by J. R. Ellis
‘Were you still in Harrogate at the time?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how do you feel about what happened?’ Oldroyd asked again.
Cooper took a deep breath. ‘It was devastating. My parents will never recover. They blamed Fraser; that was only natural. If I’m honest, I can’t really say I think it was his fault. The doctors said that Sam’s heart could have packed up any time. It’s just that niggling feeling that you wonder if it would have happened if he hadn’t been chased like that. Fraser was a big bloke and I’m sure he could be very intimidating. Sam was running to escape. So . . .’ Cooper shrugged.
‘Did you harbour any harsh feelings towards Mr Fraser? Anything which would make you want to cause him harm?’
‘No. I certainly didn’t murder him, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘You were on late duty here that evening. Can you tell us what you did?’
‘There’s not much to do. It’s just a question of waiting until all the residents have gone to bed, and then checking that everything’s secure and in order around the building. We have a little staffroom next to the kitchen and I was in there watching television. I locked the front door just after eleven. I noticed that there were still people in the residents’ lounge so I went back to the staffroom. I may have dropped off for a while; it had been a long day. Then I heard a bang which seemed to come from the front of the building. It was after midnight. I went to investigate and saw Rob and two of the shooting party running out of the door so I followed them. Fraser was lying on the ground and there was a lot of blood around. Rob tried to revive him. There was nothing I could do and I noticed one or two residents coming out of their rooms so I went back and tried to reassure them. Then Rob went in and called the ambulance.’
‘When the shot was fired, you were in the staffroom.’
‘Yes.’
‘But there was no one with you?’
‘No.’
‘And what happened then?’
‘When we’re on night duty, those of us who live out don’t go home. There’s a small bedroom for us to stay in. I stayed around for a while until the police and ambulance arrived, and then I was so tired I went off to bed.’
Oldroyd considered all this for a moment and then continued. ‘Some people might think it odd that you came to this inn to work when your brother had died nearby, and the man many held responsible for his death was a regular patron.’
‘I can see that. Basically, it was too good an opportunity to miss. This place has such a good reputation, and it was a promotion for me. I kept quiet about the whole business with Sam. I don’t think anybody here knew I was his brother, even if they knew what had happened to him. I know what you’re thinking: I came here to get revenge. If I’d wanted to do that, there were far better ways of damaging Fraser. I could have poisoned his food or wine or something. And, before you ask, I’ve never possessed a shotgun.’
‘OK, Mr Cooper, that will be all for now. Please return to preparing for tonight.’
‘What did you make of him then, sir?’ asked Steph, when Cooper had returned to the kitchen. ‘It still seems very suspicious to me that not only is he working here near to Fraser, but he’s on duty the night he was murdered.’
‘Hmm, yes, it looks incriminating, but in a way too obvious. If he was the killer, he’s almost drawn attention to himself.’
‘He had the opportunity to go outside, impersonate Alan Green, kill Fraser, return to the kitchen and change back into his normal clothes.’
‘But then we’re back to the fact that Green’s disappeared, and to conspiracies and so on. We’ll have to see what the Owens have to say next.’
Greg Cooper went straight back to the kitchen, where a number of inquisitive faces greeted him. Rumours had been passing around the staff ever since he’d been called in to the interview.
‘Everything OK, Greg?’ asked Harry Newton quietly, as he prepared a sauce.
‘Yes.’ Greg looked around the room. All the staff were there except Sheila. Maybe it was better if he said something now. ‘Look,’ he announced, ‘Fraser was involved in my brother’s death – so the police think I had a motive for killing him. But I didn’t. That’s all there is to it, OK?’
People nodded and looked a little embarrassed. Nobody said anything.
With a sigh, Greg got back to work. It was a painful business and he hadn’t been entirely honest with the police. It was impossible for him not to believe that his brother would still be alive if Fraser hadn’t chased him. Since he’d been working in the village and had observed Fraser’s arrogance and sense of superiority, he’d hated him even more.
Ian Davis was back at work for the first day since the murder. The atmosphere was strangely muted as he and his team of four men drove up to the moor in a jeep. The usual banter and liveliness was absent. There was silence in the vehicle until they arrived at one of the bothies.
‘OK. Let’s get on with it then,’ announced Ian, trying to sound cheerful. ‘We’ve got to check t’feeders and t’traps. And make sure no dead birds were missed last Friday, that just encourages t’vermin.’
The men got out of the jeep and stood around sullenly with their heads down, scuffing their boots on the ground.
One of them, looking a bit nervous, approached Ian. ‘We were all just wondering what’s going to happen now, you know, after . . .’
He didn’t complete the sentence. Ian looked at them. They were all youngish men in their twenties and thirties who came in from Pateley Bridge. None of them had a permanent contract like him. They were paid on a casual basis and got more hours of work when there was a shoot because they also acted as beaters. He frowned. People didn’t realise how difficult it was to find work in rural areas. If they lost their jobs with the estate it would be very hard for them, and some might have to leave Nidderdale and try to find employment in the cities. Some had young families who would be uprooted. He tried to sound optimistic even though he was concerned about his own job.
‘OK, I know you’re all worried, but th’only thing we can do is carry on. This grouse moor in’t going anywhere, and whoever ends up owning and running it’ll need it to have been properly maintained. They’ll also need workers, and who better than us ’at know it really well?’
There were glum mutterings of ‘Yeah’ and ‘Suppose so’.
‘What about t’shoots, though? Are they still goin’ to happen?’ asked another member of the team.
‘I don’t know yet. T’next one isn’t until next week, but th’estate needs t’brass, doesn’t it? So somebody’ll have to take over from Fraser. They can’t afford to cancel ’em all.’
‘Are we goin’ to get paid for last week?’
‘Why not? I don’t think Fraser wa’ bankrupt. You’ve got a reight to that money. Look, we’ve just got to get to work and show ’em they need us, reight?’
The men looked at each other and some shrugged their shoulders.
‘Aye, reight enough,’ said one, and they all got themselves ready to work.
Davis sighed inwardly with relief. He’d managed to quell the discontent for now, but there would be a lot more disruption before this matter ended.
At the Dog and Gun, Rob and Sheila Owen received the detectives in their private flat. All four sat on sofas in the lounge, which overlooked a small, untidy patch of private garden. The Owens did not have much time for gardening.
‘OK,’ said Oldroyd. ‘I’ll come straight to the point. We believe that Sandy Fraser owed you money, maybe a considerable amount. Can you confirm that?’
Sheila looked puzzled and shook her head. ‘No, Chief Inspector, I don’t think—’
‘Yes, it’s true,’ interrupted Rob, looking sheepish.
‘Rob.’ Sheila turned to him.
‘I’m sorry, love, I didn’t want to worry you – you’ve got enough stress running the kitchen. I thought I should take responsibility for the financial side of things, even if it got difficult.’
�
�But how much?’
‘Forty thousand.’
‘What?!’
‘He hasn’t paid for any of the shooting events for quite some time.’
‘But how have we managed?’
‘We’ve got an overdraft at the bank, but don’t worry, we’ll manage.’
‘Rob, what on earth—?’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Mrs Owen,’ said Oldroyd, ‘but I must ask your husband some questions.’
Sheila sat back on the sofa and closed her eyes.
‘I assume this debt was a source of conflict between yourself and Mr Fraser.’ Oldroyd’s expression was very direct and his grey eyes were piercing.
‘Yes, of course, but I didn’t kill him, Chief Inspector.’
‘Why did you allow him to build up a debt like that?’
Rob sighed. ‘It happened gradually. He started by paying part of the bill and promising the rest later, and it escalated. He was always so nice about it and I always believed I could trust him if he gave his word.’
‘But you found that you couldn’t?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Suppose!’ shouted Sheila.
‘Look, love, just remember how important he was to us when we first got the contract. Those shooting parties brought in a huge amount of revenue: the lunches, special dinners, overnight accommodation.’
‘Apparently they didn’t!’
‘I know, but we couldn’t afford to lose him as a customer. We were trying to build up a reputation here for some of the finest food in the area and the best accommodation. You know how difficult it can be, especially in winter. We weren’t really established. It might be a bit different now, but back then we needed the money that we got from those autumn shoots. I was sure that he would pay up in the end.’
‘Or did you finally decide that the only way to get your money was from his estate after his death?’ asked Oldroyd.
‘No,’ said Rob firmly, while running his fingers nervously through his hair. ‘How would that have worked? If he was struggling financially, his estate may not have had the money to pay off all his debts, so we would never have got it.’
‘Maybe,’ said Oldroyd. ‘But you must have been very frustrated with him and also worried about how you were going to manage, being owed so much.’
‘It was a difficult thing to balance.’
‘Did you confront him?’ asked Steph.
Rob chose his words carefully. ‘I made it clear that his credit couldn’t continue and he said he understood. He was always so apologetic about it. It was difficult to get angry except when he made criticisms like he did about Sheila last Friday. I thought he had a shocking nerve to say things like that when he owed us money.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He criticised Sheila’s cooking. He could be very demanding and arrogant, but he was hardly in a position to say things like that.’
‘So did it make you angry enough to want to harm him?’
‘No, definitely not. You’ve got the wrong idea. Only recently he promised me that he would be able to pay soon. He said he’d accessed another source of money.’
Oldroyd’s ears pricked up. ‘Did he? And did he give you any details?’
‘No. But I didn’t think I had any choice other than to believe him.’
‘Huh,’ grunted Sheila.
‘Right. We’ll leave that there for now. There is another matter I want to clear up. You said earlier that you didn’t know that Greg Cooper was the brother of the man who died on the moor.’
‘That’s right. We didn’t know, did we, Sheila?’
‘No,’ muttered Sheila, clearly too angry to properly respond.
‘Did you ever see him behave strangely or hear him say anything negative about Fraser?’
‘No, I didn’t. Greg is an excellent worker. Isn’t he, Sheila?’ Rob was still trying desperately to engage his wife.
‘Yes.’
‘On that night when you went out and found Fraser lying there, how long was it before Cooper appeared?’
‘Not long. I seem to remember he wasn’t far behind us.’
‘OK.’
It was Rob’s turn to ask a question. ‘Chief Inspector, can we fully open up the inn again soon? We have bookings and we’re losing money.’
‘Yes, I don’t see why not. We’ve done all we need to do here,’ replied Oldroyd.
He saw how relieved Rob was at this news, but Sheila still had a face like thunder. There was going to be a hell of a row when he and Steph left.
At Harrogate HQ, Andy was working hard. Ever since he’d arrived from London some time ago, he’d developed a deep respect for DCI Oldroyd and always wished to impress him. This was never easy, as his boss was a man who possessed an uncanny ability to solve the most intractable and baffling cases. Nevertheless, Andy always hoped he could uncover some piece of information that would prove vital in an investigation. Here was an opportunity.
His search for the fugitive had proved fruitless: there were too many Alan Greens and it would take months to contact them all. There was also, of course, the strong likelihood that the man the village of Niddersgill knew as Alan Green had adopted that name as a false one to conceal his real identity, which would really make the search fruitless. So Andy had turned his attention to Sandy Fraser and read about his life and career. He’d been born in London to a family with well-defined Scottish ancestry. He had been sent to a boarding school in Scotland and then read Jurisprudence at Melrose College, Cambridge, a college with Scottish connections. Following this, he was called to the bar and entered chambers in London, rising over the years to become a High Court judge. There were details of his marriage, his children and his interests. Shooting had been his primary hobby for many years, mostly on Scottish estates owned by relatives. It was an unremarkable portrait of a member of the Establishment and revealed nothing of note that could be seen in relation to his murder: no public conflicts, divorces or clashes with authority.
Andy turned to a more detailed record of Fraser’s professional life. He’d learned from working with Oldroyd on difficult cases that if a motive for murder was not obvious in the present circumstances, there was nearly always something dark from the past which was intruding into the here and now. Random murders by psychotic serial killers, contrary to media-fuelled popular images, were rare. And here at last he discovered something unusual and interesting, although he was not sure there was any connection to Fraser’s murder.
Fraser had been the judge in a very high-profile robbery case ten years earlier, towards the end of his career. The Drover Road robbery had made headlines in the media for several weeks, the trial extensively reported on. A gang had broken into a warehouse on an industrial park not far from Heathrow Airport and got away with ten million pounds’ worth of money and diamonds. They held the staff inside the warehouse at gunpoint and threatened to shoot them if they didn’t reveal the combination numbers of the secure vaults. Matthew Hart, Patrick Wilson and Philip Traynor were arrested three months later.
This was where things got interesting, in Andy’s eyes. Hart turned Queen’s evidence and received a light sentence in return for destroying the alibis of the other two and divulging all the details of the plan. When passing judgement, Fraser had remarked that Hart, in addition to helping the police, had shown remorse for his actions, while the others, by pleading not guilty, had not. He gave Wilson and Traynor twenty-five-year sentences – which was thought by some commentators to be harsh, given that violence had only been threatened and nobody had been hurt during the robbery. Hart returned his share of the loot, but the others would reveal nothing, so most of what was stolen was never recovered.
Andy enjoyed reading dramatic accounts of daring crimes and the trials that followed, even if it felt like a busman’s holiday. One thing that always fascinated him was how clever many of these criminals were. The planning and ingenuity that went into their schemes was amazing. If they’d used their intelligence in a socially acceptable way, m
any of them could have secured excellent jobs. But the lure of quick money proved irresistible, even though they must have known the odds were against them; it was a form of gambling.
This case seemed to be the only one in Fraser’s career that had made the headlines.
Andy got up to make a coffee and failed to resist the temptation to eat just one chocolate biscuit. He smiled to himself: well, when the cat was away . . . !
When he got back to his desk, he continued to examine aspects of Fraser’s life and career, but he found himself drawn back to that Drover Road robbery even though he doubted its relevance to their enquiry. Maybe it was just the lure of the colourful and dramatic story. The events in London’s criminal world were so far away from a little village in Nidderdale that it seemed crazy to expect to find any connection. However, his boss was always encouraging him and Steph to listen to their instincts. These might prompt you to continue with a line of enquiry before any hard evidence was uncovered. If you had a feeling about something or bells were ringing in your head, it was often a sign that you had subliminally made a connection before you were conscious of it.
Could this case be important to their investigation? It was worth further research.
‘Well, it’s a good job Andy’s not with us today. He had enough of caves in that business over in Burnthwaite.’
Oldroyd was driving his old Saab at a fair speed through the ever-narrowing lanes towards the upper reaches of Nidderdale, and they were now about five miles north of Niddersgill. Steph was with him. The fellsides were closer and steeper, with glimpses of the wild country at the head of the dale. They’d been back in the Dog and Gun when the call came from Gibbs about the sighting at How Stean Gorge, and now they were on their way to join him at one of Yorkshire’s curious beauty spots.
‘Mind you,’ continued Oldroyd, ‘I would have enjoyed telling him about How Stean: “Yorkshire’s Little Switzerland”, as it’s called, and—’ He suddenly stopped and turned to Steph. ‘Sorry, I’m mansplaining again. You were brought up round here, so you’ll have been to How Stean.’
