by J. R. Ellis
Oldroyd made a pot of tea and sat down in his office to read them. Andy was over at The White Swan finishing off the routine work connected with Patricia Hughes’s murder. Penrose’s entries were not meticulous or regular. He appeared to have used the diary to sound off about people and events that annoyed him, mostly the former. The entries were short and hastily written in flamboyant handwriting, with liberal use of exclamation marks. Together they formed a pompous and arrogant man’s diatribe against the many people who had offended him in different ways. Here was a comment about a critic who must have given one of his books a bad review:
That miserable scribbler at the Daily Crap, what a bloody idiot!! He knows bugger all about crime writing anyway, praised that pile of utter rubbish by Andrea what’s her face!! No standards anymore – people don’t recognise real quality . . .
This was the angry verdict on an agent:
Why am I paying these useless people barrow loads of money when they can’t be bothered to get off their bloody arses and get me a better deal than this shit they’re offering me?!! To say I could do better myself is a bloody understatement of the highest order!!!
He never seemed to have a good word for any of his fellow writers:
I see Dark Noon has won the Gallery Prize – utterly preposterous: no plot, no characterisation, no atmosphere, no talent!! How can anyone take these judging panels seriously when they make such unbelievably stupid decisions?!!!
Oldroyd suspected that one of Penrose’s books might have been on the shortlist. He sat back and enjoyed himself. He was finding the whole thing an outrageous and entertaining read whilst remaining on the lookout for anything that might offer some insights into the case. Many of the entries were undated, which didn’t help, but Oldroyd worked out which volume was the most recent and began to find some interesting material. There were entries from the time of Penrose’s divorce from Clare Bayliss:
Like all men, I’m getting taken to the cleaners by the system; it was just the same with Susan: they always side with the poor woman and the man has to pay up!!! Why can’t they go out, get a job and keep themselves?!! The sooner she packs herself off to the wild north again, the better, as far as I’m concerned. I’ll be taking a wide berth when I’m up there for the festival – bitch!!!
That reference to Penrose’s first wife alerted Oldroyd to the fact that she was someone who would need to be followed up. Also, it didn’t seem that his divorce from Clare had been at all amicable. He seemed very bitter. Was she angrier about it than she’d suggested when they interviewed her?
The next discovery concerned John Sinclair:
John’s just been on the phone again. He really disappoints me: no head for business – does he really think I can carry on pouring money into his failing little enterprise just for old times’ sake?! It’s sad, though, when I think of the past and how much in love we once were.
Oldroyd raised his eyebrows. That would seem to add another dimension to Penrose’s character and to that relationship. John Sinclair would soon be receiving another visit. Sexual jealousy combined with money issues produced a potent cocktail of motives.
A third series of entries was more mysterious, as Penrose never used a name. There was some dispute going on with a woman. This entry was typical:
I’m not giving way to that bloody woman; these people don’t realise that writers often use ideas that have been around before. It’s the skill with which they rework them that counts. Anyway, it’s a ‘whore’s vengeance’, as they say, and I’m not giving in to the little bitch.
Clearly this was related to the disputes about Penrose stealing ideas from other writers, so was he writing about Esther Stevenson? If so, Penrose seemed to be implying that they’d had an affair and her accusations were fuelled by bitterness. Oldroyd thought this odd, and he found the reference to ‘the little bitch’ offensive but also puzzling because Esther Stevenson was quite tall. They would have to follow this up with her. Oldroyd sensed that someone else was involved, a person who might prove to be significant, and that the mystery was deepening.
The next day Steph continued her difficult and delicate mission: to discover how many female officers had suffered from Derek Fenton’s unwanted attentions, and to find this out without scaring or offending them. She tried to make a judgement about which women might have been his particular targets, though Nicola Jackson had implied that most women had been his victims at some point. She also needed to select women who were prepared to speak out.
Cynthia Carey was a detective sergeant who had once worked with Fenton, but had been transferred to another detective inspector. Steph wondered whether that indicated there had been some problems. Cynthia was a single parent with two school-age children. She was an attractive woman with auburn hair, which she often wore in a ponytail. She ran a lot, and kept herself very toned and physically fit. It seemed a fair assumption that Fenton would have paid her some unwelcome attention. Steph asked her to come into Oldroyd’s office while he and Andy were out.
‘Well, this is very nice, Steph,’ said Cynthia, looking round the office. ‘You’re lucky working with Oldroyd. He’s very informal, isn’t he? Doesn’t pull rank all the time like some of them.’
‘No, he’s great, Cyn. He makes you feel part of his team. Sit down, will you? I wanted to talk to you about something personal.’
‘Oh! OK.’
Cynthia sat down next to Steph.
‘It’s about Derek Fenton,’ Steph said. ‘I’m having problems with him and I was hoping you could help.’ She described Fenton’s behaviour and explained what had happened with the photographs.
‘Bloody hell! What a bastard!’ said Cynthia, exactly echoing Nicola Jackson’s response.
‘I know,’ replied Steph. ‘The thing is, though, I’m determined to do something about him, and I’ve already got Nicola Jackson on my side; he’s harassed her too. I wondered if you’d had any – what shall I say? – experiences with him?’
Cynthia laughed. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I thought everybody knew why I’d asked for a transfer, although it was never talked about. He’s a sex pest, he wouldn’t leave me alone. I don’t know whether he thought I was easier game because I’m separated from Francis and I don’t have a partner, but he was constantly making remarks, touching me, leering at my tits. It was impossible to work with him, and I was getting quite depressed about it. One evening when it was dark and there was no one around, he followed me out to the car and got hold of me, trying to make me kiss him; said he knew I wanted to really. I pushed him off and got into the car. The next day I asked to be transferred, but I didn’t mention what he’d done.’
‘Why didn’t you ask for help?’
‘Why don’t you?’ replied Cynthia directly. ‘It’s not easy, is it? Men in power – you always feel they’ll cover for each other. Maybe not Oldroyd, but there aren’t many like him. When I asked DCI Morton for the transfer, he agreed without asking me why. I got the feeling that he knew what Fenton was like, but he turned a blind eye. He just moved me so things didn’t get out of hand.’
‘Nicola said the same about this male conspiracy of watching each other’s backs, but my argument is, if we don’t do something, it’ll get worse, and I talked her round. How about you?’
Cynthia frowned. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘If there are enough of us, we can confront him and threaten to go to the authorities, right up to Chief Superintendent Walker if necessary.’
‘He’s a bit of an old buffer, isn’t he? I can’t see him doing much about it.’
‘He wouldn’t have any choice in this day and age if there are a number of us and we stick together.’
‘Fenton might call our bluff and just dare us to report him.’
‘If we went to the top, none of the bosses could ignore sexual harassment like that, after we’d called it out. It’s staying quiet that’s the problem.’
Cynthia went thoughtful for a few moments. Then she nodded and said, ‘Yes, you’re
right. We need to call time on the Fentons of this world. I’m with you all the way.’
Four
Agatha Christie went missing on 3 December 1926 from her home in Berkshire. Her disappearance caused an outcry amongst the public, and thousands of police officers and volunteers searched for her. On 14 December she was found at The Swan Hydropathic Hotel in Harrogate, now called The Old Swan, registered as Mrs Teresa Neele. Neele was the surname of her husband’s lover.
At The White Swan, Oldroyd and Andy were holding their second press conference. It was now almost a week since Penrose’s murder, and one day since Patricia Hughes’s body had been found. Progress was slow, and Tom Walker was getting twitchy. He wanted Oldroyd to ‘keep the buggers at bay so that that idiot Watkins doesn’t get on our backs’.
Policing at that level, mused Oldroyd, seemed to be almost entirely about PR. Here we go again, he thought, as he stared at the ranks of reporters and their expensive-looking cameras. He suddenly remembered Agatha Christie and her strange sojourn in the town. He didn’t remember her sleuths having to deal with the media like this, and as for Sherlock Holmes: the great man would have considered it far beneath his dignity! Of course they were private detectives, who didn’t have to deal with the day-to-day stresses of the job.
‘Two victims now, Chief Inspector. Are you sure they’re related?’
Quite a sensible start for once, thought Oldroyd.
‘That’s a good question. We can’t be sure that they are, and the second victim, Patricia Hughes, could have been attacked by a mugger, who stole her handbag. However, given the fact that muggers don’t usually deliver such vicious blows to their victims from behind, it seems to me that the motive was murder rather than robbery. Patricia was also the organiser of the Crime Writing Festival and knew the first victim, so we are working on the assumption that it is likely there is a link, although at present we don’t know what that is. If any member of the public saw anything in this hotel or on Swan Avenue at around ten thirty on Monday night, I urge them to come forward.’
‘It’s bit weird, isn’t it, Chief Inspector: these murders at a Crime Writing Festival?’
‘I think we’ve all registered the irony of that,’ remarked Oldroyd.
‘But what do you think is going on?’ the reporter from a prominent tabloid continued. He had designer stubble, an earring and a tight T-shirt over his beer belly. The faded logo on the shirt seemed to include a profile of Freddie Mercury. ‘Is someone acting out a crime story instead of writing one? Some crazed lunatic who couldn’t get his works published, so he’s taking it out on a successful writer and someone involved in the book world?’
‘Well, it sounds as if you’d match him for lurid imagination,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘We had a number of these – how shall I describe them? – imaginative schemes presented at the last press conference, and I said then that it’s much more profitable to begin with the simpler explanations. At the moment we are concentrating on establishing motives for both murders, and we are still working on how the first murder was carried out.’
‘Do you think more people are at risk?’ This from a bespectacled female reporter, who looked very serious.
Oldroyd paused. This was always a very tricky issue: say no, and if there’s another killing they roast you; say yes, and the headlines create panic in the neighbourhood.
‘I cannot say for certain that there isn’t any further risk, and clearly everyone should remain alert, but neither do I think we have a random killer at large. What I suspect is, given the clever way in which the first murder was planned, that this is really about Damian Penrose, and that maybe Patricia Hughes knew something that could have led us to the murderer.’
‘So she was silenced?’
‘Probably, but we don’t know for sure. I ask again for anyone with any information, however trivial they think it is, to come forward.’
‘Do you think the answer lies in Penrose’s past? We’ve found out some interesting things about him. He wasn’t exactly popular, was he? Been through two marriages; rumours that he pinched all his ideas from other people; must have had lots of enemies.’
Oldroyd winced. This was exactly the kind of press attitude he detested: the arrogance in presenting themselves as detectives, implying the police weren’t doing a very good job, followed by the lazy, imprecise and exaggerated way that allegations against Penrose were made.
‘He had a murky past, didn’t he, Chief Inspector?’ concluded the reporter.
‘Don’t we all?’ replied Oldroyd, not willing to speculate about Penrose’s private life. ‘Yes, we are pursuing leads concerning relationships and events in Damian Penrose’s past, but I would have thought it was obvious that all cases of this kind have their origins in the past lives of people, so I’m not sure about the relevance of your point.’
This put-down caused some smiles and murmurings, and the reporter remained silent.
After the conference was finished, Oldroyd and Andy returned to HQ on foot. Oldroyd had started to insist that they did more walking around Harrogate for the health benefits, and also because it was greener. Andy was sceptical; he liked his cars.
‘That should keep everyone happy, at least for a short while,’ said Oldroyd, puffing a bit as they arrived back at his office. Andy, who was showing fewer signs of exertion, put on the coffee. ‘It’s time we sat down and reviewed the evidence. Let’s go through the suspects.’
Andy took out his notebook. It was a quaint habit of his to keep notes on everything in the old-fashioned way. He said that writing things down helped him to think.
‘OK, sir, so his fellow writers,’ he began. ‘Derryvale and Stevenson. Alibis confirmed for the night before the first murder, but they both hated him: Derryvale was insulted and Stevenson had a big grudge about this pinching ideas business. Like all the suspects, they would’ve had to have help.’
‘Yes, they clearly had motives and the imagination for a murder plot, which they would’ve enjoyed devising. It would have appealed to their sense of irony: a crime writer murdered by other crime writers in an impossible crime scenario.’ He poured out the coffee, opened the tin that contained their favourite chocolate digestives and offered it to Andy, who took a couple for now but worked nearly all the way through the tin as they were talking.
‘The ex-wife, Clare Bayliss,’ continued Andy between mouthfuls of the crumbly biscuit. ‘An ex-partner is always good suspect material. Her alibi is not confirmed, as she was working from home. She knows the Baths really well, having designed a refurbishment, and she may have more bitterness against her ex-husband than she lets on. Now, at the festival we’ve got Ben Poole and Patricia Hughes, both of whom also hated Penrose. Ben Poole was definitely at the gym, as he said. The fact that Hughes is now dead means that she knew something. Always assuming that the two murders are connected. This means that either she was involved herself and was disposed of by her partners or that she’d worked out who the murderer was and that person found out.’
‘Remember her phone was stolen,’ Oldroyd said. ‘There was a reason for that. I think she’d been in contact with her killer not long before she was murdered. It would be very interesting to know who she called before it happened.’
‘I’ve got people working on it, but it’s going to take some tracking down when we haven’t got the phone and we don’t even know the network she was on. She was divorced and lived alone, so there’s no one to give us information.’
‘Keep on that one. It could prove crucial. Also, go over and have a look around at her flat. See if you can find anything interesting. We’ll have to trawl through alibis again for Monday night, but it was relatively easy to lie in wait for her in the street.’
‘You would have had to know she was at The White Swan that evening, sir.’
‘True, but a lot of people must have known that, given her job. Also, during the festival, the ground floor of the hotel, including the bar, is open to people to wander round. She could easily have been spotted by s
omeone.’
‘OK, sir,’ Andy continued, consulting his notes again. ‘Then there’s John Sinclair, who fell out with Penrose over money for his publishing business, and Penrose’s diary refers to them as having been lovers. His partner supported his alibi, but you never know – he may have been complicit.’
‘Two motives there,’ interjected Oldroyd. ‘Now, what about other people who don’t appear to have a motive but who definitely had the opportunity?’
‘That’s people at the Baths: Carol Ashworth, receptionist; Steve Monroe, attendant; Shirley Adams, cleaner; Sid Newman, technician; and Howard Barnes, manager. Monroe and Ashworth were first on the scene of the murder, Newman could have been hanging around down in the baths area. As you say, though, the problem with all these people is the apparent lack of motive.’
‘So far,’ added Oldroyd as he drank his coffee. ‘Well, that’s quite a lot of people, and none of them have been positively ruled out yet. Who do you think is the most likely suspect at this stage?’
Andy thought for a moment. ‘I think the most suspicious people are the ones who were most hostile towards the bloke: that’s Sinclair, Derryvale and Stevenson. But somehow I’m not convinced. It seems too obvious, and they’ve made no attempt to disguise their feelings, apart from Sinclair, even though that draws suspicion on to them. I think we need to dig deeper and find out who else might have had a motive. I don’t really have a frontrunner at the moment. We’ve still got a lot of work to do checking alibis for Penrose’s murder, never mind Patricia Hughes. I’ve got a team on it.’
‘Good, I agree, and that’s the right approach: trust your instincts, look for evidence but keep an open mind. Anyway, any more ideas about how the murderer got in and out of the Baths?’
