The Body in the Dales

by J. R. Ellis

  He passed an ancient church and a small sixteenth-century grammar school complete with mullioned windows. Late brooding swallows swooped up to nests under the eaves to feed their young but otherwise there was a school holiday silence about the place. The sign read ‘Burnthwaite Primary School’. A little further on, a cobbled street called Dawson Row went off at a right angle. There was a row of low cottages on one side and a wall on the other. Out of the sun, there was a sudden unexpectedly chilly draught and Carter pressed on quickly, looking for No. 12, which turned out to be right at the end.

  The cottages opened straight on to the street and many had pots and containers with shade-tolerant flowers and ferns that could flourish in the somewhat gloomy aspect. No. 12 was enhanced with a variety of small azaleas, hostas and unusual ferns. Someone was keen on gardening, thought Carter. There were also a couple of children’s bikes leaning against the wall.

  The door was opened by a dark-haired woman in her late thirties, casually but tastefully dressed.

  ‘Yes?’ she enquired in a rather hesitant manner.

  Carter produced his identification.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Carter, madam, investigating the murder of David Atkins. I understand Mr Geoffrey Whitaker lives here?’

  She took in a deep breath and seemed to be steeling herself. Clearly, she’d been expecting this.

  ‘Yes. I’m his wife, Helen Whitaker. Please come in.’ There was relief in her voice as if she’d been expecting an ordeal and was now glad to be getting it over.

  Carter stepped into a narrow hallway with steps leading steeply up to the next floor. Helen Whitaker led him into a small but stylish sitting room with a polished wooden floor and modern furnishings. A boy who looked about ten was playing on a games console and various electronic noises were issuing from the television.

  ‘Take that upstairs, Mark.’

  The boy groaned. ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Reluctantly, he pulled out all the wires and left the room clutching the console and the box without even looking at Carter.

  ‘I’m sorry about that. I’ll be glad when they get back to school; it won’t be long now, thank goodness.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I was like that myself, but it wasn’t so sophisticated in my day. I just had a little Nintendo Game Boy but I sent my mother mad, playing on it all the time.’

  She smiled and seemed to relax.

  ‘Please have a seat, Sergeant. Geoff is upstairs lying down. It was very upsetting for him to find the body, especially in those circumstances.’

  ‘Yes, I can imagine. It won’t take long, just a few routine questions at this stage. I can come back again if necessary.’

  She went upstairs. Carter watched her go. She was rather thin and plain and not an obvious target for Atkins’s womanising, but it was only a small village so the chances were still high. Maybe Whitaker was one of the jealous husbands and had not only discovered the body but had also placed it there. Carter frowned: that seemed implausible somehow. Why go to all the trouble to hide the body down there and then find it yourself? Nevertheless, this case was proving to be so bizarre that almost anything seemed possible.

  His ruminations were interrupted by the entrance of Geoff Whitaker, who turned out to be another chunkily built and bearded individual, this time wearing glasses. Was a beard part of the uniform of a caver? Maybe it kept them warm down in those subterranean depths.

  Geoff Whitaker looked at Carter with a dazed and sleepy expression as the detective got up to greet him, then he sat down and began an account of how he’d found the body. His manner was a little shaky and uncertain and he avoided eye contact with the detective.

  ‘It was bad enough finding a body there, totally unexpected, but when I saw who it was and realised I knew him, that was even more of a shock. To see him there, dead, wearing ordinary clothing and no gear, it was so sort of weird and horrific. I could hardly believe it was true. It seemed unreal.’ He paused and looked around as if checking his feelings and sensations. ‘It still does.’

  ‘So the body was laid across the floor of this passage.’

  ‘Sump Passage, yes. There was quite a heavy flow of water and it was pooling against the body.’

  ‘Did you see anything else unusual?’

  Whitaker thought for a moment.

  ‘Not really. I mean, I knew he’d been murdered and it was no accident.’

  Carter looked up. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it was impossible for a man like Atkins to go down there without equipment. Believe me, all of us who are experienced know that a caver would never do that.’

  ‘Was there any other reason why you think he was murdered?’

  Whitaker looked uneasy. His hand was repetitively stroking the velvety fabric of the sofa arm.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t exactly popular round here, was he? I understand he was one for the women and also a bit of a wide boy, unreliable with money, things like that.’

  Whitaker glanced at his wife, who was sitting in silence opposite him in an armchair. The glance was so fleeting that only a detective as sharp as Carter would have noticed it or realised its possible significance.

  ‘Well, there was that side to him.’

  ‘Did you have much to do with him yourself?’ Carter continued to probe. Again, there was a slight hesitation and Whitaker looked down.

  ‘Only through the Caving Club. I got on reasonably well with him but he wasn’t someone who I’d have wanted to strike up a friendship with. In fact, I don’t think he had any real close friends, at least not in the village, only his drinking cronies in the Red Horse.’

  ‘You didn’t have any reason to really dislike him then?’

  ‘It sounds as if you’re searching for a motive for Geoff to have been the murderer, Sergeant,’ Helen Whitaker intervened. Carter wondered if she was trying to help her husband, having sensed he was struggling.

  ‘Everyone who had a grudge against Atkins is a suspect at this moment, Mrs Whitaker, and you’re right, I’m trying to discover whether your husband had a motive. That’s my job.’

  His tone was friendly but firm.

  Helen Whitaker persisted. ‘How could Geoff be both the murderer and the person who found the body down there? That’s ridiculous.’

  Carter looked out of the window. From where he was sitting he had a good view of the surrounding fells, some of which were purple with heather. The changing pattern of light caused by the scudding clouds produced a scene of calm beauty quite at odds with the tension in the room.

  ‘I’m not making any accusations, Mrs Whitaker. It’s still very early in the investigation. We’re still finding out all about the victim and the people who knew him.’ He turned to Whitaker again and looked at his notebook.

  ‘Mr Trevor Booth, the landlord at the Red Horse, reports that he saw you having an argument with David Atkins at the back of the pub. Is that true, sir?’

  Whitaker didn’t reply; his hand stopped stroking the sofa arm.

  His wife intervened again.

  ‘Why did he say that? Is he trying to implicate Geoff in this?’

  Carter ignored her and waited for Whitaker’s reply.

  ‘Yes, it’s true,’ he finally confessed, but didn’t say more.

  ‘When was that, sir?’

  ‘About two weeks ago.’

  ‘And what were you arguing about?’

  Whitaker sighed.

  ‘It was money, Sergeant. I lent Atkins some money and he hadn’t repaid me. I confronted him that night because I was fed up of waiting for him to pay me back.’

  ‘I see,’ said Carter. ‘Did you often lend him money?’

  ‘No, that’s the only time.’

  ‘You see, Mr Booth also said he thought that, recently, you were a bit short of cash, offering to do overtime and things like that.’

  ‘That bloke wants to mind his own business,’ Helen interjected before Whitaker continued.

 
‘We’ve been a bit short, partly because I lent Atkins that money, partly because we’ve spent a bit on the house; probably a bit more than we could afford.’

  ‘Why were you down in those caves, Mr Whitaker?’

  ‘I was leading a group of people. I often earn a bit of extra money that way, and it’s coming in handy at the moment. The club’s regularly contacted by groups who want to do some proper potholing and realise that they need someone with qualifications and experience to lead them through.’

  ‘Were the rest of the party all behind you?’

  ‘Yes, but obviously we don’t lead a party like that alone. There was also a bloke from the club who was at the rear, but I was the leader, and I found the body.’

  ‘Do you know that cave system well?’

  ‘Yes, we all do; everyone in the club knows Jingling Pot. It’s a classic one for taking inexperienced groups down: challenging, plenty to see, but not really dangerous as long as you’re sensible.’

  ‘You mean not taking any risks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see anything else unusual?’

  Whitaker considered this question as a shaft of sunlight lit up the room.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘It’s just that Alan Williams of the Cave Rescue team who went down to get the body out says there had been a recent rock fall.’

  Whitaker considered. He actually seemed more relaxed now they were back on the discovery of the body.

  ‘Can’t say I noticed anything, but something like that wouldn’t be unusual; rocks are moving all the time down there, that’s one of the main dangers.’

  ‘Mr Williams also says that he and some other cavers went through a few days before and saw no body, nothing unusual. What do you think of that?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘But it looks like the body had been down there a while.’

  Whitaker shrugged.

  ‘I can’t see why Alan should make that up. I don’t know.’

  His voice tailed off. Carter realised he could not pursue that point any more and anyway he knew virtually nothing about caving. The only pot he had any knowledge of was the kind you smoked. That was another part of his past that he tried to keep secret now that he was in the police.

  ‘OK, Mr Whitaker, I realise you’ve had a pretty heavy time, so that’s all for the moment. We will require you to make a full statement and I’ll send a detective constable round for that. Just one last question. Mr Booth says you were working in the kitchens at the Red Horse last Monday night. Can you confirm that?’

  ‘Yes, I work evenings on Mondays. I remember catching a glimpse of Atkins in the bar when I walked through for something. I didn’t know it was going to be his last time in there.’

  ‘Neither did he.’ Carter got up and smiled. ‘I hope you’re soon fully recovered; you’re obviously a valued employee at the Red Horse.’

  ‘Huh!’ Helen Whitaker was contemptuous. ‘If that’s true, Trevor Booth could start paying Geoff a bit more. He’s a stingy so and so.’

  Carter laughed.

  ‘Well, I won’t report that back to him.’

  Carter looked intently at Whitaker, who had slumped further into the sofa. Was his tiredness just because of the shock of discovering the body?

  Helen Whitaker showed Carter to the door and gave him a rather curt goodbye.

  Helen Whitaker watched as Carter walked back towards the main street, then closed the door and returned to the living room. The changing sky had darkened again and the room was gloomy. She stood in the doorway and stared at her husband, who returned her gaze in silence.

  ‘I still can’t believe you got involved with that man after what happened,’ she said. ‘Anyway, it’s all over and done with now.’

  ‘It’s not. You know there’s someone else involved.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get them sorted out.’

  From the Whitakers, Carter reported back to Inspector Craven and then went to search Dave Atkins’s house. He’d lived in a small cottage in a row similar to the Whitakers’. Looking at the outside, Carter could see signs of neglect and a general air of shabbiness. Grass was growing between the old cobblestones. Right down at the bottom of the lane was the old Morris Minor Countryman Sam Cartwright had repaired, partially covered with tarpaulin. Craven had lent him two DCs and one of them unlocked the door using a key found on Atkins’s body.

  In the small hallway was a motorbike, which they could just squeeze past, and a pile of mail, which they picked up. They smelled the mustiness of the uninhabited house. The kitchen was old and scruffy but reasonably clean and tidy. The same was true of the other downstairs room, which showed clear signs of a bachelor existence and a rough-and-ready attitude to cleanliness and order.

  While he went upstairs, Carter sent the DCs to examine the kitchen and waste bin: often the best guide to someone’s last movements. One bedroom was empty except for a single bed and a cheap bedside cabinet with a lamp. The other bedroom was obviously Atkins’s and here Carter found what he was looking for. The dead man had clearly used this room as a kind of office as well as a bedroom. There was a computer and some shelves containing files. Why did he have all this in his bedroom when there was ample room downstairs? Did he feel safer in the night sleeping near to whatever the hard drive and box files contained? He looked back at the door and saw that there was a lock on it, unlike the other bedroom. Clearly, the contents of this room were important to him. But the door had not been locked, suggesting that he’d expected to return in reasonable time after he’d left home. Had anything happened to change his mind? And who had changed it for him? They still had very little information about the victim’s final movements after he left the Red Horse.

  Carter looked at the row of box files and randomly selected one. It seemed to contain mostly technical information on land acquisition and property developments. There were some glossy brochures promising big returns on investments. Clearly, Atkins was a speculator; this must have been how he made his money as no one had mentioned any kind of regular job or career. All this stuff would have to go back to HQ.

  Carter was beginning to form a picture of the man. Sharp with money but not to be trusted; a bit of a loner in life but also a womaniser. Not a man to make any commitments. He preferred illicit liaisons with women committed to other relationships. He didn’t want to take them from their husbands; that was the last thing on his mind. A self-centred, charming, rather unpleasant individual. He was just the kind of person to make lots of enemies, but it probably wouldn’t concern him in the slightest.

  Carter went downstairs and instructed the DCs to pack up the files and computer in the bedroom, then went outside. Another important source of information in these circumstances was the neighbours.

  He knocked on the door of the cottage next to Atkins’s. It was opened by a surly-looking man in his late thirties. He had a fat belly, tattooed arms and a pierced nose.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘DC Carter, West Riding Police. Unfortunately, I have to tell you that your neighbour has been found murdered.’

  ‘What? Bloody hell!’ Despite these expletives, the man did not seem very surprised or shocked. Everyone in this village seemed almost to have expected Atkins to be murdered. Did they all have a hand in it? Was it a gruesome group pagan affair like that film The Wicker Man? Maybe they all went down that pothole thing and performed some ritual in the darkness before committing the poor bloke’s body to the subterranean gods.

  ‘When did you last see Mr Atkins?’

  ‘He hasn’t been around for a few days.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Today’s Monday. I’d say I last saw him a week ago, maybe. Just a minute.’ He turned and shouted into the house. ‘Oi, Carol, come here, will you? There’s a copper here wants to know when we last saw Dave.’

  Carter heard a muffled ‘Just a minute,’ a toilet flushed and then a woman appeared. She was clearly even more enthusiastic about piercing than her partner. Her ears were double pierced. H
er eyebrows and nose contained huge rings and when she spoke, a tongue stud was clearly in evidence. She also sported tattoos on her upper arms. Carter was unable to prevent himself speculating about their sexual liaisons. How could you do anything with all that metal in the way? The risk of injury must be quite considerable.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she said.

  ‘Dave’s been done in.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Done in, murdered.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ she said, repeating her partner’s response.

  ‘Yes, his body was found down a pothole. We’re trying to establish his last movements. When did you last see him?’ asked Carter.

  ‘It was last Monday, wasn’t it?’ The man turned to his partner.

  She thought for a moment.

  ‘Yeah, Monday afternoon he was playing about with his bike in the yard. He was always doing that and the bloody oil went all over the place.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘But hold on. I think I heard him leave later on. I heard the door bang. He was probably off to the Red Horse. He went down there quite a lot.’

  ‘What time would that be then?’

  ‘Mmm, about eight, I think. It was starting to get dark, anyway.’

  ‘He hasn’t been back since then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you think that was strange?’

  ‘No, he was always going off for days on end on that bike of his. He used to visit his children over Burnley way. He was divorced.’