drive?’
‘About halfway.’
‘So he was well inside the estate grounds?’
‘Yes, well inside, a definite trespasser.’
‘I see . . . and appreciate it’s going back ten years now . . . but was there any direction to his interest?’
‘Seemed to me that he was going towards the house, he was in no hurry but he was making for the house.’
‘All right,’ again Yellich paused, ‘and you know of no employee of Mr Housecarl who lives in York . . . Driffield?’
‘No, but we all know people outside the village. I know my son who lives in York, like I just told you, and also another elderly couple, but just on Christmas card terms, that would most likely be the case for all the villagers. One would tell someone about Bromyards and he would tell someone else, the news would get out . . . not just to York or Driffield but to all the neighbouring villages as well.’
‘Yes, it’s the sort of news that would travel.’
‘And it did travel. We got boys coming to try their hand at poaching the grounds, till our village boys put them right about just who owns Bromyards . . . from a poaching point of view that is.’
‘So, a tall man in his fifties knew about the abandoning of the grounds but also about there not being an imminent sale of the property,’ Yellich pondered aloud.
‘Possibly . . . just the ideal sort of place to hide a few bodies, but that is for you to say, I’m a retired gardener not a retired copper . . . but if I were to hide a body or a couple of bodies, I would go as near the house as possible and the kitchen garden would be ideal.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, the poachers didn’t go near the house out of respect for Mr Housecarl, they didn’t want to alarm him by firing shotguns under his window. It seemed like there was an agreed “no man’s land”, a zone round the house about a quarter of a mile wide, no one poached inside that zone.’
‘So no poacher would go near the house, let alone into the kitchen gardens?’
‘That’s right. Ideal place to hide a body or two, but they’d be found eventually . . . had to be . . . once Mr Housecarl died, they’d be found.’
‘As you say. Can you describe the man you saw?’
‘Not in any detail, I was three hundred yards away, but tall, like I said.’
‘Beard, spectacles?’
‘No to both . . . clean shaven, no spectacles. Well built . . . muscular rather than overweight, as I recall. Important that you remember we are going back ten years, so can’t be sure how accurate the description I give is.’
‘Understood.’
Tang Hall Housing Estate, York YO11, was a development of medium rise slab-sided buildings in the tenement-style favoured in Scotland and Europe; an area where old cars were parked in the street and powerful motorbikes were chained to lamp posts, and the Pike and Heron public house, in the centre of the estate, was the only hostelry. The Pike and Heron was rough on the outside and rougher on the inside. It was brick built in an angular, flat-roofed-style and was known locally as ‘The Fortress’. Inside ‘The Fortress’ Carmen Pharoah and Thomson Ventnor sat opposite Piers Driver. The hum of conversation that had ceased when Pharoah and Ventor entered had, by then, resumed at a lower volume, but the two officers continued to invite hostile looks.
‘You’re quite happy to be seen talking to the likes of little us in here?’ Ventnor asked in a hushed tone. ‘We could arrest you and take you in for questioning if that would look better.’
‘We need information,’ Pharoah added, ‘so the last thing we want to do is make things difficult for you. People seen talking to cops on this estate have been known to wake up in hospital.’
‘That depends on who you talk to and what you say,’ Driver growled. ‘It’s OK; they know I won’t be grassing anybody up.’ Driver was a tall man, as Susan Boyd had described. He had a hard, lined face, short black hair, tattoos on his neck
‘About halfway.’
‘So he was well inside the estate grounds?’
‘Yes, well inside, a definite trespasser.’
‘I see . . . and appreciate it’s going back ten years now . . . but was there any direction to his interest?’
‘Seemed to me that he was going towards the house, he was in no hurry but he was making for the house.’
‘All right,’ again Yellich paused, ‘and you know of no employee of Mr Housecarl who lives in York . . . Driffield?’
‘No, but we all know people outside the village. I know my son who lives in York, like I just told you, and also another elderly couple, but just on Christmas card terms, that would most likely be the case for all the villagers. One would tell someone about Bromyards and he would tell someone else, the news would get out . . . not just to York or Driffield but to all the neighbouring villages as well.’
‘Yes, it’s the sort of news that would travel.’
‘And it did travel. We got boys coming to try their hand at poaching the grounds, till our village boys put them right about just who owns Bromyards . . . from a poaching point of view that is.’
‘So, a tall man in his fifties knew about the abandoning of the grounds but also about there not being an imminent sale of the property,’ Yellich pondered aloud.
‘Possibly . . . just the ideal sort of place to hide a few bodies, but that is for you to say, I’m a retired gardener not a retired copper . . . but if I were to hide a body or a couple of bodies, I would go as near the house as possible and the kitchen garden would be ideal.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, the poachers didn’t go near the house out of respect for Mr Housecarl, they didn’t want to alarm him by firing shotguns under his window. It seemed like there was an agreed “no man’s land”, a zone round the house about a quarter of a mile wide, no one poached inside that zone.’
‘So no poacher would go near the house, let alone into the kitchen gardens?’
‘That’s right. Ideal place to hide a body or two, but they’d be found eventually . . . had to be . . . once Mr Housecarl died, they’d be found.’
‘As you say. Can you describe the man you saw?’
‘Not in any detail, I was three hundred yards away, but tall, like I said.’
‘Beard, spectacles?’
‘No to both . . . clean shaven, no spectacles. Well built . . . muscular rather than overweight, as I recall. Important that you remember we are going back ten years, so can’t be sure how accurate the description I give is.’
‘Understood.’
Tang Hall Housing Estate, York YO11, was a development of medium rise slab-sided buildings in the tenement-style favoured in Scotland and Europe; an area where old cars were parked in the street and powerful motorbikes were chained to lamp posts, and the Pike and Heron public house, in the centre of the estate, was the only hostelry. The Pike and Heron was rough on the outside and rougher on the inside. It was brick built in an angular, flat-roofed-style and was known locally as ‘The Fortress’. Inside ‘The Fortress’ Carmen Pharoah and Thomson Ventnor sat opposite Piers Driver. The hum of conversation that had ceased when Pharoah and Ventor entered had, by then, resumed at a lower volume, but the two officers continued to invite hostile looks.
‘You’re quite happy to be seen talking to the likes of little us in here?’ Ventnor asked in a hushed tone. ‘We could arrest you and take you in for questioning if that would look better.’
‘We need information,’ Pharoah added, ‘so the last thing we want to do is make things difficult for you. People seen talking to cops on this estate have been known to wake up in hospital.’
‘That depends on who you talk to and what you say,’ Driver growled. ‘It’s OK; they know I won’t be grassing anybody up.’ Driver was a tall man, as Susan Boyd had described. He had a hard, lined face, short black hair, tattoos on his neck
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