Free Aftermath by Peter Turnbull

burglaries during which not a few householders were injured, some seriously, despite leaving his DNA and fingerprints behind him in an easily followed trail . . . he had a crack cocaine habit, you see.’
    ‘Ah . . .’
    ‘The police couldn’t lift him because he was unknown to them, no previous convictions, so no record of his DNA or fingerprints.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘So lucky . . . but luck ran out in the form of him getting into a fight in a pub . . . nothing to do with burglaries.’
    ‘But a recordable offence and the Northumbria Police had his DNA and fingerprints taken.’
    ‘Yes, so they raided his home and found a number of items taken from the burglaries which he had still to sell for money for crack cocaine . . . and still he is insistent on his innocence. He’s trying to convince himself, of course, as much as anyone else.’
    ‘I know the type.’
    ‘I bet you do . . . but will he listen to reason? So, I am instructed to fight his corner with nothing to fight it with. His story that he found the stuff in the street won’t wash and, even so, that is still an admission of theft by finding . . . And you . . . your work?’
    ‘Five murdered women?’
    ‘Five!’ Charles Hennessey glanced at his father.
    ‘Five . . . and my old copper’s waters tell me that there will be more.’
    ‘What’s the story, so far?’
    Hennessey told his son the details.
    ‘A big one.’
    ‘Yes. We have issued a press release, it’ll make this evening’s television news and tomorrow’s newspapers, the press will be all over this one.’
    ‘And your lady friend?’
    George Hennessey smiled. ‘Very well, thank you. You’ll meet her soon.’
    ‘We hope so . . . she sounds . . . she sounds just right for you, father. You’ve been on your own quite long enough. I realize now how hard it was for you to be a single parent.’
    ‘I had help.’
    ‘Yes, I remember, but a housekeeper is not a parent and is not a partner.’
    ‘Jennifer was with me, I felt her presence. I still feel it.’
    ‘Yes, that is interesting, I don’t doubt you.’
    George Hennessey smiled. ‘Oh, she’s here . . . she’s here . . . I can feel her presence. She loves her garden.’
    ‘Yes,’ Charles Hennessey looked out over the neatly cut lawn to the hedgerow, which crossed the lawn from left to right with a gateway in the middle, leading on to an orchard in the corner of which were two garden sheds, both heavily creosoted. Beyond the orchard was an area of waste ground dominated by grass, within which was a pond with thriving amphibious life. ‘Her garden built according to a design she drew up when heavily pregnant with me.’
    ‘Very heavily pregnant, you arrived a few days later.’
    ‘I remember her. I remember being on her lap and looking up at her. It’s my first memory. I have continuous memory from about the age of four, islands of memory before that.’
    ‘As is usual.’
    ‘So unfair, sudden death syndrome.’
    ‘Yes, just walking through Easingwold . . . on a day like today and collapsing. Folk thought that she had fainted but there was no pulse and her skin was clammy to the touch. Dead on arrival, or Condition Purple in ambulance speak . . . and you just three months old. As you say, so unfair.’ Hennessey paused. ‘So when do I see my grandchildren again?’
    ‘Quite soon, they’re clamouring to see Grandad Hennessey again . . . tend to think it’s because you spoil them rotten.’
    ‘Which,’ Hennessey smiled, ‘is exactly what grand-parents are for.’
    Later still, when Charles Hennessey had left to drive to his home and his family, George Hennessey made another cup of tea and carried it out to the orchard and stood where he had scattered one of the handfuls of his late wife’s ashes and told her of his day . . . as he always did . . . winter and summer, and then he told her again of the new love in his life and assured her that it did not mean that his