All through showering, making some toast and having my first coffees that bright and crisp September morning, I felt I was neglecting something.
I checked a mental list. At the top, Hansen's business card, now in my wallet. But all the rest of it was memory. I realised I should have written every happening down. Memory was able to unpredictably muddle events. I made a few notes on a piece of paper which I added to my wallet.
But the notion I had just encountered led me later to write the account you are now reading.
I still felt that there was something undone. The feeling persisted through all the preparations for my journey to Newby Wiske. They were still there as I sat in the Sierra, and put the key into the ignition. The key was unturned, and I got out and walked along the garden path, barely seeing the care lavished on the flower bed by the gardener.
It was then I realised how open this establishment, this machine for living we - now me only, inhabited, was vulnerable to intrusion. The gardener, the cleaner, and Madge. We had given each a set of access keys to the house. But the gardener and the cleaner both worked for companies. We, certainly I, didn't know them as people. The house was completely vulnerable to anyone with minimal knowledge and a determination to penetrate our lives.
I unlocked and re-entered the front door, and sat in the lounge. I thought there were two sources of information in this house that had been penetrated. The filing cabinet, and Ellie's PC. If the intruder returned what would they notice? The cabinet opened, and the PC files restored.
OK. So what would they do then. Presumably write off the cabinet as a bad job. But they would know from the restored PC that somewhere there was a back up. I went to the window sill hiding place and retrieved the hard drive. I thought where to put it and decided to take it with me.
Now comforted, if that really is the right word to describe my emotional state, by having removed some concern over our - my - vulnerability to invasion, I commenced the three hour journey to Northallerton, the nearest town to the village of Newby Wiske where North Yorks police had established their HQ.
M1, M18, A1M, a string of motorways, requiring concentration and vigilance. Had Ellie dropped her road guard for a critical instant on her journey to the more distant destination of Harrogate?
As my imagination unfurled a vision of Ellie pumping the failing brakes of the powerful Porsche as she slammed into the suddenly stationary traffic queue, and was instantly immolated in roaring flames, and my arms blistered into crisped skin and barbecued flesh, I barely noticed the Eddie Stobart truck I was following had jammed on its brakes, the rear wheels of the trailer smoking as it shuddered to a halt.
I stopped with the nose of the Sierra barely touching the metal angle iron of the retainer to the truck's spare wheel.
After a minute or so the truck resumed its journey, while I reflected as I started up, that I was less fit to drive than anyone with lots more than 80 mg per100ml alcohol on board.
I arrived at Newby Wiske with no more incident, but now was seething with the need to have Ellie's fate wound up. I needed to restart my life, however bleak, without her, and Detective Hansen was the key to that.
The Sierra was corralled between two raising arm gates, while I was summoned by a beckoning policeman into a glass office commanding views of the whole of the entrance.
I was amused and then irritated by the politically correct 'customer care' displayed by the policeman.
"How can I help you, sir?"
I suppressed my emotions and did not say 'open the fucking gates and let me through.'
I gave him Hansen's card, saying, "I have an appointment to see this man at approximately mid-day today."
"Bit late aren't you sir?"
"Yes I am. There are things called motorways and traffic congestion these days unless it has escaped your attention."
"Sorry sir. Not a good journey sir?"
I half huffed, half sighed, "You could say that."
He tapped for sometime at his terminal, with an increasing concern on his careworn face. I noticed him now, his authority dented. He could be the father of a teenager facing the rebellion of the youth, or commandeered into looking after a grandchild. He was now puzzled in those wrinkled eyes, that were not understanding what the LCD displayed.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I cannot locate a Detective Inspector Hansen in this establishment."
"But this," I took the card off the desk between us," is his card. That's the telephone number, I spoke to him on Saturday."
"I'm sorry, sir, but that telephone isn't to here. Our area code is 01609. Where this on the card will go to I don't know."
"But Hansen was going to tell me about how my wife Ellie died and the accident on the motorway and everything. How am I going to arrange the funeral, and God, all that sort of thing? Jesus wept. This is some kind of shit."
I shivered as a slurry of liquid ice slid into my guts, and my head started to feel it was shrinking.
"I - I need to sit down."
I flopped onto a bench which was against the windowless wall of the cabin, and put my head between my knees.
The policeman came round his counter, and put a hand on my shoulder.
"Look sir, I'll have to find someone to talk to you. Give me your name and I'll get on with that. Give me the key to your car and we'll move it to the car park."
"It's in the ignition. I'm Jason Blackwood," I muttered.
I was vaguely aware of another policeman being called in and asked to take the car, and then some extensive negotiations on the phone.
My head cleared, I felt less wobbly, and I sat back.
"Try to drink some of this Mr Blackwood."
I took the mug, and sipped," and grimaced at the sickly sweetness of the tea.
Nevertheless I drank about half and handed the mug back. "Thanks very much."
"Now Mr Blackwood I've arranged for you to see Chief Inspector Thomas. Unfortunately he is busy for half an hour, so a constable from his office will be here shortly to escort you there."
"You've been very thoughtful," I said," could I have your name?"
"Yes Mr Blackwood , PC Ted Fordham."
"Thank you." I took my piece of paper with the notes I had made and put Ted's details and then Chief Inspector Thomas as well.
"You're keeping details of us then?"
"Well after hearing Hansen isn't what he seemed I am a bit wary."
"Yes, I can understand that Mr Blackwood."
A little later a WPC, who seemed hardly older than Anne came and led the way through a maze of corridors in a 1980's sprawl of single storey buildings that had no doubt been slung up as temporary, but had taken root, surrounding the ancient Hall of Newby Wiske.
"Mr Blackwood, Sir," said the WPC as she ushered me through the door.
"Thanks Eileen, could you take notes, please."
He held out his hand,"Mr Blackwood, sit down. I gather you've been through a puzzling and distressing experience. My name is Thomas, Chief Inspector. We regard impersonation, if that's what it is, as a serious matter, so I'm afraid you may find the next hours frustrating, but you are not under arrest. No more than our trying to find out the circumstances."
His voice was quiet and firm, with a hint of Yorkshire in the vowels. His face was ruddy and eyebrows white haired, which shielded very blue, intense eyes.
I nodded as I sat in the chair he had indicated in front of the desk, with Eileen on my right with notebook poised on her knee.
"Ted has given me an account of what you said in reception, but it doesn't make much sense so we must start from the beginning however tedious this must seem. Can you tell us your name, address and land-line telephone."
"Hansen and Winford had some of this, or they couldn't've arrived at my house at four in the morning and banged on my front door."
"Winford? Who is he? Now if Eileen is going to be able to make her notes could we do this our way, please. So name address and telephone."
I gave the information he sought and Eileen busily wrote in her notebook.
"You live in Rugby alone?"
"No - well yes, now. My wife Ellen was killed in a motorway accident on Wednesday last evening, That was why Hansen and Winford called."
"I see. I am very sorry for your loss. But you were presumably sleeping Wednesday night, and you say at 4 am on Thursday you were woken by two police officers."
"That's right," I took out my notes, "A DI William Hansen Yorkshire CID, who gave me this card, and Inspector Tom Winford of Yorkshire Motorway police. Hansen was in plain clothes, and Winford in a high viz jacket with all the equipment attached."
"Did you see the car they arrived in?"
"A dark grey BMW with blue lights concealed in the radiator. I asked that they were switched off to avoid disturbing the neighbours."
"You didn't get the registration plate number then?"
"No."
"Hmm. Excuse me." He picked up the phone, " Colin check if YMP have a DI Tom Winford on the payroll. Thanks".
He took me through the events of that dreadful morning.
A man in plain clothes came in with a piece of paper which he put in front of Thomas.
Thomas absorbed what was on it, and said to me,"Well at least Winford is genuine, so I'll have to interview him, but he is based in Bradford."
"Bradford. Why?"
"Well you may find it strange, but North Yorkshire has much fewer Motorway miles so West Yorkshire look after ours as well as theirs. It's more efficient that way. Colin,' stay here a minute - sit down. This is Jason Blackwood who has some puzzling information. "
"Now Mr Blackwood, just go over the accident you were told about, and Colin will try to obtain some more information."
"Hansen -"
Thomas interrupted, "Colin, Hansen may be a phony name so don't worry about him - sorry Mr Blackwood. Carry on."
"Well let me call him Hansen, told me there had been an accident, a pile up on the A1M near Doncaster and that my wife had been killed in the impact and her car caught fire.
He said he couldn't tell me anymore until the police reports were finalised and we agreed to meet here today which is why I'm here now. Ted Fordham couldn't find Hansen."
"Colin, see what details you can get on the incident. I certainly heard about it. Late evening Wednesday last, A1M north near Doncaster."
Colin asked in a flat Yorkshire accent, "Have you the make and registration of your wife's car?"
"Yes. Black Porsche 911. Number ELL 1E."
"R - right." He looked at me quizzically, I think much the same expression had inhabited my face when I had signed the enormous cheque for the cherished number plate.
"Right, Mr Blackwood, can we go back to when your visitors introduced themselves. Did they show you warrant cards?"
"Well, yes but its a bit like on TV. A wallet flips open for a few seconds and you get a general impression of a twinkly badge and an ID card. But you can't check the who and what of it. In any case even if I did, you can't know what a genuine one should be like. At the distance and for the time you see it, it could be a driving license, and you'd be none the wiser."
He handed me his opened wallet. "Were they like this?"
"Well, I think so but I'm able to examine this. The detail on theirs could have been different without me knowing."
"Hmm. You said Winford, looked as though he wanted you to be told about your wife and Hansen made him wait. So would I be right in supposing you think that Winford understood the same account of the incident as Hansen."
"Well, I'm pretty sure so."
"And this spanner. What happened to it?"
"They took it away in a plastic bag with a form inside."
There was a knock at the door and Colin came in again with a piece of paper he wordlessly handed to Thomas.
His face was grim as he looked up at me.
"Mr Blackwood. There was a fire and the incident did occur. However no Porsche was involved and no car of that registration was reported. We have secured the video recordings of the cameras on the A1M but of course it will take time to analyse them to determine what happened to your wife. I'm sorry to be so vague."
My brain went once more into turmoil. Was Ellie alive? Where was she? What the hell should I do now?
.