by J. R. Ellis
‘No, but Burnthwaite’s full of gossip. It would soon have been round the village that I was living in a tent up on the fells.’
‘So how long did you intend to stay up there?’
‘Don’t know. For a while, until things had cooled off and were better between us. I’ve done it before and it does us good for me to, well, go away for a bit.’
‘But your little daughter didn’t like Daddy being away?’
‘No, she didn’t.’ Watson seemed to relax a little as if he felt his story was hanging together. ‘She pleaded with me on the phone to come home and see the races.’
‘Hmn,’ murmured Oldroyd, ‘but you still weren’t ready to . . . reveal yourself, as it were?’
‘No, I was going to go back up to the cave again. Until you stopped me.’
‘Why were you watching us near the limestone pavement?’
‘Who? What do you mean?’
‘Detective Sergeant Carter and myself. We saw you behind the wall. It was you, wasn’t it?’
Watson frowned. ‘Yes, it was. Well, I knew what had happened to Atkins and I was a bit nervy. Then I saw your police car parked not far from where I was hiding and—’
‘That’s the real reason you did a bunk, isn’t it? Because the body had been found and you were scared. It was nothing to do with your wife.’
‘No, that’s not true. I didn’t kill him.’
Derek Smith intervened.
‘Chief Inspector, you are adopting a very hostile manner, and you know you can’t make an allegation like that without evidence. My client has explained to you why he was living in the cave.’
Oldroyd ignored him and continued to pin Watson down with his penetrating stare.
‘So what exactly was your relationship with Atkins? How did you know him?’
‘It was through the caving club.’
‘And how did you get on with him?’
‘OK, up to a point. It’s not easy to like a man who has an affair with your wife.’
‘No, but did you have any other dealings with him yourself, other than through caving?’
There was a slight pause before Watson answered.
‘No, well, we both invested some money together once in, you know, property. He was good at finding investments; spent a lot of time searching online.’
‘So just a little investment?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did your wife know about this?’
Watson flinched.
‘No, and I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell her. Money is what we mostly argue about and she doesn’t think that all the things I do with money are sort of, you know, prudent.’
‘Was anyone else involved in these deals?’
‘No.’ But again there was a pause, which told Oldroyd a lot. He remained silent for a few moments and then his demeanour changed again. He suddenly seemed bored, as if he’d had enough of the interview.
‘OK.’ He waved to the PC. ‘Let him go.’
Carter was astonished. ‘But, sir . . .’
Oldroyd spoke right over him.
‘Go home,’ he turned to Watson and pointed at him, ‘and mind you stay there; no more going wild. We might need to speak to you again.’
Carter noticed Watson smiling to himself as the PC led him and the solicitor out. As soon as they were alone, he turned to Oldroyd.
‘Sir, that story was the biggest load of bollocks I’ve heard in years. He must be one of our main suspects: disappears after Atkins’s body is found and while he’s “away”, as it were, Baxter is murdered. There’s also something going on with money. Couldn’t we have pushed him further?’
Oldroyd was thoughtful but unmoved. He turned to Carter.
‘I agree; the story was rubbish. He’s obviously hiding something, but whether it’s murder I’m not sure. It’s an unconvincing story, but it’s also an unconvincing thing to do if you are the murderer. Atkins’s murder was carefully planned and cold-bloodedly executed. As I said before, it doesn’t seem like the person who carried that out would suddenly panic and bolt into a cave on the fells.’
‘But you said yourself that we weren’t meant to find the body. Maybe he was so sure that nobody would that he didn’t have any plan about what he would do if they did, so he did panic and run off.’
‘You could be right; I’m not eliminating him, but there’s also the question of who was helping him. I’m still convinced we’re looking for at least two people, so what’s happened to his accomplice? Why didn’t they feel the need to run off? Anyway, for the moment we’ve no evidence to link him to the murders; suspicious behaviour isn’t enough. I’m going to ask Craven to keep an eye on the Watsons’ place in case he tries to disappear again. Maybe the accomplice will turn up too.’
Both detectives trudged rather wearily back up to Oldroyd’s office.
‘That seemed to be a lot of effort for very little, sir,’ said a discouraged Carter. ‘The problem with this case is that there are too many bloody suspects and we don’t seem to be able to narrow it down.’
Oldroyd poured out coffee.
‘I think we’re a little closer than that, Carter; just have patience.’
He handed him a cup, opened the biscuit tin and sat down in his big armchair.
Steph had been doing some routine work at her computer and now she joined them. She saw the frustration on Carter’s face.
‘How did it go?’ she asked.
Carter sighed and scratched his head, for once leaving both coffee and biscuits untouched.
‘We got Watson, but apparently not enough evidence against him; he’s been released.’
Steph sat down. ‘Oh, that’s disappointing; are we back to square one, then, sir?’
Oldroyd looked tired after his poor night’s sleep and the hectic events of the afternoon, but as he lounged in his chair, he still had a twinkle in his eye.
‘Buck up, you two, don’t get downhearted. We’ve got an adventure ahead of us.’ He sipped his coffee and took a bite from a chocolate digestive. ‘I think we’ll know more when we’ve been down into that cave and it’s revealed its secrets.’
The dramatic arrest at the Burnthwaite Fair had been observed by someone else who had taken a keen interest in Watson’s disappearance.
Geoff Whitaker was serving at the Red Horse food stand grilling sausages and burgers over a smoky barbecue when he saw the commotion over at the start of the fell race. As he stuffed a sizzling burger into a bun, doused it with tomato sauce and mustard and handed it to the next customer, he kept his eye on what was happening. Luckily for him, the chase ended not far from the stall. As he was serving the next customer, he saw the figure being bundled into the car and thought he recognised Bill Watson.
‘Hey, I don’t want so much sauce!’
Whitaker looked down and saw that he had completely covered the burger in a pool of red.
‘Sorry, Anna will get you another.’ He turned to his colleague from the Red Horse kitchens. ‘Can you cover for a minute? I have to take a quick break.’
‘OK.’
Anna prepared another burger for the disgruntled customer as Whitaker ran the short distance across the field to the road. He was just in time to see the police car pass. He was able to get a clear view of the person in the back and it was definitely Bill Watson.
‘Oh, shit!’ he exclaimed loudly, to the disgust of a woman passing with two small children. So Bill had reappeared just to get himself arrested. He was not only a coward but a bloody fool as well!
He found it difficult to carry on serving burgers after this and was glad when the fair ended. When he arrived back home, Helen was sitting at the kitchen table, looking morose. It seemed as if she was waiting for him.
‘How did it go?’ she asked in a voice that conveyed no interest.
He filled the electric kettle and switched it on.
‘OK. We made quite a bit; gets monotonous after a while though; right now I don’t want to see another burger or hot dog sausage ever again.’
&nb
sp; She did not respond to his attempt at light heartedness.
‘I hear Bill Watson was arrested.’
He turned to her sharply to see an accusing expression.
‘How do you know?’
‘Paula rang; she was at the fair with Terry and saw it happen.’
‘Yeah. Apparently, he was hiding in an ice-cream van and then pretended he was in the fell race. Do you want tea?’
He poured boiling water into the teapot.
‘Geoff, we can’t go on like this.’
He turned to her again. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You didn’t tell the truth to the police, did you? You didn’t just lend Atkins money, there’s more to it than that. And Bill Watson’s got something to do with it, hasn’t he?’
‘What the hell is all this? What are you talking about?’
‘I overheard you on the phone talking to Bill when he was missing and you were talking about money. Atkins’s name came up.’
He said nothing but turned away from her.
‘It’s been bad enough all these years with you going off caving. You know how I feel about that after what happened to Richard; I worry all the time. Then what made it worse was Dave Atkins going with you, and now you’ve got involved in something with him, haven’t you?’ She was shouting at him now. ‘Haven’t you? He’s a curse on my life, that man. I’m glad he’s dead but did you . . . ?’
‘I don’t want to hear any more of this!’ Whitaker shouted back and stormed out of the house.
It was a still, sunny day in Upper Wharfedale with large white clouds drifting slowly overhead. On the fells, the tiny figures of walkers carrying rucksacks could be seen from the bottom of the dale making their ant-like progress to the summits. By the river, oyster catchers kleeped and sand martins twisted and dived over the water.
By a cluster of police cars in a lay-by could be seen the figures of Oldroyd, Carter and Steph, dressed in an unusual fashion. They had abandoned their normal clothes for what looked like boiler suits and crash helmets. They were standing among a number of other figures who seemed to wear the clothing more easily. Oldroyd was consulting a map with Alan Williams, who was shaking his head.
‘I still think we’re wasting our time, Chief Inspector; Winter’s Gill’s nothing of a system, it just peters out into a muddy dead end. Nobody bothers with it and it has a kind of nasty, claustrophobic feeling.’
‘Yes, but have you seen this?’ Oldroyd produced a photocopy of Haverthwaite’s poem. Williams read it and raised his eyebrows.
‘What’s all this about then? I’ve never heard of anything called the Devil’s Passage.’
‘It’s an old dialect poem by a man named Haverthwaite. He was an early cave explorer.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. It was all primitive stuff in those days; they never got very far in, didn’t have the equipment.’ Williams looked rather pityingly at Oldroyd. ‘So you think this suggests that there might be a link from Winter’s Gill to Sump Passage? It’s not a right lot to go on, is it?’
‘No, but I’m convinced that link must be there; it’s the only explanation of this case that makes any sense. It won’t be easy to find or you lot would have found it years ago. It’ll be well concealed or almost blocked up or something, but it is possible, isn’t it?’
Williams had to concede the truth of this.
‘Yes, it’s possible. These caves aren’t static even if most of the change is very slow. Rocks fall, some passages are blocked, and some open up, things get wider or narrower. A hundred and fifty years is a long time.’
Oldroyd imagined the subterranean world below their feet. It was mostly moving with the slowness of geological time where a stalactite and a stalagmite could take a thousand years to meet. But occasionally there were swift and dramatic events that could instantly change the configuration of a system. He pointed to the map.
‘Look at this point here. This is where the two systems are at their closest, if I’m reading this correctly. Crucially, it’s not far into the Winter’s Gill system because, remember, we’re talking about the body being carried in.’
Williams was still sceptical.
‘Yes, that’s where the two systems are closest and Sump Passage is near that point. Sounds plausible but . . .’ He shook his head. ‘So what do you want us to do?’
Oldroyd shrugged. ‘Take us down there and let’s see what we find.’
Carter went over to Steph and looked her up and down. ‘It suits you.’
‘Thanks,’ she laughed. ‘What does that mean? I’ve got an awful figure so I might as well conceal it under this shapeless thing?’
‘No, but you look right in it. You look as if you’d have no trouble down there. Whereas me, the only underground I know is the Piccadilly Line, and that’s dry and well lit.’
‘You’ll manage; stay close to me and I’ll protect you.’
This sent a frisson of excitement through Carter, who had to remind himself firmly that he was on duty; no unprofessional conduct down in the caves.
At that moment, Oldroyd called everyone together and they set off on a short path across a field towards a stream. Carter looked around but there seemed to be no sign of any cave or pothole, only the velvety sheep-grazed grass and grey-white weathered outcrops of limestone.
They reached the course of the stream and Carter could see that there was no water, just another dried-up stream bed. Water was constantly appearing and disappearing in this mysterious limestone country. Alan Williams walked over towards what looked like an old metal dustbin lid lying on the ground and lifted it up.
‘After you, Inspector,’ he said to Oldroyd, who promptly climbed down into a hole and disappeared.
‘What the . . . !’ Carter was flabbergasted.
Steph laughed. ‘Some of these cave entrances have been excavated by the cavers and they put these lids over to stop water flooding in.’
Carter shook his head at this bizarre eccentricity. When it came to his turn, he switched on his lamp as instructed and manoeuvred himself down a short stairway constructed from chunks of limestone.
Immediately he was in a different world. The only experience Carter could compare it to was going scuba diving on a holiday in Majorca. One second you were in the hot air of the Mediterranean with a breeze blowing across the water, everything light and airy. Then suddenly you plunged into a darker, cool world under water. It was silent except for your own breathing, and movement was slow against the pressure of the water.
As he disappeared below ground, the light was shut out; the noise of the wind and the bird calls abruptly ceased. The drop in temperature in the clammy air was instantly noticeable. The vivid colours of the fells and the sky were replaced by a damp world of dirty rock and mud.
He trudged along for fifty yards or so along a narrow tunnel, the beam from his lamp illuminating the passage ahead. He was already feeling tired with the effort of walking while crouched and was wondering again what on earth made people do this for a hobby, when the tunnel suddenly opened out and disappeared.
This came as quite a shock. He was in an open space but it was impossible to say how big because the darkness confused his bearings. The beam of light from his helmet shone up indistinctly into the void. The muffled quality of sound in the tunnel changed to a frightening echo suggesting depth and height. Was the ground about to fall away in front of him? Was he in some mammoth and terrifying cathedral-like chamber?
Carter anxiously moved his head around to direct the light, which he eventually got to hit the walls. It turned out to be a relatively small chamber with no bottomless pit. There were several beams of light crisscrossing the dark. He looked over to where he could hear voices. The shadow of a man’s head wearing a helmet was projected by Carter’s lamp on to the wall behind. The head belonged to Oldroyd, who was again consulting with Alan Williams. Carter moved over to them. Williams was shaking his head again.
‘There’s nothing here, Inspector. It’s a dead end; just damp and nasty.�
�� Although he was an experienced caver, he looked genuinely uncomfortable to be in the system. Carter looked round and saw the rocks were glistening with water that was seeping from the walls. As he moved to get a closer look he stumbled and fell.
‘Watch out!’ called Williams. ‘The water makes all the rocks unsteady down here; it’s constantly eroding the joints, so watch you don’t turn your ankle.’
‘But that’s the point, isn’t it?’ said Oldroyd. ‘The rocks are unstable so that means they move; other passages could open up.’
‘Yes, but no one’s found one here.’
Oldroyd had brought a copy of Haverthwaite’s poem. He looked at it again and his eyes narrowed in thought. He turned to the group, who were now all gathered in the chamber.
‘Now, everyone, I want you to be absolutely quiet and listen.’
One or two of the cavers glanced at each other, looking bemused.
‘Sir,’ said Steph who was standing just behind Oldroyd, ‘what are we listening for?’
Oldroyd made a gesture with his hands and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Look, I’m not sure, but what I am sure about is that this poem,’ he held up the paper, ‘daft as it might seem, holds the key to this whole business. It was written by a man who explored this cave a long time ago and he talks about the possibility of a link to Jingling Pot.’
This was Oldroyd at his most charismatic. Everyone was listening now. Carter looked at his boss with admiration. He made you believe in what he was saying. It took a lot of guts and self-confidence; if he was wrong, he was going to look a fool.
‘We know from the maps that at this point the Jingling Pot system is close to us. I believe the murderer, most likely with help, dragged the body of David Atkins down here, and that couldn’t have been done over a great distance.’ Oldroyd paused and looked round the chamber again.
‘Everything points to here. So please, silence now, and listen.’
Everyone went dutifully quiet; some sat down, some stood in the centre of the chamber.
Carter listened. The silence was eerie. So rarely was quiet like this attainable in the modern world that it felt unnatural; some permanent background noise had become the norm. He moved quietly into the centre and paused. He could hear absolutely nothing. He looked at a rock face streaming with water. Could that tell him something? He moved across, stumbling again and being ‘shushed’. He reached the rock and touched it. Cold water trickled over his finger. The rock was covered in limescale deposited over hundreds of years by the constantly oozing water. Carter looked up. The water seemed to be coming from a ledge about fifteen feet up. Could water talk? Maybe anything was possible in this strange world.
