by J. R. Ellis
‘But he might, as you work in the financial world, don’t you?’
‘True, but I think a proud and private man like Sandy would have to be very desperate to seek help from someone about a matter like that, even from a friend. It would be an admission of failure.’
‘You referred to the commotion. What did you hear at the time of the murder?’
‘James – that’s James Symons – and I went out of this room with Sandy at about a quarter past twelve, and he left the inn by the front door. James and I were talking and going slowly up the stairs to our rooms. We’d nearly got to the top when I heard a muffled bang. It sounded like a shot outside. I asked James if he’d heard it, and he said no. We were about to continue up the stairs thinking I’d been mistaken when we saw that young woman run past us screaming and then start banging on a door. It must have been the Owens she was rousing, because the door opened, she went in and then the husband came running out and said someone had been shot. We went back down with him and then outside to where we found Sandy on the ground.’ He paused and looked very grim but still controlled. ‘It was a terrible shock, especially when we realised he was dead.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘No. Whoever did it had already disappeared. I hope you find them, Chief Inspector. It was an absolutely vile thing to do. You will always have my full help and cooperation.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Oldroyd with a faint touch of sarcasm. It always amused him when people of wealth and influence seemed to imply that they had a choice about whether or not to cooperate with the authorities. At some level they appeared to think they were somehow above all that. ‘And what happened then?’
‘Basically, James and I left them to it. There was nothing we could do. We came back inside and had another drink. There was no point going to bed, it was pandemonium with the ambulance and police cars arriving, people waking up and wandering about asking what was going on. We were pretty shook up, as you can imagine. We got a few hours’ sleep at about four a.m. I phoned my wife this morning and she can’t believe it. I trust you’ve been round to see poor Miriam. The police said we had to remain here.’
‘Yes, she’s been informed. Detective Sergeant Stephanie Johnson is with her now. She’ll be looked after, don’t worry, but we have to follow the procedures correctly.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Did you know this man, Alan Green, who we’d like to question?’
‘No, but I understand he’s some sort of local odd-job man. Sounds a funny business, can’t see why someone like that would want to kill Sandy.’
‘All right, so that’s all for now,’ concluded Oldroyd. ‘We’ll need to speak to Mr Symons next. I assume he’s around.’
‘Yes, he’s in the bar. There’s nowhere else to sit apart from our rooms now that we can’t come in here. I’ll tell him to come along.’
‘Thank you.’
James Symons, the last of the three men who had sat in the lounge with Fraser before he was murdered, relaxed on the sofa with a smile on his face.
Oldroyd asked him to describe what had happened the previous evening and he gave the same account as Henry Saunders. Of course, Oldroyd was aware that there had been ample opportunity for them to agree on a story if they were trying to cover up something.
‘How well did you know Mr Fraser?’ he asked.
‘Not tremendously well. I got to know him when he moved into the area. We share a passion for shooting and we met on the circuit, you know. He came over to my patch in Wensleydale and invited me back, and it went on from there. We also meet at various social functions.’
‘I see. So were you aware of any enemies he might have had?’
‘I knew little about his life outside shooting, but I think it’s worth mentioning these confounded saboteurs, forever causing trouble and sticking their noses in. I’ve had problems with them over in Wensleydale and I’ve seen Sandy get very angry with them. I think there was an incident with them a few years ago, but I can’t remember what it was about; I wasn’t there. One of them died of a heart attack, I think. In fact, the afternoon before he was killed, there was a group up there causing a nuisance.’
‘I see. We’ll find out exactly what happened. To your knowledge, was he ever personally threatened by them?’
‘No, and I realise it’s a long shot, but you never know with these people – they’re fanatics and some of them will stop at nothing. They may have wanted revenge.’
‘I take it you didn’t know Alan Green, who a witness has identified as the killer?’
‘No, I didn’t. Why are you asking me about all these people if you’ve got a clear suspect?’
‘We can’t be certain at this stage as to the precise nature of what happened. We have to examine other possibilities. Did you think Mr Rawnsley was a threat after his row with Mr Fraser?’
Symons smiled again. ‘I couldn’t see him as being capable of murder, Chief Inspector. He was just a silly little man who lost control of himself – very embarrassing but not killer material, if you see what I mean.’
‘Another person has been mentioned to me as an opponent of grouse shooting: Tony Dexter. I understand he’s an environmentalist?’
Symons laughed. ‘Oh, him! Yes, he’s an environmentalist, and a poet, and an artist and goodness knows what else. He turns up to council meetings sometimes, and writes to the local paper arguing that grouse moors damage the habitat and tosh like that. Again, I can’t see him as a murderer, he’s just an amusing eccentric – no one takes him seriously. He lives up on the fells somewhere near here I think.’
‘Yes, we’ll track him down. And what’s your business, Mr Symons?’
‘Oh, I suppose I’m what you’d call part of the local gentry, Chief Inspector. I have a large estate to run in Wensleydale – Uredale Manor, I’m sure you’ve heard of it – and I’ve been High Sheriff of North Yorkshire and all that kind of stuff.’
‘Indeed.’ Oldroyd didn’t add that he was not an admirer of the remnants of feudalism, either in his own county or in any other part of England. ‘So did Mr Fraser fit into this social circle, would you say?’
‘Oh yes. He wasn’t a significant landowner, but he’s come from the right background, same school as Henry, so I’m told. It always helps a lot if—’
Oldroyd didn’t want to hear any more of this kind of thing, so he brought the interview to an end in a curt fashion. ‘Yes, well, that will be all for now. Thank you very much, Mr Symons.’
Steph returned just as Oldroyd and Andy were about to go over what they’d learned so far. She ate her share of the sandwiches during the discussion that followed.
‘So, what did you make of Mrs Fraser?’ asked Oldroyd, drinking his second cup of coffee but ignoring the biscuits that filled a plate.
Andy was showing restraint. He, too, was trying to lose weight.
‘She’s devastated, as you’d expect, sir, but I felt it was genuine,’ Steph said. ‘There’s nothing to suggest she had anything against her husband, no womanising or violence or anything like that, unless she was keeping something from me.’
‘Did she identify any enemies?’
‘Well, she admitted Fraser could be difficult: “abrasive and domineering” were the words she used.’ Steph consulted her notes. ‘But she didn’t know of anyone who’d want to harm him. I asked her about Alan Green and she remembered him as the odd-job man and gardener who’d done jobs for them, but again she couldn’t see any reason why he’d want to harm her husband. Just as I was about to go, she told me about an incident with the saboteurs.’ Steph outlined the details.
‘Good. We’ve already heard a bit about that from Symons, and you’ve told us more. We need to research who was involved and who might have had a connection with the dead man and so on. Andy and I have interviewed the three companions who were with Fraser just before he was killed, so we’ll bring you up to date. What did you make of them, Andy?’
Andy looked at his notes before replying. ‘Well,
sir, I was interested in the accounts of hearing the shot, and I like your suggestion that Symons and Saunders could be in it together, and that one is giving the alibi for the other. There was easily time for one of them to go outside, shoot Fraser and nip back in before the alarm was raised. They were both a bit too controlled and smooth with their answers for my liking.’
‘That would mean that Kirsty Hemingway was in on it, too, and is falsely identifying Alan Green as the killer.’
‘Yes, unless she got confused and mistook one of them for Green. It was dark after all. I know the lights were on but she can’t have seen the face for very long. She seems very sure it was Green on the basis of a brief glimpse.’
‘That would be very convenient for the murderer, wouldn’t it? To have someone else identified as the suspect. But I’m not sure I can believe that.’
‘I take it we’ve still no idea about a motive for Symons or Saunders?’ asked Steph.
‘No, but something might emerge when we’ve done some more digging into Fraser’s past. What did you think of Rawnsley, Andy?’
Andy frowned. ‘Seemed a bit of a wimp to me. Can’t see him shooting anyone, and why one of his regular customers? Even if he did delay paying?’
‘I agree. Of course, he could have faked the drunkenness and then doubled back and gone outside to lie in wait for Fraser, but that’s all fanciful.’ Oldroyd sat back in the armchair. ‘OK, no point speculating any more at the moment. Next on the list is this gamekeeper who appears to have had a difficult time with Fraser. He lives in the village so I’ll pop over there with Steph. You stay here, Andy, and make sure everything’s in order. Check the statements; I want to know if anyone saw or heard anything unusual last night. Speak to that young woman again and see if she’s remembered anything else. Then we’d better go down to Pateley and see how Inspector Gibbs is getting on with the search for Alan Green. I haven’t heard anything from him. He should also remember the case when the saboteur died.’
‘OK, sir.’
Harry Newton was at work in the kitchen. The service was very much reduced and most of the staff who lived out had been told not to come into work that day. The remaining staff were preparing a limited menu for the residents and inn staff. Oldroyd was going to allow the bar to open as it was the only one for miles around, but the rest of the inn was sealed off from the public. Sheila Owen had been present to give the staff instructions, but had then gone off to lie down for a while, having been up for most of the night.
After Kirsty had woken him up and gone out to raise the alarm, Harry had nipped back to his room across the corridor. He’d hated having to do this but he felt it was more important that they remained discreet after his brother’s experience.
He was peeling vegetables when he heard a tap at the open back door of the kitchen just behind where he was working. Kirsty put her head round the door. He put down his knife and joined her outside.
‘How are you feeling?’ Harry asked.
Rob Owen had given her the day off due to the trauma she’d been through. Her face was very pale. ‘Not great. I wished you’d stayed last night. I needed a cuddle when I finally got back to bed.’
‘I know. I’m sorry; I just thought it was too risky.’
‘Maybe. I wonder if anyone’s really bothered.’ She lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. He’d never seen her smoke before.
‘I didn’t know you—’
‘I’d given up,’ she said. ‘I need something to calm me down.’
‘It’ll all settle down when the police have finished combing through the place and they leave.’
‘Do you think so? I don’t know if I’ll ever feel good about being here again, apart from you of course.’ She smiled for the first time and he found it reassuring.
‘You will, it’s a good place to work; but if not, we’ll leave and go somewhere else.’
She didn’t reply to this, seeming distracted. ‘I keep remembering Fraser being shot. It was like watching a scene from a crime film, except it was real.’ She took another drag on the cigarette. ‘The worst thing was recognising Alan Green. I couldn’t believe it.’
‘No, I’ll bet.’
She was gazing up into the sky as she recalled the scene. ‘There was one thing I didn’t tell the police.’
Harry looked at her. ‘Why not?’
‘It sounds stupid and I’m not sure about it. It was probably nothing, but when the gun went off I screamed and he looked up towards me. That was when I got a good look at his face. But . . .’ She shook her head, took a final drag on the cigarette and threw the butt on to the ground. ‘I swear he didn’t seem bothered about me seeing him, and I’m sure he almost smiled at me before he turned and ran off.’
‘So?’
‘Don’t you think that’s weird? Why would he not care about being seen? It makes me think he’s not bothered because he knows where I am. Harry, I’m scared. I nearly didn’t tell the police who I saw, because I’m afraid he’ll come back to get me.’
She started to cry and put her arms out towards him. He embraced her. ‘Look, you’re letting your imagination run away with you. I can’t really see Alan Green as some kind of ruthless killer. If you’re right and it was him . . .’
‘It was, Harry.’
‘OK, well it must have been some argument that got out of hand. I’m sure the police will find him soon and that’ll be the end of it. Anyway, he knows you’ll have told the police you saw him, so he can’t silence you, can he?’
‘Harry! That’s an awful thought. I suppose you’re right, but he might want to get revenge on me.’
‘I doubt that. Now give me a kiss and then I’ll have to get back to work. I’ll see you later. Go back to your bedroom and lie down.’
They kissed and she walked off silently towards a nearby back entrance, which led to the residential section of the inn. She was looking cautiously around her and he had the impression that she was far from reassured.
The detectives’ call at the Pateley Bridge station proved fruitless in terms of information about the whereabouts of the increasingly mysterious Green. The four detectives were sitting in Gibbs’s somewhat spartan office. It reminded Oldroyd of DCS Walker’s office at Harrogate HQ: that of a man who disliked bureaucracy and paperwork and who preferred to be out doing police work in the field.
‘There’s no sign of him so far here in Pateley,’ said Gibbs. ‘Which is where people in Niddersgill seem to think he lived. I’m casting the net wider now, into the surrounding area and all the little hamlets. We need to move quickly; having a murderer on the loose is going to cause a lot of fear around here.’
‘So we’ve no documents, no bank account or anything, sir?’ asked Steph.
‘No.’
‘Is there any indication that anyone had phone contact with him, sir?’ asked Andy.
‘No again. It’s extraordinary that in the modern world someone could keep such a low profile, isn’t it?’
‘The problem,’ observed Oldroyd, shaking his head, ‘is that even if you find his hideout, wherever it is, he’s unlikely to be there, though it might yield some useful documents and information. He’s probably far away by now, following a planned escape route, though that’s no consolation to the frightened populace. Keep at it, but we can’t ignore other possibilities until we find him. Even then we may find that other people are involved. There’s something very odd about the whole thing. There’s usually an obvious motive in a case like this: robbery, revenge, jealousy. This man shot another local for no apparent reason and it was out of character. He had no history of violence or aggression. Then he disappears.’
Gibbs agreed. On a more positive note, he had further information to offer on the death of the saboteur in which Fraser had been involved.
‘I remember that case, Jim, though I hadn’t made the connection until you mentioned it. It was a few years back and it was ruled as accidental death, if I remember rightly, but the saboteurs made a huge stink about it; they said t
his bloke would never have died if Fraser hadn’t chased him and threatened violence. I’ll get all the details for you.’
‘Thanks, Bill,’ Oldroyd said. ‘Of all the motives I mentioned earlier, I’ve thought from the beginning that revenge might well be the one in this case, and this incident may be the thing we’re looking for.’
Oldroyd and his partner Deborah still retained their separate apartments, his overlooking the Harrogate Stray and hers in nearby Knaresborough. When Oldroyd arrived back at his, there were two recorded messages on his landline. One was from his daughter Louise.
‘Hi Dad, how’re you doing? I’m sure you’ll be busy as usual, but is it OK if I come up for a few days before term starts? I’ve got to collect some stuff from yours, books and clothes and things. Also, I’ve managed to get in for the degree ceremony on Thursday. There was a cancellation. Auntie Alison’s coming. Can you give her a lift? Robert and Andrea can’t make it but Mum will be there. I’ll come back up with you after, if it’s OK? So call me back soon. Bye.’
Louise was going back to Oxford in October to do an MSt in Modern History. She retained bases at both Oldroyd’s flat and with her mother, Oldroyd’s estranged wife Julia, in Leeds. Oldroyd smiled. He enjoyed the company of his feisty daughter, who had been the one to persuade him that he had to move on after several years of forlornly hoping that Julia would ask him to come back to her. He was glad, too, because it meant he had met Deborah.
Oldroyd, and no doubt also her mother, had been urging Louise for some time to organise her degree ceremony. She’d spent a year off after having graduated, working in London at a women’s refuge and then taking a couple of months to backpack in the Far East, so it had not been a priority. Nor was she enthusiastic about the more arcane aspects and rituals of academic life. This last-minute arrangement was typical of her. He would have to make time to go down to Oxford, but it would be difficult now that he was involved in this case. And it was never easy meeting Julia. He shook his head.
The other message was from his sister Alison, an Anglican vicar in the village of Kirkby Underside between Harrogate and Leeds. Alison was inviting him and Deborah to dinner on Friday at the vicarage, a large, rambling building which Oldroyd loved for its quirkiness and many reminders of a different, peaceful and comfortable age. At least for the pampered clergy who’d lived there. He called it the Jane Austen Vicarage.
