They seem to have been taken there and left there in the ignorance of the householder.'

‘I see.' Philippa Goodwin glanced across her living room to the window and to the cemetery that lay on the opposite side of the road to her house. ‘You know, it never bothered me to live opposite a cemetery, especially one which is full and no longer used. I enjoyed the peace and quiet, especially at night. When Veronica was little we would sit in the upstairs room if there was a thunderstorm at night holding hands and looking for ghosts during the flashes of lightning . . . but now . . . those stones . . . they have a different meaning now. I dare say I'll soon be choosing a stone for her, but at least I now know what happened. I'll have her buried . . . I will definitely have her buried. I will need a grave to visit and a bit of carved granite to talk to and a little plot of land to attend to . . . make sure it's watered if there is a dry summer.' Philippa Goodwin turned to Carmen Pharoah, ‘An inventory? A list of things? So Veronica was not buried?'

‘No,' Carmen Pharoah held eye contact with Philippa Goodwin. ‘No, her remains were exposed.'

‘I always thought of her lying in a shallow grave somewhere but she was lying on the surface of the ground?'

‘Yes . . . I am sorry . . . partially concealed by undergrowth but yes, lying on the ground.'

‘Does it get worse? Your eyes . . . your eyes seem to be saying that there is more to come and I won't like any of it.'

Carmen Pharoah swallowed and bowed her head slightly, and then looked up at Philippa Goodwin. ‘Yes, it does get worse . . . it is in the press release but it is probably better it comes from us . . .'

‘Yes . . . go on . . .'

‘The bodies, they were chained together . . . and the other victims were completely skeletal.'

‘Oh,' Philippa Goodwin put her hand up to her mouth, ‘you mean she was left chained up next to a corpse . . .' tears welled in Philippa Goodwin's eyes, ‘and clothing . . . any sign of clothing?'

‘None, I'm afraid, but please see that as something merciful.'

‘Merciful? How?'

‘There was no injury to Veronica's body . . . none detected . . . and if she was left naked in the winter time, being when she was abducted, then death would have come quickly.'

‘Can I see her body?'

‘I am afraid that will not be possible, her remains are in an advanced state of decomposition and it is not the last impression that anyone would want of their loved one, not an image to hold in your head.'

‘And speaking of which, you will have removed the head anyway to send to a facial reconstruction expert.'

Again, Ventnor and Pharoah turned and glanced at each other.

‘I told you, I work in A and E, when there is a large-scale disaster the police remove the hands from victims because it's easier to take the fingerprints that way than trying to remove fingerprints from a hand which is still attached to the body. I did a stint in the mortuary of the hospital as part of my A and E induction course. It's very necessary. A and E is not for everyone but I like the crisis management, I like the life saving bit. I wouldn't be any good on a ward, the long term getting them better and fit for discharge nursing, that's not for me, but if you cannot handle death and corpses you are no good in A and E, and so a stint in the mortuary is an essential part of A and E induction. So I know what happens. I have assisted when a head had to be sawn from a skeleton to permit facial reconstruction. So you can tell me.'

‘Well, since you know,' Carmen Pharoah replied softly, ‘yes that has happened. It was before we found the missing person's report, which so neatly fitted the details obtained from the remains: sex, height, matching date of disappearance, along with the state of decomposition. We probably did jump the gun there but the head and face were badly decomposed. The same will be true of all known victims; all will have their heads removed.'

‘All known? You mean there may be more?'

‘Yes. We have to make a thorough search, the house, the grounds; all will have to be searched. So far we have five known victims and we have to assume that there will be others until we know otherwise.'

‘Fair enough.'

‘We still have to make a definite identification.'

‘It will be her.'

‘We will use dental records or DNA for that.'

‘What do you need?'

‘The name of her dentist and/or a sample of her hair if you have kept her hairbrush . . . failing that . . . a sample of your DNA.'

‘You can have all three . . . our dentist is Mr Pick,' Philippa Goodwin smiled, ‘appropriate name for a dentist don't you think? He has a surgery in Gillygate . . . and yes, I have kept Veronica's hairbrush. It has strands of her hair within the bristles.'

‘If we could take the hairbrush with us, that will suffice.'

‘You'll return it?'

‘Yes, I will personally see that it is returned to you.'

‘I'll let you have it before you go.'

‘Appreciated. Are you happy for us to proceed on the assumption that the deceased is Veronica?'

‘Yes,' Philippa Goodwin nodded slowly, ‘I am.'

‘The missing person's report on Veronica states that she didn't return from a night out with friends. Can you elaborate on that statement?'

‘Elaborate? Well, I recall the last time I saw her, I remember that day like yesterday. The last time you see someone you love, you never forget it.'

Carmen Pharoah smiled in response. ‘You don't, do you?'

‘Well . . . that day she came home from work . . . she was a telephonist . . . and she came home from work . . . it was a Friday. She looked a picture, even in her frumpy winter clothing she was still radiant. She had little to eat, she didn't eat enough especially in the winter when we need more food than in the summer, but like all young women she was figure conscious, continually weighing herself, but she was not anorexic, I saw to that. That is something else you see in A and E, young women, girls even, who have collapsed in the street or at work or at school and when you peel off their clothes for the initial examination, you find that they are nothing but a skeleton covered in skin, but Veronica was not even close to that stage. I can be a bit ferocious when I have to be and if she didn't eat at least one substantial meal and two snacks each twenty-four hours, I would get ferocious with her . . . and she knew it. So that day she ate, changed into her finery and went out with her friends.'

‘Do you know the names of her friends?'

‘Susan Kent.'

Carmen Pharoah wrote the name in her notebook.

‘Veronica and Susan were very close, as close as sisters . . . they were school pals.'

‘What is her address? We'll have to speak to her.'

‘Her mother lives at the end of the street . . . that way.' Philippa Goodwin pointed to the left-hand side of her house, as viewed from the outside. ‘You know, I don't know the number but it has a loud . . . a very attractive red door.'

‘Loud?' Carmen Pharoah queried.

‘As in colour, a “loud” colour, a colour which leaps out at you is a “loud” colour . . . apparently. That's something I learned from my husband, Veronica's father, he was an art teacher but only in his sober moments. So the Kent house has a “loud” red door . . . scarlet, fire engine red. You can't miss it.' Philippa Goodwin forced a smile. ‘The colour caused comments but they still repaint it every five years. Anyway, Susan said that she last saw Veronica waiting for a cab at the rank in the station. It's a very short journey, walkable, but for a young woman alone on a dark night a taxi is very sensible, and so Susan didn't worry about her.'

‘Understandable.'

‘But she didn't return home. I started to worry by about ten a.m the next morning. If she was going to stop out overnight she would have phoned me, but by ten a.m. I had received no phone call so I phoned the police. They were very sympathetic but they told me that they could not take a missing person report until the person concerned had been missing for twenty-four hours.'

‘Yes, that's the procedure unless it's a child or young person under the age of sixteen.'

‘They said that as well. So I went to the police station at one a.m., just after midnight, by which time she had been missing for twenty-four hours . . . gave all the details, a recent photograph and gave them Sue Kent's name and address. They agreed to visit Susan.'

‘And they did. The visit was recorded but Susan Kent didn't, or couldn't, tell the officer anything that she didn't tell you . . . Veronica was last seen getting into a car, which apparently drew up at the taxi rank as though she and the driver knew each other . . . but no details . . . dark night, and the other girl Veronica was with was full of booze and couldn't tell one car from another anyway.'

‘Then nothing until now, but at least I know what happened to her. She was always so sensible, such a sober minded girl, always let me know where she was. So now I know . . .'

‘Yes . . . we are very sorry. Do you know of anyone who would want to harm her?'

‘I don't, I'm sorry but Susan Kent might. She's married now, she's moved away from home but still in York, though.'

‘We will ask her, we'll find her easily enough.'

‘Veronica didn't seem troubled by anything or anyone, just a happy young woman in her early twenties, just watching her weight and bemoaning her height and the scarcity of tall men in York . . . that was my Veronica.'

Carmen Pharoah recorded her and Thomson Ventnor's visit to Philippa Goodwin and added it to the ‘Bromyards Inquiry' file, and then walked slowly home on the walls, savouring the summer weather, to her new-build flat on Bootham. She changed into casual clothes and, it being too early and too summery to remain indoors, she walked out of the city for one hour and reached the village of Shipton to which she had not travelled before. She found a small village beside the A19 surrounded by rich, flat farmland. Being disinclined to walk back to York, she returned by bus.