by J. R. Ellis
Gorton passed the cigarettes across. Bramley handed over the money with a gnarled hand.
There was only one topic of conversation for people in the village at the moment, and Wilf was no exception. ‘It’s a reight bloody carry-on is this business, in’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘Somebody shot outside t’Dog, bloody hell! There’s never been a murder in this village before, ah can tell you, not in ma time, anyroad.’
‘No, I’ll bet there hasn’t. It’s a funny do.’
‘And it were not long after we left?’
‘No. I suppose we were some of the last people to see him alive.’
‘Bloody hell!’ repeated Wilf, shaking his head. ‘Anyway, let’s hope they catch t’bugger who did it before he does someone else in.’
‘They’re saying it was Alan Green.’
Wilf shook his head again. ‘Ah know, but ah can’t believe that. Ah know he were a comer-in, like, but he were a good bloke. Ah’ve had some laughs with him at t’Dog. Ah’ve ’ad t’police up at t’farm. They’d clocked ah didn’t like that bugger Fraser but ah told ’em ah didn’t bump ’im off and ah don’t think Alan did either.’
‘Apparently Kirsty Hemingway says she saw him do it, but there’s something strange going on. It’s not like Alan at all, but he has gone missing.’
‘Maybe he’s been bumped off an’ all. It’s a funny do, as yer say. Anyway, ah’d better be off.’ Bramley left the shop still shaking his head at this monstrous thing that had disrupted the peace of the village. ‘Morning,’ he said to a woman who was just coming in. It was Miriam Fraser.
Gorton hadn’t expected her and he wasn’t sure what to say. ‘Oh, Mrs Fraser! Good morning. I’m . . . I’m sorry about Mr Fraser.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied, trying to smile. She looked very pale, and the hand that held her purse was trembling. ‘I’ve just called in for some milk. My daughter’s arriving soon.’
‘Oh, that will be nice. Look, I’ll just get you the milk.’ He came from behind the counter and went over to the fridge. ‘Do you want semi-skimmed?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
He brought the milk over and she counted out the money. Gorton struggled with what else to say. ‘If you need any help with anything,’ he said after a pause, ‘you’ve only to ask.’
‘Oh, thank you, that’s very kind.’ She looked at Gorton. ‘We were married for nearly forty years. It’s a long time to know someone.’
‘It is,’ replied Gorton, as he opened the door for her and watched her walk slowly back up the lane to the manor house.
Just as Tom Walker had warned Oldroyd, and Gorton had seen, a number of reporters had arrived in Niddersgill and were trying to ask questions of anyone who was prepared to speak. Murder in a country village was always good material, and the press loved bringing out the clichés: ‘Horror in a Sleepy Dales Village’, ‘Peaceful Village Rocked by Savage Murder’ and the like.
The journalists were not, however, finding things particularly easy-going, as the villagers generally resented the intrusion from these rude and prying individuals.
When the detectives arrived, Oldroyd immediately let it be known that he would speak to the press in the bar of the Dog and Gun. Much better to get it over with now than arrange something back at HQ. Oldroyd addressed the reporters while sitting on a stool and leaning back against the bar. He would have liked to have a pint of bitter next to him, but that would have created the wrong impression.
‘The deceased is Mr Alexander Fraser. He’s a retired judge who lived in the village for a number of years and owns a grouse moor. He was shot on Friday evening at around midnight outside this inn, and died almost immediately. We have a witness to this murder, and we also wish to speak to a Mr Alan Green, a local handyman and gardener.’
‘Is it true that the suspect has disappeared, and that you can’t find any trace of him?’
Someone in the village had been talking, thought Oldroyd. ‘It’s true that we haven’t found Mr Green yet, but we are confident that we will. Of course, it is important to emphasise that anyone with information about him or any aspect of this case should come forward. It is also important to note that, while Alan Green is the principal suspect, we cannot rule out other possibilities.’
‘Could this be the work of animal-rights protesters, Chief Inspector? We understand there have been some recent clashes up on the moors between the shooters and people trying to sabotage them. Also the victim was involved in an incident a few years ago, wasn’t he – when someone died? Could this be a revenge killing?’
Oldroyd was impressed that someone had been doing their homework.
‘That is a line of enquiry we are pursuing but we have no hard evidence yet. While it is true that there have been more conflicts in this area between these groups, there have not been any cases in which the situation has become violent. I repeat that there is no evidence, as yet, to suggest that the animosity which some protesters no doubt felt towards Mr Fraser may have escalated to the point of taking his life.’
Steph smiled as she looked on. The way Oldroyd handled these press conferences with fluency, sharpness and the occasional humorous put-down was one of the many things she admired about him. He was always too good for the reporters.
‘Could the suspect be hiding nearby, and could he strike again?’
Oldroyd was expecting this, which was a standard question when a murderer was ‘on the loose’, as reporters were fond of saying. The problem was always that they wanted to inject some drama and fear into the situation, as this made a better story, while the police wanted to calm things down and reassure the locals.
‘It is normal for us to warn local people to be alert in situations like this,’ he began. ‘We have no evidence that the suspect is some deranged killer, and we have no indication that he may strike again. However, it is also true that we are not sure about his motives and that he has not been apprehended. A sensible approach, therefore, is that people should remain cautious, although there is no reason to panic.’
A bald-headed reporter wearing dark glasses and chewing gum, whom Oldroyd had seen many times before, asked the next question. He worked for one of the more sensationalist tabloids.
‘Could this Fraser character have been eliminated by a hitman? It sounds like a professional job to me. Could he have been involved with the criminal fraternity?’
Here we go, thought Oldroyd, and he smiled. He enjoyed defusing outlandish ideas such as this.
‘I presume you mean that Mr Fraser must have been involved with such activities before he came to Nidderdale, as I’m not aware that Niddersgill has a particularly well-developed criminal underworld.’
This was greeted with laughter. Oldroyd continued. ‘Mr Fraser was a respected judge in his professional life and has lived a relatively quiet existence since retiring here, except for some disputes over grouse shooting and one unfortunate incident in which he was absolved of blame. I think it strains credibility a little to imagine that he could also have been some kind of mobster on whom one of his enemies took out a contract. It’s not a line of investigation which we’re pursuing.’
Steph could barely contain her laughter. After this elegant and barbed put-down, the reporter remained silent, and others were deterred from asking similarly sensationalist questions.
At the end of the press conference, Oldroyd and Steph made their way to the Frasers’ manor house. Oldroyd wanted to look through Sandy Fraser’s papers and belongings to see if they afforded any clues.
‘Well done, sir,’ said Steph, still chuckling about how her boss had handled the reporter. ‘You were on good form.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘It’s important to stamp out some of the most outlandish ideas. Anyway, here we are. You knock on the door, as she knows you now.’
Unexpectedly, the door was answered by a woman of about forty. She made a striking figure in tweed culottes and a shirt that looked to Steph as if it were made of pure silk.
‘Yes,
can I help you?’ she said in a brisk manner.
Oldroyd explained who they were.
‘I see. Well, come in, but you’ll have to be very quiet. She’s having a lie-down on the sofa in the sitting room. I’m Henrietta Williams, her daughter. I arrived about an hour ago and she was in a dreadful state – very anxious and a little confused. It’s an absolutely appalling business. I can’t imagine who on earth would want to kill my father. He was a fine man – brilliant career, highly respected. Anyway, I’m going to have to stay here for a while. There’s so much to do and Mummy just can’t cope with arranging the funeral and everything. I need to take her to Harrogate to register the death and, well, there’s just so much to decide and to do!’ She threw up her hands as if to emphasise what a mess it all was.
‘I understand,’ said Oldroyd, wondering if he would welcome such breezy efficiency if he were in Mrs Fraser’s position. ‘We’re here to look through Mr Fraser’s papers and possessions to see if we can find anything relevant to the case. We may not need to speak to Mrs Fraser. I’ll leave my sergeant down here with you to answer any questions you may have. I’d be grateful if you could show me to where Mr Fraser kept his documents and paperwork. Did he have a study?’
‘Yes. It’s just through here.’ She showed Oldroyd through to a rather gloomy room at the back of the house, and then returned to join Steph in a small reception room next to the kitchen.
Oldroyd surveyed the study. There were bookshelves containing legal tomes – obviously a legacy from Fraser’s career in the law – and a number of volumes about Scottish clans and tartans. His distant Scottish heritage had been important to him. There were also some books on field sports but there was very little fiction. Clearly he’d been a practical man, not one who valued fancy and imagination.
Oldroyd couldn’t find any diaries or anything personal. He opened drawers in the large, old-fashioned desk and scanned through various papers and deeds concerning insurance policies and the purchases of the house and the moor with shooting rights. Everything seemed very mundane and straightforward, so he turned to the computer. There was no password to get in so he browsed through lists of folders and files. This seemed to be the usual kind of stuff: letters, photographs, admin concerning the shoots, and a number of old files about cases Fraser had been involved with in his time as a judge.
Oldroyd felt he was getting nowhere; this man seemed to have nothing suspicious in his past. There was no evidence of womanising, gambling or bitter arguments with family, friends or colleagues. They were still left with only the disputes over the grouse shooting and the fact that Fraser was in debt. Then he tried to open a file called ‘P’ and was asked for a password. Could the ‘P’ stand for ‘Private’? Here, at last, was something to work with. The computer would have to go back to HQ. The likelihood was that this file concerned financial matters, and that Fraser had put a password on it to prevent anyone, including his wife, from seeing the contents. The details might prove interesting, since they had discovered that Fraser was in debt.
Oldroyd went back through to the front of the house to find everyone in the large sitting room. Mrs Fraser had woken up and was looking rather groggy. Steph and Henrietta were talking quietly. It was an awkward moment for Oldroyd. He didn’t want to upset Miriam by telling her that her husband had been in some financial difficulties, but it was his duty to progress the investigation as quickly as he could, so he informed her gently about Fraser’s money issues and that the computer would have to be taken away for analysis.
‘Well, I hope this is strictly necessary, Chief Inspector,’ said Henrietta, adopting a stern expression. ‘My mother has been through a lot and what you’re saying is very disturbing if it’s true. I must say, it doesn’t sound at all like my father to be running up debts.’
‘Don’t worry, Henrietta,’ said Miriam. ‘I’ve been expecting this.’
‘Have you?’ Henrietta looked shocked.
‘Yes, I might as well get it over with. I just hope it’s not too bad.’
‘What made you suspect your husband might be in debt, Mrs Fraser?’ asked Oldroyd.
‘Sandy looked after our finances, and everything was fine for most of our marriage. Recently, I became aware that he hadn’t been paying bills promptly. There were one or two phone calls which I overheard – people asking for money. He also seemed to be a little overenthusiastic about these shoots. I mean, he enjoyed them, but he was organising them for nearly every week in the season, as if he really needed the cash. So I began to wonder.’ She looked at Oldroyd directly. ‘How bad is it?’
‘I couldn’t put a figure on it, Mrs Fraser, and it isn’t my place to do so. You will have to consult your solicitor. We know that he owed Mr and Mrs Owen at the Dog and Gun quite a substantial sum, presumably because he hadn’t paid for all the hospitality related to the shoots. Were you aware of any conflict between them and your husband?’
Miriam shook her head and sighed. ‘No, I wasn’t. It’s sad that he was struggling with this and never told me. I think the problem was that he paid too much for the grouse moor. Buying this house was OK, but the moor was too much. He’d always dreamed of shooting on his own land, but I think he overstretched himself. Sandy wasn’t really a businessman.’
‘Why do you think he didn’t tell you?’ asked Steph.
‘I think he was probably ashamed. Like my daughter says, it was unlike him to incur debts. He would have justified his silence by thinking that he didn’t want to worry me, but I picked up the clues that something was wrong. He obviously didn’t expect to die when he did, so I imagine he believed that he would get back on his feet eventually.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Oldroyd, ‘but we’ll know more after we’ve looked at the computer.’
‘And now I think that really is enough for one day, Chief Inspector.’ Henrietta stood up, indicating that she wanted the interview to be brought to an end. Oldroyd was happy to agree. They needed to return to the inn to talk to Greg Cooper and the Owens again.
At Pateley Bridge police station, Bill Gibbs’s frustration continued. There was still no sign of Alan Green, and Gibbs had abandoned the search, convinced that his quarry was no longer in the vicinity. The puzzling questions of his motive and how he had managed to maintain such a low profile in the area remained unanswered.
Gibbs was particularly disappointed because he had such respect for DCI Oldroyd and wanted to create a good impression. He had hoped to make the breakthrough by capturing Green, but his part of the investigation had gone so quiet that he had reluctantly turned his attention to other work.
It was a quiet day, and Gibbs was at his orderly desk clicking through some files in a desultory fashion, when DC Potts came rushing up to his office.
‘Sir, a report has just come in,’ he said, clearly excited. The desire for progress in the murder case at Niddersgill was felt throughout the station. ‘An unidentified person has been spotted behaving suspiciously by a reliable witness. Apparently they were wearing a balaclava on their head and seemed to be looking around warily as if they didn’t want to be seen.’
‘Where was this?’
‘A great place to hide sir: How Stean Gorge.’
‘Oh, bloody hell! Right, let’s get up there.’
‘Greg Cooper, Chief Inspector? Can I ask why you want to speak to him? He’ll be hard at work in the kitchen preparing for this evening.’ Rob Owen looked very concerned.
‘We understand Mr Cooper’s brother died after a clash with Mr Fraser on the moors a few years ago. We need to question him about that.’ Oldroyd and Steph had found Rob Owen in his small office near reception.
‘Really? I didn’t know that.’
‘The man who died was called Sam Cooper.’
Owen put his hand to his mouth and shook his head. ‘God, yes. I remember that now, but I never made the connection. It’s a fairly common name in these parts.’
‘So Cooper never mentioned his brother’s death?’
‘No, h
e didn’t. He wasn’t here when it happened.’ Owen was clearly worried, realising that this did not look good for his chef. ‘I’ll go fetch him.’
‘We’ll be in the residents’ lounge.’
Shortly after Oldroyd and Steph had settled themselves again in their makeshift office, a man appeared. He was tall, in his early thirties, and dressed in a chef’s white double-breasted jacket and checkered trousers.
‘Mr Cooper?’ began Oldroyd.
‘Yes.’ His tone and expression gave nothing away.
‘Please take a seat.’
Cooper perched stiffly on a chair.
‘I’m sure you know why we want to see you.’
‘I presume it’s because of my brother.’
Oldroyd’s sharp grey eyes examined the man’s face. ‘Yes. We know how your brother died, and that a number of people held Mr Fraser responsible. What are your feelings about that?’
Cooper sighed and screwed up his face, which conveyed his feelings for the first time. He seemed to be very reluctant to revisit this topic. ‘OK. I don’t like talking about this as I’m sure you can understand.’
‘Certainly. We’re not here to pry into your private feelings, but in a murder case like this we sometimes have to ask difficult questions.’
Cooper nodded and seemed reassured that he was talking to sensitive people. ‘I think I’ll find it easier to just go through it and explain things.’
‘Sure, go ahead.’
‘Sam was a few years younger than me. We were brought up in Leeds. He was a lot more academic and always interested in politics. He went to university and we were all proud of him. He was the first person in the family to go. While he was there he got involved with these animal-rights people and started to go on marches. He told me all about it, but I was training to be a chef and learning the standard repertoire. There was a lot of meat involved. Anyway, we disagreed but it didn’t come between us.
‘Sam went into teaching, and I became a commis chef in Harrogate. Then he got involved with the sabs. I told him he was going too far. I was worried about his safety if he was attacked, or what would happen if he was arrested. He would probably have lost his job. Then . . . you know what happened.’
