The Royal Baths Murder

by J. R. Ellis

  ‘Do you fancy a drink at the Barden Arms, Jim?’

  Oldroyd came out of his reverie at the prospect of some beer.

  ‘I’ll drive back,’ she continued. ‘Don’t worry, I know how much you like your pints of bitter. An orange juice and soda water will suit me fine.’

  Oldroyd gave her a hug. ‘Thanks, sis, you’re an angel!’

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Alison, laughing.

  Three

  From the sixteenth century onwards, nearly a hundred mineral springs have been found in Harrogate. They contain chalybeate (iron), sulphur and salt. They became a popular health treatment in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and Harrogate developed as a spa town. The town’s motto is Arx celebris fontibus: ‘a citadel famous for its springs’.

  On Monday morning Steph came into Oldroyd’s office, tired with the effort of acting normally while she was struggling with the horrible feeling of being trapped by Fenton. She was trying to think of a way to deal with the situation and was still determined to do this by herself and not involve Oldroyd or Andy. But it was proving particularly hard to keep things from the latter, who still believed that something was wrong, especially when she seemed reluctant to do much over the weekend. She’d spent the morning researching the case she was investigating with Fenton and had discovered a link with the murder of Penrose, which had proved a welcome distraction.

  ‘Hi,’ said Andy. ‘How’s it going with Fenton today?’

  ‘OK. I’ve been researching the backgrounds of the suspects and I’ve found something useful for you. I’ve discovered that Clare Bayliss – she’s the architect at the centre of this corruption investigation – was married to Damian Penrose for six years.’

  ‘Whoa!’ exclaimed Andy. ‘That’s weird! Are these cases connected?’

  ‘More likely a coincidence,’ said Oldroyd.

  ‘Maybe, sir, but the project that her husband allegedly put her way was a partial redesign and refurbishment of the Royal Baths.’

  Oldroyd perked up at that. ‘Good Lord! Well, that’s different. I get suspicious when coincidences mount up. We’ll have to get out to see her, and soon.’

  ‘Do you think her connection with the Baths might have some bearing on the murder scene, then, sir?’ asked Andy.

  ‘Well, as the architect, she will have been all over that building in great detail and may have discovered something.’

  ‘You mean a secret way out or a hiding place? Is it likely that she found something that nobody else knew about?’

  ‘It doesn’t sound likely, but neither is the total disappearance of the murderer from the Baths. We’ve got to follow up every lead. Moreover, what if she had something built into the fabric that could help her in her revenge against her ex-husband?’

  ‘That sounds a bit far-fetched, sir,’ said a sceptical Andy.

  ‘Well, I’m not talking about anything as complicated as a custom-built hidey-hole, but here is a woman with a motive, who’s had access to the Baths and knows the construction of the building. It’s a lead we have to follow. Well done, Steph, and you’re not even on the case.’

  ‘Glad to be of use, sir,’ replied Steph, smiling.

  Andy thought her smile was forced. Her face looked drawn and tense. He’d noticed that when he’d asked about Fenton, she’d only commented on what she was doing and not said anything about how she was getting on with the detective inspector. Something was wrong.

  ‘No time like the present. Let’s go. She lives out on the road up to Pateley Bridge, doesn’t she?’

  Steph gave Oldroyd the address and the two men left. Steph stayed and sat down in the chair she usually occupied in her boss’s office. A huge debilitating wave of anxiety washed over her. What the hell was she going to do? How could she prevent Andy from getting more and more suspicious that there was something wrong? She’d been sleeping badly, and was starting to doze off in the chair when a knock at the door startled her.

  ‘Come in!’ she called.

  A young DC called Sharon Warner came in. ‘Hi, Sarge, I’ve brought these files in for DCI Oldroyd.’

  ‘OK, Sharon, put them on his desk.’

  Steph watched her leave and suddenly realised what the answer was: she was surely not the only one. Fenton would have approached and harassed other female officers. How many others had suffered in silence, afraid to say anything because of his rank and power as a detective inspector? It wouldn’t be easy but she needed to find out and then persuade them all to stand together and challenge him.

  She got up from the chair. Sharon was young and inexperienced and might be afraid of speaking out but there were other officers who might be more forthcoming. But Steph knew exactly who she needed to speak to first.

  Clare Bayliss was shocked when she opened the door to find the police there again. ‘What’s going on? I had an inspector and a sergeant here the other day. Don’t you people talk to each other?’

  ‘We’re not here about the council matter,’ said Oldroyd. ‘We’re investigating the murder of Damian Penrose; your former husband, I understand.’

  She sighed. ‘You’d better come in.’

  She led Oldroyd and Andy into the same room in which Steph had recently sat very uncomfortably with Fenton. Clare sat in an armchair facing the two detectives on the sofa.

  ‘I suppose I knew this would come out at some point,’ she began. ‘I was just hoping against hope that you might overlook it. How did you find out? Was it Pat and Amanda at the Crime Writing Festival?’

  ‘No, my colleague working on the corruption allegations made the connection. Why did you mention those people?’

  ‘Just because they know all about Damian and me. I met him when he was up here for the Crime Writing Festival years ago. I was a volunteer in those days. I’ve always been an avid reader of crime fiction and it was so exciting to meet writers. Damian was a particular favourite of mine.’

  ‘It was like meeting your hero?’ suggested Oldroyd.

  ‘Yes, I was dazzled by him and when he showed an interest in me, it was so thrilling that . . .’ She tailed off, looked away and seemed lost in thought and memories.

  ‘So it was what you’d call a whirlwind romance?’

  ‘Yes. He swept me off my feet. Think of all the clichés you can – they all apply. I was quite young and not very experienced with men. I was studious; architecture is a long and demanding course, and I’d worked hard to get my degree and then to establish myself.’

  ‘He must have been quite a bit older than you.’

  ‘Yes, that was part of the fascination: this successful celebrity writer, who was confident and knew about the world. I was infatuated. So he divorced his wife, and I married him and went off to London.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes, it was easy to get work there, although he didn’t encourage me. He seemed to want me to stay at home and attend to all his needs. That was the first warning I had that things were not going to be as I’d expected.’

  ‘What had you expected?’

  ‘I don’t really know. I was very naïve. I thought being married to a writer like him would be glamorous.’

  ‘But it wasn’t?’

  ‘No. It was actually very dull. He went out a lot without me to events and meetings with his publisher and so on. I felt quite lonely and I realised that I didn’t really know him. He turned out to be moody and bad-tempered and he soon lost interest in me after he’d paraded me round to all his friends, boasting about his young wife. It wasn’t long before I found out that he was seeing other women.’

  ‘I presume that made you angry.’

  ‘Yes, but it also made me face up to the truth: that I’d been a fool and I wasn’t going to continue being one by putting up with his behaviour. I left him, came back to Harrogate and filed for divorce. The whole business put me off men for quite some time but eventually I met Jack.’

  Oldroyd looked at her closely. ‘It all sounds like a very painful episode in your life.’

 
; She shrugged. ‘It was. It’s the kind of mistake people make when they’re young and there are people around who want to take advantage of them.’

  ‘So how do you feel about him now?’

  Clare smiled. ‘I didn’t hate him enough to want to kill him, Chief Inspector, if that’s what you’re implying. In fact, I think he was a very sad person, completely locked into his own ego and relishing his image as the nasty writer – all that Poison Pen stuff.’

  ‘How did you feel about him coming up to Harrogate every year?’

  ‘I ignored him. Sadly, I don’t go anywhere near the Crime Writing Festival anymore and funnily enough I’ve gone off crime fiction.’

  ‘Not surprising in the circumstances. Can I ask you where you were on the day your ex-husband was murdered?’

  ‘I mostly work from home these days, so I would have been here.’

  ‘Anyone who can corroborate that?’

  ‘Jack leaves for work at about eight fifteen, so he saw me before he went. Other than him, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘You mentioned your work. Although we’re not concerned with the issue of how you got the contract from the council, we are interested in your design for the Royal Baths.’

  ‘It was just a partial refurbishment and improvement. I put in a new roof light in the main staircase area; made it less gloomy and more like an atrium. I also redesigned the ceiling in the swimming pool area.’

  ‘What about the baths themselves?’

  ‘I reconfigured some of the changing rooms, but that’s all. You can’t touch that area; it’s all original Victorian tile and brick and it’s listed.’

  ‘I see, so you didn’t redesign the baths or steam rooms in any other way?’

  ‘No.’

  Oldroyd had finished his questioning and stood up ready to go. ‘Thank you for being cooperative, and I hope the other matter is resolved as soon as possible.’

  ‘I hope so too,’ she replied as she saw them out, but her expression gave nothing away.

  ‘What did you make of her, then, sir?’ asked Andy as they drove back to Harrogate via the delightfully named village of Bedlam. ‘As we said, she’s got a powerful motive, she’s based here and she knows the Baths.’

  ‘All true, and I’m not sure I believe her when she says she’s put the disaster of her marriage to Penrose behind her. She was treated very badly by that man and the scars must be deep. No, I think the motive is very strong, but I’m less convinced about this Baths refurbishment business. I think we may be clutching at straws on that one. I can’t really see how anything she did would have helped her plan the murder, and she would have needed an accomplice if her husband can supply the alibi for that morning. We need to look carefully at all the architectural plans and have the place carefully examined for secret hiding places, but somehow I’m not optimistic.’

  ‘What are your current ideas about how it was done, then, sir?’

  Oldroyd sighed. ‘At present, Andy, I haven’t a single notion that really makes sense. I’ve got one or two wild theories, but they’re not worth sharing with you.’

  Andy smiled. He was used to his boss’s habit of not sharing everything with his team until he was fairly sure about things. He also knew that, with Oldroyd, a ‘wild theory’ often turned out to provide an accurate account of events.

  Steph went down to the canteen at Harrogate HQ and immediately saw the person she was looking for sitting alone drinking coffee. It was the perfect opportunity.

  DC Nicola Jackson was an attractive, curvaceous brunette, who’d had lots of mostly brief affairs with male officers of various ages and ranks. This included a fling with Andy soon after he’d arrived in Yorkshire, but before he and Steph had got together. This history made the two women wary of each other, but Nicola was the kind of confident and uninhibited person who might well be prepared to speak out if she had suffered any unwanted attention.

  Steph paused. This would need careful handling. She got a coffee and went over to Nicola’s table.

  ‘Hi, mind if I join you?’

  Nicola looked up from her phone, eyed Steph suspiciously, then shrugged her shoulders. ‘No, be my guest.’

  Steph sat down and sipped her coffee. Nicola returned to her phone and was tapping a message.

  ‘There’s something I’d like to talk to you about,’ said Steph.

  Nicola looked up in surprise and then frowned. ‘Me? What about? It’s not that car parking business, is it? I told that Metcalf to park his bloody great big Audi properly and not take up two spaces and—’

  ‘No, it’s not about that. It’s about Derek Fenton.’

  ‘Fenton! What about him?’

  Her expression and tone of voice conveyed something to Steph that gave her hope. She searched carefully for the words.

  ‘Has he ever, you know, tried anything on with you?’

  Nicola drew back, looking very suspicious. ‘Well, Sarge, I’m not sure I’m prepared to say anything about that sort of thing to you. Why do you want to know, anyway?’

  Steph looked at her very directly. ‘Do you think I’m spying for him or something? Quite the opposite: he’s been harassing me for ages and now he’s got me into a bad place.’

  ‘How?’

  Steph had decided to take the calculated risk of telling Nicola about the photographs and Fenton’s blackmailing. She hoped that this frankness would gain her trust.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Nicola after Steph had explained. ‘What a bastard!’

  ‘Yes, so now you know I’m not on his side. What I’m trying to find out is who else he’s been bothering. If we act together, we can do something about it.’

  Nicola laughed sardonically. ‘Who hasn’t he tried it on with, more like? Everyone makes an effort to keep out of his way. He kept coming up behind me at the photocopier and putting his hand on my arse and fondling me.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘One day he did it when there was no one else around, so I turned round quickly and grabbed his bollocks hard. He never touched me again after that.’

  Steph laughed. ‘I’ll bet he didn’t. Good for you!’

  ‘You have to look after yourself, stand up to the bullies. That’s what men like that are really.’

  ‘You’re right, but not everyone’s as strong and capable as you.’

  ‘You mean they don’t know as much about men as I do.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. Think of people like Sharon Warner. She’s very young. If Fenton or anybody else did anything to her, I can’t see her getting hold of their balls.’

  Nicola shrugged again and went back to her phone.

  ‘Don’t you think we should do something about it?’ continued Steph, determined to persist.

  ‘Yeah, maybe. But it’s the old problem, isn’t it? No one wants to speak out against people in authority.’

  ‘But that makes it easier for them to carry on,’ said Steph. ‘Think of the Me Too movement; we can’t just leave these things to other people. Surely we have to do something?’

  Nicola sighed and shut her phone case.

  ‘Yes. OK, look, I agree. It’s a good idea to stick together but you’ll have a hard job getting people to say anything. Think about it: who’s in charge? Mostly men. They cover for each other. I’ve heard rumours that Fenton has friends in high places, men who will protect him on this.’ She looked at Steph with a hint of admiration. ‘But if you can manage it, I’ll support you. It would be great if we could bring that slimeball down.’

  ‘And give out a warning to any others who might want to try the same thing.’

  Nicola nodded. ‘Yes. Good luck.’

  ‘Ben! Could you make some coffee, please?’

  Ben Poole’s wife, Geraldine, called down from the attic room of their neat little terraced house in Oatlands, which she’d furnished as her studio. In the back room downstairs, Ben called out, ‘OK,’ and went to put the kettle on.

  He was preparing for another session as chair of an even
t at the Crime Writing Festival by reading about the authors involved. The income from this was very welcome. Neither of them had regular employment. Ben had been an English teacher in high schools but the stress of the job and the desire to be more creative had made him decide to leave teaching. Geraldine made a reasonable amount selling her work. She had displays in a number of local art shops. Ben wrote children’s stories, with limited success, and was also establishing himself on the literary circuit as a competent chair of literary discussions. He also did a little freelance journalism of the investigative type and he had a few contacts in the newspaper world. None of these sources of income brought in very much and money was always tight. Sometimes he had to undertake some supply teaching so that they could make ends meet.

  From the kitchen, a narrow one-storey extension, Ben looked out on to a back lane that was currently full of bins, as it was collection day. He could hear the beeping of the refuse lorry as it began to reverse down the lane. He made the coffee in a small cafetière and took two mugfuls upstairs, passing their small son’s bedroom on the first floor. Ben ascended the second narrow staircase and entered Geraldine’s artist’s cave, as he called it. There was an organised chaos of paints, easels and partially completed canvases. The walls were covered in paintings and line drawings.

  Ben put the coffee down, sighed and rubbed his eyes. Geraldine looked at him. She was wearing a paint-smeared smock and had her hair tied back. Her narrow face looked strained.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked anxiously. Her hands were trembling a little.

  ‘Yeah, just tired; didn’t sleep well again last night. Don’t worry.’

  ‘This Penrose thing’s really getting to you, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so. It’s a shock to be talking to someone in the evening and then they’re found murdered the next morning. It’s made the atmosphere at The White Swan very tense and everyone’s talking about that and not what’s happening at the festival.’

  ‘That’s inevitable, isn’t it? Especially with all the press coverage.’

  ‘It doesn’t make my job any easier; audiences don’t seem to be concentrating. It seems that the real events are more interesting than anything the writers have to say.’