Better the Devil You Know

by James Whitworth

  Better the Devil You Know

  A DCI Miller Novel

  James Whitworth

  Copyright © James Whitworth 2015

  James Whitworth has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  For Lisa who makes it all possible and with memories of writing in the Bay.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  As Detective Chief Inspector Miller drove his car through the small village of Sleights he peered anxiously at the sky. The drive over the North Yorkshire Moors from Pickering to Whitby was one of his favourite journeys. The long road dipped and climbed like a child’s drawing of a racetrack. The views were astonishingly beautiful and as David Bowie’s Five Years played on the car stereo, Miller could not think of a better driving experience.

  But dark, low clouds sat morosely above the village, threatening heavy snow at any moment. Miller had lived in Whitby long enough to know that when they did, the road would be impassable.

  He glanced to his right as the short line of local shops gave way to a row of houses where Christmas lights flickered in frosted windows. The past few days had been very cold, but so far had remained dry. He had spent them in Sheffield visiting an old school friend. He told himself that the fact that Dr Alice Laine happened to be spending her Christmas vacation there had nothing to do with his trip. As it turned out, it had been true. He had never quite found the right excuse to call on Alice and before he knew it, his leave was over.

  It was the 21st of December and he was due back at work the following morning. The Christmas holidays stretched before him like a parody of one of those saccharine-drenched films that were always on television at this time of year.

  It all started tonight with the Christmas tree ceremony at the cliff top chapel. He had promised Riddle he would go. No, that wasn’t true. If it had been Riddle he had made the promise to it would have been easy to make his excuses and cry off. But he had promised Maria, Riddle’s wife. She was a different proposition all together. He would have to go.

  The car reached the bottom of the valley and Miller changed down to third gear as the road began to climb steeply towards his adopted hometown.

  As the road finally levelled out and Miller swung the car around a small roundabout to head past the Welcome to Whitby sign, snowflakes began to dance balletically about the car.

  Miller turned left and headed for the west cliff. It was only just after two in the afternoon, but it was already starting to go dark. As he took another left turn onto the cliff top road, the black tarmac was already beginning to turn white.

  With a sigh of relief, Miller indicated right and pulled into the car park of the 1930s apartment block where he lived. As he got out of the car he blinked up at the sky. There was every chance he would be walking to the service tonight.

  Miller’s third floor apartment was warm and welcoming. Quickly closing the door behind him, he dropped his car keys onto a bookshelf and walked into his dedicated music room. Some days he could stand in front of his rows of shelves and have no idea what he wanted to listen to, finally choosing something at random. But on other days, like today, he knew exactly what he wanted to hear.

  Miller took down a copy of Sandy Denny’s debut solo album and walked back into the living room. Carefully lifting the lid on his Rega CD player, he pressed the disc into place and sat down on his settee to listen. There was something about the ethereal and melancholy sound of Denny’s voice that made it seem the perfect choice. As Late November played through his Bowers and Wilkins speakers, Miller closed his eyes and let the music envelop him.

  The near-hypnotic nature of the album spirited Miller’s thoughts back to the previous summer when he had been involved in a case with roots stretching all the way back to Victorian Whitby. It was through the investigation that he had met Dr Alice Laine.

  Alice.

  Miller opened his eyes. The snow was falling steadily outside. Sandy Denny’s plaintive voice was stimulating memories he had tried hard to suppress over the past six months. He knew Alice had felt that he had somehow let her down, but had he made the right decision? Had he used work as an excuse? Should he have trusted her?

  These were the same questions he had been trying to ignore over the whole of the autumn as Alice had steered another year of students through the basics of Renaissance literature during their first term on the university’s English degree.

  They had seen each other a few times during the previous months – it was hard not to in a town the size of Whitby – and she had been what he could best call polite. Occasionally she had even seemed happy to see him. But there was something withdrawn about her, as if some shutter had dropped between them.

  Now the autumn term had ended and she had gone to Sheffield. Miller was half ashamed and half elated that he had followed her, albeit under the pretence of visiting a friend. But the fates had conspired, or he had just not been brave enough to seek her out. He had missed his chance and now she wouldn’t be back in the town until after the New Year.

  Thank God he had his music. It always seemed to offer the perfect companionship for his mood, whether it was elation or melancholy. Although these days, the latter was becoming the norm. Next Time Around seemed to sum the state of quiet introspection that was becoming his default setting. The sad, elegiac piano chords that end the song were the perfect accompaniment for the weather and his state of mind. It was starting to snow heavily and Miller found himself hoping it would never stop.

  As the CD finished, Miller stood up and stretched. He needed to snap out of this mood. Walking to the kitchen, he switched on his Nespresso coffee machine and chose a Roma pod from a glass container. Slotting it into the machine, he pressed a button and waited for the aroma of coffee to fill the room. When his drink was ready, he cupped it in his hands and walked to the balcony window. Below him the west cliff looked deserted. The tyre tracks of a four wheel drive car were the only sign that anyone was braving the weather.

  The snow was dancing around the street lamps, making them flicker like the Christmas lights he had passed in the village. To his right, on the other side of the river, he could just make out the lights from the chapel, almost hidden behind the church of St Mary’s. It would be quite a walk through the snow, but Miller couldn’t argue that the weather was perfect for the Christmas tree ceremony.

  He had hoped that perhaps, just perhaps, Alice would have liked to go with him. But in his heart he realised it was a vain hope. For all he knew, she had no desire to see him again. In her mind, he had let her down by not trusting her when it had mattered most. His brain told him that it had been a murder investigation and he could not afford to give her or anyone else the level of trust she had expected. But what had made it worse for Miller was that she had agreed that he had made the only decision he could have made. What was left unsaid, what had haunted him over the past six months, was that she had expected more of him. She knew he had made the decision he should have mad
e, but she had hoped for more. She knew it was unreasonable, she knew it was more than she had any right to ask. But the very fact that she had expected it had spoken volumes for how she had begun to feel for Miller. But he had not heard. He had been deaf to everything but the case. And now it was too late.

  Miller drained his coffee. So much for snapping out of his mood. Hopefully the Christmas tree ceremony would do a better job. He checked his watch: three in the afternoon. He had another four hours until he was due at the church. Plenty of time for another CD or two.

  *

  Miller’s eyes snapped open. The apartment was silent, the last CD he had put on must have finished over an hour ago. At first he thought he had missed the Christmas tree ceremony and was rather embarrassed to realise that he was worrying about what Riddle’s wife would say, but when he checked his watch he saw it was just before seven. Rubbing his eyes, Miller stood up and stretched. There was just enough time for a quick shower and a change of clothes.

  It was just after seven-fifteen when Miller emerged onto the west cliff. The snow was lighter now, but fat flakes still fell lazily to the ground. It wasn’t as bitterly cold as it had been in Sheffield, but Miller was still glad of his warm winter coat. He snuggled down into his scarf as he turned towards the town centre and trudged along the pavement to the road. As he reached the Royal Hotel, perched high on the cliff top, he veered off the road and followed the path down on to the harbour front. Here there were a few more people about, including a group of teenagers waging a snowball fight at the foot of the pier.

  Crossing over the town’s swing bridge, Miller turned left crunching the snow that lay on the cobbled street. Above him, the council’s Christmas decorations reflected in the windows of the shops as Miller headed towards the 199 steps that climbed to the headland.

  At the top of the steps is the Church of Saint Mary. Its position has made it a familiar sight for the thousands of locals and tourists who may never have set foot inside. What far fewer people realise is that set just a few hundred yards beyond the grounds is another, much less popular place of worship. Smaller, less photogenic and certainly lesser known, the chapel on Curlew Lane is one of the town’s best-kept secrets. Hidden from view by farm buildings and an ancient burial mound, the small chapel dates back to the nineteenth century. Its small, but committed congregation seemed to like this relative obscurity. Few tourists ever reached its windswept paths, let alone attended a service. Although not a religious man, Miller was drawn to its bleak position and understated charm. He also wanted to make the most of it, as cliff erosion was now a serious threat to the building. The last survey had suggested that it might only be a matter of years before the North Sea claimed the church and its land.

  It was partly because of this, and the persuasive powers of Maria Riddle, that Miller found himself walking through a creaking gate into the church yard to join a couple of dozen souls who had braved the snow and wind. If, as the Whitby Telegraph reported the previous week, the church would close the following year due to the impending threat of erosion, this would be its last Christmas.

  Spotting a raised hand, Miller moved through the crowd to where Detective Sergeant Riddle and his wife were standing, huddled together for warmth.

  “Evening, sir,” Riddle said, as he blew into his hands.

  “Sergeant. Maria,” Miller said as Riddle’s wife kissed Miller on the cheek.

  “How was Sheffield?” Riddle asked.

  Miller didn’t miss the hint of a wink but choose to ignore it.

  “I haven’t missed anything?” Miller said, gesturing towards the decorated Christmas tree, its lights still turned off.

  “I think it’s just about to start,” Maria said. “By the way,” she added, “this is Samantha. We work together.”

  Miller turned around to see a petite woman in her mid-thirties stamping her feet against the cold.

  “Hello,” Miller said, giving Maria a hard stare. “I’m Frank.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Samantha said. Steam rose from her full lips as she spoke. Her hazel eyes were kind and Miller silently reproofed himself for being standoffish. “Are you part of the congregation here?”

  “Good God, no. Sorry! Shouldn’t blaspheme on chapel grounds,” she laughed. “I live in the cottage over there,” she said, nodding towards a whitewashed building that sat just beyond the chapel grounds. “I rent it from the church, but worship isn’t a condition of my tenancy.”

  Miller laughed and as he did so Maria smiled at her husband. Miller knew he was being set up, but he was too cold to worry about it.

  Any further conversation was cut short by the arrival of Luke Moore, the chapel’s vicar. His bright red hair stood out vibrantly against the snow and his white jacket.

  “Good evening to all of you.”

  Miller tried to place his accent. There were traces of the northeast, mixed with something else he couldn’t place.

  “Thank you all for braving this cold, if seasonal weather. As many of you will know, this may well be our final Christmas on this site, so it is even more special than usual. But don’t worry,” he added, “I won’t be giving a long speech or sermon!”

  There was general laughter. In his short tenure he had become known for the brevity of his weekly service.

  “Let me just say, if this is our final Christmas, let it be one filled with peace.”

  At this, he flicked a switch and the tree burst into light. The crowd clapped, the muffled sound of applause a result of dozens of pairs of gloves.

  “Fancy a drink?” Riddle said.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Samantha said.

  *

  The bar of the Endeavour pub was surprisingly busy for such a snowy night. Riddle managed to secure the last booth for himself and Samantha as Miller stood at the bar ordering drinks.

  “So, what did I tell you?” Maria said.

  “You told me he was handsome and a little lonely,” Samantha said.

  Maria laughed. “I think it was handsome and solitary.”

  Riddle shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I think I’ll help the boss with the drinks.”

  “Men!” Maria said, smiling fondly at her husband. “Seriously, he’s a lovely man. You just need to get past the walls he’s built around himself. Not,” she added hurriedly, “that I’m saying he’s some sort of emotional wasteland.”

  “It’s OK,” Samantha said, taking her woollen hat off and shaking her dark brown hair free. “We’ve all got baggage.”

  Maria smiled her understanding as she rested her hand on Samantha’s arm.

  *

  Miller had only intended to stay for one drink, but before he knew it a couple of hours had passed and to his surprise he had found himself enjoying the company.

  “We had better be off,” Maria said, nudging her husband.

  “Er… right,” Riddle said. He looked confused, but Maria was shepherding him towards the door before he could respond.

  Miller and Samantha were alone. “One for the road?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Samantha said. “I’ll have a whisky.”

  Miller’s eyebrows rose in comical surprise.

  “Not all women choose their drink based on colour,” Samantha said.

  Miller looked embarrassed. “Sorry. It’s just that Scotch is a favourite drink of mine and I always seem to be the only one who drinks it.”

  “Not any more,” Samantha said, unable to stop blushing at the implied intimacy.

  “Right,” Miller said as he squinted at the row of whisky bottles behind the bar. “The choice is Laphoraig, Old Pulteney or a Glenlivet.”

  “It’s a tough one,” Samantha said, her eyes screwed up with concentration. “I think Glenlivet is the way to go.”

  Miller ordered two large drinks and carried them back to the booth.

  “I always think there should be music when I drink Scotch,” he said as he lovingly held the glass up to the light.

  “There is music,” Samantha said, g
esturing towards the jukebox.

  “That’s not music,” Miller said, pulling a pained expression. “Or at least it’s not real music.”

  Samantha leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes as she brought the whisky to her lips, pausing for a moment before she took a slow drink. As she opened her eyes, she nodded her approval. “So what do you consider appropriate music for drinking whisky?”

  Miller needed no time to consider the question. “Sinatra. Something like In the Wee Small Hours or even better Only the Lonely.”

  “You’re not a typical policeman, are you?”

  “Now who’s judging?”

  Samantha smiled to acknowledge the point and took another sip of whisky. “For me, it has to be Lady Day.”

  “Billie Holiday?” Miller said, relaxing into his chair. “Good choice.” He smiled as he felt a warm glow creep through his body.

  Miller was just considering a second nightcap when the pub was suddenly filled with light. The barman was calling time.

  “Looks like it’s home time,” Samantha said as she drained her glass. “It’s been nice. Thank you.”

  “Yes it has,” Miller said haltingly. He was surprised just how enjoyable it had been. For the first time in months he had not spent an evening with thoughts of Alice.

  Samantha was standing up and knotting a bright orange scarf around her neck. She glanced in the direction of the window. “It’s times like this I curse myself for living on top of the cliff – life would be so much easier if I lived in the town centre.”

  Miller knew Samantha’s road only too well. His first murder case in Whitby had centred on a Victorian house situated next to Curlew Lane. It had been demolished a few years ago, but the memories lingered only too well.

  “The other two are holiday lets,” Samantha said, “so it’s often only me and an old lady up there. It’s a beautiful spot, really peaceful and I love the solitude. Most of the time,” she added.

  “Apart from when you have to leave a warm pub and walk home through the snow and cold?”