by J. R. Ellis
‘OK, sir.’
Oldroyd nodded to Steph and Andy. ‘Let’s get back to HQ before the press get here again. That will be soon. They must have got wind of another murder by now and we’re too busy to talk to them. And by the way’ – he smiled knowingly at them – ‘who’s the winner in your little competition to impress me?’
‘Oh, I think Steph, sir.’ Andy pointed at her. She pointed back.
‘No sir, definitely him.’ They all laughed as they left the inn with a spring in their step for the first time since the case had begun.
Not long after the old Saab disappeared down the road to Pateley, Oldroyd’s prediction proved correct and a number of strangers’ cars and SUVs started to arrive in Niddersgill. At about the same time, two very different characters met in the village. Wilf Bramley arrived in a dirty old van and parked it near to the shop. He walked over in his wellies, just as Tony Dexter arrived on foot wearing a Barbour jacket in the rain. Both men approached the shop, nodded to each other and suddenly halted when they saw the incident tape and the door closed.
‘What’s goin’ on?’ Wilf asked the PC outside.
She looked at him sceptically. ‘Surely you know there’s been another shooting?’
‘No.’ Tony Dexter joined the conversation. ‘Who’s been killed this time?’
The PC outlined what had happened. ‘So you can understand that the shop is closed.’
‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Bramley. ‘Peter Gorton! I’ve heard nowt abaht it, but ah haven’t been into t’village for a few days and ah don’t listen to t’news – it’s just a lot o’ gloomy stuff.’
‘Me too,’ said Dexter. ‘We live up on the hills, don’t we, Wilf?’
‘Aye we do. Anyroad, let’s pop in to t’Dog and find out more abaht what’s goin’ on.’
‘All right, you’re on. I haven’t been in there for a while. It’ll be nice to see people.’
‘Ah thought ah hadn’t seen thi for a bit. But ah don’t think there’ll be many in ’cos it’s dinner time and folk’ll be at work,’ said Bramley.
‘Never mind.’
The two men crossed the green and saw a number of unfamiliar vehicles in the inn car park.
‘Ah’ll bet that’s them newspaper buggers again,’ observed Bramley. ‘They were all over t’village last week. Now there’s been another murder they’re back.’ They entered the bar, in which, as Bramley had predicted, there were no locals. However, a number of brash-looking types, mostly men with shaved heads, beards and earrings, were clustered around one end of the bar, drinking gin and tonics and talking in loud voices.
Rob Owen looked pleased when Bramley and Dexter walked in. ‘Well, I haven’t seen you two for a while.’
‘No, ah’ve been busy lookin’ after a couple o’ ewes that’ve been taken badly. They’re OK now,’ said Bramley.
‘And I’ve been out making the best of the weather, but it looks like it’s broken now,’ said Dexter. ‘I just came down to get a few provisions, and found the shop closed and the police on guard.’ He explained to Owen that neither he nor Bramley had heard about the second murder. Owen pulled them a couple of pints.
‘You haven’t missed anything. It must be nice sometimes to be so out of things. I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘We were just starting to get on our feet again. God knows what will happen now. Who’s going to want to come and stay in this village?’
‘It’ll blow over again, once this lot have had their fill,’ said Dexter, nodding at the reporters. ‘Have they been pumping you for information?’
Owen looked over at them. ‘Yes, just like last time. They’re not content with accounts of what happened, they want you to name who you think did it and then tell them some lurid details. I’m not playing their game. That chief inspector saw them off last week, but he’s gone now – probably wanted to get out of their way.’
At that moment, two of the reporters detached themselves from the group and came over to Bramley and Dexter. ‘I take it you live round here,’ said one. He had stubble on his face and was wearing jeans and Dr Martens.
‘Yes,’ replied Dexter, while Bramley scowled at the man. ‘So?’
‘Did you see what happened last night? Did you know this bloke who was bumped off?’
‘No we didn’t see anything, but we knew the victim.’
‘Of course, I forgot. Everyone knows everyone in a place like this, don’t they?’ said the reporter.
‘That’s right, so you must have an idea who did it,’ said a fat man in a denim jacket; he had tattoos on the backs of his hands.
‘Two murders in a place like this,’ said a third, dressed in purple trousers and a yellow waistcoat. ‘What’s going on? Are you all getting so bored you’ve started killing each other for fun?’
‘What the ’ell do yer mean by that?’ exploded Bramley.
‘Steady on, pops. Just a joke. We just want to know if you have any information for us.’
‘Well, wi bloody don’t, and if wi knew owt wi wunt be telling t’likes o’ thee. So why don’t ye all just tae thi ’ook and bugger off.’
The reporters reacted to this with consternation, as if not sure whether Bramley was speaking English. Dexter laughed. ‘Well, you wanted to speak to a local person and now you have.’
The reporters left Bramley, who drank his beer and glared at them, and turned to Dexter. ‘This is a small place, isn’t it?’ one of them asked. ‘Some of you must have noticed someone behaving a bit bonkers. You know, the “village idiot goes berserk” kind of thing.’
Dexter winced. These people dealt in the crudest stereotypes. ‘There’s no one in this village you could describe as an idiot,’ he replied. ‘I think the police have their suspects. You should be talking to them.’
‘We would, but they’re not here. I think DCI Oldroyd’s avoiding us.’
I don’t blame him, thought Dexter.
‘Aren’t you all frightened that you’re going to be next?’ asked the reporter with the stubble. ‘It’s normally all cosy and safe up here, right? But now it’s become dangerous and people can’t sleep easily in their beds at night.’
They’ve written in clichés for so long, they speak in them as well, thought Dexter. ‘I don’t think people are cowering behind the doors of their houses,’ he said.
‘What about this bloke who was killed – Gorton, Peter Gorton?’
‘What about him?’
‘What was he like? Could he have had criminal connections? Two murders now; we might be talking about a criminal gang operating from here, and there’s been a big argument. It’s a nice cover, isn’t it? Come and live among the yokels and no one suspects you.’
Dexter had to laugh at the outlandishness of this idea. ‘Peter was just an ordinary, friendly bloke who did a good job of running the shop. The idea of him being in some underworld set-up is ridiculous. Look, can we just drink our beer in peace now?’
The reporters, realising they weren’t going to get anything else, slunk back to their side of the bar, presumably waiting until another unsuspecting local person came in.
‘Bloody nuisance,’ muttered Bramley.
Behind the bar, Owen laughed. ‘Yes, but they’re spending plenty in here so I’m not complaining. They’ll stay for a while until they realise that nobody has anything interesting to tell them.’
‘You’re right,’ said Dexter.
Owen came closer and whispered, ‘Actually I do know something about Peter’s past, but I’m not telling them. I’m sure the police will have found out by now.’
‘What?’
‘Once, when he’d had a few drinks, he told me he’d been a prison officer.’
Dexter looked up sharply. ‘Did he? Where?’
‘He didn’t say. Not that it has anything to do with his murder.’
‘No,’ replied Dexter, looking thoughtfully into his beer.
Back in the office in Harrogate with Andy and Steph, Oldroyd was approaching the case with renewed energy.
; ‘So, we need the profile of Wilson from the Met, and check that it includes a photograph.’
‘OK, sir.’
‘Steph, contact Saunders and get him back up here for questioning.’
‘Right, sir.’
They both left the room. Oldroyd was hoping to have a moment of reflection, but the hectic pace continued as his phone rang.
‘Bloody hell, Jim, what’s going on up there? Two murders now! In a dales village! What’s the world coming to?’ Tom Walker’s gruff tones were unmistakable.
‘It’s a shock, Tom, I certainly wasn’t expecting it. It’s forced us to rethink everything. We have to assume the two are connected – the circumstances are so similar.’ He outlined what they’d found out about Fraser’s hoard of money and also Patrick Wilson and the Drover Road robbery.
‘Well, at least you’ve got a couple of leads, then. Blackmail’s always a good motive to look for if you’ve got a murder. And you really think this Wilson could have survived and be involved in it?’
‘His body was never found, Tom, and he’s the only person who had a motive to kill both victims.’
Walker grunted. ‘It sounds a bit far-fetched to me, but you know best. It’s certainly a weird case, so maybe it’ll have a weird conclusion. Let me know if you need more help. I don’t think Watkins will be bothered about this, he only starts getting agitated when somebody he thinks is important gets bumped off.’
Oldroyd laughed and spoke quickly to prevent a rant by Walker. ‘OK, Tom, we’re on it. Don’t worry,’ he said, and then he politely took his leave.
While he’d been talking to Walker, his phone had vibrated. Looking at the screen, he saw that he had a text from Deborah:
Booked us in for ‘As You Like it’ in York tomorrow evening. It’s a little touring company and they all play a lot of different parts. They’ve got good reviews. Alice saw them in Ripon, said they were great fun.
Oldroyd was pleased about this. He loved his Shakespeare, and he liked to see the plays performed in informal settings. And then something in his mind shifted – something which, as yet, he couldn’t pin down.
It was late afternoon. The rain had subsided to a drizzle and part of the fells was visible again, although the tops were still covered in a thick mist. Ian Davis, wet and tired, had dropped his team off and then parked the Land Rover in the estate’s garage, which was down a track behind the village. Although he knew that his long-term future was unclear, he was finding his work much easier without Fraser constantly on his back, even though the wet weather made things difficult. He walked back along the track, his boots splashing through puddles and his wet hair plastered to his head. As he turned a corner around a high hedge, he bumped into the one person he always tried to avoid: Liz Smith. She was dressed in a battered, mud-stained outdoor jacket.
‘Oh, bloody hell!’ he said as he moved aside.
Liz gave him a grim smile. ‘Don’t worry, Davis, I won’t hurt you.’
He looked at her warily. ‘I’m not sure about that. You’re bloody fanatics, you lot. I don’t know what you might do. Maybe it was you who got rid of my boss.’
‘Oh, well maybe it was. It could be you next. Maybe we killed Peter Gorton too. Perhaps we’re all mad.’ She stared at him, wide-eyed in mock horror, and waved her arms. ‘Anyway, I think you were glad to see the back of Fraser. I’ll bet he was a sod to work for.’
Davis couldn’t deny the truth of this and looked down. He noticed that her ankle was strapped up. He pointed to her leg.
‘Did you get that on Evershaw Moor t’other day? I heard you were up there causing trouble.’
She glared at him. ‘Yes, and I’m not ashamed of it. I got it for a good cause. The people who should be ashamed are those thugs, probably friends of yours, who beat up a young man who ended up in hospital. At least he’ll survive. Not like Sam Cooper.’
Davis ignored this reference to the death on the moor. ‘It’s our jobs you’re threatening, that’s what you people don’t understand.’
‘Jobs which involve cruelty to animals. Shooting birds for sport! How can you do it?’
‘What choice do yer think we have? Most of us have families to support.’
‘You could leave here and find something better to do.’
‘Oh sure, as if it was as easy as that. It’s pointless talking to you.’
Davis looked away, waved at her in contempt and walked off without another word. Liz Smith shook her head, turned and made her way slowly, limping a little, in the other direction. Both remained as entrenched as ever in their attitudes to grouse shooting.
‘What do you fancy for tea tonight, then? And we might as well get things for a few days while we’re here.’
Oldroyd and Deborah were doing a quick mid-week tour of the supermarket. Oldroyd was pushing the trolley and Deborah was consulting a list. As they both worked full-time, neither were particularly good at planning meals ahead. Any arrangement for dinner was further complicated by Deborah’s aversion to meat. Oldroyd was quite happy to join her and reduce his meat consumption, but many of his ideas for meals turned out to be unsuitable. He enjoyed food but knew very little about cooking and ingredients.
He’d once suggested moussaka.
‘But the original version has minced lamb in it, Jim.’
‘Does it? I thought it was just aubergines and potatoes. What about lasagne?’
‘Minced beef!’
‘Yes, but not much. You could just leave it out.’
‘You can do vegetarian versions of lasagne but they taste different,’ said Deborah. ‘I’m not sure you’d like them.’
‘Well, I like a good curry: balti or bhuna.’
‘Yes, but I bet you always have the chicken version.’
‘Or lamb.’
‘Jim! You’re not taking this seriously.’
He’d laughed. ‘Well, I’m happy to leave it to you. Your culinary knowledge is far superior to mine.’
‘Hmm. You sound like a man trying to escape from domestic responsibilities to me. I don’t like this meal-planning and shopping any more than you do.’
He smiled at the memory. Anyway, here they were again.
This time Oldroyd had some better suggestions. Stung by Deborah’s criticism, he’d spent a little time consulting cookery books. ‘How about roasted vegetables with feta cheese? I love that, and tomorrow I could do my macaroni with cheese and tomato sauce.’
‘And ham?’
‘I don’t put much ham in – just a little to . . . flavour it.’
‘OK then,’ said Deborah with a sigh, as she picked items from the shelves and put them in the trolley. ‘We’ll have an omelette on Thursday, then we’re going to your sister’s on Friday. Good! That’s the week taken care of. I’m just going down to get some bread. I’ll meet you at the checkout.’
She disappeared into the next aisle, and Oldroyd pushed the trolley down past the magazines and newspapers section. He paused to have a quick browse through the headlines and Yorkshire-themed magazines, and his eye was caught by a headline in the children’s comics section. It was a bold title in garish red: ‘The Scarlet Claw!’ The title referred to an evil monster which a hero would have to defeat, pictured in its blood-dripping horror on the cover. It reminded Oldroyd of something else he’d read or seen with that title.
Deborah found him reading the comic.
‘Jim, what are you doing? I couldn’t see you at the checkout. What on earth . . . ? The man’s deranged: he’s reading a children’s comic. If you want it, put it in the trolley, but let’s go.’
‘Sorry,’ replied Oldroyd, replacing the comic on the shelf. ‘You know how ideas come to me at odd times. Have you heard of a novel or a film called The Scarlet Claw? I’ve seen or read something with that title but I can’t remember what.’
‘No, never heard of it. You’ll have to google it, but not now please. I’m desperate to get back for a cup of tea.’
When they arrived home, Oldroyd made some tea while Deborah
unpacked. Then he went to his computer and looked up The Scarlet Claw. It turned out to be an old Sherlock Holmes film from 1944 with good old Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce. In a contemporary poster there was Holmes smoking his pipe with Watson at his side, and in the background were vague shapes in a chilling mist. Oldroyd had a memory of watching it years ago, when he was a boy.
As in the comic, the ‘scarlet claw’ was thought to belong to a monster until Holmes proved otherwise. But what happened in the story that had struck a chord with him? When he had the time he would have to try to find it on YouTube and see if the story would relinquish its secret.
Six
White Beacon Hags
Dickens Dike
Great Shunner Fell
Rom Shaw Dike
It was really good to see you on Thursday. Could we meet up sometime soon? There are one or two things I’d like us to discuss. J. x
This text message came to Oldroyd’s phone the next morning while he and Deborah were having breakfast. The text stirred up all the confused feelings he’d felt in Oxford. He looked at Deborah. He wasn’t going to conceal this from her. That would only lead to trouble.
‘Remember I told you Julia was there, down in Oxford?’
‘Yes. Well, she would be for her daughter’s degree ceremony, wouldn’t she?’
‘True, but what do you think about this?’ He showed her the text. She read it and gave an arch smile.
‘Oooh! It sounds to me like she might be interested in you again. Have you told me about everything that happened down there? Now be honest!’
Oldroyd laughed, knowing that she was joking, but he still found it difficult. ‘No, seriously, I want to know what you think is going on in her mind.’
Deborah sniffed and read the text again. ‘Well, from what you’ve told me, she hasn’t been in the habit of sending friendly texts in the past, right?’
‘Correct. In fact, ever since we separated, she’s been fairly cold and distant.’
