by J. R. Ellis
‘How did he help you?’
‘He lent me money; enough for me to start here, rent the office and so on. That was four years ago and we agreed that once things were established he would invest in the business.’
‘How did things go wrong?’
‘I was too naïve and trusting. It was a gentleman’s agreement – you know, old-school loyalty and all that. There was nothing written down. I was a fool. We then had a difficult couple of years and just about broke even. We didn’t make any profit.’
‘So he turned against you?’
‘Exactly. He called one day to ask how things were going and when I told him, he said in that case he’d had enough and wasn’t going to invest any more. He wasn’t going to support lame ducks and he also wanted his loan paid back within five years. Damian could be like that: very unpredictable.’
‘Nevertheless, you were disappointed?’
Sinclair thought for a moment. ‘I suppose I was really. I thought that our old friendship meant something but apparently not. It was merely a financial transaction for him. I explained that it was a very competitive market and publishing is undergoing big changes and all that, but he wasn’t interested, just said I was making excuses.’
‘And has it had a bad effect on you?’
‘Absolutely. We’re really struggling now. I can only employ Amy part-time, and I work God knows how many hours a week trying to make a go of it. I feel he ditched me just like that, despite all his talk about supporting a new venture.’
Sinclair had been tapping a pen on his desk, and now he threw it down.
‘You’re obviously very angry with him,’ said Oldroyd.
Sinclair frowned. ‘Yes, but I know what you’re driving at. I didn’t kill him.’
‘You were there last night in the bar at The White Swan as part of a group who got into an argument with Penrose.’
Sinclair raised his eyebrows. ‘I assume you’ve been talking to the others.’
‘We have.’
‘OK. Well, I was at that event and what a farce it was! Poor Ben Poole tried to get Penrose to talk about something other than his damned self but without success.’
‘Why were you there, given you’d fallen out with him?’
‘Good question, Chief Inspector. You could ask the others the same thing. I suppose we have – had – a fascination with the old rogue. We like him to know we’re there, that not everyone in the audience is there to fawn on him. Last night Esther and Charles took it all a bit further: they asked awkward questions and tried to unsettle him, and afterwards we all followed him into the bar and continued it.’
‘And what happened?’
‘It just became a slanging match. You could never get the better of Damian in that kind of scrap: he loved it. Whatever you slung at him, he just replied in kind. The more notorious he became, the more he thrived on it.’
‘So were there other ways you could get back at him?’ asked Andy.
Sinclair looked at the younger detective and smiled. ‘Nice try, but no, we didn’t plan to kill him, though I can’t see that many people are going to be lamenting his passing . . . except his fans.’
‘And what did you do when you left the hotel?’
‘I went home. I live over in High Harrogate and I walked it. It helped me to cool off. I got back around midnight. My partner, Ed, was already in bed and I joined him.’
‘And this morning?’
‘Got up at my usual time about eight and walked back into town and then here. I always walk to work; it’s my main exercise. Ed was around – he can vouch for the time.’
‘OK. Do you go to the Royal Baths?’
‘Yes, occasionally. I think a lot of Harrogate people go now and again. They’re such a feature of the town. Ed goes there quite regularly.’
‘So you’re familiar with the layout and everything?’
‘Yes, but I’m afraid I didn’t just pop in this morning on my way to work and bump him off. That would be too easy for you.’
‘We don’t go in for easy cases,’ replied Oldroyd as he and Andy got up to leave. ‘That’s all for now, and I wish you the best of luck with the business. You’re right, Yorkshire needs more publishing houses of its own.’
‘Thank you.’ Sinclair smiled and seemed genuinely grateful for Oldroyd’s words of encouragement.
On the way down the stairs, they passed Amy – the assistant – returning from her lunch break, but she looked away and said nothing.
Steph sat rigidly in Derek Fenton’s car: an Audi, which was his pride and joy. It was always immaculately clean inside and out and the interior smelled of cheap air freshener.
Fenton always put on dark glasses to drive, and he’d taken off his jacket and placed it on a hanger attached to a rear door. His shirt was pulled tight over his fat stomach and there were the usual sweat stains under his arms. The strong smell of his aftershave combined with the air freshener made Steph feel sick.
‘Well, this is nice, isn’t it?’ He grinned at her in a knowing, lecherous way, which added to her nausea. She moved as far away from him as the seat would allow and looked out of the window. ‘I’m sure we’ll work well together, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she replied tersely, not wanting to be either rude or encouraging.
‘You’ll find there’s nothing like a mature man who knows what he’s doing.’
Steph ignored this comment and its crude implications.
‘Don’t you get tired of working with the chief inspector? It must be like working with your dad all the time.’
Steph felt she had to defend Oldroyd. ‘He’s taught me a great deal, and I respect him a lot.’
‘Aw, that’s sweet. I won’t ask what you’ve learned but I bet he’s enjoyed teaching you.’
Steph felt angry and bit her lip. Clearly everything she said was going to be turned to smut. They were driving past Ripley, and she caught sight of the castle. She felt as if she was trapped in some kind of dungeon and was relieved when they arrived at their destination: a converted barn out on the road to Nidderdale. Fenton pulled into the drive and switched off the engine. As his hand left the gear stick, it brushed briefly against her leg.
‘Anyway, better get to work,’ he said. ‘This woman’s called Clare Bayliss. Her husband, Jack Sandford, is a councillor and he’s been accused of corruption – in particular, putting a contract her way. He’s suspended from the Procurement Committee at the moment. She’s an architect, and the contract was for renovations to the Royal Baths last year. Let’s see what she has to say for herself.’
Fenton knocked on the door, which was answered by a woman with short dark hair, dressed in expensive Capri trousers and a halter-neck top. He showed his ID.
‘Yes, come in,’ she said with a sigh.
The detectives entered a huge sitting room. There was a large window looking out on to a paddock, where two horses were grazing. A wooden spiral staircase led up to a mezzanine floor. Steph could see the skilled work of the architect owner in its design. Fenton sank into a leather sofa and Steph sat well away from him in an armchair. Clare sat on an upright wooden chair and crossed her legs.
‘I really think this is unnecessary. I—’ she began to say, but Fenton interrupted her abruptly.
‘We’ll be the judges of that.’ Steph winced. Why was he being so rude? ‘Your husband’s being investigated for corruption. He gave you a contract to do work for the council. What do you have to say to that?’
‘Well, I was about to say that it was all a mistake. Jack thought he’d declared all his interests, but apparently he’d forgotten about me.’
‘That’s a bit hard to believe, isn’t it?’
‘Not really, if you know Jack. He’s very bright and well meaning, but a bit scatterbrained when it comes to detail. And anyway, the point is, he didn’t personally give me the contract. It was decided by the Procurement Committee.’
‘But he’s the chair of that committee, and so he was in a position to steer the ot
her members in your direction.’
‘But he didn’t.’
‘We’ll see what they say when we interview them. The fact is, the allegation has been made and he didn’t list you as an interest.’
‘Made by people in the council who want to get rid of him.’
Fenton ignored this comment. ‘It was too good an opportunity to miss, though, wasn’t it? A nice juicy contract with the council. Handed to you on a plate and you didn’t need to offer any favours in return.’ Steph looked up sharply.
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Clare, looking flustered.
‘We all know what goes on when people are bidding for contracts. People like you use all the assets you have.’ He gave her one of his leering grins.
Steph’s cheeks went red with embarrassment, but she couldn’t say anything.
‘Are you implying . . . ?’ said Clare.
Fenton laughed, enjoying his dirty innuendo. ‘No, not me. I wouldn’t imply anything. I’m just saying it was easy pickings, wasn’t it?’
‘No.’ Clare looked angry, and Steph sympathised. ‘I put in my bid and the committee decided it was the best. They know who I am and their discussions and decisions are all minuted. The only problem was Jack’s oversight, which has been used maliciously by his enemies.’
Fenton continued with his cynical line of questioning, constantly verging on the sleazy and suggestive. He didn’t appear to have much of an aim beyond making Clare uneasy. Steph felt angry and ashamed, and wondered what he might have said to Clare had she not been with him.
She sat silently in the car on the way back, considering how she could escape from working with Fenton.
When they were out of the drive, he turned to her. ‘Well, you weren’t much bloody good in there. You didn’t say anything.’
‘Did you want me to? I thought you were quite happy making the woman feel uncomfortable.’
He laughed. ‘That’s the first rule in my book: never mind putting them at their ease, get control over them, show them that you mean business.’
‘Did you have to imply that she might sleep with people to get contracts?’
‘Ooh! Who’s got a dirty mind, then? Who says that’s what I meant? Anyway, you’re bloody naïve if you think that kind of thing doesn’t go on. And women are the worst.’
Steph said nothing. She didn’t want to get into an argument with him.
After a while he said, ‘Maybe this’ll get you talking.’ He opened the glove compartment with his left hand, took out an envelope and threw it at her. Startled, she looked at it on her lap. ‘Open it.’
She did, took out the contents and gasped.
There was a series of photographs showing a woman topless on a beach. It was her. For a moment she was bewildered, but then realised where they came from. It was several years ago and she’d been in Mallorca with some rather rowdy friends. They’d all got drunk and then photographed each other with their bikini tops off and making lewd gestures. Someone had put them on Facebook, but that was a while ago. She thought they’d all been removed. How had he managed to get them?
‘Good, aren’t they?’ he said, and this time his smile was positively sinister. ‘Not pictures you’d want everyone to see, though, are they?’
‘Where did you get these?’
‘Never you mind.’
Then she remembered. Amelia, one of the friends, had sent her some prints of the images as a joke. She’d sent them to Steph at work with a note saying, ‘Dare you to hand these round the office. Quick promotion if you do!’ It was just like her. Steph had laughed, stuck them in a drawer in her desk and, like an idiot, forgotten about them. The bastard must have been going through the drawers trying to find something he could use against her. He wouldn’t have been able to believe his luck when he struck gold! She could kick herself for being lax about keeping those drawers locked; if only she’d remembered that this stuff was in there.
‘You’ve been going through my personal things.’
‘Hey, be careful with your allegations. Anyway, it’s a shame to keep such lovely pictures secret, don’t you think? Or would you rather they weren’t shown to your colleagues at work?’
‘Are you blackmailing me?’
‘Oh, that’s such a nasty word.’
‘Can you think of a better one?’
He turned to her. ‘Whatever. Anyway, you should have thought about that when you were posing like a whore for those photographs. I don’t think DCI Oldroyd would be impressed if these became public. Do you think you’d be taken seriously again by the powers above? And what about that Cockney boyfriend of yours? I don’t think he’d want pictures of his girlfriend’s tits being shown around HQ. It’ll make you look like a real slapper.’
It took all Steph’s self-control to stop herself from slapping him across the face.
‘But don’t worry, there are ways we can stop that happening,’ Fenton continued.
Steph said nothing. She didn’t want to hear the revolting details. Nothing else was said until they arrived back at HQ. As he stopped the car, he put his hand on her leg.
‘Take your hand off me.’
‘Ah, ah, no need to be so touchy. Think about what I’ve said. It would be a great pity if all those male officers suddenly saw you in a different light. Could you face them again once you knew they’d had a good look at your nipples in a photograph?’
Again she said nothing. She went straight inside, locked herself in a cubicle in the toilets and sobbed.
Esther Stevenson lived in a house in the Duchy Estate, an area of handsome stone-built houses in various styles, many of which had elaborate and well-maintained gardens. Her house had pointed, tall gables and rooms on three storeys, but was rather shabby in appearance and the garden was somewhat overgrown at the front with leggy rhododendrons and rampant pink geraniums. Grass grew between the paving stones on the path.
‘Well, she’s not a gardener,’ remarked Oldroyd as he knocked on the door. A dog barked in the hallway.
‘Too busy writing, I expect, sir.’
‘Well, writing didn’t stop Vita Sackville-West creating one of the great gardens at Sissinghurst.’
‘Absolutely, sir,’ said Andy facetiously. He’d worked with his boss long enough now to know that Oldroyd was fond of throwing in snippets of obscure information from his rather arcane interests in order to tease him.
There was the sound of a muffled voice from within. ‘Just a minute, I’m on my way.’
The door was opened by Esther Stevenson, who was wearing purple dungarees. Sharp eyes behind round-rimmed glasses assessed the visitors. ‘Oh, you’re the police; I can tell straight away. You’d better come in. Shut the door behind you. Be quiet, Toby!’
She turned and led them down a passageway, where an Airedale Terrier sniffed at them but decided they were OK. They went through a small conservatory and out into a similarly overgrown back garden, where she’d been sitting and writing. There was a wooden table and a number of chairs. A cat lay curled up on one of them and on the table lay a notebook and pen.
‘Take a seat. I like to sit outside and write when the weather’s good, and I get sick of tapping away at the keyboard, so I revert to the old pen and paper now and again.’
‘I’m sure I’d do the same,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘It’s only people of his generation’ – he nodded at Andy – ‘who can sit at screens all day.’
‘Quite,’ said Stevenson, looking at Andy, who grinned at her politely. ‘Sit down.’ She indicated two vacant chairs as she took a cigarette from a packet and lit up. ‘You’re here to find out if I killed that bastard, Penrose, but I’m sorry to disappoint you; it wasn’t me.’
Oldroyd enjoyed the blunt attitude and the Yorkshire tones in her voice. ‘How did you find out about the murder?’ he asked.
‘Charles phoned me earlier to give me the good news.’
‘You clearly didn’t have a high opinion of Mr Penrose.’
She took a drag and blew out the smoke. Andy
, who strongly disliked cigarette smoke, winced a little.
‘Damian Penrose, the doyen of the crime novel,’ Esther said, with undisguised contempt. ‘What you have to realise is that Penrose was not only a highly unpleasant individual with his general arrogance and nastiness, but he was also a charlatan who brought the whole writing profession into disrepute.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Andy.
‘I mean that a lot of material he used was stolen. He owed a lot of his success to what he took from other people, and that is a terrible crime in the literary world: passing other people’s work off as your own.’
‘He plagiarised?’ said Oldroyd.
‘Oh no, he was too careful for that. He never copied from stuff that was already in print. What he did was steal ideas.’
‘How?’
‘When you attain a certain level of fame and popularity, as he did, you get a lot of aspiring writers sending in their writing, hoping that you will look at it.’
‘I thought writers were too busy to do that? Isn’t that what the agents are for?’
‘Yes, but Penrose was a devious bastard. He let it be known that his agent would pass on certain things for him to look at, and so lots of people sent things in, in the hope that they might get his help or his endorsement. He got his agent to do a kind of filter and then he read some of the more promising efforts, not with any intention of helping anybody, but purely to see if there were any good ideas he might use himself. If there were, he would send a note back saying that the book wasn’t very good, have another try, et cetera. The poor writer would probably abandon that project only to find that ideas from it popped up in Penrose’s next novel.’
