Free H&Y20 - Deliver Us from Evil by Peter Turnbull

need it?’
    ‘No, I can’t claim for the lost money, I verified that with the insurance people, only for items, and she didn’t steal much from the house because there was little to steal. She took some of Mrs Beattie’s jewellery . . . that I would like back but the value of the other stuff was minimal. Valuable only in terms of sentimental value . . . but I refer to them as the “valuables”.’
    ‘He’s a tight-fisted old thing.’ Ben Tinsley stood defensively in the doorway of his house. ‘Dare say he has little good to say about me but do you know that in the wintertime he sleeps on a camp bed in his kitchen rather than have a heater in his bedroom, him and his wife also when she was with us? But we’re both getting on and we are neighbours, and so I keep an eye on him and he keeps an eye on me.’
    ‘Yes,’ Yellich smiled, ‘he told us the system you have of leaving a light burning to let each other know you are well. Also of moving his Land Rover about. A good idea.’
    ‘Not uncommon in the country. But do please come in out of the cold, gentlemen.’
    In contrast to Alexander Beattie’s home, Yellich and Webster found Ben Tinsley’s home was small, warm and dry. A settled coal fire burned gently in the grate.
    ‘Not legal,’ Tinsley pointed to the fire, and did so with clear embarrassment.
    ‘I know.’ Yellich read the room, photographs of family on the wall and mantelpiece, a compact television and a pile of magazines about walking in the country and coarse fishing. A physically fit widower, fond of his family, living within his means, enjoying solitary pursuits: nothing for the officers to be at all suspicious about. ‘But we won’t report you.’
    ‘Thank you. This is the country, I am not polluting anyone else’s breathing air and there is nothing like a coal fire. You just can’t beat coal for a home fire. Take it from me, you just can’t beat a coal fire. Do take a seat, please.’
    The officers sat in deep comfortable armchairs covered with flower patterned material.
    ‘So how can I help you?’ Tinsley sat on a matching sofa. ‘I saw you at Beattie’s house, house . . . mausoleum more like, if you ask me. I mean, what is he proving living in such cold conditions? He sees it as an achievement to get through the winter without heating, miserly old fool that he is. I tell you, he is the sort of man who would buy a poppy for one Remembrance Sunday, pay next to nothing for it and wear it for the next ten Remembrance Sundays until it falls apart, then he buys another one for a penny or two and wears that for the first week in each November until that too falls apart, and so on and so forth. That’s Beattie, claiming poverty but I bet he has a pile tucked away somewhere. Anyway I knew you were cops so I didn’t interfere.’
    ‘You knew?’ Webster asked.
    ‘Yes. You looked confident, were a pair and calling during the hours of daylight. Also you are both in good physical shape. But I took a few photographs of you anyway,’ Tinsley smiled.
    ‘You did?’
    ‘Yes I did. Just in case. And I also made sure I got your car registration in one of the shots. I used a telephoto lens, you see, then I saw Beattie invite you into his house . . . so I relaxed.’
    ‘Good for you.’
    ‘I’ll send prints of them to you when I develop the film. Malton Police Station?’
    ‘No. York. Micklegate Bar. But we’d still like to see them.’
    ‘Really? York Police, I mean . . .’
    ‘Yes, really.’
    ‘All right. So, how can I help you?’ Tinsley sat back on the sofa, ‘I am intrigued.’
    ‘Mr Beattie advised us that once a bearded man in a fur hat and tartan patterned jacket seemed to paying a lot of interest in his house. This was a couple of years ago, or so. He also said you may have got a look at him.’
    ‘The Canadian? Yes . . . but that’s going back a good few months now, nearly two years, as you say . . . time flies so.’
    ‘Tell us about him, if you