by J. R. Ellis
‘I’ve never had a single idea, sir, never mind any more than that,’ confessed Andy ruefully. ‘We’ve also got people going through that building with a fine-tooth comb, looking for exits and hiding places.’
Oldroyd smiled. ‘It’s a teaser all right. I’m working on a few theories but they’re pretty wild. I’m convinced the answer lies in going through the events of that morning really carefully and thinking deeply about them. And I think—’
There was a knock on the door. A detective constable came in. ‘Someone’s at the desk, sir, asking to see you; says she has information on the Penrose case.’
Oldroyd and Andy hurried straight down to the entrance to see a tall, stylishly dressed woman standing by the reception desk and wearing a haughty expression.
‘Are you Chief Inspector Oldroyd?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Susan Lawrence, Damian Penrose’s first wife. I can’t get any sense from the police in London, so I’ve come all the way up here. Can you tell me what on earth’s going on?’
Clare Bayliss was driving her black BMW along the narrow, picturesque lanes east of Ripley and the A61. She was meeting her husband for lunch in their favourite country pub in a secluded village south of Ripon. It was something they often did mid-week when they wanted to escape from work pressures for a while.
She arrived at the pretty village, and drove past the duck pond, the stocks on the green, and the medieval church with its squat tower. She drew up in front of The Black Sheep and got out. It was very quiet and peaceful. She saw that her husband, Jack, was already there as his red Mercedes was in the car park.
Inside she found him sitting at their usual table in the dining section of the bar, with its low oak beams. He was drinking a pint of beer. She sat down. ‘Hi! How long have you been here?’
‘Not long. Only just started this pint but it tastes good – pity I can only have the one.’ He flashed a smile at her.
Jack was a tall and handsome man, with thick black hair, now greying at the sides. Clare found him charismatic and attractive but also very straight and trustworthy after her ordeals with Damian. He had a son and daughter from his marriage, who they saw regularly. Clare felt that they regarded her as a second mother.
‘What do you fancy, then?’ Jack passed a menu across.
‘Just my favourite, I think: the fish pie,’ she replied without even looking at the menu. ‘What kind of a morning have you had?’
Jack ran a consultancy specialising in transport and urban planning. He was spending more time in his Harrogate office after his suspension from the council committee. He had serious allegations to face about favouring his wife and others with council contracts.
‘Fine. I’m getting back into it all really easily. Andrew’s done a great job running things while I’ve been on the council. They don’t really need me. I could make myself redundant.’ He smiled again. ‘I’m going to have the Cumberland sausage and cheesy mash. It’ll go well with this beer. Shall I get you a drink?’
‘Just a tonic water.’
‘OK.’ He went to the bar to make the order. Clare watched him go. He always maintained a cheery demeanour, but she knew he was feeling the stress of recent events. She’d woken a number of times in the middle of the night recently to hear him downstairs watching television.
He returned from the bar.
‘Have you heard anything?’ asked Clare.
‘No. Things move slowly on the council. Goodness knows when they’ll get round to making a decision.’
‘It’s all your own fault,’ said Clare, sipping her tonic water. ‘You’re good at ideas but you’ve always been slack on detail. In my job, if you don’t get the detail right, it can have serious consequences.’
‘It was just an oversight.’
‘Yes, so you keep saying, but an oversight that gave your enemies on the council material to use against you.’
Jack took another drink of beer. ‘I don’t know why they had to involve the police at this stage. The enemies you referred to are clearly still at work.’
‘They are, and I’ve an idea who might be receiving information and causing mischief,’ said Clare.
‘Who?’
‘Never mind. Leave it to me. There’s something I think I can put a stop to. Anyway’ – she changed the subject – ‘that Inspector Fenton behaved in a nasty way. He had a sergeant with him. I think she was embarrassed by some of the things he said.’
‘Probably, but she won’t be able to say anything if she’s on a lower rank, and the police always protect one another. Anyway, you don’t need to worry about him. You must have really had enough of the police with that chief inspector coming round later about Damian.’
‘Yes, but he was very nice.’
Jack smiled again but not quite as pleasantly as before. ‘They’re wasting their time on that one. I’m glad that bastard’s gone.’
Clare glanced quickly round the room. ‘Keep your voice down.’
‘Who cares? It’s going to be much better for everyone with him out of the way, especially for you. I hate thinking about the pain and humiliation he caused you.’
‘No need to be so brutal about it and broadcast it to the world. You never know who might be listening and getting ideas. We’re in enough trouble as it is – at least you are.’
‘Relax, darling. They can’t pin anything on me. And I’ve got people on my side, remember.’ He held up his glass as the waitress brought their food. ‘Cheers,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye, but Clare shook her head. She wasn’t sure where all this was going to end up.
‘Please take a seat.’ Oldroyd and Andy had taken Susan Lawrence into the office. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Carter.’
Susan nodded and sat down. ‘Well, what on earth’s happening in this dreadful business? Are you going to arrest who did it? Why is it taking you so long?’
Oldroyd looked at her, trying to control his animosity. He was familiar with people like this: arrogant, over-assertive, asking ridiculous questions and making unrealistic demands. He could handle them, but they didn’t make things easier. He made a big effort to remember that her first husband had been murdered, so maybe she was distressed.
‘It’s a complex case and it’s going to take time to solve. In the end I’m sure we will arrest someone. In the meantime, I’m quite interested in why you’ve come all the way from London to check on the investigation?’
She seemed a little nonplussed by this question. ‘I told you, I can’t get any information from the London police.’
Oldroyd had to smile at the audacity of rocking up at a police station belonging to a force that wasn’t even conducting the murder enquiry and expecting to be told details of an investigation taking place elsewhere, even if you were an ex-wife of the deceased.
‘Is that all? I’m sure you realise that details of investigations are confidential.’
‘Yes, but I also thought that maybe I could help you.’
Oldroyd suspected that she must have other reasons for turning up like this and he wasn’t surprised by her response. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘In what way?’
Her demeanour became more serious and she looked from Oldroyd to Andy as she spoke in a lowered voice. ‘As I’m sure you’ve found out, Damian was not a popular man. He had many enemies in the literary world, but I don’t believe anyone would kill him over a characterisation or a plot. You have to look at his relationships and the people involved in his personal life.’
‘Anyone in particular?’ asked Andy.
‘Of course, it’s obvious: that scheming minx Clare Bayliss, his second wife. She lured Damian away from me, but then she wasn’t happy when he wasn’t fussing round her all the time. Damian started to stray again, that’s his nature, and she left him. The point is, though, I’m sure she never forgave him, and here she is in Harrogate, ideally placed to plan his death. Look no further; open-and-shut case. I can’t understand why you haven’t already arrested her.’
; Oldroyd was unimpressed by this, although he had to admire the sheer effrontery. ‘Well, I have to say, there’s a breezy simplicity about your theory, but I’m afraid in the police we have to look for annoying things like evidence and opportunity. Even if your “guilty” person had a motive, it seems to me that it was no stronger than yours as another wronged and deserted wife. She has an alibi for the morning of the murder. What about you? How do we know you’ve only just arrived from London? Can anyone confirm you’ve spent the last few days in the capital?’
Andy smiled to himself as his boss yet again upstaged someone who was being difficult.
Susan was shocked. ‘Well, really! Of course I’ve only just got here from London. You can check with my housekeeper. How dare you place me on the same level as that woman! Damian always thought far more of me than her. I was the love of his life. She’s a cunning so-and-so and she—’
‘I really think we’ve heard enough of this, madam,’ said Oldroyd. ‘Unless you’ve got some proper information that might be genuinely useful to the investigation, I think we need to end this interview. Groundless allegations against someone you don’t like are not of interest to us.’
Susan’s mouth dropped open. ‘Well, really!’ she repeated. ‘I’ve never been spoken to like that in all my born days. Who on earth do you think you are?’
‘The chief inspector in charge of this investigation, and I don’t have any more time to waste on this.’ Oldroyd’s patience was wearing thin.
Susan got up. ‘I have to say, I expected better. If you won’t investigate this properly, then I shall have to do it myself. I’ll be staying at The White Swan until I bring that woman to justice,’ she declared melodramatically.
‘I strongly advise you not to interfere with the police investigation.’
‘What investigation?’ she said contemptuously, and started to walk out of the room.
‘Before you leave, madam, Sergeant Carter will accompany you back to reception and someone will take some details and a statement from you.’
Susan’s mouth opened, but she was speechless.
Andy left with her but soon returned laughing. ‘Bloody hell, sir! I’ve left her with DC Jones. What did you make of that?’
Oldroyd shook his head and also laughed. ‘Very entertaining, wasn’t it? I don’t know whether she’s a drama queen who likes the limelight or there’s something deeper going on. I don’t buy the “I’m the first wife who still loves my husband even though he deserted me years ago” line.’
‘“Hell hath no fury” and all that, sir. She obviously wants to get her rival into as much trouble as she can.’
‘Yes, but why? It may be to throw us off the trail, a trail that might lead to her. Of course, if she was involved in Penrose’s murder and manages to blame the hated second wife, how delicious is that for her? Destroying both of them. We’re almost back yet again in the world of crime fiction. We don’t seem to be able to escape it in this case, and I still wonder if someone is trying to create a real-life crime story, or something even weirder. Who knows, with all these writers involved?’
‘If she was really intent on incriminating Clare Bayliss, though, sir,’ said Andy, ‘surely she’d have some actual evidence for us, even if it was fabricated.’
‘True, but let’s see what happens. Contact the Met and get them to find out as much as they can about her and check whatever alibi she gives. That will show we’re serious and that we’re not going to take any more nonsense and insults. However, I don’t think we’ve heard the last of her. It’s going to be very intriguing while she’s staying at The White Swan. Meanwhile, we’d better get back to John Sinclair and see what he has to say about his romance with Penrose.’
They were about to leave when the detective constable came back.
‘Yes, Jones?’ Oldroyd said.
‘Some important information, sir. We’ve been out checking all the alibis for the morning of Mr Penrose’s murder. There’s this chap’ – he looked at his notes – ‘Sid Newman; he’s a technician at the Baths. He claims he was there early to switch everything on and then went on to the Leisure Centre, where he has a similar job. We’ve checked at the Leisure Centre and he never came that morning. His son, Terry, came instead; apparently he covers for his father if he has any problems. So that means his whereabouts for the time of the murder are unaccounted for.’
‘I see,’ said Oldroyd. ‘Thank you.’ He turned to Andy. ‘Well, it’s been a very interesting morning. We’d better go and see Mr Newman and leave Mr Sinclair until later.’
In her house in the Duchys, Esther Stevenson was suffering from writer’s block. She sat with her laptop in her upstairs study, then moved downstairs to the kitchen table. She drank several cups of coffee, but was still unable to write anything. Finally, in a bad temper, she slammed the laptop lid down and took her notebook, pen and phone outside into the garden, where she had been when the detectives called. Maybe another change of venue and technology would do the trick.
The garden was peaceful, but contained many things to distract her. There were always jobs to be done and she found gardening a chore. She could see roses that needed deadheading and flower beds that should be hoed for weeds. Blue tits and goldfinches were pecking at the somewhat depleted bird feeders. Her black-and-white cat, Rosemary, was looking up at them longingly. Overhead a heron flapped slowly past and two red kites hovered low, just above the trees. The breeding programme established at Harewood some years before had been such a success that the big birds of prey were now a familiar sight all over the area. It was all very beautiful and intriguing to watch.
The life of a writer was not so glamorous and free as it was generally considered to be, Stevenson reflected ruefully, as she sat doodling aimlessly in her notebook. Not only were the earnings of most writers so low that it was impossible to live on the money, but it could be a very isolated existence, in which all your demons could torment you, gnaw at your concentration and prevent you from writing. She had been lucky as far as the income side of things went. Her partner earned a good salary, but she struggled with the process of creative composition and it often caused her to be depressed and moody. This in turn affected her relationship.
At the moment, the turbulence in her mood and her problems with maintaining focus were being affected by all that had happened at the Crime Writing Festival. That bloody Penrose! Still haunting her! It was a great shame about Patricia Hughes, but . . .
Her train of thought was interrupted by her phone ringing. She knew who it was likely to be: at least one of a certain group of people.
She picked up the phone. ‘Hi, Liz . . . Yes, I’m fine, though it’s been a bit of a rollercoaster . . . I know; he’s gone. It’s amazing, isn’t it? He won’t be stealing from any more writers now . . . No, I can’t tell you anything about it . . . I know; it’s a great pity. She did a great job running the festival . . . Leo’s fine, thanks . . . Well, that would be great. Give me a call when you’re coming up . . . OK. Bye.’
Liz Simpson was part of the group of writers she had brought together over the years. They’d all been badly treated by Penrose. She lived in London, and had suffered a great deal of sexual harassment from him before he stole the main idea from what would have been her first crime novel. Esther was getting a series of calls from them all and the content was always the same: relief that Penrose was out of the way. No one seemed interested in what had actually happened. They were just glad to see the back of him. It felt different to her being ‘on the ground’, as it were, in Harrogate, having to live through the trauma of constant questioning by the police. However, when she heard the relief and positive pleasure in people’s voices as they celebrated the fact that the old scoundrel was gone, she felt it had all been worth it.
She yawned. She was not sleeping well at the moment. She reached for her pen in order to have another try at writing, but hesitated. She remembered the festival and the fact that Patricia Hughes was no longer there to run things. How on earth would
Amanda Rigby cope? It was in all their interests that the festival was a success. Maybe she should call Amanda and offer to help. She put down her pen and took up her phone again.
Sid Newman lived in an outer suburb of Harrogate, on a large estate of social housing. Oldroyd and Andy drove through the dull, rundown streets of standard council houses built between the 1930s and ’50s. Andy was surprised.
‘Well, sir, I didn’t think there were any poor areas in Harrogate. I thought it was all pretty well off and genteel,’ he said, noticing a down-at-heel group of people waiting at the bus stop.
‘There are poor areas everywhere in this country, Andy; they’re just hidden away from view. Anyway, this is it.’
He stopped outside a house with overgrown privet hedges. The scraggy bottoms of the shrubs were stuffed with litter. The detectives walked down the crumbling concrete path and knocked on the door. Immediately there was the sound of a dog barking and a woman shouting, ‘Lexi! Shut up! Quiet!’ Then there were footsteps and the voice shouted again, ‘Just a minute!’
Andy frowned at Oldroyd. ‘Sounds like we might get savaged here, sir. I’m not a great dog lover; been attacked too many times by Rottweilers and Alsatians at some of the places we had to bust when I was in the Met.’
‘That’s the problem,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘Dogs know if you don’t like them; they can sense it.’
‘Maybe, sir, but I’ve met a few that were clearly trained to go for coppers.’
Oldroyd laughed. They heard footsteps, and the door was opened by a woman holding back a growling Staffie. Her short-sleeved T-shirt revealed muscular, tattooed arms. ‘Yes, what do you want?’
‘We’re police officers and . . .’ began Oldroyd. Then, looking down the entrance hall, he caught sight of Sid Newman’s head peering round the kitchen door.
‘Oh, shit!’ exclaimed Newman. Then he slammed the door.
Oldroyd turned to Andy. ‘Better get after him, he’s making a run for it!’
