by J. R. Ellis
He turned back. ‘One of these days I’m going to take a swing at that Fraser. He’s been at me all day.’
Kirsty laughed. ‘Steady on, Ian, that won’t get you anywhere. Just ignore them; don’t take them too seriously.’
‘That’s easy for you to say.’
‘But it isn’t – we get a lot of shit from those shooting-party people. They’re always making remarks and brushing up against you, touching you up and stuff.’
‘You don’t surprise me.’
‘Yesterday Jeanette was cleaning the rooms, and when she knocked on one of the doors a voice shouted “Come in”, so she did, and there was this oldish bloke stark naked on the bed with his legs spread apart – big hairy belly, one thing sticking up and the rest dangling down. She turned round and went out, said she’d never seen anything so disgusting in her life.’
This provoked some laughter, but the prevailing mood remained hostile to the difficult visitors.
‘The mucky bugger!’ declared Bramley, shaking his head.
‘Bloody perverts!’ said Green. ‘Think they can do as they like because they’ve got money. I’ve done a few jobs for Fraser, always tries to screw you down to the lowest price, as if he wasn’t rolling in it.’
‘We all know Fraser’s a tight git. You should see t’rent he charges me and ah’ve only a small farm. He put it up ag’ean last year an’ ah’m really struggling.’
‘Why do Rob and Sheila put up with him and all these posh shooters?’ asked Gorton.
‘Why do you think?’ replied Kirsty. ‘They bring in a lot of money. The Owens don’t like it either, but they just have to grit their teeth like the rest of us.’
‘Oh, bloody hell!’ said Davis. ‘Look who’s here. What’s he playing at?’ He put his hand over his mouth to suppress a laugh.
Sandy Fraser had appeared at the bar in his Fraser kilt, complete with sporran, long white socks with black brogue shoes, black jacket, white dress shirt and black bow tie. He even had a knife tucked into his sock. There was applause from the party and someone called out: ‘Well done, Sandy, every inch the clan chieftain!’
Fraser grinned and accepted the accolade while the people at the bar giggled into their beers.
Just before half past seven, the shooting party moved on to their private dining area, many of them already well lubricated. In the kitchen a huge operation went into action serving three courses of high-quality food to the party, the centrepiece being the roast grouse. Wine was decanted from the jeroboams and consumed in large quantities. After the meal they went into the residents’ lounge for coffee and port, one or two stepping outside briefly to take the evening air and to smoke a cigar.
Back in the kitchen, Sheila was exhausted, but satisfied that everything had gone well during the evening service. She sat near the door with a glass of wine. The kitchen was clean and quiet; all the staff had gone home. The peace was shattered by Sandy Fraser, who came through the door red-faced from drinking wine.
‘I thought I would find you here,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to say a good meal on the whole, but I’m not sure about that sauce Albert you did with the grouse.’
‘Oh,’ said Sheila, surprised.
‘No, I thought it was rather too strong. All right for beef, but don’t you think you should have toned the flavours down a little for grouse?’ He chuckled. ‘I mean, we spent all day bagging them and then when we came to eat them, it was difficult to tell what kind of meat it was. A pity really. Well, not to worry, I’m sure you’ll do better next time. Actually, there’s a superb little place in London, been going there for years, excellent for game. I can get the chef to give you a few tips if you like. Anyway, good night.’ Without waiting for a reply, he went out of the door and joined the others in the lounge.
A few minutes later Rob came in and found her crying. She explained what had happened.
‘What a bastard!’ he said.
‘How could he say that?’ she said, drying her eyes. ‘I know that sauce is perfect for grouse and you adjust the mustard and horseradish so that it’s milder than for beef. He comes in pontificating, and he’s not even a chef, offering to get me help! It was so humiliating. I know I shouldn’t take it to heart but it’s been such a long day and I’ve just had enough.’
‘I know, love.’ Rob put his arm around her shoulders.
‘It’s a good job he left quickly or I might have said something I shouldn’t.’
‘Well, don’t. It’s only a few times a year and we make a lot out of them.’
‘They may not come back after this if my food is so awful.’
‘Rubbish! There’s nowhere else round here with a kitchen anywhere near as good as yours and he knows it. He’s just one of those arrogant know-alls who thinks he’s an expert on everything. Come on, it’s late, let’s get to bed.’
She smiled at him, took off her apron and hat, and they left the kitchen.
When Fraser joined the others in the lounge, the party was starting to fragment. Following all they’d eaten and drunk after a day on the hills, some were dozing in armchairs and a few had called it a day and gone to bed. Fraser joined a group of hardened drinkers who were still knocking back the port, as well as some whisky which had appeared from somewhere. This group included the men with whom he’d shared the grouse butt: Symons, Rawnsley and Saunders. Partly due to the influence of alcohol, Rawnsley’s mood had changed. He’d become rather raucous. He welcomed Fraser by raising his glass.
‘Here he comes, His Lordship! Is that how you address a clan chieftain?’
There was a ripple of laughter, but some embarrassment at this rather abrupt and coarse greeting.
‘Well, no. If I was the clan chief, you’d address me as Fraser,’ replied Fraser, humouring Rawnsley.
‘What if he doesn’t pay his bills, and gets into debt?’
There was a shocked silence. Symons froze in the act of raising his glass to his lips; Saunders looked away. Fraser looked at Rawnsley with contempt.
‘You’ve had too much to drink. I’d go straight off to bed if I were you.’
Rawnsley laughed. ‘Only a joke, calm down. I’m sure you’re going to pay me soon. Not before time though, is it?’
‘Steady on, old boy,’ said Symons. ‘This is not the time or place, surely you can see that?’
Rawnsley had raised his voice and the remaining people in the room looked over. ‘What is the right time then? He owes me a lot of money for—’ Saunders stood up and gripped Rawnsley’s arm. ‘Hey, get off me!’ Rawnsley protested, but he could not escape Saunders’s strong grip.
‘Come on,’ said Saunders in a low, controlled voice. ‘Sandy’s right. It’s time you went off to bed before you make a complete fool of yourself. You’ll feel different in the morning.’ He steered Rawnsley out of the room and shut the door.
‘What a vulgar little man,’ remarked Symons. ‘What was all that about?’
Fraser sat down in an armchair. ‘Oh, take no notice,’ he said with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘I owe him some money for the new Bentley sports. I’ve had quite a lot of outgoings recently so I’ve delayed payment.’
‘No excuse for bringing the subject up now,’ observed Saunders.
‘No indeed,’ continued Symons. ‘The man’s just not . . . Well, you know what I mean.’
Fraser and Saunders understood: Rawnsley was not a gentleman, but his crass talk and his departure had spoiled the atmosphere. It was also after midnight and they were now the last people in the lounge.
Saunders yawned and stretched. ‘I suppose we ought to call it a day. Want to be sharp tomorrow, see if I can beat you all in the shoot.’
‘Not a chance,’ laughed Symons, ‘but you’re right.’ The three men got up and left the lounge.
The loft space of the Dog and Gun had been converted into small apartments which housed the live-in staff. In one of these rooms overlooking the front of the inn, there were two people squashed into the single bed. Kirsty Hemingway, the bartender an
d chambermaid, and Harry Newton, the young commis chef, were in a relationship but they kept it a secret. Harry’s brother had got into trouble while conducting an affair with someone in his office and had warned him off mixing romance and work.
Harry was already snoring, but Kirsty was still awake. She found it hard to sleep when Harry was with her. The bed wasn’t big enough. She often kicked him out and back to his own room if he kept her awake for too long.
It was quiet outside. She lay listening to some owls calling in the distance and then the sound of someone closing the door of the inn and walking away. Then she heard voices being raised, disturbing the peace of the night. She got out of bed and went to the window, which was open as it was a warm night. She had a good view of the front of the inn. The external lights were still on. There was a man standing with his back to her wearing a kilt, so that must be Sandy Fraser – she’d seen him dressed in this manner earlier in the evening. He was facing another man and blocking her view of him. They were arguing loudly.
Then the other man moved into view and raised a shotgun. Kirsty saw Fraser put his arms up and cry ‘No’, but the other man fired the gun at close range. She saw Fraser drop to the floor, blood pouring from his chest, and she let out a piercing scream. The assailant looked up towards her and she saw his face clearly. Then he ran off with the gun into the darkness.
Kirsty rushed over to the bed. ‘Harry! Harry! Wake up!’
Harry jerked awake. ‘Bloody hell! What’s happening?’
Kirsty was shaking him and crying. ‘Get up. It was horrible!’
‘What was? Have you been dreaming?’
‘No! I was looking outside.’ She pointed to the window. ‘I’ve just seen Alan Green shoot Mr Fraser. I think he’s dead.’
One
Numberstones End
Lumb Gill Wham
Seavey Crook Bank
Lower Wham
Detective Chief Inspector Oldroyd had reached the point in the Saturday-morning Harrogate parkrun when he thought he was going to die. Halfway through the flat three-lap course around part of the Stray he was gasping, and his legs felt as if they were turning to jelly. However, he’d learned that stopping was counterproductive, so he struggled on at a slow jogging pace as the ten-year-olds and runners with buggies sped past him.
Oldroyd’s partner, Deborah, was out of sight and far ahead of him. She was the one who had persuaded him to take up running. While she usually finished the five-kilometre run in twenty-six or twenty-seven minutes, he was still trying to beat thirty-six minutes. Despite this, he didn’t feel as embarrassed as he had done in his schooldays. The whooping and clapping from the volunteer marshals made him feel triumphant. When he reached the funnel which led to the finish line, Deborah was there urging him on.
‘Well done, Jim! Keep going. You’ve done it!’
With a tiny sprint at the end, Oldroyd got to the line and collected his finish token. Gasping for breath, he waited in the queue to have the token and his barcode scanned. Later on he would look at the results and see if there was any improvement in his performance. He had just reached double figures in the number of parkruns he’d completed. Deborah wore her ‘hundred’ shirt with pride and was well towards two hundred. She was waiting for him in her running tights, looking slim and toned.
‘Great stuff, Jim!’ Deborah high-fived him.
Oldroyd nodded. He was bending over trying to get his breath back, and contemplating a reward for his Herculean effort. His first words when he was able to speak again, were ‘I think we deserve some breakfast after that. Let’s go to Walton’s.’
They put on their thin running jackets and wandered across the Stray towards West Park Street and Walton’s, a luxury-food shop with an excellent cafe. This was the blissful part of a Saturday morning when he was off duty and did the run. He had to admit that he felt good when the exertions were over and he could enjoy a nice breakfast without feeling guilty. For the rest of the day he would feel a little tired, but much better in terms of his mood. He was experiencing the ‘runner’s high’ that he’d always derided. They ran twice a week and he was gradually losing weight and felt much less sluggish. He’d also cut down on alcohol.
‘OK,’ said Deborah. ‘Now don’t go spoiling it all by ordering some kind of meaty fry-up.’
Oldroyd looked at the menu, at last feeling capable of conversation again. ‘No, you’re right, I’ll go for the smoked salmon with scrambled eggs on sourdough. And coffee.’
‘Good choice. Me too.’
After they’d eaten their breakfast they were just savouring a relaxed moment and had ordered a second coffee, when Oldroyd’s phone rang. He took it out of his pocket.
‘Blast, it’s Tom Walker. I wonder what he wants.’
Detective Chief Superintendent Walker was Oldroyd’s boss. They’d worked together for many years and had a good relationship, both being diehard Yorkshiremen. They were on first-name terms in private.
‘Morning, Tom.’
‘Jim, I’m sorry about this. I know you’re off duty, but something big’s come up.’
Oldroyd’s heart sank. ‘Oh? What’s that?’
‘There’s been a murder up in Nidderdale, village called Niddersgill.’
‘Yes, I know the place. But can’t they deal with it at the Pateley Bridge station?’
‘The problem is, the victim’s a bit of a bigwig: Alexander Fraser – local landowner, former judge. Watkins is already on my back asking me who’s on the case. He never shows any bloody concern if it’s some ordinary person who’s been bumped off, but if it’s someone like this he starts jumping up and down.’
Matthew Watkins was the trendy chief constable of West Riding Police, despised by Walker for his management jargon and his obsession with image.
‘So, could you go up there? I’m sorry to ruin your weekend, but I need someone like you to take care of it. You can take your team with you.’ Oldroyd’s team normally consisted of Stephanie Johnson and Andy Carter, two young detective sergeants who were also in a relationship.
‘Fine, Tom. I’m out at the moment and I’ll have to go home to get changed. I’ll be there as quick as I can.’
‘Good man.’
Oldroyd ended the call and sighed. ‘Duty calls, I’m afraid. I told you what it would be like when you’re with a detective. I’ve got to go to a murder scene in Nidderdale.’
‘Not to worry; at least it’s a nice place for it. I’ve got plenty to be getting on with. I’ll do some reading for that conference I’m going to.’ Deborah was a clinical psychologist who worked in her own practice. Oldroyd was pleased that she seemed to cope well with the disruptions to their private life caused by his job.
‘Good. We’d better get back and then I’ll go and find out what’s been happening.’
‘It’s absolutely gorgeous up here today. Look at that view!’
It was another fine autumn day as Oldroyd drove his old Saab up the road that wound its way through Nidderdale towards Pateley Bridge. A broad sweeping landscape of farms, drystone walls and fields was spread out before them, soaring up the hillsides with higher fells in the distance. Steph was sitting next to him and Andy was in the back. Luckily they’d both been on duty at the Harrogate station when Oldroyd had arrived. Steph and Andy tried to arrange the roster so that they worked together on their weekend shifts and could then spend time together on their weekends off.
‘Fabulous, sir,’ said Andy, smiling to himself. A Londoner, Andy had grown to love the Yorkshire landscapes since he’d moved to the north, but he still found Oldroyd’s rapturous enthusiasm quite amusing.
‘Is this village beyond Pateley Bridge then, sir?’ asked Steph.
‘Yes, through Pateley Bridge, turn right and drive up towards Gouthwaite Reservoir. It’s a lovely little spot.’
‘And someone’s been murdered outside the pub?’
‘The Dog and Gun in Niddersgill is more than an ordinary pub; it’s what you’d call a country inn. People stay there and the
food has a good reputation, but yes, according to Superintendent Walker, someone was killed with a shotgun. There’ll definitely be lots of shotguns around here at the moment. The shooting season is in full swing up on the moors.’
‘So that’s where they go up and blast away at birds?’ asked Andy.
‘Yes: it’s usually red grouse around here, and it’s big business these days. People pay a lot of money to take part and they come from all over the world. This man who was shot, Alexander Fraser, he owned one of these grouse moors – wealthy man, retired judge, and prominent local with political connections. That’s why Walker’s sending us out to make sure everything’s dealt with properly and swiftly. Matthew Watkins doesn’t want any bad publicity.’
‘I see,’ said Steph. ‘The local people won’t like us muscling in, will they, sir?’
‘Maybe not, but there’s a good inspector at the Pateley station, Bill Gibbs, who’s probably up there now. I’ve known him a long time, he used to work at Harrogate, and I think he’ll appreciate our help if things prove difficult.’
The car turned a sharp corner to the left, headed down the long, straight, picturesque main street of Pateley Bridge, and over the bridge spanning the River Nidd.
Oldroyd turned right at a signpost listing destinations in the upper part of Nidderdale, including Niddersgill, How Stean Gorge, and the remote settlements of Middlesmoor and Lofthouse high up at the top of the dale. They soon reached the village, which had a picture-postcard prettiness. Stone-built cottages clustered around a pond and a village green with a permanent maypole. There was a small primary school, a small church and Peter Gorton’s shop, but the centrepiece was undoubtedly the Dog and Gun Inn which overlooked the pond. It was a long, low, seventeenth-century stone building clothed in Virginia creeper that was starting to turn red. Tasteful extensions at the side and back had increased the residential capacity and created a large dining area.
Oldroyd pulled into the car park in front of the inn, in which a small number of cars were parked at right angles to the building. The detectives got out and walked over to an area cordoned off by incident tape, where they found a number of people apparently waiting for them, including Inspector Gibbs. He was a balding man in his forties, with a dogged expression which broke into a wide smile when he saw Oldroyd.
