by J. R. Ellis
Steph listened intently and made her own notes. When he had completed his account, she put down her notebook and shook her head.
‘What a first day you had! I’ll bet you’ve never worked on a case like this before.’
‘Too right; I didn’t even know what a pothole was until yesterday.’
‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon pick it all up, especially after your training at the Met.’
Carter wasn’t sure whether she was being sarcastic or encouraging so he didn’t reply.
‘Anyway, I think the boss has taken to you, so you’ll be fine.’
Carter was surprised.
‘What makes you think that? I’ve only been here for one day.’
‘Well, I’ve known him for quite a few years now and I can tell straight away when he likes people. He’s not the sort of person to get on the wrong side of. Not that he’s nasty, vindictive or anything. He just doesn’t like people who he doesn’t think are genuine or committed, you know. He wants people around him he can rely on, who share the same passion for the job.’
‘Well, I’m glad if he thinks that of me already.’
‘I’m sure he does. You notice he said our team? He’s already regarding you as part of things. I think you’re in.’
Steph’s analysis gave Carter a warm feeling.
‘Thanks,’ he said and gave his new colleague a smile.
Detective Chief Superintendent Tom Walker was not the easiest person to get along with. He was a portly, moustachioed man in his early sixties who had risen through the ranks. A long career in detective work in the tougher parts of industrial Yorkshire had made him as hard as nails beneath a rather bluff exterior. He was usually very suspicious of what he called ‘college boys’: men (being of the old school, he didn’t really think of women as detectives), who came into the force after university. However, he and Oldroyd shared the same background and love of Yorkshire and they enjoyed throwing bits of dialect into their conversation. He still liked to tease Oldroyd about his Oxford education, and if he wanted action rather than analysis from him he would exhort him to ‘get thi cap and gown off and get summat done’.
In private, they were on first-name terms and Oldroyd had a lot of respect for Walker, who’d proved himself in a demanding profession without the benefit of Oldroyd’s education. Nor did he consider the super’s mind inferior to his own. It might be less sophisticated in some ways, but no less sharp. Tom Walker was also a man of legendary experience who had worked on some of Yorkshire’s most notorious cases during his years with West Riding Police in the Leeds and Bradford Division, including that of Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper. He sometimes referred to his coming to Harrogate Division as ‘semi-retirement’ in comparison, although he’d begun his career there.
Oldroyd tapped on the door and immediately heard, ‘Come in, Jim.’
Oldroyd entered to see Walker seated at his big desk wearing reading glasses and dressed in the same worn and shabby suit and tie that he seemed to have been wearing all the time Oldroyd had known him.
‘Sit down, Jim,’ he said, but went on reading what looked like some kind of report. Oldroyd glanced around the office: a forlorn and rather empty affair. There was one small and slightly sad picture of York Minster on the dull walls, dwarfed by the vast areas of magnolia. There was a hook behind the door, on which Walker’s coat hung, and two battered old filing cabinets. His large desk was almost completely empty. There was a rough pen-and-pencil holder, which had been made at school by one of his children thirty years before, and a paperweight with a small model of Blackpool Tower imprisoned in the glass: clearly a present from the famous Lancashire resort, that probably predated even the pen-and-pencil holder. His computer didn’t appear to be switched on. Altogether, it was the workspace of a man who didn’t like offices or administration, and this described Walker exactly.
His climb to the top had not been very happy. It had seemed to happen almost in spite of himself; he’d been the most experienced person available when jobs came up and had been persuaded to apply for them. Oldroyd suspected that he secretly yearned for the days when he was on the ground as a working detective back in the city.
There were advantages in all this for Oldroyd. Walker was a man who had absolute contempt for modern management jargon and practices. He looked after his detectives and annoyed his superiors by ignoring them as much as possible.
As Oldroyd watched him reading, Walker’s brow became more and more furrowed. Suddenly he let out a huge grunt of contempt. He almost seemed to have forgotten that Oldroyd was there.
‘Huh! Sorry, Jim, I was just finishing this . . . this unbelievable thing here. What an absolute pile of bloody claptrap! This idiot here says that we need more of a business culture in the police. What the hell does he mean? Can you imagine it? The criminal as customer? Maybe they’ll be able to choose which force to be arrested by. “Sorry, but I prefer to be arrested by Toy Town police as their conviction rates are lower than yours.” And do you know what? Surprise surprise, he’s never been in the police force! He’s probably some kind of business guru like that bloke I told you about at that wretched conference. Wasted a whole afternoon flouncing around on the platform with a microphone like a bloody failed comedian prattling on about “How to be a Leader”. And he charged three grand for the privilege. Just like the chief to shell out money for something like that.’
The chief in question was the chief constable of West Riding Police, Matthew Watkins, a forty-something whiz kid: ambitious, political and full of what Walker graphically called ‘management bullshit’. Walker held him in such deep contempt that the mere mention of Watkins’s name could render his face red and make the veins in his forehead stand out.
Walker shook his head, threw the report down and changed the subject.
‘Anyway, I wanted you to tell me about this Jingling Pot business. Sounds an odd affair to me, bloke found down a pothole. Why would anyone take a body down there? I take it he was bumped off somewhere else?’
‘You’re right, Tom, we’ve discounted murder in the cave. He was an experienced potholer, but wasn’t wearing any equipment.’
‘So I understand. Bloody funny business, isn’t it? Have you got any leads?’
‘Nothing firm yet, but I’ve got a few ideas I’m working on.’ With some detectives, Walker would have come down hard on that as vague and evasive, but he knew the quality of Oldroyd’s mind. Oldroyd’s ideas usually led somewhere.
‘Who’ve you got working on it? That new lad from London started yesterday, didn’t he? Any good? Came with good reports, I believe.’
‘It’s a bit early, but give t’lad a chance and he’ll be reight.’
Walker smiled. Oldroyd knew that a bit of dialect always defused the tension with the super.
‘He’s on the case with Steph,’ continued Oldroyd.
‘Well, she’s a good lass, so you should be fine. The thing is, the chief always gets edgy when a case starts to get a lot of publicity, and this one already has; even got into one of the nationals this morning. The press love it: a mystery the police can’t solve; they’ll be on it for a while. If the TV want to do an interview, you’d better do one. It’ll all die down if nothing happens; they’ll lose interest like they always do.’ Walker’s face contorted into a snarl. His contempt for the chief was exceeded only by his contempt for the press. He looked at Oldroyd.
‘What do think happened? What’s your instinct?’
Oldroyd frowned and shrugged.
‘I must admit it’s a puzzler, Tom. I’ve never met one quite like it before. There’s plenty of suspects and motives, but quite how and why it was done like this is still not clear to me.’
Walker grunted again. ‘Hm, well, you’d better get on with it then. Tell me if you think you need more help.’
Oldroyd got up to leave.
‘By the way, on Sunday we’re having a round over at Moortown in Leeds; do you fancy coming? Oh, I keep forgetting, you’re not a golfer, are
you?’
‘No, Tom, it’s not for me but I’m on for a drink out at the Black Cat sometime.’
‘Oh, right. Well, how about Friday week?’
‘That works for me; I’ll see you then.’
Oldroyd had the occasional social meeting with the super, which he thought judicious, but he didn’t want to see him too often, especially not with his whisky-drinking golf cronies. These evening drink sessions were not unpleasant as he knew the superintendent, liked him, and they usually had a good evening in some nice rural pub if Oldroyd could keep Walker off Watkins, the press and any of his other pet hates. With this, he departed to continue his quest to solve the mystery and to keep the press at bay.
‘So let’s review what we know.’
Oldroyd, Carter and Steph were gathered in Oldroyd’s office for a briefing session. Jackets were off and Oldroyd was ensconced in his favourite chair. There was a large cafetière of coffee on the table and a plate of chocolate biscuits. The latter were being consumed mainly by Carter, who gradually munched his way through the plateful as the meeting progressed.
‘Andy, go over what you think we’ve established.’
Another gently enforced but quite rigorous test, thought Carter.
‘OK, sir. Well, we know who the victim is and that he was killed by a blow to the back of the head, probably a hammer but we’re still waiting for forensic reports on that.’
‘Correct,’ muttered Oldroyd, who had put his head back on his hands and closed his eyes. His legs were supported on a chair.
‘Due to the lack of equipment and what the victim was wearing, we’re pretty sure that he was murdered elsewhere and taken down into the cave, but we’re no further forward in understanding why or how he was taken so far in. According to that Williams bloke, of course, the cave or some monster in it could have just swallowed him up.’
‘Yes, a man with an over-fanciful imagination, but very knowledgeable; we might need him again before we’ve finished. Anyway, I’ve got one or two ideas about how the body ended up there, but I’m not sharing them yet until I’ve got more information. They may just be blind alleys which will confuse the investigation.’
‘Was there any important forensic evidence from where the body was found?’ asked Steph.
‘Very little,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘Just a lot of rocks and water around the body, except for this.’ Oldroyd went over to his desk and again produced the plastic bag with the rusty piece of iron.
‘You really think that’s important, don’t you, sir?’ Carter still sounded unconvinced.
‘Yes, I do, and I’m going to send it to forensics. As far as the evidence from the crime scene goes, it will be very interesting to get the report, but also the photographs the CSIs took. They should have uploaded them on to the system by now. We’ll have a look in a minute, but carry on with your summary. What about the suspects?’
‘We know that Atkins was a very unpopular man and we may find more people who had a grudge against him as we go on. Although there are a number of suspects, the one thing we have in our favour is that at least one person, and presumably more than one, must have had knowledge of the caves and the physical strength to move the body all that distance. I can’t believe that one person could have done it, so I think we’re looking for at least two people, and at least one must be a caver.’
‘Good logic. What do you think, Steph?’
‘I agree, sir, but it doesn’t solve the problem of why. Why take the body so far? It’s hard enough getting through those caves without carrying or dragging a body.’
There was a brief silence as everyone again contemplated the central puzzle of the crime.
‘Go on, Andy – suspects?’
‘There’s Sam Cartwright the mechanic. Atkins owed him money and he’s volatile enough to commit a violent crime. He’s not a caver as far as we know. We’ve got lists of all the members of the Wharfedale Club and the Cave Rescue and his name doesn’t appear.’
‘Well done.’
‘But that proves nothing. He could be in another club somewhere and I suppose he’s the kind of local bloke who’s lived there all his life and would know something about the caves anyway. But we’re still back to the problem of why.’
Oldroyd pursued the point. ‘Also, those passages are narrow in places and I’m not sure that Cartwright might not be too wide to get through some of them. I’m expecting a report from Craven, who’s been speaking to Alan Williams. When we get that we’ll have a better idea of what would have been involved in getting a body down there to that point. More coffee, anyone?’
Oldroyd replenished his own cup and Carter’s. Steph drank from a glass of water.
‘Carry on, Andy.’
Carter consulted his notebook once more.
‘Then there’s the man who found the body: Geoffrey Whitaker. I interviewed him and his wife and they were clearly concealing something. He was working in the pub that night and he could have followed Atkins out later and killed him. He made a big thing over being upset by finding the body but he admitted that he had had an argument at the pub with Atkins, said that Atkins owed him money and hadn’t paid it back. His wife didn’t seem to know anything about it, but I’m not sure. I don’t know whether she had anything going with Atkins, but I learned from Atkins’s neighbours that they had seen Whitaker visiting the house a number of times, and the last time there was a row.’
‘Did they know what about?’
‘No, but my guess is that it was either about Helen Whitaker or the money. It was obvious from all the stuff in Atkins’s bedroom that he was involved in some kind of shady financial stuff in property or shares or something. We removed all his files and his computer and I’m having them all analysed.’
‘Good.’
‘It could be that Whitaker had been cheated or let down by Atkins and maybe lost a lot of money.’
‘And you say he was the one who found the body?’ asked Steph.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a bit strange then, isn’t it? Surely he would be the last person to want to discover the body if he was the murderer?’
‘That’s exactly what his wife said, and I suppose it’s true, but she sounded very defensive about it somehow.’
‘Lots of people who discover bodies turn out to be the murderers. There may be a reason why he wanted it to be discovered there.’
Oldroyd paused for a thoughtful moment after this observation and drank some coffee.
‘Did the neighbours have any more useful information?’
‘They did; they obviously enjoyed having their ears to the wall when Atkins was entertaining women. They gave me a graphic account but I’ll spare you the details.’
‘Well, well, a couple of voyeurs in Burnthwaite,’ said Steph archly. ‘Isn’t it amazing what goes on in these little Dales villages?’
‘I’m sure,’ continued Carter, ‘but the main thing is that they recognised one of these women as,’ he consulted his notebook again, ‘Anne Watson; she and her husband own a gift shop in the village. Apparently there was some trouble about it.’
‘Good; that confirms what the landlord was telling us at the Red Horse. Anything else?’
‘Not at the moment, but we’ve got more people to interview.’
‘Right. There’s also the question of who Atkins was going to meet on what I think was his last night alive. We’ve nothing on that yet. Of course, if any of his former lady friends knew about that it could have provided a motive. OK. Good.’ He turned to report his own investigations.
‘Well, I visited Garthwaite Hall and spoke to the Hardimans and found out more than I expected. They employed Atkins on a casual basis in their outdoor-pursuit business but got rid of him when he started making advances to the wife, Caroline. So we can add them, or at least the husband, to the list. Their alibi is weak too; they claim to have been together at the hall on the night Atkins disappeared.’
‘Did the wife have an affair with Atkins?’
‘Not
according to them, but there could have been more to it than they will admit to. What I really went to Garthwaite Hall for was to find out more about the caves. Simon Hardiman confirmed that there are no quicker ways into the Jingling Pot system. He lent me some books for further research.’
‘What do you think you might find, sir?’ asked Steph. ‘If Jingling Pot is a well-known and well-explored system, any other linking passages would have been discovered by now, wouldn’t they?’
‘Yes.’ Oldroyd narrowed his eyes a little. ‘But you see, if someone did discover a linking passage like that it would create a bit of a stir, wouldn’t it?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘That’s what caving’s all about to the real fanatics,’ continued Oldroyd. ‘It’s exploration, pushing the frontiers forward and trying to find new caves. The biggest challenge of all is to link systems together. I remember 1983, when they finally made the underwater connection between Gaping Ghyll and Ingleborough Cave. It made the national news.’
Carter was not quite sure what Oldroyd was driving at but at that moment there was a knock on the door and a DC entered.
‘The forensic report, sir, on the murder victim found in Jingling Pot, and also a report from Inspector Craven.’
‘Excellent, Stevens, thank you.’ Oldroyd read the forensic report quickly and pushed it over to Carter. He took a deep breath.
‘Well, it confirms what I thought. The body had been down there for several days at least, so we have the added problem of explaining how those potholers could have got through the system on Friday and not seen it.’
‘I’m not sure I believe them, sir, it’s just not possible.’
‘Any ideas, Steph?’
Steph shook her head. She had been quiet and thoughtful for much of the time, trying to take in the events of the previous day.
‘No, sir. The whole business of the body being down there baffles me too. But all this talk of caves, and then when you mentioned the news, it’s stirred some memory in me, although I can’t remember exactly what.’
Things went quiet. Carter looked at the forensic report while Oldroyd was skimming through what Craven had to say. Oldroyd laughed.
