by J. R. Ellis
‘What did he do?’
‘He was devious. He told lies. He sold stuff that wasn’t genuine: rubies and emeralds; pretended there was more gold in something than there was. He was always one step ahead of the law. We knew what he was but it was difficult to prove it. If we’d had any hard evidence we would have gone to the police.’
Steph looked at the rings and other jewellery in the cabinet beneath the counter. On top of the counter was an eye glass and some old-fashioned brass jeweller’s scales. This was a long-standing and proud profession, which was reliant on trust. Cheating of the kind Withington indulged in was hugely damaging.
‘That son of his was no better,’ continued the jeweller.
‘I understand he was the one who might have procured the things his father sold.’
‘Probably. I also saw a woman there once or twice.’
‘A woman. Do you know who she was?’
‘Someone said it was his niece. She was a student, I think, but she came up here in the holidays. I don’t know whether she was involved in the dodgy dealings, but you know students; they’re always short of money, aren’t they?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you after him for something? I’d like to see him get what he deserves.’
‘Not exactly. Unfortunately, his niece has been murdered over in Whitby and we’re investigating his connection with her.’
The old man’s jaw dropped. ‘Good Lord! Well, I never thought of him as someone who would be violent, though I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had gone for him.’
‘No, but where money’s concerned things can turn nasty, can’t they?’
‘Oh yes. Is that where he is? In Whitby?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’ll be into that Whitby jet, I imagine. Well, anyone who buys any from him wants to make sure it’s real.’
‘I think you’re right.’
Steph thanked the old proprietor and left, feeling that he’d been very helpful in a number of ways.
DC Hampton had difficulty finding the narrow back-street house where Elaine Pesku rented a room. He eventually reached the address, which was down a cramped alleyway filled with overflowing grey wheelie bins. He knocked on the door, which was answered by a very pale young woman with grey hair and numerous face piercings. Her eyes looked vacant and her manner was slow as if she were under the influence of some substance or other. Hampton put that to one side; he was here on different business. He showed his identity.
‘Detective Constable Hampton, Whitby police. I understand that Elaine Pesku lives here?’
It was some time before the girl responded. ‘Yeah, but I think she’s out.’
‘Can you check please? It’s important that I speak to her.’
‘Is it about that murder where she works?’
‘Yes.’
‘That was the darkness at work, mate. What do you expect with all these goths around summoning up evil spirits? When they’re here, we go out in white and chant our positive spells to counter them. Have you seen us by the harbour? No point looking for humans; it’s the spirit world. If you like we can hold a meeting with the white spirit goddess for you and find out what happened.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Hampton, with some impatience. ‘But can you just see if she’s in?’
The young woman looked disappointed but turned back into the house.
‘Are you looking for me?’ The voice came from behind Hampton. He turned to see the tall figure of Elaine Pesku. She was carrying a bag of shopping. She looked at Hampton. ‘You the police officer who came that day? I’ve already told police everything I know.’
‘I have some more questions. Can we go inside?’
‘I prefer here. My room is . . . not very tidy.’
‘Okay.’ Hampton referred to his notes and began the interview. ‘You told me on the day of the murder that your employer, Mr Hugh Preston, had an office in Sheffield. We’ve made extensive enquiries and cannot find any trace of it or him.’
She shrugged. ‘That’s what he told me.’
‘Have you had any contact with him since the day of the murder?’
‘No.’
‘Isn’t that surprising given what happened at his escape room?’
She shrugged again. ‘I do not know where he is. Escape room is closed and I am looking for other job.’
‘How often did he visit you at the escape room?’
‘Not often; now and again.’
Hampton looked at her. Her terse replies and inscrutable demeanour gave nothing away. ‘Did you know that there was a trick sarcophagus in that storeroom that was going to be converted to be part of the escape game?’
‘What is sarcophagus?’
‘It’s that large Egyptian coffin thing that is built into the wall.’
‘How is it a trick?’
‘The thing swivels round and there is another section at the back.’
‘No. Mr Preston say nothing about that.’
Hampton had no more prepared questions about the case but he’d started to think about her.
‘How long have you been in this country?’
For the first time he saw a worried look pass across her face. ‘Three years. I have all my papers, if you want to see. I will fetch them.’
She went inside the house and returned with documents that confirmed she was Romanian, and an EU citizen.
‘How long have you been in Whitby?’
‘Since May. I come up from London for this job for summer.’
‘And where were you before that?’
‘In London, student.’
‘Did you know anybody in Whitby before you came up here?’
‘No, I apply for job advertised online. Mr Preston like the fact I come from Romania. He say it makes everything in the escape room more authentic.’
‘I see. Did you see anything suspicious when that party arrived?’
‘No, they were just ordinary group of people; they seemed to be having fun.’
Hampton realised he was not going to get any more out of her at the moment.
‘Okay, we’ll leave it there but don’t leave Whitby for the time being. We may want to speak to you again.’
She said nothing and went back into the house.
Hampton left feeling suspicious. He didn’t believe she was telling him everything she knew.
In Annette Brown’s office, Jack Ryerson faced Andy and Jenkins across a desk. He had a supercilious smile on his face as if in contempt for the whole proceedings. ‘It didn’t take you lot very long to pursue us to London, sergeant. I take it I’m not the only one you’ve come down here to question. Why can’t you leave it alone? Dominic stabbed Andrea and then shot himself. Period.’
Andy ignored this. ‘We understand that you were once in a relationship with the murdered woman, Andrea Barnes.’
‘Yes,’ replied Ryerson and continued with mock melodrama. ‘But it was a long time ago and, no, I didn’t harbour horrendous jealousy of her and Dominic that drove me to plan their gruesome murder.’
‘How did you feel about them?’
‘God! You’re as bad as the others. I was getting some stick from Maggie about this. What can I say? I wished them well. It was all over between me and Andrea.’
Andy regarded him sceptically. He didn’t like Ryerson’s contemptuous tone, as if he thought this was all very tiresome. ‘You told us that the reason you missed the visit to the escape room last Wednesday was because you were held back at work here and couldn’t get away until late. Your boss has just confirmed that that wasn’t true. You didn’t come into work at all that day so where were you?’
Ryerson smiled and shrugged. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, sergeant, but I wasn’t orchestrating a murder. I was visiting a female friend, if you must know. It’s something I want to keep quiet about because she has a husband. There would be some unpleasantness if he found out.’
‘We will need her to verify that you were with her on Wednesday at the crucial t
imes.’
‘She’ll be happy to cooperate. And I’m sure you’ll be discreet about it.’ He winked at Andy, who found his nonchalance rather repulsive. ‘I’m also sure you’ll agree that saying I was at work is a very poor alibi if I was involved in a murder. So easy to disprove. I just said that to cover myself with my friends and, of course, I never expected that any more questions would be asked.’
‘I see.’ Andy, almost reluctantly, had to agree but he hated the man’s attitude.
‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention it to any of the group,’ continued Ryerson. ‘They may not appreciate that I lied to them and I think some of them would disapprove of my behaviour.’
The women certainly would, thought Andy, whose attitudes had become much less laddish under Steph’s influence. Where he might have once smiled and colluded with Ryerson about his behaviour, he now looked upon him with a certain distaste as yet another man who thought women were there for his convenience and pleasure.
‘Your little secret will be safe with me,’ he said, unable to keep the hostility out of his voice. ‘If your story stacks up.’
‘Oh, it will, sergeant.’ Ryerson wrote down the address and telephone number of his lover and then got up to go. He turned to Andy as he left the office. ‘And if I were you I’d go back to Whitby. Close the case. You won’t find anything useful here in London.’
Andy gave him a withering glance. ‘We’ll see,’ he said. He turned to Jenkins as Ryerson left.
‘I didn’t warm to him, Sarge. Arrogant bugger if you ask me,’ said Jenkins.
‘I agree, and I’m not sure he was telling us the truth about his feelings for Andrea Barnes. Unfortunately, I have the feeling his story about being with that woman is probably true. That’s something for you to check out and make sure you get her to state the precise times he was with her that afternoon.’
‘Okay, Sarge.’
Andy frowned. After a hopeful start that was a rather disappointing outcome. However, it was only day one of his campaign in London.
Inspector Granger gave herself the task of tracking down Philip Owen, the Dracula actor in the escape room. It turned out he was living with his parents on the outskirts of the town in a small housing estate that had seen better days. The Owens’s house, however, was smartly painted and had a neat garden. There were new-looking double-glazed window frames. Aspirational council-house buyers, thought Granger as she parked outside the house. She wondered if their son had been a disappointment to them, with his criminal record.
She knocked on the door, which was answered by a portly red-faced man wearing a cardigan.
‘Yes?’ he said, looking suspicious.
Granger showed her ID. ‘Inspector Granger Whitby police. Can I speak to Philip Owen please? I assume he’s your son.’
‘Yes, I’m Tom Owen. Is it about that do at that room thing where our Philip works? He hasn’t got himself into trouble again, has he? I’m sick o’ t’police coming to t’door.’
‘I just need to ask him some questions. Is he in?’
‘Aye. It’s a good job his mother’s out, though. This would have upset her. Come in.’ Granger followed him into the house, which was adorned with flowery wallpaper and patterned carpets. ‘Have a seat.’ He directed her to a chair in a small living room crammed with ornaments and remained standing in the doorway.
‘We’ve never had any trouble with our Norman. He’s a motor mechanic, married with two little kids; lives up at Redcar, buying his own house. But our Philip; his teachers were always complaining about him. Since he left school he’s never had a job that’s lasted more than six months and then he started getting drunk and into fights. I’d have kicked him out of here, but his mother won’t have it.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know where he gets it from.’ He turned towards the stairs and called up. ‘Philip! There’s a policewoman here to see you. You’d better come down.’ He turned back to Granger. ‘He’s idling away in his room; he’s had no work since that room thing shut down.’
Granger heard a muffled cry in the room above of ‘Shit!’ and then the sound of someone coming down the stairs. Philip Owen appeared in the doorway, looking shy and much younger without his Dracula costume and make-up. He was wearing stained jeans and a t-shirt.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said his father, giving his son a withering look as he went out.
Owen edged into the room. ‘Sit down,’ said Granger, but Owen remained standing.
‘What do you want? I’ve told you everything about what happened at the escape room. I wasn’t even in the same room when that woman was stabbed and—’
‘Okay, take it easy,’ said Granger as Owen was starting to raise his voice in anger or fear and probably both. ‘And please sit down.’ This time he responded to her firm instruction and slunk sullenly onto a chair.
‘Why didn’t you tell us you had a conviction for attacking someone with a knife? You must have known we’d find out as soon as we made enquiries?’
Owen shrugged his shoulders. ‘It freaked me out a bit that she’d been stabbed so I thought I wouldn’t say anything as I had this link with knives. I didn’t think I was important enough for you to start investigating me.’
‘We’re more thorough than that, especially when it’s a really serious crime like murder; we don’t leave anything to chance. Now, tell me what happened when you were arrested.’
Owen winced as if the incident was all an unpleasant memory that he was now ashamed of. ‘I was only seventeen, remember that. I was in a . . . a sort of gang. We thought we were tough, defending our territory against other groups. We carried weapons. Sometimes things got nasty. One night we got jumped by this other gang in an alleyway down by the harbour. One of them had a knife, so I pulled mine, too. There was a scuffle and I ended up stabbing him. By accident, really. He had to go to hospital but he was okay. That was it. I took the blame, but I wasn’t the only one with a weapon; some of them had knuckledusters and razor blades.’ He looked at Granger with defiance. ‘And that was it. I’ve had nothing to do with anything like that since. And I don’t carry a knife.’
‘Did you know Dominic Holgate before the day of the murder?’
‘No.’
‘So you didn’t supply him with a knife?’
‘No way!’ Owen denied the accusation vehemently.
‘How long have you worked at that escape room?’
‘Just this season. It’s just a summer job; it was going to shut at the end of this month anyway. There aren’t enough visitors in the winter.’
‘What do you do then?’
Owen shrugged again. ‘Bar work, anything I can find. It’s not easy in a place like this off season.’
‘Have you ever thought about moving to a bigger place like Leeds or Sheffield?’
‘Yeah, but where would I live? You have to earn enough to pay rent.’
And that’s why, like so many young people these days, you’re stuck with your parents, thought Granger.
‘How well did you know Mr Preston, your boss at the Dracula Experience?’
‘I only met him once. He owned a few escape rooms in different towns and moved about a lot.’
‘Your colleague, Elaine Pesku, told us he had an office in Sheffield. Did he tell you that?’
‘No.’
‘Did you know that sarcophagus in the spare room with the exit door was a trick and had two containers which could swivel round?’
‘What? That big thing on the wall?’
‘Yes.’
Owen shook his head. ‘No I didn’t; it sounds a bit freaky.’
‘How long have you known Elaine Pesku?’
‘Just since we started working there in May. I’d never seen her before that.’
‘And you didn’t know anyone in that group involved in the murder?’
‘No, never seen them before.’
Granger sighed. ‘Well, I think that’s all. A word of advice: don’t keep information from the police. It only gets you into deeper
trouble.’
Owen nodded without replying and seemed to have reverted to sullenness. Granger left the house without any sense of achievement other than to have eliminated a possibility that had always been unlikely anyway.
Andy’s second call that day was to St Thomas’s, where he began his investigation into Dominic Holgate’s background. When he and Jenkins arrived at the 1960s glass-fronted building in Bloomsbury, they initially found resistance to discussing details concerning a former student, claiming that it would be a breach of confidentiality. The junior person from student records who was called to reception to speak to them eventually conceded that they would need to consult someone in a higher authority when they told her they were involved in a murder enquiry. She asked them to wait as she went upstairs to consult her boss.
‘Stuff confidentiality, Sarge! They’re afraid of something unsavoury about the university getting into the news,’ said Jenkins as they waited.
‘I know; universities and hospitals are getting like private companies, worried about their image.’
The young woman returned. ‘Please come with me,’ she said, and led them up to an office where they were met by a severe-looking man in middle age dressed in a sports jacket and tie. He offered them seats, but no smile. Jenkins was right, thought Andy, they were not welcome.
‘I’m Brian Timmins, Head of Student Records,’ he said without looking at them as he consulted something on his computer screen. ‘I understand you want information about one of our ex-students Dominic Holgate.’
‘That’s right. I don’t know whether you’re aware that he was involved in a murder last week in Whitby and then his body was found in the harbour there a few days later.’
Timmins shot Andy a look of alarm. ‘Good grief! No I wasn’t. I saw that incident reported on the news, but I didn’t make the connection. We have so many students, you understand.’
‘Yes.’
The news seriously disturbed Timmins’s composure. He looked at the screen and then down at the table before continuing. He seemed to be calculating his response and exactly what to say next. ‘That’s terrible, for him and his family, obviously, and not good news for us either,’ he said at last. Jenkins smiled. This was Timmins’s real concern: how it reflected on the university. ‘We’re always very reluctant to discuss former students as I’m sure Anne explained to you: for confidentiality reasons and also because it can lead to some very bad publicity if the press get hold of things and twist them as they often do. You know, things like drug taking, sexual misconduct, students getting drunk and involved in fights.’