Malice On The Moors

by Graham Thomas

  “And Erskine …”

  Powell steeled himself. “Yes.”

  “You owe me. You can put me up the next time I come down to London.”

  “Great,” Powell replied unconvincingly. He was hardly in a position to object.

  Several hours later, Powell left the A64 on the outskirts of York and pulled into a filling station for some petrol. Before leaving the Yard, he had rung Superintendent Cartwright in Northallerton and suggested that they meet at the police station in Malton the day after tomorrow, giving him a day to poke around the moors first. He had then spoken with Detective-Sergeant Evans, who planned to follow in a company car tomorrow.

  After paying the attendant, he parked his battered green Triumph beside a shiny red VW van in front of the adjoining transport cafe and went in for a cup of coffee. There was a young couple in the next booth: the lad with bright orange hair in a moth-eaten jersey, and his waif-ish, nose-ringed companion looking distinctly unhappy. (A lover's tiff? Powell wondered.) The coffee was un-drinkable, but the spirited exchange at the counter between the only other customer—a lorry driver—and the couple who owned the place more than made up for it. From what Powell was able to gather, the cafe had once been a favorite stop for long-distance lorry drivers, including, apparently, this fellow. It had recently been taken over by the couple, who had apparently decided to improve the tone of the place. Powell had noticed that quiche and “fresh garden greens” figured prominently on the menu, rather than the egg and chips and stodgy meat pies that one would normally expect in such an establishment. He reckoned that the pastel salmon-and-avocado decor was a dead giveaway.

  The lorry driver was becoming increasingly agitated as he complained about the minuscule order of chips served up with the pale, crescent-shaped object (which might well have been the spinach and feta croissant) that lay beside a sprig of something green on the stark landscape of his plate. His face grew redder and redder as the husband foolishly went on about the dire consequences of dietary animal fat. Powell was becoming concerned that he would have to intervene to prevent an assault, when the wife interjected irritably, “For God's sake, Jim. Give him some more frigging chips!”

  Her husband flushed then disappeared through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

  “Tha's better,” the lorry driver grunted.

  The pinched-looking woman rolled her eyes, picked up the coffee pot, and began to walk towards Powell. He raised his hand politely. “No, thank you, I've heard that excessive caffeine has a tendency to inflame the baser passions.”

  The young man in the next booth sniggered.

  After a late breakfast at his hotel in York, Powell continued on to Malton, where he was to meet Sarah Evans the following morning, then north on the A169. At Pickering, he turned west on the A170, and after a short drive through green and pleasant farmland, he was wheeling his car into the roundabout at Kirkbymoorside, a small market town situated, not surprisingly, on the edge of the North York Moors. The cobble-edged Market Place was lined with quaint village shops and a number of hotels that had once been coaching inns in the days when the town was on the main road fromThirsk to Scarborough. The old stable yards, access to which was obtained through narrow archways, had been converted to car parks. There was even a Chinese restaurant, he noticed, but (here, a twinge of disappointment) not a curry house in sight. He drove past tidy red-roofed houses into the open countryside, Long John Baldry blaring on the tape player. It was a glorious morning with the top down and the wind in his face, the throb of the TR4's engine and just a nip of autumn in the air. He felt as if he'd been reincarnated, the normal routine fading from his consciousness like the dim memory of a past, slightly unsavory life.

  The road rose gradually as he left Kirkbymoorside and the gentle valley of the River Rye behind. He had learned from a guidebook that he'd picked up in Charing Cross Road the day before that the North York Moors National Park was essentially an uplifted plateau, broken along the southern edge by an irregular line of limestone scarps, through which a number of south-flowing streams cut channels to the River Rye. The resulting headlands, called “nab ends” by the locals, gazed stonily northward like sphinxes. Thus, as he climbed almost imperceptibly out of the Vale of Pickering into the Tabular Hills, the ground suddenly fell away, revealing a “surprise view.” And few were more spectacular than the view from the village of Farnmoor, through which Powell now drove.

  At the edge of the village, where the road began its plunge to the valley bottom, he was treated to a most fetching prospect: the green sweep of lower Brack-endale, sheep-dotted fields, crisscrossed by drystone walls, giving way on the tops to vast tracts of brown-and-green moorland, tinged with purple, as far as the eye could see. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the bracing air enlivened his senses. Directly below was a cluster of farm buildings set on the wooded banks of the River Merlin.

  He started down the steep, narrow road, hugging the inside bank and keeping his eye out for places to pull off in the event of oncoming traffic. He reached the bottom of the hill without mishap, turned up the West Daleside Road, and drove for about a mile until he came to the picturesque hamlet of Brackendale. The village consisted of a row of tidy stone houses, each with its garden sloping down to the river, a general village shop, a teahouse, and a promising-looking pub and inn called the Lion and Hippo. Powell searched his memory for more guidebook lore and recalled that in the early 1800s, workmen quarrying stone for a road at Kirkdale Cave, not far from Kirkbymoorside, had uncovered the ancient bones of animals, including tigers, rhinoceroses, and hyenas—the source, one presumed, of the pub's intriguing name. Pleasant, Powell imagined, to contemplate over a pint a time when lions roared in the forests of Yorkshire and hippos basked in the warm waters of Ryedale.

  Powell drove slowly through the village. Just past the pub, a stocky gray-haired man stood on a white-painted bridge over the beck, staring into the gravelly shallows. A woman, who seemed to be waiting for him, stood on the far bank with a Labrador retriever. Powell pulled off to the side of the road and unfolded his Ordnance Survey map. Beyond the village the road crossed over the river and climbed steeply to the east to the top of Blackamoor Rigg, the narrow ridge of moorland between Brackendale and Rosedale. Marked on the map at several locations were lines of dots, perpendicular to the axis of the ridge, labeled GROUSE BUTTS. And there, dead center on the moor, was a tiny rectangle with the notation BLACKAMOOR HALL. The country seat of Ronnie Dinsdale, the supermarket magnate. Powell felt the familiar thrill of anticipation that signified the start of a new case, forgetting for the moment the circumstances that had brought him there.

  He returned the map to the glove box, eased the car into gear, and set out for Blackamoor Rigg. The road followed the river for half a mile or so, crossed over, then began the steep climb up to the skyline ridge. At the foot of the incline, a road branched off, continuing northward along the east side of the river, a faded fingerpost indicating the way to Dale End Farm. Powell geared down and urged his car up the 20 percent grade. Near the top he had to pull over onto the verge beside a stone-walled sheep enclosure to let a car coming down the hill pass by.

  The transition from pasture to heather was sudden and dramatic as the road climbed up onto Blackamoor Rigg. Powell turned north on the main road and pulled off to the side to get his bearings. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud and Powell felt a sudden chill. In contrast to his earlier view of the sunlit tops, the vast expanse of moorland now seemed desolate and slightly menacing. The ribbon of road linking Eskdale and Ryedale disappeared over the horizon, and just ahead, perched dramatically on a rock promontory overlooking upper Brackendale, stood a large house. Blackamoor Hall, no doubt. Off to the west, he could see the green fields of Farndale in the distance, and to his right the moor dropped off gradually into Rosedale. Powell glanced at his watch—it was ten past one—and wondered what he should do next. There was no point in putting in an appearance at Blackamoor Hall until he had been fully briefed, and that wasn
't going to happen until tomorrow morning when he met with Sarah Evans and the locals in Malton. Hardy black-faced sheep grazed at the edge of the road and a curlew cried persistently, as if urging him to make a decision. His stomach grumbled and his thoughts suddenly turned tropical. The Lion and Hippo was, after all, the local pub, and in his long experience as a policeman (he reminded himself, as if by way of rationalization) he had learned that there was no better source of local information. He gunned the motor, spun the little roadster around, and plunged back down into Brackendale.

  Except for a man with black hair slicked neatly back, who was behind the bar reading the Ryedale Times when Powell walked in, the Lion and Hippo was deserted.

  The man looked up. He seemed mildly surprised to be interrupted by a customer. “Afternoon, sir,” he remarked pleasantly. “What'll it be?”

  Powell sat down at the bar and surveyed the row of hand pulls. “A pint of Tetley's, please.”

  The man slowly pumped the pint glass full of bitter, allowing an alarming quantity of the creamy beer to overflow into the drain. Then he set the glass on the bar and examined it critically. When the foam had settled, he topped it up and placed it in front of Powell. “We like a good head up North,” he said pointedly, implying that the same couldn't be said down South. “That'll be one pound fifty-five.”

  Powell paid and then raised his glass. “Cheers.” He took an appreciative sip. “You the landlord?”

  The man nodded. “Robert Walker, at your service.”

  Powell quickly sized up the fellow and decided to take his chances. He was hoping that he would find in the publican a knowledgeable but reasonably objective observer who could provide some useful background information. “I'd be interested in your thoughts about what happened to Dickie Dinsdale,” he said.

  Walker looked wary. “What's your interest in it?”

  Powell handed him his card.

  The landlord whistled softly. “I see. It's difficult to know where to begin, Chief Superintendent.” He hesitated for an instant. “One doesn't like to speak ill of the dead, but I suppose it's safe to say that Dickie Dinsdale wasn't very popular in these parts. It was different with his father. Old Ronnie Dinsdale is well respected in the dale. He was fair with his employees and tenants and didn't put on any airs. When he got sick—he's got Alzheimer's, or something like it—he handed over the running of his supermarket business, as well as the estate, to Dickie. Both enterprises have been on the skids ever since.”

  “Do you know how Dickie died?”

  “They say he was bit by a bloody adder during the farmers' shoot last Saturday.”

  Powell raised an eyebrow. Merriman hadn't said anything about an adder. He wondered if he had come all this way for nothing.

  “There's quite a few of them round the moors,” Walker volunteered, “but the bite's not usually fatal.” He wiped the surface of the bar with a towel. “Perhaps Dins-dale had a weak constitution,” he added, as if by way of an afterthought.

  Powell remembered that Stumpy Macfarlane, the environmental activist with whom Dinsdale had a previous well-publicized confrontation, had been seen in the neighborhood around the time of Dinsdale's death. He mentioned this to Walker.

  “I wouldn't know about that,” the landlord said stiffly. “Blokes like him should learn to mind their own business.”

  A noncommittal grunt from Powell. Walker was obviously not a supporter of the Hunt Saboteurs Association. He took in his surroundings—the cozy snug to the left of the bar, the stone hearth and blackened oak beams, the walls done tastefully in dark green and hung with prints depicting Yorkshire's past cricketing glory. He took another sip of bitter. He had already decided that the Lion and Hippo would make an ideal base of operations. Centrally located and undoubtedly the hub of social life in the dale—not to mention a recommendation in the CAMRA Good Beer Guide. He inquired about a room.

  Walker smiled thinly. “You can have your pick. The daffodil season in the spring and the summer months are our busy times,” he explained. “We don't get many visitors to the park this time of year, except for a few who come for the shooting, but, well, I don't expect there'll be any more shooting this year.”

  Something suddenly occurred to Powell. “I'd better book a room for my assistant, as well. She'll be joining me tomorrow.”

  Walker shrugged. “The more the merrier.” He resumed polishing the bar. “Tell me, Chief Superintendent—that is, if you don't mind me asking—do the police think Dinsdale's death might not have been an accident?”

  Powell eyed him speculatively. “Too early to tell, I expect.”

  Walker shifted on his feet. “I mean, well, I shouldn't think they'd bring someone up all the way from London …” He left the rest unsaid.

  Powell sighed. “That,” he said, “is a long story.” He climbed off his stool. “I'll get my things.”

  As Powell was returning with his bag and gun case (which he'd brought along just in case), a woman came into the entrance hall from a room off to the right. From the computer and clutter of papers visible behind her, this room appeared to be the office. There was a framed picture of an older couple on the desk. “I'm Emma Walker,” she said, her tone pleasant but businesslike.

  Powell introduced himself.

  “Robert has told me all about you,” she volunteered.

  Powell smiled. “Not everything, I hope, Mrs. Walker.”

  “I've put you in Number Three. It's our best room. Second one on your left at the top of the stairs. Loo's at the end of the hall. I'll put your colleague in Number Two, next door to you.”

  She was tall, attractive in an austere sort of way, with a certain preoccupied air that was hard to pin down. “We do pub grub next door and breakfast and dinner in the dining room,” she said.

  “I'd like to spend the rest of the afternoon exploring the dale. Could you do me some sandwiches to take along?”

  “Of course. Would ham and cheese be all right?” Powell thanked her and started up the stairs.

  He drove up past Dale End Farm and stopped to enjoy his lunch on a grassy bank beside the beck and watch the tiny yellow trout leaping in the spume. He returned by way of the East Daleside Road to the foot of Farnmoor Bank where he had started out that morning, thus completing his circle tour of Brackendale. When he got back to the Lion and Hippo, the pub was populated with about a dozen of its regular patrons, who eyed him suspiciously over their glasses. Whether this was traditional northern reserve or related to the fact that he was a policeman (which everyone in the village undoubtedly knew by now), Powell was unsure. He chatted with Walker about this and that, attempting to glean as much information as he could without appearing to be prying. He eventually managed to break the ice with a couple of the locals sitting beside him at the bar—one was the owner of the local garage and the other a retired farmer— and got an earful about Dickie Dinsdale. Several pints of best Yorkshire bitter and a traditional roast beef dinner later, Powell made his way up to his room and went to bed early. He dreamt that Merriman had him stuffed and mounted and put on display in the Millennium Dome as an early relic in Sir Henry's much vaunted Evolution of British Policing exhibit.

  CHAPTER 4

  Powell was not exactly looking forward to his meeting with the local police that morning. He knew that he would be regarded as an interloper, a trespasser on the local patch. And as he turned onto the Old Malton Road, he realized that in a curious way he regarded Detective-Sergeant Sarah Evans in much the same light. He located the police station without difficulty and pulled into the car park. She was waiting for him in a black Vauxhall. She got out of the car to greet him.

  “Mr. Powell,” she said briskly.

  “Evans,” Powell acknowledged. “Have a pleasant trip?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It struck Powell for the first time, seeing her out of her natural habitat at the Yard, that she was quite attractive. Fairly tall with short blonde hair combed off her forehead, looking casual in a pair of jeans and an Arra
n jumper. Her expression, however, was formal. “What do you know about this business?” he asked, testing the waters.

  She shrugged lightly. “Only what I was able to get from Bill Black, which wasn't much.”

  “Didn't Merriman talk to you?”

  “Merriman?” She seemed surprised. “No, sir, I …” She hesitated. “You didn't pick me for this job, did you?”

  Powell looked at her. “No, Evans, I didn't.” Then he smiled. “Nor, I expect, would you pick me, if you had any say in the matter. But it looks like we're stuck with each other.”

  “Yes, sir.” Chilly.

  Powell sighed, turning towards the entrance of the police station. “Let's get it over with.”

  Superintendent Cartwright of F Division of the North Yorkshire Police made it clear that he was not amused. From the outset, he insisted on referring to Powell as Cfa'e/Superintendent, the emphasis a pointed reference to the fact that the rank of chief superintendent had recently been abolished. Not the job, mind you, just the title. Now officers with the rank of superintendent have to apply for the positions previously held by chief superintendents, for which they get extra pay. So, in essence, the rank, duties, and salary of chief superintendent still existed, but the title did not. (Officers, like Powell, who held the rank kept the title.) A classic case of bureaucratic shuffling of the proverbial deck chairs.

  Cartwright was a tall man with a thin, humorless face. He indicated that he was willing to cooperate up to a point but basically Powell and Evans were on their own. He ran through the coroner's findings. “A suspicious death, possibly caused by an adder's bite,” he concluded.

  Powell looked skeptical. “Possibly? What's that supposed to mean?”

  “You'd better talk to the pathologist about that,” Cartwright said tersely.

  Powell noticed that Detective-Sergeant Evans was taking notes. Nothing like initiative. “What about Mac-farlane?” he asked.

  “What about him?” Cartwright's manner was stiff.