Imposition (DI Gardener 5)

Prologue

North Yorkshire

Thirty-five years ago

“You nearly done, Eric?”

Elsie rose out of her chair, crossed the room, and placed two pieces of coal on the fire to last them through the news. She then turned up the sound on the TV.

“The hell are you doing in there, love?” she asked, moving a small coffee table between the two chairs.

“You’ll be the death of me, woman,” he said, closing the door into the kitchen with his left foot while balancing a tray with two cups of cocoa and a saucer of chocolate digestives.

“They will,” she replied, nodding towards the biscuits. “You eat far too many.”

“Only pleasure I get. Anyway, what’s the rush? It hasn’t started yet.”

He stepped back, drawing the curtain between the dining and the living room.

Elsie chuckled. That was her Eric. Tide and time waited for no man but you couldn’t rush him into anything.

She was still proud of their small, terraced house. It had been their first and only purchase, bought as a new build. Moved in the day after they were married – back in the sixties. It was clean and tidy but it needed a spruce up. Painter and decorator he might be but he rarely found the time to renovate their own house – too busy doing everybody else’s.

Eric parked his carcass. The ten o’clock news had pretty much been a nightly ritual as long as they had been together: a cup of cocoa, a few biscuits, the news and then bed.

“Wonder what’s been happening today?” asked Eric.

“Something has. I saw Jean Parkin in the town this afternoon, picking up a piece of brisket for their weekend joint. White as a ghost she was.”

“Why?”

“Not sure. She wouldn’t say much about it.”

“Is she ill or something?”

The newscaster announced the headlines and they immediately noticed a view of the grade II listed swing-bridge over the River Esk before the shot cut to a street of detached houses.

“Don’t think so. But if we watch this, I think we’re about to find out.”

Eric lifted his cup and took a sip.

In the studio the face of the newscaster was solemn. “Detectives have launched a murder enquiry following the discovery of two bodies in a house in the North Yorkshire seaside resort of Whitby earlier today. A member of the public alerted the police when the front door of the house was seen to be open. The names of the deceased have not been released as police continue their investigations and attempt to contact relatives.”

“Good God.” Eric lowered his cup. “That’s a bit close to home, Elsie, love.”

The shot changed to an exterior view of the houses from the street with a reporter standing before them.

They must be freezing, thought Elsie; it was mid-November, and she could see his breath. “Neighbours described the deaths as a tragedy in what was considered a very secure area.”

“You’re not safe in your own home these days,” said Eric.

Elsie made no comment. Her eyes were focused on what was happening. Forensics officers wearing light blue protective clothing and white masks flittered in and out of the large tent stationed before one of the houses.

“That looks like the posh area up on the cliff top. Valley Rd, cuts between Mulgrave and Upgang, near to where the pub is.”

The camera panned out. The area remained cordoned off with blue and white police tape and uniformed officers standing guard outside. Flowers had already been left outside the property.

“Did the Parkin woman say who it was?”

“No,” replied Elsie. “But she reckoned it was a right mess inside.”

“What? She found them?”

“No. She doesn’t live there, but she’s a friend of the woman who lives next door. It was her husband who found them. Blood all over the place.”

“Sounds a bit dramatic.” Eric took a digestive. “I doubt it was that bad.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

The presenter continued. “No arrests have been made and post-mortems will be carried out.”

“Why?” Eric asked, staring at his wife.

“It’s Alfie Peterson’s place.”

“The cockney?”

“The gangster, more like.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I reckon you have a short memory, Eric. I’ll not forget what he did to us.”

“There was no proof, Elsie, love.”

“I don’t need proof. I know his type.”

“How can you? We’ve lived here all our lives. Never left the place. How can you know what people like him are like?”

“I know right enough.” Tears formed in Elsie’s eyes. “Happen our son might come back home if he’s watching this.”