The Nidderdale Murders (A Yorkshire Murder Mystery)

by J. R. Ellis

  ‘Andy! Stop it! I might have had things I hadn’t saved. Right, no biscuit for you today!’ laughed Steph. Andy, however, grabbed the key to the cupboard where the biscuits were stored from her drawer, and she had to chase him round the office to get it back.

  ‘God! I thought you weren’t going to make it!’ Louise looked extremely relieved to see Oldroyd and Alison as they finally arrived at the entrance gate of her college. Oldroyd hardly recognised her, as she was formally attired in the female Oxford academic dress: dark skirt, white blouse, black tights and shoes. She had a black ribbon around her collar and her hair was tied back.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ said Oldroyd as he gave her a hug. ‘It was the blasted traffic; we set off in good time.’ He knew the delay would cause her to be anxious, and would trigger reverberations from the years when she was growing up. During that time he’d missed so many of her activities and performances because of work.

  Louise hugged Alison. ‘Is that true, Auntie Alison?’

  ‘It is – you’ll have to let him off. Anyway, we’re here, and it’s so wonderful to see you.’ There was a special bond between niece and aunt for many reasons, not least because Alison had no children herself.

  ‘Come on,’ announced Louise. ‘There’s a reception in the Dorrington Rooms before lunch. Mum’s already there, I left her talking to one of my friends’ mothers.’ They walked through the porters’ lodge, around the manicured lawn of the front quad, and down a passageway to another quad where the ornate door to the Dorrington Rooms was open.

  Oldroyd felt nervous as he entered the dark, wood-panelled room. He knew that he would see Julia and, as usual, he didn’t know what he was going to say to her. His wife was the only person who could render him inarticulate.

  Smartly dressed waiters with trays of glasses containing red or white wine stood at either side of the door, and he and Alison took a glass each. The room was already pretty full with a buzz of conversation. Young people in academic dress mingled with groups of parents. Oldroyd saw the elegant figure of his wife, dressed in a copper-coloured knitted dress and matching light wool coat. She was chatting with another woman and sipping a glass of white wine.

  She turned and saw him, but continued with her conversation. It was only when she saw Alison that she excused herself and greeted her sister-in-law warmly.

  ‘Well, you look wonderful, Julia, it’s so nice to see you,’ said Alison.

  ‘And you too!’ exclaimed Julia.

  Then she turned to Oldroyd. ‘Hello, Jim.’ She gave him a peck on the cheek, which he returned.

  ‘Hi,’ said Oldroyd. Everything went quiet for a few seconds.

  ‘People are moving into the hall, we’d better follow,’ said Louise. ‘You can take your drinks with you.’

  They walked across the quad and up some stone steps into the dining hall. This long room had an ancient ceiling with wooden beams and there was a large fireplace. The walls were lined with portraits of college rectors and benefactors going back to the college’s origins in the fifteenth century. Wooden benches stood on both sides of sturdy wooden tables set with heavy silver cutlery and plates bearing the college crest. Name cards rested by each plate and, to his dismay, Oldroyd found he was sitting next to Julia. Obviously the college staff didn’t realise that Mr and Mrs Oldroyd were separated. Oldroyd immediately started to eat his bread roll while Julia was talking to Alison. Louise, sitting opposite, was in conversation with a friend next to her. As he munched, he tried to think of what he might say to Julia when the inevitable moment arrived.

  When the smoked-salmon starter came, Alison turned to speak to the person next to her and Julia turned to Oldroyd. ‘Well, Jim, I hear you’re in a new relationship. How’s it going?’

  He’d not expected this, and dropped his knife on to his plate with a clatter.

  ‘Very well, thanks. Deborah lives in Knaresborough – she’s a psychotherapist.’

  ‘That’s interesting. I hope it works out for you.’ He noticed that she broke eye contact when she said this. Was she upset about it?

  ‘Thanks. How about you and . . . Peter, isn’t it?’ Quite a while ago, Julia had turned up unexpectedly at his flat in Harrogate and asked him for a divorce. She was in a relationship with Peter, an art teacher at the sixth-form college where she worked. He’d agreed, but had heard nothing about it since.

  ‘No, that was over a while ago. I’m just on my own again.’ She smiled at him.

  He’d not expected this either and it unsettled him. He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘It’s a shame Robert couldn’t make it,’ continued Julia. ‘Couldn’t get the time off work. We would have been together as a family again. It’s been a while.’

  ‘Yes.’ This was very disconcerting. It wasn’t like her to get nostalgic for their past family life. She had usually criticised him for overworking and not spending enough time with her and the children.

  ‘And how’s work?’

  He was glad she’d changed the subject. ‘Oh, you know, the usual. Challenging.’

  ‘Are you on that case in Nidderdale where that man was shot outside the pub?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Well, be careful. I always used to worry when you were on cases where firearms were involved.’

  ‘Yes . . . I will.’

  The main course of duck à l’orange, sautéed potatoes and green beans arrived, and Oldroyd was thankful for the distraction. He enjoyed the duck, and the chocolate tart that followed, despite his feelings being rather shaken.

  Julia started to talk to the person next to her and he was happy to remain quiet and eat while conversations went on around him. There was also a good pinot noir. Food and drink were always excellent compensations when things became strained and difficult.

  After lunch, Louise went off to prepare for the ceremony, and Oldroyd, Alison and Julia walked the short distance through the courtyard of the Bodleian Library to the Sheldonian Theatre.

  Again, Oldroyd found himself sitting next to his wife, this time in the gallery of the semi-circular building, as the ancient ceremony, conducted mainly in Latin, took place. It was moving to see their daughter take her degree and get her gown and mortar board. He saw that Julia was having a little weep, and he felt he had to console her by putting his hand on hers. His hand was eagerly accepted and she smiled at him through her tears.

  On the way out, they talked about Louise and the different phases of her growing up. Normally Julia would express bitterness about how he’d been such an absent father, but on this occasion she spoke about nothing but positive memories. The general bonhomie remained as they all posed for photographs together and then went for a walk in the University Parks. Oldroyd was glad that the atmosphere was so convivial, but it left him with uncomfortable feelings of a different kind.

  Back at Harrogate HQ, Steph and Andy were still working hard to find out more about Wilson and Traynor, two of the Drover Road case criminals.

  Steph had contacted Durham Prison, where Traynor had killed himself. The records had revealed little, but she was able to speak on the phone to the prison officer who’d been in charge of Traynor immediately before his death.

  ‘Did he seem depressed?’ asked Steph.

  ‘No. If he had, he’d have been on suicide watch,’ the officer replied in a strong north-east accent. ‘I remember he was very angry, though.’

  ‘What about? Did he think his sentence was unfair?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything about that. I remember him shouting something like, “That bastard’s not getting it”, and he threw things around his cell in a temper. He was a violent man, but he turned it inwards in the end, you know: strangled himself with his sheets tied up to the bars on the window.’

  ‘Who do you think he was talking about, and what was “it”?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, and he’ll not be telling us now, will he?’

  Meanwhile, Andy contacted the authorities at Strangeways prison in
Manchester, and spoke to an officer who had been involved in transporting Patrick Wilson the day he escaped from custody.

  ‘How did he manage to get away from you?’ asked Andy.

  ‘We think he’d managed to make some kind of picklock from a hairpin or something and opened his cuffs. It’s not easy; he must have known what he was doing. We kept that low-profile – things like that make us look daft if the press get on to it, but these things happen.’

  ‘I know. So you pursued him?’

  ‘We did. He had the advantage of surprise – he suddenly slid the cuffs off, pushed an officer aside and bolted down the street. He headed towards the River Irwell and we didn’t get near him until he was at the river’s edge. There was an old pipe bridge and he managed to climb on to it and tried to get over the river. We told him to stop, it was dangerous, but he carried on. When he was halfway across, he slipped and fell into the water. It’d rained and the river was high and fast-moving. He surfaced once but then he disappeared, and that was the last we saw of him.’

  ‘Who identified the body?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His body. Did one of you identify him, or was it a relative?’

  ‘You’ve got your facts wrong there, mate,’ replied the officer. ‘Wilson’s body was never found. He’s still technically missing, presumed dead.’

  That evening at the Dog and Gun, the Owens were back at work and the restaurant and accommodation bookings were picking up again. It was going to take a lot to compensate for the loss of Sandy Fraser’s shooting parties, thought Rob Owen as he looked at the reservation book at the reception desk, but they would manage. At least they wouldn’t have the cash-flow problems associated with Fraser. Maybe they needed to create some interest in the inn: some speciality food evenings or wine tastings. Such was the reputation of the food that they’d never needed such promotions before, but perhaps times would now become a bit more challenging. It could work out well in the end, Rob thought optimistically. It might have been a mistake to rely too heavily on the shooting parties for their autumn revenue.

  He heard footsteps and looked up. It was Harry Newton on his way to the kitchen. ‘Harry!’ he called, and the young man stopped and turned.

  ‘Yes, Mr Owen?’

  ‘How’s Kirsty?’

  ‘Oh, she’s a bit better, thanks. Less agitated during the day now, though she’s still spooked by what she saw and it stops her getting to sleep. Last night she was looking out of that window again and . . .’ He stopped, realising he’d said too much. How did he know she was looking out of the window?

  Rob laughed. ‘Well, I hope you tucked her up in bed if she got scared again.’ Harry’s face went bright red and Rob laughed even harder. ‘Go on, you big oaf. Don’t think we didn’t know that you two were getting it on. Just be discreet about it, OK? It mustn’t interfere with your work at all.’

  ‘No, Mr Owen, it won’t. Thanks.’ He managed a weak smile and then hurried off to the kitchen, realising that his brother’s warning had made him overcautious.

  Rob made a few notes about certain ideas he’d been considering, and then went into the kitchen himself to see how Sheila and her team were getting on. He stood quietly just inside the door, and was pleased to see her bustling away and calling out orders to people as if the horrors of nearly a week ago had never happened. He smiled as he looked at her. She was usually at her happiest and most fulfilled when she was working in the kitchen, but now he wasn’t sure how much of her cheeriness was an act.

  Rob went on to the bar, where he was due to put in a shift. Here, too, he was pleased to see that things seemed to be getting back to a semblance of normality. The first diners of the evening were eating in the restaurant area and some of the usual characters were at the bar.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s not even a week yet since all that kicked off,’ said Ian Davis. ‘Mind you, I can’t say we’ve missed th’old bugger – t’job’s been a lot easier without him.’

  ‘You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,’ said Vic Moore, laughing. ‘But I can imagine it’s a lot better without him on your back all the time.’

  ‘Too right it is,’ replied Davis, taking a swig of his beer.

  ‘Ah take it t’police haven’t found owt yet?’ asked Wilf Bramley, dressed in his usual faded tweed jacket and corduroy trousers.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Moore. He saw Rob Owen behind the bar. ‘Rob!’ he called out. ‘Have you heard anything from the police?’

  Rob was drying glasses and shook his head.

  ‘No. As far as I know they’re still looking for Alan, and from what I hear they’ve spoken to nearly everyone in the village about what they heard or saw.’

  ‘Apart from me.’ Vic grinned. ‘I wasn’t here that night and I never had anything to do with Sandy Fraser, so I’m not a suspect like the rest of you.’

  ‘Get lost,’ said Davis. ‘Anyway, you could be t’dark horse.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s always t’person you least suspect, isn’t it? In these murders on t’telly.’

  ‘And what would my motive be?’

  ‘Fraser maht’ve been knockin’ off yer wife,’ chipped in Bramley.

  ‘I’m divorced. And he’d be welcome to her, I can tell you that.’

  ‘Aye, well, Fraser maht’ve been t’reason why yer divorced,’ continued Bramley, to general laughter.

  ‘No, I’m afraid it’s much more likely to be the disgruntled employee or tenant,’ said Moore, pointing at Davis and Bramley. Then he turned to Rob Owen. ‘Or even the long-suffering innkeeper who wanted rid of an awkward customer.’

  ‘Hey, watch it!’ said Rob, laughing. ‘Or I’ll bar you for slandering the landlord.’

  ‘I still think one of those cranks were behind it,’ said Davis. ‘That madwoman who lives in that caravan. I hear she and some of her cronies were caught up at the Evershaw shoot, but t’police let ’em go as usual.’

  ‘Yeah, well, she’s a wild character all right,’ said Rob, ‘but I can’t think Tony Dexter would have had anything to do with it. He’s a bit of a loner I know, but he seems a mild-mannered sort of chap.’

  ‘Well, you could say that about Alan Green,’ said Vic. ‘But he’s the main suspect.’

  ‘Aye.’

  They all shook their heads at the baffling nature of the crime.

  ‘Anyway . . . whose round is it?’ asked Davis after a pause.

  ‘Yours,’ replied Bramley, to general laughter again.

  The conversation moved on to more familiar territories: sport, the weather and the price of beer.

  When Kirsty came down to work in the bar, Harry popped out of the kitchen to intercept her.

  ‘Hey,’ he said in a stage whisper and gestured outside. Then he took her to the back of the building. ‘I’ve just been talking to Mr Owen – they know about us.’

  Kirsty put her hand to her mouth and giggled. She looked round, but they were alone by the staff entrance to the bar.

  ‘What did he say? I’ll bet he wasn’t bothered, though, was he?’

  ‘No, he was fine; just said to be careful about it and not let it interfere with our work.’

  ‘I told you. How did he know?’

  ‘Well . . . I let something slip. He asked me how you are, and I mentioned that you were looking out of that window again, and of course I couldn’t have known that unless I was . . . there in your room.’

  ‘You idiot!’ laughed Kirsty.

  ‘He also said they already knew, not just him.’

  ‘How? I’ll bet Jeanette’s been blabbing – wait till I see her! She’s as bad as you!’ She put her arms around him. ‘Anyway, it’s all good. We don’t need to be so secretive any more.’

  ‘No.’ They kissed, and then Kirsty broke away. ‘Better get back or we’ll get into trouble!’ Harry laughed, as they went back into the inn with light hearts.

  As Andy and Steph were driving home to Leeds with Steph at the wheel, they were feeling satis
fied with what they’d discovered through their research.

  ‘I think there’s every chance that Philip Traynor was talking about Matthew Hart when he referred to “that bastard”, and what he didn’t want him to get was his share of the loot,’ began Steph. ‘Remember, only Hart returned his share to the authorities, but what if somehow he got to know where Traynor had hid his? That would add insult to injury: not only did Traynor have to serve a long sentence, but the man who betrayed him got his hands on his money. The anger and despair could have been enough to push him over the edge. God, this queue’s long tonight!’

  They were in a long line of traffic snaking up the hill to the traffic lights at Harewood. On their right they caught a glimpse, through the woods, of the ruins of the medieval Harewood Castle.

  ‘But how would Hart have found out where Traynor had hidden his share?’

  ‘Maybe Traynor had told him things when they were still fellow members of the gang; enough for Traynor to believe that Hart would be able to work out where it was.’

  ‘OK, you could be right. But I’m not sure it has any bearing on the case.’

  ‘We don’t know yet.’

  ‘True, and any bit of information is useful, as we’ve been getting nowhere. The fact that Wilson’s body was never found is very interesting.’

  ‘It’s unlikely that he actually survived.’

  ‘But not impossible, and it raises the possibility that Wilson could be alive and involved in the murder of the man who sent him down. Do you think we should contact the boss?’ Andy was quite excited by his new theory.

  ‘No. He’s down in Oxford for his daughter’s graduation and I don’t think it’ll go down well if we bother him with work. We’ll wait until he gets back.’ She yawned. ‘I’m tired after all that computer work – I don’t know how some people sit doing that all day. I don’t fancy cooking . . . I know, let’s go to Caravanista by the Corn Exchange, I just love their hummus and falafels.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  Oldroyd lay in bed in his guest room at Louise’s college. It was a student room, currently unoccupied, as it was still three weeks or so before the start of term. A wardrobe, bookcases and desk – all empty at the moment – waited for the student who would live in the room for a whole academic year beginning in October.