of the fireplace. The room was, thought Ventnor, very 1950s and it immediately reminded him of his grandmother’s house – she had refused to redecorate her house out of respect to her husband who died tragically young in 1960. The room smelled a trifle musty through under use, being the nature of ‘best’ rooms in houses such as those which lined Cemetery Road, which were used only to receive respected visitors or for other special occasions. The officers were invited to take a seat and did so, sitting side by side on the settee, at either end of it, leaving a gap between them. The lady of the house sank silently into one of the armchairs, wearing an expression of fear, worry, trepidation. She rested her hands together on the lap of her green dress.
‘DC Pharoah and DC Ventnor from Micklegate Bar Police Station.’ Carmen Pharoah held her ID for the householder’s inspection, who nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Can I ask your name, ma’am?’
‘Philippa Goodwin.’
‘Veronica’s mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there a Mr Goodwin?’
‘There was.’
‘Deceased?’
‘Probably, I wouldn’t know, he left us when Veronica was two years old.’
‘I see . . . I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you, but I wasn’t sorry to see him go, he was a violent drunkard. If he had not left, it would have been a messy divorce. I went back to work . . . I am a nurse . . . I was then, a nursing sister now.’
‘I see.’
‘So you have bad news for me?’
‘You seem to know that.’ Carmen Pharoah was struck by the absence of tone of query in Goodwin’s intonation.
‘I work in Accident and Emergency, breaking bad news is part of the job. Doctors do it and so do the police . . . nurses are on hand and so we witness it, and I have noticed that the police most often break bad news in pairs. Good news can be given by an individual officer but a pair of officers are preferred when dealing with the alternative . . . and news of long-lost relatives or relatives who were occupants of cars which have crashed is either good or bad. So, for a while now, I have known that if two police officers call at my door then they will not be bringing good news.’
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?
‘DC Pharoah and DC Ventnor from Micklegate Bar Police Station.’ Carmen Pharoah held her ID for the householder’s inspection, who nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Can I ask your name, ma’am?’
‘Philippa Goodwin.’
‘Veronica’s mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there a Mr Goodwin?’
‘There was.’
‘Deceased?’
‘Probably, I wouldn’t know, he left us when Veronica was two years old.’
‘I see . . . I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you, but I wasn’t sorry to see him go, he was a violent drunkard. If he had not left, it would have been a messy divorce. I went back to work . . . I am a nurse . . . I was then, a nursing sister now.’
‘I see.’
‘So you have bad news for me?’
‘You seem to know that.’ Carmen Pharoah was struck by the absence of tone of query in Goodwin’s intonation.
‘I work in Accident and Emergency, breaking bad news is part of the job. Doctors do it and so do the police . . . nurses are on hand and so we witness it, and I have noticed that the police most often break bad news in pairs. Good news can be given by an individual officer but a pair of officers are preferred when dealing with the alternative . . . and news of long-lost relatives or relatives who were occupants of cars which have crashed is either good or bad. So, for a while now, I have known that if two police officers call at my door then they will not be bringing good news.’
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?
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