by J. R. Ellis
‘Sir, you were right,’ said Carter shaking his head.
‘What are they?’
‘Let’s ask our friend here. What do you think these are?’ He handed them across to Williams, who looked at them with renewed curiosity.
‘You showed me one of these on the day we brought the body up. I haven’t seen anything like it before, but from the look of it, and now we’ve seen all this, I’d say it’s some kind of iron hook they were using.’
‘You mean to tie their ropes to?’ asked Carter.
‘I think so. They seem to have been more advanced than I realised. Where did you say you found the other one?’
‘It was found down in Sump Passage, not far from the body.’ Oldroyd looked at the hook. ‘I somehow felt it was significant. It set me thinking about cavers who might have been down here in the past and if this hook had been brought down with the body somehow.’
‘So you think this was swilled down from this passage into the other one with the body?’
‘Possibly, or it could have been accidentally knocked or kicked by the murderer. This one was probably found near to where the tunnels join. Also, I noticed on the photographs that there was a pile of stones on the floor of Sump Passage which looked as if they could have fallen recently: it was all consistent with the body being brought down from another passage, but I didn’t know how until I saw the branch and foam on the roof. When the body came down it obviously brought some stones with it.’
Everyone fell silent as they continued to stare at the rushing water and contemplate the answer to the riddle of the body. But the other question remained: who had intended its final resting place to be the secret link between Winter’s Gill Hole and Jingling Pot?
It was just after closing time at the Wharfedale Gift Shop. The last customer had bought a soft-toy sheep for her little daughter, who had cried petulantly for it all the time her mother was in the shop.
Helen Whitaker smiled falsely at the woman as she closed the door behind her and locked it. ‘That’s why the little brat behaves like she does, because you always buy her what she wants,’ she muttered. She paused a moment and sighed as if gathering her strength to do something, then she walked past the little café area where the floor was being mopped by the tired-looking girl who was cleaner and waitress.
Anne was folding and rearranging a pile of thick woollen pullovers, which were not selling well during the summer season, when Helen came in and stood at the side of her.
‘Hello, Helen. Sorry, were you talking to me just then?’
‘What? Oh, no, just some silly woman. Look, Anne, do you have a minute? I really need to have a talk with you about something.’
Anne turned to her in surprise and saw her anxious expression.
‘Helen? What is it? You look worried. Let’s go and sit down. Natalie!’ she called to the waitress. ‘Just finish off and you can go. Lock the door behind you.’
She put down the pile of pullovers and led the way through to the living room where she’d been interviewed by Steph Johnson. Helen sat on one of the stylish sofas but fidgeted and looked agitated.
‘It’s about Geoff and Bill,’ Helen said finally. ‘You must know something about it, Anne. Why did Bill go missing and why did the police arrest him?’
‘They suspect him of killing Dave because I had an affair with him.’
‘But are you sure that’s the only reason they arrested him?’
‘I don’t know; he wouldn’t tell me and I can’t be bothered to ask him about it. He’s gone off before like that; I’m just glad he’s back, and I don’t believe he’s a murderer.’
‘But surely you must know that Geoff and Bill were up to something with Dave Atkins?’
‘No, what?’
‘Something to do with money. I’ve tried to find out but Geoff’s been very careful to hide any paperwork and he’s got a password on his computer. He told the police that he lent Atkins some money but I don’t believe him. I think it was more serious and Bill was involved too.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I’ve overheard phone conversations and I’m sure he was talking to Bill after he’d gone off. I had a row with him but he still won’t tell me anything.’
Anne laughed. ‘That makes two of them who keep us in the dark.’
‘But it’s serious, Anne. I’m afraid that they’ve put a lot of money into one of Atkins’s schemes and maybe they’ve lost it all.’
Anne looked thoughtful. Helen could be right. It would tie in with how Bill had been behaving. He could never face up to difficulties and his instinct was to run away. Perhaps she’d been careless. She and Bill had got into the habit of almost leading separate lives and she didn’t ask many questions about what he was doing.
Helen continued, ‘There’s more than that. What if what they were doing was illegal? The police will have Atkins’s computer now and all his papers. They’ll find out what was going on. It’s only a matter of time before . . .’ Tears were forming in her eyes and she took out a handkerchief.
‘Wait,’ said Anne. ‘Calm down. We don’t know that it was illegal.’
‘Well, why all this jumpiness now that the police are around? And why won’t they say anything? But Anne, it could be even worse.’ She struggled to continue. ‘What if . . . they killed him?’
Anne was shocked. She’d been honest with Steph Johnson when she’d said that she didn’t believe that Bill would kill Dave Atkins out of jealousy. When he’d been arrested, she’d assumed the police still suspected him, but she hadn’t really been concerned. She hadn’t considered that there might be another motive. She needed to confront him at the first opportunity, but first she had to deal with Helen, who was clearly extremely worried.
‘No, I’m sure they didn’t; Geoff and Bill wouldn’t kill anyone,’ she said reassuringly, despite her doubts.
Helen, however, was becoming near hysterical and her voice got louder.
‘And what about John Baxter? Did they kill him too? The police think the two crimes are linked.’
Anne went over to sit by her and put an arm round her shoulder.
‘They probably are, but that doesn’t mean Geoff and Bill were responsible, and why on earth would they kill John Baxter?’
Helen quietened as the panic subsided but she still sat nervously rubbing her hands together.
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. What are we going to do?’
Anne took a deep breath; there was clearly some crisis developing and she was going to meet it with determination. Part of her was glad that at last something was breaking the monotony into which her life had fallen.
‘There’s only one thing we can do. We’re going to get the truth out of them. Leave it to me.’
It was quiet now in Burnthwaite. The bright weather in the morning when the team had gone down Winter’s Gill had turned overcast in the afternoon, but now the leaden sky was breaking up and the evening sun was creating a colourful sunset behind the fell.
There were few people around. The August fair traditionally marked the end of the high tourist season and soon the new term would begin at the village school. The village green, so recently full of noise and activity, was empty and silent. A gentle breeze lifted the leaves of the horse chestnut trees that lined the edge. The leaves were beginning to turn yellow at the edges, a sign that summer was moving into early autumn.
In the distance the sound of an engine gradually grew in volume and a solitary car appeared, moving down the narrow road between the limestone walls and then over the bridge into the village. It paused outside the Red Horse and the driver looked towards the pub with an expression of contempt before angrily engaging first gear and turning the car down the side of the building and into the car park.
Inside, Trevor Booth was behind the bar as usual, but it was a little too early for Sam Cartwright to be perched on his bar stool. Later in the evening there was going to be a darts match between the Red Horse and a team from a pub in
Grassington. Sam was one of the stars of the Red Horse team and was so keen that he stayed at home practising on a dartboard hung behind his kitchen door until just before the match started. As with many skilled darts players, it seemed that having a large girth and consuming numerous pints of beer generally enhanced his performance rather than impeded it. Other regulars were present and Trevor Booth was in conversation with a group at the bar that included Alan Williams and Simon Hardiman. The hot topic of conversation was the arrest of Bill Watson and his subsequent release.
‘So he was living rough out in a cave up on Atterthwaite Scar?’ Williams was as bemused as everyone else.
‘So it seems; no wonder the police were suspicious, especially as he disappeared after Atkins was found,’ said Booth.
‘But they’ve let him go, haven’t they?’
‘Yeah, but he’s not been around. Has anyone seen him?’
Numerous heads were shaken.
‘Come on, though,’ said Williams. ‘Surely Bill couldn’t have done anything like that. He’s a bit useless with money, and I know Atkins was knocking Anne off at one time, but I can’t see Bill killing anybody, even Atkins.’
‘I agree,’ said Hardiman, ‘but who knows what someone might do through jealousy, you know? And I’ve heard he was in with Atkins on something to do with money.’ He glanced at the landlord and lowered his voice. ‘And Geoff Whitaker was in it too.’
Booth was again quick to defend his chef.
‘Hey come on; what’re you saying? They were in it together and bumped Atkins off? I told the chief inspector that Geoff wouldn’t . . .’
Williams butted in to taunt Booth. ‘Oh, so you know something about this, do you, Trevor? I thought Geoff had been quiet recently. I put it down to the shock of finding the body, but maybe there’s more to it.’
‘Look . . .’ Booth started to reply but was interrupted.
‘Trevor, are you serving or what?’
They all turned to see that while they had been so engrossed in their speculations about the case, a newcomer had entered the bar. It was Sylvia Atkins.
‘I’ve just driven over from Burnley and I’m ready for a drink, if anyone wants to serve me.’
‘Sylvia!’ was all Booth could say. They were all surprised at the sudden appearance of this apparition, a figure from the past who’d formerly been a regular in the Red Horse, but who’d never been back since she left Atkins and moved to Lancashire. She looked extremely grim-faced. The men at the bar looked sheepish. Sylvia had never been an easy person to relate to; it had always been difficult to talk to her when you and the rest of the village knew what her bragging, womanising husband was up to.
Sylvia seemed to know what they were thinking.
‘It’s all right, you don’t need to worry. You can talk to me now. He’s not screwing anybody; he’s dead.’
No one said anything; they were too embarrassed by the bitter bluntness of the way she spoke.
‘Sylvia,’ repeated Booth weakly. ‘What can I get you?’
‘I’ll have a half of lager, please.’
‘OK.’
Everyone remained silent while Booth drew the half from the electric pump and Sylvia paid. There was something angry and dangerous about her and no one wished to engage her in conversation. She stood at one end of the bar and took a sip of the lager while the men stood in an awkward group at the other end.
‘What brings you back to Burnthwaite, then?’ asked Booth in an attempt at breaking the ice. She ignored him.
‘Is Susan working tonight?’ she asked.
‘Yes, she’s in the other bar. Why?’
‘Right.’
She scooped up her glass and marched to the door.
‘Sylvia!’ called Booth, sensing something was about to happen, and he went quickly through the arch to the other bar.
Here everything was busy as it was the venue for the darts match and filling up with spectators. Susan was behind the bar facing a group of men and talking and laughing as usual.
Booth arrived to see Sylvia enter the bar, locate Susan and walk straight up to her. Susan didn’t notice her at first.
‘Susan Tinsley!’ Sylvia shouted and the conversation at the bar immediately stopped, though there was still the mutter of talk going on further away among people who couldn’t see what was happening.
Susan turned and drew back when she saw who it was.
‘What do you want?’ she said, her defiance tinged with fear.
‘What’ve you been blabbing to t’police?’ shouted Sylvia.
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘It is. You’ve put them on to Stuart and me, said we were here the night Dave disappeared.’
The whole bar was now watching and listening. Booth felt he ought to do something, but couldn’t decide what.
‘Well, you were. I saw you in Stuart’s car by the green.’
‘So what if we were? Why can’t you keep your mouth shut? I’ve had the police round calling me a liar and Stuart’s opened his big mouth as well.’
‘Why should I?’ Susan started to cry. ‘I don’t know what you’ve made him do.’
Sylvia’s anger reached its climax.
‘You stupid bitch. Don’t you dare go around saying I talked that puny husband of yours into killing Dave. He wouldn’t be capable of it, and as for you . . .’
She swung the glass of lager she was still holding and flung the contents over Susan, who screamed.
‘Sylvia!’ shouted Booth yet again.
But before the shocked audience of this encounter could do anything, Sylvia had stormed out of the bar. Seconds later, her car pulled on to the road in front of a van, which braked and blared its horn. Sylvia’s car shot over the bridge and up the hill out of Burnthwaite.
Eight
So say thi prayers and save thi soul,
And keep thi body from t’dark pot ’ole.
Two days after Bill Watson had returned home following his sojourn in the cave, his subsequent arrest and interview by the police, he was still tense and quiet and wouldn’t do anything except lie in bed late and watch television. To Anne’s angry and exasperated questions, he would say only that he’d gone off because he had some issues that had got to him and he needed to be on his own for a while. He’d kept going upstairs by himself to call someone on his mobile phone.
Anne entered the living room to find her husband sprawling on the sofa watching some inane early-evening game show. After her conversation with Helen Whitaker, she was in no mood for any more prevarication. Alice was at a friend’s house for tea. It was time to have it out with him.
She marched over and turned off the television.
Watson looked up, puzzled. ‘What’re you doing?’
‘We can’t go on like this, Bill; I’m sick of it. Tell me what’s going on.’
Watson just sighed.
‘I know it’s something you and Geoff Whitaker are involved in.’
Watson looked up sharply. ‘How do you . . . ? What makes you think that?’
‘He rang a few times while you were on your little holiday, but wouldn’t say why. It’s him you keep ringing, isn’t it? Now tell me what it’s about.’
Watson considered for a moment.
‘Look, you’re right, Geoff is involved, but I can’t tell you what it’s about. It’s better if you don’t know. Geoff and I will sort it out.’
He went back to switch on the television.
Anne frowned. She was having none of this. Her ex-lover is found dead, her husband disappears and the police come sniffing round. Her husband is arrested and questioned, comes back home and has the audacity to try to fob her off with patronising remarks. She was going to get to the bottom of this and the only way was to be direct.
‘Don’t patronise me. Did you and Geoff kill Dave?’
Watson swung round and gave her a filthy look. ‘What? What the bloody hell did you say that for?’ he shouted. ‘Of course we didn’t. Why would we? Geoff found the body a
nd I went down to bring the body out, didn’t I?’
Anne remained firm and cool.
‘That could have been a useful cover.’
‘For what?’
‘For the fact that you did him in in the first place. Look, I don’t know exactly what’s going on with Geoff, but Dave was in it as well, wasn’t he? I know something was going on with money.’
He looked at her suspiciously. ‘How do you know? Have you been going through my stuff?’
‘Why not? You disappear without a word. Alice is really upset. Why shouldn’t I find out what it’s all about? You’ve put a password on your login on the computer, so there was nothing I could find there, but you printed out some emails and you left one or two in the bin. They were from Dave and they were about some investments or something.’
Watson murmured ‘Shit’ to himself and sat down on the sofa again, frowning.
Anne continued her onslaught. ‘That’s not the only thing, is it? There’s a history there after I had that affair with Dave. That’s all over, but I don’t really know how you feel. Are you still the jealous husband? That would give you another reason to kill him.’
She sat down herself, exhausted with the effort of getting all this off her chest.
Bill looked at her sombrely, but also with some admiration. ‘You have been doing some searching and thinking haven’t you?’
‘I’ve had plenty of time, haven’t I, while you were in your cave,’ she said contemptuously. ‘I couldn’t say anything while Alice was here, but I’m not sure I like some of the possible conclusions I’ve come to.’
For the first time she showed some weakness and looked at him pleadingly.
‘In fact, they scare me, Bill.’
Watson shook his head and sighed.
‘OK. Well, you’re not going to like this, but you’ve asked for it.’
Steph Johnson was at her computer again. Ever since the start of the investigation something had been nagging away in the back of her mind that she’d been struggling to recall. Her experience in the cave had brought it closer to the surface, but it was still irritatingly just beyond her grasp. She was more than ever convinced that it would help the investigation. The only way was to keep searching the archives of the local papers.
