The Royal Baths Murder

by J. R. Ellis

  ‘She sounds as if she’s got her head screwed on the right way.’

  ‘She certainly has – wise beyond her years.’

  The conversation moved on to children and what they were all doing. It was interesting to compare notes on how you related to your offspring when they were living at a distance. It wasn’t until they got to the coffee that things went a little quieter. Oldroyd sat back in his chair.

  ‘Well, thank you for a lovely evening. I’ve really enjoyed myself,’ he said.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘It just so happens that there are some things coming up in the next few days that you might be interested in. I’m appearing at an event at the Crime Writing Festival tomorrow night and we could meet in the bar afterwards for drink. Then on Friday there’s an outdoor performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Ripley Castle, followed by the Murder Mystery Evening at The White Swan on Saturday.’

  ‘OK. Well, I’m busy early on tomorrow evening but I’ll pop down later to meet you. As for the other two, I wouldn’t want to miss either. I love drama and theatre and I’ve always wanted to go to one of those crime mystery things. Lucky for you, I’d nothing planned for this weekend.’

  ‘That’s settled, then. We’ll know whether we want to continue to see each other after all that, but’ – he looked at her – ‘I think I already know.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Deborah, returning his gaze. ‘We’ll have to see, won’t we?’

  As they were leaving, Oldroyd turned to her. ‘There was one thing I wanted to ask you,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, this is the work bit, isn’t it? At least you’ve left it until the end of the evening so as to not let it intrude on things. Fire away.’

  Oldroyd gave her a wry smile. By God, she was sharp! ‘Penrose, the first victim, was a plagiarist. He stole ideas from other writers, mostly women. I just wonder what you think of that as a motive for doing him harm.’

  ‘I think it would cause great anger because he’s stolen something that was someone else’s creation, and in some ways that’s worse than stealing a possession – part of themselves went into that. Even worse if they were women. I expect they would feel violated by this powerful man who’s cheated them, but they might find it difficult to get back at him. I expect the world of publishing is as male-dominated as every other walk of life.’

  Oldroyd told her about Esther Stevenson and her long and persistent campaign against Penrose.

  ‘I can understand it. But did they get anywhere? I can imagine pent-up anger and frustration boiling over into violence. So yes, I do consider it a powerful enough motive for murder.’

  ‘Thanks,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘Very interesting.’ He’d ended this lovely evening with plenty to think about on both a professional and a personal level.

  Five

  Brimham Rocks is a collection of bizarre rock formations on a hillside in Nidderdale. They were caused by millstone grit being weathered by water, wind and glaciation. The shapes have suggested names for the rocks such as The Dancing Bear, The Sphinx, The Watchdog, The Camel and The Turtle.

  It was early on Thursday morning before Andy got a chance to go to Patricia Hughes’s flat. He took DC Robinson with him. The flat was up the hill out of the centre of the town, off Cold Bath Road. It was a section of a Victorian villa that had been split up into separate dwellings.

  As he was opening the door, there was the noise of loud meowing.

  ‘I think we’ve got a hungry cat in here who hasn’t been fed for a while.’

  ‘Sounds like it, Sarge.’

  Inside, a black-and-white cat, not expecting strangers, backed away and looked at them cautiously, but then continued to plead in the most urgent manner. Andy picked up a few pieces of mail and they went through to the kitchen. DC Robinson found a bag of dried cat food and fed the poor animal while Andy looked around. There were all the usual sad signs that the person who lived there had expected to return soon, though now they never would. He’d seen it many times before: fridge full of food; little reminder notes and a shopping list left on the table; washing drying on a rack; a pair of glasses on the arm of a chair and a book with a bookmark in it; quite a few dirty cups and plates by the sink ready to be washed up; and the cooker hob rather dirty. She’d been very busy right up to her death with the festival, and domestic chores had suffered.

  ‘Funny how death can happen so suddenly, isn’t it? And when you don’t expect it.’

  Robinson looked over at him. ‘Steady on, Sarge, that’s a bit deep. You sound like the gaffer. It’s just like him to come out with stuff like that.’

  ‘True – perhaps I’ve worked with him long enough to start getting like him. Actually, I think I’d rather go like that myself. You know, quickly, over and done with before you know anything about it. Better than lying in hospital for ages in pain, don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t really think about it, Sarge, can’t see the point. We’re all going to go, and we can’t do anything about it. If you start thinking too much, you just make yourself miserable.’

  This was very philosophical for DC Robinson. Andy was impressed by his sensible practicality. ‘I think you’re right. Let’s get on with the job.’

  ‘Are we looking for anything in particular, Sarge?’

  ‘Any clues as to what she might have known that led someone to kill her.’

  They wandered through the flat with its eerie stillness. The cat had gorged itself and disappeared through a cat flap. Arrangements would have to be made to find it a new home. Andy paid particular interest to a small room that had obviously been Hughes’s study and library. There were shelves lined with books, a PC and a handwritten phone book containing lists of numbers. He’d once had one like it and found himself pondering on life again: this time on how rapidly technological change overtakes you. He shook his head. This was becoming serious; was he getting middle-aged or something?

  He took the phone book and the PC for analysis by the techies. One shelf contained some neatly stacked ring binders, all labelled. These were clearly records of the Crime Writing Festival from the time before everything was stored digitally. They went back to the early 1990s. He leafed through a few and saw that they were all similarly organised: planning notes, details of events, venues, writers who were appearing, etc., and lists of staff involved, including volunteers. This last item could be useful. They might be able to identify someone significant from these lists. He’d brought some bags, and began filling them with the files.

  DC Robinson joined him. ‘Can’t see anything unusual, sir; seems like a pretty ordinary flat to me.’

  ‘No, I don’t think there’s much here, apart from all these records and the PC. The answer to these crimes often lies in the past, and there’s a good chance that somewhere amongst all this she’s written something that could help us.’

  ‘Be my guest. Never let it be said that I have no manners towards ladies.’

  Fenton had opened the front door of his Audi and, in an elaborate show of gallantry, was beckoning Steph to take a seat. She would rather have boarded a council lorry going to Harrogate sewage works but she knew she had to get in. She moved sharply and kept facing him as long as she could to avoid giving him an opportunity to pinch or smack her bottom.

  ‘Ooh, aren’t we prim and proper today?’ mocked Fenton as he went round to get in at the driver’s side. ‘Wouldn’t it be awful if I caught sight of a bit of leg?’

  ‘Where are we going?’ said Steph, abruptly getting him off the subject and sitting well away from the brake and gearstick.

  ‘Council offices. To see what Bayliss’s other half has to say.’

  He drove off at high speed and remained silent for the duration of the short journey. Steph tried to distract herself by thinking about what she and Andy might do at the weekend. There were some good jazz bars in Leeds and she needed to do something relaxing.

  Jack Sandford, as debonair and confident as ever, met them at the entrance to the council building dressed in a d
ark suit and tie. He showed them into an upstairs office. After introductions, he offered coffee, which was refused, but Steph accepted a glass of water.

  ‘So, Inspector. I think we can clear all this up pretty quickly. It’s all a silly oversight on my part. No malpractice intended.’

  Fenton sat with his legs crossed. ‘I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ Sandford looked supremely unflustered.

  ‘No. It looks extremely suspicious, doesn’t it? Your wife is awarded a contract and you didn’t declare your connection with her as an interest.’

  ‘No, but as I explained, it was just a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened, I know, but things go wrong when we’re under pressure, don’t they? I’m sure we’ve all done it.’

  ‘Has your wife been awarded other contracts from the council while you were an elected member?’ asked Steph.

  Fenton frowned at her, as if to indicate she should stay quiet.

  ‘No, certainly not, Sergeant. This was the only occasion.’ Sandford leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘You see, what you’ve got to understand is that this is all really about politics. I have enemies on the Procurement Committee who are intent on undermining me. What better way to do it than make allegations about corruption? The press always love stories like that. Once the mud is slung, some of it sticks, as they say.’

  ‘That sounds a bit paranoid, sir,’ continued Steph, undaunted by Fenton’s attempts to quieten her.

  Sandford bridled a little at this. ‘Well, I don’t agree, Sergeant. I don’t think you realise what a murky world politics can be. I can see that you’re still quite young and inexperienced, but believe me, some people will stop at nothing.’

  Fenton smirked at Steph after this put-down. Steph sat silently, trying to stop her face going red with anger. Fenton said nothing to support her, but she didn’t expect him to. He seemed to enjoy humiliating people over whom he had some power.

  ‘So your story is that you simply omitted to declare your interest before the committee. It was an oversight,’ repeated Fenton.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘We’ll need a statement from you to that effect.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Fenton didn’t seem to want to pursue matters any further, so the two detectives left.

  ‘I don’t think this is going anywhere. I’m not much inclined to take it any further,’ he said as he drove back.

  Steph was surprised. ‘Aren’t there other people we need to interview? What about the others on the committee? We need to know how Sandford behaved in the meetings. Did he argue for his wife’s business?’

  ‘Naw, it’s a no-no. I don’t even think that any crime’s been committed. At worst it’s a breach of their ethical code. I think whoever reported it to us was overreacting or had it in for Sandford.’

  ‘But we can’t just accept what Sandford said about that. Of course he’s going to say anyone who makes a complaint against him is just against him personally.’

  ‘I think he’s probably right, though.’

  ‘Don’t we need to interview the person who made the complaint?’

  ‘Already done.’

  ‘And what did you conclude from it?’

  Fenton turned to her, looking exasperated. ‘Just leave it alone, will you? I’m not giving you chapter and verse now. I’ll make a decision when I’ve reviewed all the evidence. There are more urgent matters that you should be thinking about. I’m looking forward to a nice answer from you. You won’t regret it.’

  Steph ignored this change of subject and sat thinking. Something didn’t seem right. Abusing public office as Sandford was alleged to have done surely was a criminal offence. Why was Fenton giving up on the case so easily when it clearly merited a much more thorough investigation? It was time to conduct her own enquiries.

  ‘Is that Chief Inspector Oldroyd?’ The voice was female, with a Scottish accent.

  ‘Yes.’ Oldroyd answered into the phone. Andy was back in the office but Steph was out with Fenton.

  ‘My name’s Fiona MacPherson, National Trust. I’m calling from Brimham Rocks. I’ve been reading about this murder case and I’ve got some information for you.’

  ‘I see. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I work here at the information centre. I read quite a lot of crime fiction and I’ve seen Damian Penrose at the Crime Writing Festival a few times. You see, I saw him here at Brimham Rocks, just a couple of days before the murder. He was with someone, a woman. They were arguing, and, well, I overheard some of the things they were saying. It was in the Visitors’ Centre at the top of the hill. I’m sure you know it.’

  ‘I do. What were they saying?’

  There was a pause. ‘I’d much prefer it if you’d come out here so I could explain it to you. It’s so difficult on the phone.’

  ‘I’ll send someone out to take a statement from you.’

  ‘Oh, Chief Inspector. I’d much rather you came yourself. I want to explain it to you personally because, well, I’m frightened, to be honest. I’ve seen people watching me . . . and, well, maybe I’m paranoid but . . .’

  ‘No, not to worry. I’ll come out straight away,’ said Oldroyd. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’ He put the phone down. ‘Well, that’s curious.’

  He explained to Andy what the caller had said.

  ‘That’s odd, sir. Penrose at a National Trust property. What is it? A stately home or something?’

  Oldroyd beamed. ‘Oh no, it’s quite a special place and very good for a private meeting. It’s off the beaten track and I can imagine Penrose finding it quite atmospheric. We’d better get off; I’ve had too many cases of potential informants being got rid of before I could speak to them. Let’s not take any chances. Come on, I’ll tell you about it on the way.’

  The rain was heavy as they were driving up Nidderdale. Andy was subjected to one of Oldroyd’s periodic lectures on aspects of Yorkshire’s landscape and history. Although the detail was sometimes overwhelming for a city boy from Croydon, he always indulged his boss, even if he had to feign interest at times. He knew that Oldroyd derived a great deal of sustenance from his love of the Yorkshire countryside and actually most of what he said was interesting to a man who had adopted Yorkshire as his home.

  As they drove up the main road through Nidderdale, the tops of the fells were covered in mist, and flashes of white showed where swollen streams were crashing down the hillsides. The car splashed through huge pools of water, which were threatening to inundate the road. At Summerbridge, Oldroyd suddenly turned off right, on to a steep and narrow road between some old cottages. There was a brown direction sign with the characteristic oak leaf of the National Trust saying ‘Brimham Rocks’.

  ‘You’re not going to see much today until we get near them,’ said Oldroyd as they drove up into the mist, wipers still flashing across the windscreen. ‘It’s a proper summer downpour; should ease off soon.’

  Before long, some large and strange rock formations started to appear on the top of the hill they were climbing, like a series of unusual sculptures.

  ‘It’s a while since I’ve been up here,’ said Oldroyd, looking round wistfully. ‘My dad used to bring us when we were kids and I brought mine when they were young. It’s a great place to climb and explore. It wasn’t National Trust when I was little. There were cars parked all over the place and a funny old bloke in plus fours used to go round trying to get people to pay an admission fee. We used to call him “Baggy Pants”.’ Oldroyd laughed and shook his head at the memory. ‘Now there’s a car park here and cars can’t go in among the rocks.’

  He parked the car and they got out and put on waterproof jackets. Andy looked around at the impressive rock formations, some as much as thirty feet high, dark, gritty structures thrusting up from the hillside like giant fungal growths. Some were jagged, others rounded. There were some crazy structures of enormous boulders supported on slender pedestals and huge blocks with holes worn through, standing on
platforms. Erosion had created shapes and contours suggesting birds and animals. There was something weirdly prehistoric about the overall effect. Andy would not have been surprised if a brontosaurus had lumbered into view, striding between the massive structures. The rain had eased, but the mist remained, clinging to the top of some of the biggest rocks and creating a sinister atmosphere.

  ‘Right,’ said Oldroyd. ‘Up this main path to the Visitors’ Centre.’

  Andy followed his boss up the path, which wound its way between the towering rocks. The rain had driven most of the visitors back to their cars and they met no one. Rounding a corner, the path was blocked by yellow tape and a diversion sign pointed left.

  ‘They must be doing path repairs,’ said Oldroyd. ‘This way.’

  Andy was about to follow, but he felt that something was not right. There was no real path in the direction of the arrow. Oldroyd’s enthusiasm was dulling his instinct for danger. Andy looked around urgently, not sure what to expect, as Oldroyd headed towards a narrow gap between two of the rocks. Andy glanced up to the top and fleetingly caught sight of some movement. Suddenly he realised what was about to happen and lunged forward.

  ‘Sir, look out!’ he yelled, and collided with Oldroyd, sending both of them hurtling forward as the boulder dropped down towards them. It crashed behind and split open with a terrible grinding sound. Andy lay on the wet rocks, his trousers wet and torn.

  ‘Sir? Sir, are you OK?’

  Oldroyd was laid out just ahead of him with blood streaming from a head wound. He’d hit his head on a sharp rock as he fell and seemed unconscious.

  ‘Shit!’ exclaimed Andy, looking back and up to the top of the rock. Was there going to be another attack?

  He quickly checked Oldroyd over. The chief inspector’s pulse was normal and he was still breathing. Andy needed to get help, but where from? He couldn’t leave his boss here when the murderer might strike again. He got out his phone but, as expected, there was no reception here amongst the rocks. He couldn’t call for medical help or reinforcements. He would have to try to revive his boss and help him to safety.