by J. R. Ellis
Steph laughed. Like Andy, she was used to Oldroyd’s enthusiasm about Yorkshire, which admittedly did sometimes spill over into mini lectures. But it was a minor fault. ‘It’s all right, sir. I’m used to you by now. I do remember coming once to the gorge when I was little, and then to do outdoor pursuits when I was at high school. We abseiled down some of the cliffs and did some river walking. It was great.’
‘I remember going there when I was a boy in the 1960s,’ Oldroyd said. ‘We discovered it when we were driving up the dale. A lot of these places weren’t well known in those days. It was misty and raining and it seemed so remote, magical and scary, like something out of Tolkien. There was a ruddy-faced farmer with a big moustache taking money for the car park, and then we went over this bridge and looked down! It was terrifying. And right on cue, here we are.’
Oldroyd had been driving up a steep narrow road with high hedges at either side, and then the sign for How Stean Gorge appeared and he turned a sharp right into the entrance.
Gibbs was waiting and came to the car window. ‘Hello, sir. Probably best to go over the bridge and park in the bottom end of the field. I’ll update you then.’
‘Fine,’ replied Oldroyd, and he drove slowly over a bridge that looked as if it were spanning a stream or small river, which indeed it was, except that the water was a dizzying seventy feet below at the bottom of a narrow gorge, formed long ago by the collapse of a cavern.
Oldroyd parked up, and he and Steph walked back over the bridge. Gibbs came to meet them.
‘Have you found anything?’ asked Oldroyd, with a sense of urgency. Perhaps they were making some progress at last.
‘No sir, not yet. We had a call from someone working in the cafe.’ Gibbs pointed over to a building which had recently been refurbished with a glass viewing platform stretching over the gorge. ‘The cafe worker was here very early to start preparations for the day and there was no one else about. From a small window in the kitchen she could see into the gorge, and this figure wearing a balaclava came out of Tom Taylor’s Cave, looked to see if anyone was watching, and then walked off on the path downstream.’
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Oldroyd. ‘Such goings-on in Nidderdale! What on earth’s happening to the place? Have you had a look round down there?’
‘I’ve had a couple of officers go through the cave with torches. The thing is, that cave is one the public go through. It’s an easy route – ends up in the car park in the field. I can’t see that anyone could really hide in there; there must be some branch off the main cave.’
‘Not hidden caves again,’ muttered Oldroyd, shaking his head and remembering again the dramatic case he’d worked on with Andy and Steph over in Wharfedale. ‘Mind you, it would make a good place to disappear to for a while if you came and went at quiet times.’
‘If it is Alan Green, sir, what do you think his long-term plan is? He can’t be intending to stay in a cave for very long,’ said Steph.
‘True, but he might be waiting until he thinks everyone’s off guard and then make a run for it, or he may be waiting for help to arrive. What do you think, Bill?’
‘I agree with you both. It feels like something temporary, but it may be a kind of bluff: he thinks we’ve assumed that he’s left the area but in fact he’s hiding here under our noses. Then, as you say, he’ll slip away when things have cooled down.’
‘Right, well, no harm in going to have another look. After all, the legend is that Tom Taylor the outlaw hid in there, so it would only be history repeating itself.’ Oldroyd rubbed his hands at the prospect. Steph smiled because she knew this was really Oldroyd taking the opportunity to do a bit of dales caving.
Gibbs got torches for them all and they went back over the bridge and through the field to the top. Here, there were steps by the base of a large tree, descending to a cave entrance. Two sheep watched them curiously from a hillock, probably wondering why any creature would be daft enough to go into that darkness. The path went steeply down into a cavern and on into a passage with a high roof and wide ledges at either side.
Oldroyd savoured his return to the strange underworld: the cold earthy smell of mossy rocks near the entrance, with the green fronds of ferns clinging to the wet walls.
Further into the tunnel the light faded, but their torches illuminated the familiar stalactites on the roof, which was ribbed like the belly of a whale. There was the sound of running water and they sloshed through shallow pools as they walked along the bottom of the cave.
They continued to rake the cave roof with their flashlights in the forlorn hope of spotting another cave, and they also looked around for signs of human activity. The tunnel was not long, and soon light ahead of them indicated that they were nearly through. A boardwalk took them the last few yards. They exited the cave halfway down the gorge.
Oldroyd looked down into the stream as a bird fluttered past. It was a dipper that landed on a stone and performed its characteristic bobbing movement.
‘Well, I enjoyed that, although we weren’t ideally dressed for it,’ said Oldroyd, as he noticed their waterproof jackets were covered with dirt and Steph’s hair had been streaked with mud.
‘Never mind, sir, all in the course of duty,’ laughed Steph.
‘Yes, unfortunately it didn’t tell us very much. We know these cave systems are incredibly complex, so he may have found a hidey hole somewhere off the main passages.’
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Gibbs. ‘What I’m going to do is set a watch tonight. We’ve been quite low-key here . . . no uniforms or marked cars . . . so with a bit of luck, this person won’t know the police have been here. When he returns, he’ll hopefully lead us to his den, wherever it is.’
‘Good plan,’ said Oldroyd, glad that his days of taking part in such cold and weary vigils were past. ‘It’s strange, if he did choose this cave which the public walk through. You’d think he’d have chosen somewhere more remote.’
‘That could be a useful cover, sir,’ replied Gibbs. ‘No one expects anyone to hide in there.’
‘True. Anyway, tell me how you get on. It will be a big step forward if we can catch Green,’ said Oldroyd. ‘Let’s go for a drink in the cafe, and have a quick catch-up.’
They followed the gorge path as it crossed a bridge over the water and then wound back up to the entrance and the cafe. A group of schoolkids in helmets was abseiling from the road bridge under the supervision of an adult leader. Inside the cafe, Oldroyd went over to the glass floor.
‘Well, I haven’t seen this before, it’s so long since I’ve been up here.’
‘Me neither, sir,’ said Steph, and she walked on to the glass. ‘Fabulous view down the gorge.’ Oldroyd followed her and immediately regretted it; he found the sensation of standing seventy feet off the ground – apparently in the air – very disconcerting, and his legs turned to jelly. He moved back off quite rapidly and Steph laughed.
‘What’s wrong, sir? You can’t fall, you know.’
Oldroyd blew out air and shook his head. ‘I know, but it’s a weird sensation, isn’t it? I’ve never stood on anything like that before.’
‘You should go to the Grand Canyon in America. They have an amazing one there: apparently you’re four thousand feet up above the river.’
‘Good God!’ said Oldroyd, who felt sick at the thought.
‘Some friends and I did a bit of a tour round some of the national parks a few years ago. We hired a camper van. It was great fun!’
‘I must be losing my head for heights in my old age. Anyway, what do we think of what we’ve found today?’
Gibbs had brought over three mugs of tea, and they sat at a table well away from the glass floor.
‘Well, sir,’ said Steph, ‘you say you didn’t find anything in Sandy Fraser’s papers apart from something which probably proves what we already know: that Fraser was in debt. I can’t say I think there’s anything suspicious about Mrs Fraser or her bossy daughter. Greg Cooper must be on the list of suspects but you were very dou
btful that he could be the murderer.’
‘Yes. Did you find Rob Owen’s account of why he tolerated Fraser’s debts convincing?’ Oldroyd said.
‘Yes, sir, but I’m not sure that his wife did! I wouldn’t like to have been him when we left.’
‘Me neither, and I agree with you, although we can’t eliminate Owen entirely. There is a motive there now: he was owed a lot of money.’
‘He must have had an accomplice on the night, unless he performed one of those illusions, sir.’ Steph’s eyes twinkled mischievously as she reminded Oldroyd of another case they’d worked on together. ‘Owen was in his room in the inn when the alarm was raised.’
‘Mmm, well, maybe we need to reconsider all that,’ said Oldroyd, but he didn’t really think Rob Owen was a strong suspect.
There was a pause. Although it had been an interesting morning in many ways, it hadn’t actually yielded very much. Oldroyd turned to Gibbs, who had been listening to the update and was now finishing his tea.
‘If this business with the cave doesn’t prove to be anything significant, do you have any more leads on Green . . . or on anything else, for that matter?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Gibbs, laconically. ‘It’ll be back to square one.’
‘Look, it’s good news. The chief inspector said we can open up again.’
‘It’s not good news that you’ve kept the fact that we’re owed a lot of money from me.’
Sheila was confronting Rob in the privacy of their flat. She was drinking a gin and tonic to try to calm herself as Rob paced up and down. It was more gin than tonic.
‘OK, I’m sorry, but I didn’t want to cause you more stress. You get enough running that kitchen as it is.’
‘Don’t you think it causes me stress when I’m made to look an idiot in front of the police?’
‘I didn’t see that coming. The point is, we’ll get the money back from Fraser’s estate, I’m sure of it.’
She gave him an odd look. ‘Will we? Have you been checking that? It sounds as if you’ve planned it that way.’
He gave her a furious look. ‘What the hell do you mean by that? Are you accusing me of arranging for Fraser to be bumped off?’
‘What am I supposed to think? You’ve obviously been keeping the fact that we’ve got a big overdraft at the bank from me. Was this your solution?’
‘Oh, I’ve had enough of this. I need to check that Greg’s OK after the police spoke to him. I’m going!’ Rob marched out and slammed the door behind him.
Sheila drank the rest of her gin and tonic, and burst into tears.
Oldroyd had finally given permission for the people who’d been held at the Dog and Gun to leave Niddersgill. Saunders and Symons were outside the inn with their cases, preparing to drive off.
‘This is not before time, I can tell you,’ grumbled Saunders, as he placed his case in the boot of his Audi. ‘I’ve missed a whole workday up here, and no proper phone reception either. They’ll be going mad at the office. I hope Jeremy’s stepped into the breach. Anyway, I’ll be straight on the phone when I get down to Harrogate.’
Symons gave him one of his inscrutable smiles. ‘Calm down, old boy, you’re not indispensable you know. I’m sure the wheels will still be turning without you.’
‘True enough, but it’s decisions, James, investment decisions – they have to be made all the time. If you get it wrong it can be serious. Where’s Rawnsley, by the way?’
‘Oh, he skulked off as soon as we got the word, still ashamed of himself I think,’ replied Symons.
Saunders shook his head. ‘Yes. Anyway, must dash.’ He held out his hand and Symons took it. ‘What can I say in this situation? It’s been good to see you again, but better circumstances next time, I hope.’
‘Hear, hear. Safe journey back, then,’ Symons said.
‘Thanks. And you.’
Saunders got into the car, started the engine, reversed out of the space, skidded forward on the gravel and shot off down the road to Pateley.
Symons chuckled to himself as he continued his own much more relaxed departure. He eventually set off in his vintage sports car, and, as it was another clear and sunny day, decided to drive up the dale and take the road that reared steeply out of the village of Lofthouse, then crossed over the lonely moors to Masham in lower Wensleydale.
When he reached the top of the moors, he heard bangs and saw puffs of smoke. Shoots were taking place in this vast tract of moorland, which stretched in an arc encompassing the heights above Nidderdale, Wensleydale and Wharfedale. He smiled as he reflected on how he might soon be the owner of one of these grouse moors. It could prove to be a very useful earner and would increase his prestige.
The moorland summit levelled out and revealed panoramic views in every direction over the heather, which still retained some of its purple flowers. As was so often the case in Yorkshire, there were unusual sights in the landscape if you looked closely enough.
Down a shallow valley, he caught a glimpse of a round tower: a folly built in the nineteenth century. Standing above a line of crags further on was an eerie-looking structure. It was a high tower in two long sections with a gaping space between them, and it looked like something from an alien landscape or part of a futuristic spaceship. It was actually a sighting tower built to survey the line of a water aqueduct.
Symons was familiar with all these landmarks, but in truth the appeal of these landscapes lay, for him, in their monetary value. Henry Saunders might be a successful London banker, but there was still a lot to be said for the quiet and steady acquisition of land as a path to increasing wealth and status. The more Symons owned, the more he was respected and deferred to in these rural communities. He’d managed his financial affairs very prudently over the years. He received considerable sums in rent from tenant farmers on his land, and had amassed enough capital to consider extending his estate. Now that Fraser was gone, he had the opportunity to possess his first grouse moor, establishing him even more solidly as a key person in the fabric of local life.
The car descended into Wensleydale, past the blue expanse of Leighton Reservoir, and reached the small market town of Masham where a market was in full swing in the large square. Symons turned left and headed further up the dale. He felt that he was entering his domain, as he lived in a fourteenth-century fortified manor house on the edge of a village. This had been in his family for generations. It was absurdly big for just him and his wife now that they had no children at home, but it enhanced his standing considerably.
As he neared the village he caught sight of the squat turreted tower of his residence, built as a defence against marauding Scots. These historical links were all part of the engaging diversity of a local dignitary’s identity, he mused, as he turned the car into the large entrance yard of the manor house. It was all very important to him, and he would do whatever it took to protect and enhance his position.
Symons had been quite correct to say that Gideon Rawnsley had skulked away from Niddersgill. Once everyone had been released from the inn by the police, he had swiftly bundled his things together and left without a word to anyone. He never expected to return to the Dog and Gun, nor did he want to see Symons and Saunders again.
There was no disguising Rawnsley’s relief as he drove down the dale on his way back to Ripon. He was glad that he would no longer be invited to occasions like the shoot, where he could be sneered at by upper-middle-class public-school types for being engaged in trade. He knew that Fraser had only invited him in order to keep him sweet: Rawnsley had allowed him such generous credit.
Sandy Fraser had always been a difficult person to deal with. He had played the role of the wealthy man, buying top-of-the-range vehicles, but actually getting any money from him had not been easy. He was the kind of customer about whom you felt ambivalent: you didn’t want to lose them, but sometimes they seemed more trouble than they were worth. Now that Fraser had gone, Rawnsley realised he was glad of the fact. The hassle of dealing with the man had outwei
ghed his value as a customer.
At Pateley Bridge, Rawnsley turned left and followed the road to the north-west of Brimham Rocks, across the moor, past the edge of Fountains Abbey and into Ripon. He lived on the Harrogate side, so he drove through the city past the big market square, then down the hill with the beautiful minster on his left. It felt good to be home. He would call at his house briefly to drop off his things and then go to work. He smiled; things had worked out very well in the end.
In the afternoon, Oldroyd and Steph went to interview Peter Gorton, the last of the group who had been at the bar with Alan Green and had witnessed some of the events on Friday. After this, there was no one left in the village who could provide any useful information about what had happened that night.
They found Gorton behind the counter in his shop. Oldroyd noted with approval the wide range of Gorton’s stock, including some local produce such as jars of honey and some luscious apples. There was even a section selling craftwork produced by local people. Oldroyd liked to see local shops surviving in small communities.
He introduced himself and Steph, and then asked Gorton what he remembered about Friday evening.
‘It was a fairly ordinary night in the bar,’ Gorton said. ‘The usual people were there: Alan, Wilf . . . Ian came in later. I’m sure you’ve spoken to them all.’
‘We have. Everyone except Alan Green,’ replied Oldroyd.
‘The shooting party were there, and Fraser came in wearing his kilt – that caused some laughter.’
‘He wasn’t popular, was he?’
‘No, and neither were those obnoxious types in his shooting parties. Actually, we were wondering that very night how the Owens put up with them and some of their behaviour, but of course they were very lucrative – if Fraser paid them.’
Oldroyd smiled. In the light of what they now knew, that was a shrewd observation by Gorton.
