The Whitby Murders (A Yorkshire Murder Mystery)

by J. R. Ellis

  ‘No, and that’s another strange aspect. We all thought that he’d have turned up by now, especially as he’s not a local and doesn’t know the area well. It’s all very puzzling and worrying. It’s one of those situations where you feel a bit paralysed. All we can do is wait for something to happen.’

  Deborah got up from the sofa and put down her book. ‘I can see frustration and constant rumination about to set in. You missed parkrun this morning, so I prescribe some exercise. We’ve just time to drive over to Bilton and have a walk in the Nidd Gorge before the light goes. That’ll do you good.’

  Despite his weariness, Oldroyd agreed: he rarely refused a walk in the countryside.

  Back in Whitby, Ben was lying on his bed. It had been such an exhausting few days and he felt very tired even though it was only mid-afternoon. He wanted to get away and back to London but knew that was impossible until things had settled down. He couldn’t leave the others to deal with the aftermath of the terrible things that had happened and the police were still around and asking questions. Maybe in another few days things might be different, but of course they could never be the same again. When things like this happened it often broke up friendship groups because some people didn’t want to be reminded of what had they’d been through. There was a gentle tap on the door.

  ‘Ben?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Can I come in?’ It was Jack.

  ‘Okay.’

  Jack came in. ‘Sorry. Were you asleep?’ He sat on a chair by the bed.

  ‘No, just dozing.’

  ‘I feel a bit in the way down there with those two.’ He smiled.

  ‘Well, they should go to their room if they want to get it on,’ said Ben.

  ‘I suppose so. I just came to check on you. You must have had the most traumatic time of all attending to Andrea after she’d been stabbed.’

  ‘It was pretty bad. Actually, I’d rather not talk about it. I’m trying not to dwell on the memories.’ Ben passed a hand over his face.

  ‘I don’t blame you. I had a lucky escape.’ Jack shifted in his chair. ‘What do you think about Louise’s dad getting involved? It’s a bit sort of weird, isn’t it?’

  Ben yawned. ‘Dunno. I can see why she’d want him to come over. He’s a top detective or something, isn’t he?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘If he helps to find Dom and get everything sorted out, it’ll be good.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe. It just feels like he’s on top of us all the time.’

  ‘Chill out. What have you got to be scared of anyway?’ laughed Ben.

  Jack looked uneasy for a moment. ‘No, nothing. It’s just, I’d rather the police were at the police station and not here.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be for long. Something has to happen soon. Dom will give himself up or they’ll find him. Then we can all get away from here. Anyway, I’m going to have a kip for a while if you don’t mind. I’m absolutely knackered.’

  ‘Fine. See you later.’

  Jack went back downstairs still feeling very uneasy about the police and their investigation.

  Downstairs, Maggie and Mark were sprawled on the sofa together. Mark was nervous. There was something he needed to tell her.

  ‘God, I’m so lethargic,’ groaned Maggie. ‘It’s an effort just to get up from here.’

  ‘It’s the shock; it’s exhausted you.’

  ‘Yeah, seeing what happened. I still can’t believe it. Dominic’s just not like that.’

  Mark paused before replying and looked down at Maggie’s face. She had her eyes shut. ‘No, but there are things about him that you don’t know about.’

  Maggie opened her eyes and looked up sharply. ‘What things?’

  ‘Well, he got into serious trouble at uni for plagiarism.’

  ‘What! I never knew that.’

  ‘No. I didn’t want to say anything because you’re all friends with him, but he’s not a paragon of virtue. He copied someone’s essay and passed it off as his. It got the other person into trouble too before Dom admitted that he was the one who’d copied.’

  ‘Bloody hell! That’s a rotten trick.’

  ‘Yes, and the thing is, that person was me.’

  Maggie recoiled. ‘No! I didn’t even know you were on the same course as him.’

  ‘Yeah, Business Studies at St Thomas’s. The thing is, he never did any work; spent all his time messing around in student plays. He was on the wrong course really. Anyway, he was always behind and looking for short cuts. I didn’t know him that well, but I was always ready to help someone out. I sent him an essay to look at and he copied the whole thing and submitted it. It didn’t take them long to realise they had two identical essays. The worst thing was, I had to establish that he’d copied from me and not the other way round, though to be fair he owned up fairly quickly.’

  ‘Why’ve you never told me about this before?’

  ‘Because it’s all in the past. When our paths crossed again through you and Andrea, I spoke to him and we decided to let it lie for the sake of the group. It’s several years ago now since it happened, but I still don’t think he’s a person you can trust.’

  ‘Wow. That doesn’t mean that he’s violent though, does it?’

  ‘No, but I wonder what situation he might have got himself into which might have made him desperate?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Say he’s in financial trouble and Andrea refused to help him. He could have got very angry with her.’

  ‘But that’s all speculation! We don’t know anything for sure. Maybe you should tell this to the police.’

  ‘They’ll find out soon enough and they can come to their own conclusions. It doesn’t really change anything; maybe it just begins to explain how he might have been capable of doing what he did.’

  ‘I think that’s making a lot of—’ She stopped because two things happened abruptly. Jack came back into the room and her phone pinged.

  ‘How is he?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Fine, I think . . .’

  ‘Oh my God it’s him again, Dom!’ blurted Maggie, sounding nearly hysterical. ‘No! I can’t bear it!’ She threw the phone on the floor and herself onto the sofa, sobbing.

  Mark picked up the phone and read:

  I cant go on. Goodbye. Dom

  Deborah and Oldroyd were picking their way down the muddy paths into the Nidd Gorge beyond Bilton. The light was fading and creating shadows among the trees while leaves fell noiselessly to the ground.

  ‘I must say dusk in the woods is spooky at this time of year,’ said Deborah.

  ‘Well, I don’t mind about that. Give me a straightforward shimmering white ghost any day after all this gory Dracula and goth stuff I’ve seen over in Whitby. By the way, what’s that over there?’ He pointed to a black shape, which looked a figure with its arms spread wide leaning over the river. ‘It looks as if the vampire Count may have followed me here.’

  Deborah grasped his arm. ‘Jim, stop it! You know I get nervous about things like that.’

  Oldroyd laughed. ‘Don’t worry it’s only a gnarled old tree stump.’ He went over, grasped a bare bough and shook it. ‘And you such a rationalist and analyser of the human mind!’

  ‘That may be,’ replied Deborah, walking warily round the stump and mounting one of the boardwalks which had been erected over the wettest parts of the paths, ‘but we all have our weaknesses and things we’re afraid of. It’s part of being human and living in a universe we don’t understand and where terrible things can happen.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I think one of the functions of these werewolves, ghoulies, vampires and stuff is to give concrete form to our insecurities. They embody our fears of being attacked, bitten, eaten, but it’s all at a distance because we know they don’t really exist and we either read about them or watch them on film from the safety of a chair.’

  They were walking through the gorge by the side of the river Nidd with the steep wooded valley to
their right. A dog walker passed them with an enthusiastic Labrador enjoying itself getting wet and filthy in the mud. It threatened to jump up, put its muddy paws on Deborah and give her a big lick until the owner called out, ‘Judy! Get down.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ called Deborah, laughing as she stroked the dog. They continued on the path, now passing the beautifully restored Scotton Mill by a weir on the river.

  ‘How would you like to live there?’ asked Oldroyd.

  ‘Beautiful spot, but maybe the water going down the weir would be noisy and it would be scary out here in the woods at night.’

  ‘You’re right though, at some level we like being frightened, don’t we?’ said Oldroyd. ‘That’s why there are so many horror stories and films and why people like dressing up as vampires and monsters.’

  ‘Yes, it’s all in a controlled and safe way.’

  The path started to climb up through the trees away from the river, which continued on to Knaresborough.

  Oldroyd made a suggestion. ‘I’ve been thinking. Why don’t you come over to Whitby for a few days while I’m involved in this case? We could do a bit of walking and maybe go out on a sea trip.’

  Deborah turned to him. ‘Jim, that’s a lovely idea, but won’t you be busy?’

  ‘No more than I am here and we still manage to do plenty. What about your clients?’ Deborah had a private therapy practice.

  ‘I can always rearrange things.’

  ‘Good. I just hope you don’t get scared with all the goth stuff.’ Oldroyd had a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘I promise I won’t. And I hope you don’t become obsessed with the case. Getting away from the office will be a good time to relax a bit . . . and maybe write some of your poetry?’

  ‘Yes, I will, don’t worry. By the way, have you ever been to the Whitby Museum?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  Oldroyd rubbed his hands together. ‘Good, well, treat in store then. That place is really spooky.’

  ‘Is it? Why?’

  ‘No more information. And we’d better get a move on; it’s really getting dark now and all the goblins and sprites will be out practising for Halloween in a few days’ time. Come on, let’s jog and we’ll have a drink at the Gardener’s Arms.’ Without another word he started to jog down the bridleway back towards Bilton, followed by a laughing Deborah who soon caught him up and passed him even though she’d already run 5 km that day.

  It was late on Saturday night at the climax of the Goth Weekend. The streets of the old east side of the town were packed with revellers in various macabre costumes. A number of drinkers were standing outside the popular Old Ship Inn in Church Street. As they drank, joked and laughed they thought nothing of the solitary black-caped figure coming slowly down the street, wandering from side to side until it reached them. The figure’s face was difficult to see under a black hood and there was the white glimmer of a mask. It pulled out a gun. Assuming it was a joke, people laughed and one of them put up her hands in mock surrender. But then the figure raised the gun and fired two shots: one hitting a plant pot and the other smashing a light above the door. The woman screamed, someone shouted, ‘What the hell!?’ and some people dived for cover underneath wooden tables.

  The Dracula figure shouted something indecipherable and was seen to be sobbing and shaking. Then it ran down one of the narrow ginnels which led to the sea and disappeared into the darkness. There was chaos at the pub. Random shouts were heard: ‘He’s got a gun!’ ‘Stay inside!’ ‘There’s some bloody lunatic out here!’ Then another gun shot was heard. ‘What the hell was that?’ ‘Call the police; there’s someone firing a gun off.’

  After this there was quiet. Tentatively, people started to come out of the pub, edge their way down the street, glance down the dark alley, and then run down the street away from the scene. With the siren blaring and flashing blue lights, a police car came down the street and stopped at the pub. After being briefed about what happened, officers went down the ginnel with flashlights but could find no trace of the strange goth figure with the gun. The festivities had been ruined in that part of the town; the mood had changed and everyone quickly dispersed. Dressing up in ghoulish ways was one thing, but a brush with real danger was something else.

  Outside the Old Ship a group of frightened young people emerged tentatively from underneath a wooden table where they’d been hiding ever since the first shot had been fired. One of them was Lesley Granger.

  ‘Shit! What the hell was that lunatic doing?’ said a young man, looking at the smashed plant pot, which was quite near to them. One girl was crying.

  ‘It’s okay, Mandy, they’ve gone,’ said Lesley.

  Mandy crawled out, her costume smeared with dirt and her make-up running. ‘They ran off down there!’ She pointed to the ginnel. ‘They could come back.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ replied Lesley. ‘Look, we have to get out of here quick. If the police stop me, I’m going to be in big trouble with my mum. Come on. I’m going to call her, and we need to dodge the police.’

  The little group walked gingerly down the street, keeping to the side and hiding in doorways.

  Lesley took out her mobile and called her mum.

  ‘What’s going on? Do you know what time it is?’ Granger was not pleased and had clearly been waiting for this call.

  ‘We were on our way back, Mum, but something’s happened.’ She described the incident at the Old Ship while Granger’s alarm grew.

  ‘Okay. I’m on my way now. Stay away from the police officers.’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘I’ll never live it down if you get involved with the police.’

  ‘Mum, we haven’t done anything; we were just at the pub and—’

  ‘That’s enough, isn’t it? You’re not eighteen, Lesley. It’s against the law for you to drink in a pub.’

  ‘We were outside.’

  ‘So how did you get the drinks? Someone went in to get them. Here I am, a detective inspector at the local police station and my daughter risks getting arrested for underage drinking. How is that going to look?’ Lesley was silent. ‘Get across the harbour bridge and wait at the other side.’ Granger brought the conversation to an abrupt end.

  As she drove down to the old town, she reflected on the trials of parenthood and concluded that things could be much worse. She picked up the little group of downcast goths, looking rather forlorn and whisked them away from any compromising circumstances.

  As yet she didn’t know the real significance of the incident at the Old Ship.

  Early next morning a fisherman returning from the open sea, spotted something floating near the harbour wall. He pulled his boat up close and saw a human head face down in the water and a black cloak swirling around in the current.

  Police sirens were heard again in Church Street and a small crowd gathered to see the body pulled out of the water. At this year’s Whitby Goth Weekend, death was real and not just a fantasy.

  DC Hampton had to knock on the door of the Airbnb for some time before anyone answered. Eventually a sleepy-looking Maggie opened the door.

  ‘Oh God, what’s going on? It’s only eight o’clock. It’s Sunday.’

  ‘I need to come in,’ said Hampton with a sombre expression on his face. ‘Can you call everyone together? I have some important news.’

  ‘What?’ cried Maggie. ‘What has he done? Is he dead?’

  ‘Just call the others please. It will be better if I tell you all together.’

  Maggie rushed around the house rousing everyone. She had to bang loudly on the door of Ben’s room and also the room that had been Dom and Andrea’s and where Jack was now sleeping, before she got a response from both men. They’d been out late the previous night. Soon the whole group of surviving friends were assembled in the lounge, except Louise, who was still in Leeds. DC Hampton went straight to the point.

  ‘This morning we recovered a dead person from the water down in the harbour. We believe this to be the body of Domini
c Holgate.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Maggie burst into tears. Mark held her, and she put her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Ben groaned. ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘We can’t until the body is identified, which we will need one of you to do.’

  They glanced at one another. ‘I’ll do it,’ said Ben. ‘I was one of the last to see him alive.’ He shook his head, put his hand up to his forehead and looked away. He started to weep. Jack went over to console him.

  ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of this news,’ continued Hampton. ‘The cause of death was most probably a gunshot wound to the head. An unidentified person who resembled Mr Holgate was seen behaving very strangely last night outside a pub on Church Street. Two shots were fired; then the figure ran towards the harbour. Another gun shot was heard so it seems likely that the wound was self-inflicted. Given that a gun holster was found in Mr Holgate’s possessions, it seems likely that he was using a gun he brought with him to Whitby.’

  There was silence as they tried to absorb the horror of it.

  Hampton turned to Ben. ‘If you could come with me then. It won’t take long. It’s just a short drive to the hospital.’ He turned back to the others. ‘Again, I’m really sorry for your loss. I don’t suppose it’s come as too much of a surprise after that last text. You did the right thing to report it to us.’

  ‘Is this the end of it, then?’ asked Jack.

  ‘It appears that way. I know it’s a great shock to you all, but maybe you can now start to move on. We’ll let you know when it’s okay to leave,’ replied Hampton, and he and Ben left the house.

  The remaining three were left in stunned silence. They all sat down heavily on the sofas and Mark put his arm around Maggie’s shoulders.

  ‘It’s all right him saying that,’ she said in a weak voice as if she could hardly get the words out. ‘How can you ever recover properly from something like this? Two of your friends gone and . . .’ She started to cry again. Mark hugged her closer.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Jack, shaking his head. ‘I never thought he’d kill himself.’