by J. R. Ellis
He put on a recording of Beethoven’s early piano sonatas and lay on the sofa. He also found it hard not to think of it as wrong; meeting Deborah felt like adultery. He knew there was no reason to feel like this. Julia had made it clear that she had a new relationship and she was considering a divorce. He had no religious principles about such things; it was just that he found it hard to accept his new freedom. It was not something he’d ever expected or wanted.
Nevertheless, his canny and wise daughter, Louise, was right: unless he shed all these inhibitions and made an effort, he would continue to be alone, maybe for good, and that was not a destiny he wanted to contemplate.
He was entering a relaxed state and about to doze off when his phone went. He was surprised to hear the voice of Carol Ashworth from the Baths.
‘Oh, Chief Inspector, I’m glad I’ve caught you; it’s just that there’s something I want to tell you.’
‘Yes, Mrs Ashworth?’ Oldroyd tried not to yawn.
‘You see, I think it’s happened again.’
‘What has?’
‘Remember I told you that Mr Penrose’s murder was like a murder in one of Mr Derryvale’s books?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I’ve heard about poor Pat Hughes being murdered near The White Swan and I realised that there’s a book called To the End of My Days, and in it a woman is killed in a dark street near a hotel, just like Pat.’
‘And who wrote this one?’
‘It’s by Liz Simpson. She comes to Harrogate now and again. I once went to a book signing at Riverstone’s. I think she’s a friend of Esther Stevenson’s.’
‘OK, well, thank you for the information . . . Yes, bye.’
Oldroyd rang off and lay down again. There was no quelling the enthusiasm of the amateur detective once it was aroused. A woman killed on a dark road near a hotel – that was even more likely to be a coincidence than the murder at the Baths. Surely there couldn’t be anything in it.
Or could there?
Steph and Andy were driving home to Leeds. Steph was very quiet, and Andy, who was driving, looked sideways at her. He’d had a sense for a while that there was something going on with his partner but he couldn’t get anything out of her.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘Fine. I’m just thinking about this case I was working on with Fenton.’
Andy slowed down as they reached the narrow crossing of the Wharfe at Harewood Bridge and gave way to a 36 bus on its way to Ripon. ‘I thought it was over.’
‘That’s what he said. It’s a relief not to be working with him and those two clowns.’
‘Too right.’
‘The thing is, though, there are still things that puzzle me.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. He’s dropped the case very quickly and prematurely, in my view.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Well, this bloke at the council, Jack Sandford – his explanation of what happened was a bit weak. He just claims it was an oversight that he didn’t declare his interest, but you’d think Fenton would want us to interview other people at the council who knew him or were involved, to check his story and the background and so on.’
‘Well, didn’t you?’
‘No. We only spoke to Sandford and his wife. When I asked Fenton about it, he said he’d spoken himself to all the other relevant people at the council and there wasn’t enough evidence to proceed. The thing is, I don’t believe him. I don’t think he’s interviewed anybody else.’
‘Why would he lie to you about it?’
‘That’s what I’m wondering. He got very edgy when I pursued him on it. Don’t you think it’s odd?’
‘Maybe, but he’s an experienced detective inspector, even if he’s a bit of an arse on the personal level. You know the saying “Ours is not to reason why”? If that’s what he’s decided, then you’ll have to accept it. At least you’ve got away from him.’
They were crossing the last section of open countryside before the urban area of Leeds began. The blue water of Eccup Reservoir lay to their right amongst the patchwork of fields and hedges. It was looking very beautiful as the sun set in the west behind it.
Steph was tempted to tell Andy more about her suspicions concerning Fenton’s involvement with Sandford, but decided not to. She badly wanted to confide in someone, but she needed firmer evidence before she could involve anyone else. Also, sorting out Fenton was still something she wanted to undertake herself; she felt it was her mission. Andy was wrong: she hadn’t got away from Fenton. In fact, she was increasingly locked in a struggle with him that was becoming deadlier as time went on. The man was not only a sex pest but most likely a bent copper too, and that had serious consequences for the force. It was now her duty to bring him to justice.
At the Royal Baths, life was slowly returning to normal. After numerous searches of every corner of the building, the police had finally allowed the Baths to reopen to the public.
The final customers of the day had departed as Steve Monroe cleaned the floors of the sauna room with his squeegee. The Baths were booked up solid for several days ahead. People were being turned away at the doors. There was clearly a grim element of wanting to see where the murder had taken place. Steve found it obnoxious. He felt like putting up a notice: ‘This is the murder room. Take care!’ Maybe that would satisfy their gruesome curiosity. The whole business had put him off his job at the Baths even more. He would never feel the same again about the place after everything that had happened. He felt it was time for a change. He wanted to be his own boss and in control of things. He’d always been too timid about life and now was the time to break out and fulfil his potential.
The temperature was still high in the hot rooms and steam room. As he cleaned the floors, a voice called out.
‘Steve, is that you?’
‘Hi, Sid. What are you doing here at this time of day?’ He walked out of the hot room and saw the technician grinning at him.
‘Oh, it is you. Ever since that murder, I’ve been a bit edgy comin’ down here. Daft really. Anyway, they asked me to come and do some extra servicin’, you know, because everythin’s been turned off for a while. Just to make sure it’s all workin’ properly. It’s nice to get back and get paid again.’
‘Don’t you get a regular wage here?’
‘Oh no, casual contract, mate. I only get paid for th’hours I do, no sick pay, holiday pay or owt like that.’
‘That’s terrible. How do you manage?’
‘Bits and pieces, here and there; there’s lots more people in the same position where I live. I’ve got some other jobs and I do a bit o’ moonlightin’ – got into trouble wi’ t’police over that. It wa’ my own fault. I wa’ off doin’ summat on t’day of t’murder, so me alibi didn’t stand up. I think I got away wi’ it, though.’
‘You want to be careful.’
‘Naw. Coppers aren’t really bothered about stuff like that. They’ve got more important things to think about, like who’s murdered those poor sods.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so.’
‘It gave me a shock, though, when they came to th’house. I lost me nerve and ran for it.’ He described what had happened.
Steve laughed. ‘You daft bugger. When you do that it only makes them more suspicious.’
‘Ah know. Anyway, I think they went away satisfied.’ He looked around and into the steam room. ‘It’s a bit weird down here, isn’t it, since you found that body? It feels a bit spooky.’
‘Yeah, I’ve had enough of it, actually. I’m thinking about giving in my notice.’
‘Are yer?’
‘Been thinking about it for a bit. When Jade’s finished working part of the time in London, we’re going to move away from here and start our own massage and therapy business. It’s too expensive to rent anything here in Harrogate.’
‘Good idea. It’s nowt in my line but it’s popular, isn’t it, all that massagin’ and that romeotherapy? People pay a lot o’ money for
it.’
‘I think you mean “aromatherapy”,’ said Steve, grinning. ‘Yes. Jade’s done some courses in that and reflexology.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s where you massage parts of the feet and get a healing response in other parts of the body.’
‘Bloody hell! Well, I pity anyone who ever had to massage my feet; they’re a right bloody mess.’
Steve laughed. ‘Well, who knows? It might do you some good – make you feel relaxed.’
‘A few pints are all I need to feel relaxed. Anyway, I’d better get on with t’job. See you later.’
Newman went off and Steve continued cleaning the floors until he was satisfied that everything was ready for the next people to visit the ‘Murder Baths’.
Amanda Rigby was exhausted; she would be relieved when the festival was over, and she was counting down the days. As Patricia’s deputy, a big responsibility had been thrust upon her in terrible circumstances. Not only was there the awful murder of Damian Penrose, but she’d also had to endure the shock of finding Patricia’s body near The White Swan.
Following this, she had been invited to a hastily convened meeting of the festival committee. The committee had been intending to meet after the murder of Penrose and now things were even more urgent. They decided that, if possible, the festival should continue; otherwise very many people would be disappointed. But they had made it clear to Amanda that, in the circumstances, they fully understood if she wanted to step down from her position. This option was tempting, but she knew that there wasn’t really anyone who could take over at this point and the festival would have to be cancelled if she didn’t continue. She felt strongly that this was not what Patricia would have wanted, so she insisted that she was capable of carrying on. She saw the relief on the faces of the committee members when she said this.
She returned to the festival’s temporary HQ at the hotel and occupied Patricia’s desk. To be honest, she wasn’t just doing this for Patricia’s sake; it was a big opportunity to take responsibility for a major festival and she wasn’t going to miss it. If she could demonstrate her capabilities, she would be a strong candidate to do the job permanently.
There was a knock on the door, and Jade Darton came in. She looked shocked. ‘Hello, Amanda. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Pat. I worked with her for a few years and she was great.’ Amanda saw that there were tears in her eyes.
‘Sit down, Jade.’
‘Thanks. I won’t take up much of your time. It’s just that I promised Pat I would put together a few ideas about how to proceed with the festival without offending people – you know, after Damian Penrose’s murder. I suppose it’s even more difficult now.’
‘Yes, but the committee has decided that we should continue, so I’m sure your ideas would be welcome.’
‘OK.’ Jade looked at some papers she’d brought. ‘I’ll email this to you, but one suggestion I have is that you present Damian Penrose with some kind of posthumous award, maybe the “Lifetime Achievement” sort of thing, so you would be honouring his memory and his contribution to the festival. His fans would be really pleased with that and it would show that the festival is being sensitive, while at the same time continuing with the events.’
‘That’s a really good idea, Jade.’
‘Thanks. And as far as carrying on goes, place the emphasis on not wanting to disappoint people who’ve paid money to attend events, so it doesn’t look as if you’re continuing because you want to avoid a loss.’
‘Excellent – you’re right. I can’t thank you enough, Jade. Surely we must owe you for this.’
‘No. I said to Pat: I don’t want any money. It’s just a few ideas.’ She smiled. ‘If you like, it’s in my interest, isn’t it, because I’ll hope to get the contract for your PR next year.’
‘Well, you certainly will, and thanks again.’
Jade left and Amanda turned her mind to the upcoming evening. There was to be an event in the same room in which Penrose had made his final appearance. Ironically, Detective Chief Inspector Oldroyd, who was leading the enquiry into the murders, was to appear for his annual slot at the festival as a real police officer. It was usually a popular session but this year it would obviously be a sell-out. She had wondered whether he would cancel in the circumstances, but he’d rung to say he couldn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t go ahead. Like her, he felt that it was what Patricia would have wanted.
She looked at the clock. It was six o’clock and the event was at seven. There was no time to go home before the evening events. She was working twelve-hour days at the moment, but at least she had the opportunity to catch up on some of the paperwork. She was existing on a bad diet of pizzas delivered to the office, burgers, Pot Noodles and endless cups of coffee to stay alert. But at least she was here. She kept thinking about Patricia, and wanted to cry.
She finished her task, closed down her PC, left the office and walked over to the ballroom. It was six twenty. Ben Poole was going to chair the session with DCI Oldroyd: yet another irony. It felt like some malign deity was playing jokes on the festival. Maybe the gods didn’t like crime fiction! One or two members of the public were hanging around outside and discussing other things they’d seen that day. These were obviously the really keen ones.
Amanda went past them and into the large room, checking the seating and lighting. Ben always arrived early and was already ensconced in his chair on the stage, looking through his notes. She joined him on the stage and checked the microphone, then was satisfied that everything was ready. ‘Hi, Ben,’ she said. ‘Are you OK? This can’t be easy after what happened the last time you were here.’
Ben put down his notes, yawned and shook his head. He was weary with the demands placed on him by his different roles and by the effort of keeping his anxious wife reassured. ‘Sorry. I’m fine, just a bit tired. I’ll be OK when we get going.’
‘Good. Well, why don’t you go and have a quick drink before we start? You’ve just got time.’
‘No, I’m OK, thanks. Alcohol just makes me sleepy. I want to be sharp for this one. It’s going to be a full house, I think.’
‘Yes, DCI Oldroyd is quite a draw, especially with what’s going on. I just hope nothing else happens.’
‘What do you mean?’
She shook her head. ‘Oh, I don’t know! I’m just being silly really. This festival seems jinxed. I wonder what else could happen?’
‘Has it affected attendances?’
‘Well, the good thing is, not really. There was a blip for a couple of days, but I think the people who have been put off are being balanced by those who have a ghoulish fascination with what’s happened.’
‘I thought it might work that way for you in the end. There’s nothing the public likes more than a good murder, real or imaginary.’
‘Yes, I know. Oh, there’s the chief inspector. What on earth’s the matter with him?’
Oldroyd appeared at the doorway with the dressing and plaster still on his head.
‘Hello,’ he called as he walked to the stage. ‘Are we nearly ready?’
‘Just about,’ replied Ben. ‘What happened to you, Chief Inspector?’
Oldroyd’s hand went up to the plaster. ‘Oh, nothing, I’m fine. Let’s just say it was an injury sustained during the call of duty.’ He would say no more about it and reassured Amanda that he was well enough to continue. He sat on the chair opposite Ben Poole, just as Penrose had on that fateful night just over a week ago. Ben had a terrible feeling of déjà vu, but Oldroyd seemed relaxed, sipping water as people began to file in.
‘This evening we welcome Detective Chief Inspector Jim Oldroyd to talk about the work of the police. Chief Inspector Oldroyd generously gives of his time for nothing every year at this festival, and it’s always very interesting to hear a voice from the real world of crime fighting. It sets the fictional world into a kind of context, I think. So, Chief Inspector Oldroyd.’
Oldroyd nodded as he received applause.
During Ben Poole’s introduction, he’d scanned the audience and noted with a wry interest that a number of suspects in the case were in attendance. Charles Derryvale and Esther Stevenson were sitting together near the back. At the front, looking very excited, was Carol Ashworth from the Royal Baths. Midway down on the left was Susan Lawrence, already looking a little bored and distracted. It was very interesting but frustrating: what did it all mean? Where was the pattern? Was there a sinister reason why they were here? Was one of them going to take a shot at him? Surely not: two attempts on his life in one day would be excessive! He dragged his attention back to Ben Poole.
‘I think you enjoy reading crime fiction, Chief Inspector. Is that correct?’
‘Oh yes. I tend to be a little old-fashioned in my tastes. I like the novels from the Golden Age: Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, Margery Allingham. I think it’s because the world they depict is glittering and exciting but quite remote. Those writers tended to use private detectives rather than police officers to solve the crimes. The police take a back seat and they often come across as plodders compared to the likes of Miss Marple and Lord Peter Wimsey.’ Gentle laughter rippled through the packed audience. ‘However, I have to say there is a part of me that loves a bit of theatre, and I have been known to imitate some of the great fictional detectives if I get the opportunity.’ Oldroyd was remembering a recent case at nearby Redmire Hall, and thinking how wonderful it would be if he could engineer another Hercule Poirot-like session, slowly revealing the murderer in this present case. How extra-satisfying that would be here, in the context of the Crime Writing Festival!
‘Is that why you prefer them? Because they don’t deal with police procedures?’
‘I suppose so. I accept that police work can never be accurately depicted in a crime novel. There’s far too much routine stuff. It would make the story too boring to read.’ More laughter. ‘But it does grate at times, when crimes are solved so quickly and the story is full of amazing and dramatic twists and turns that would never happen in reality. It makes me wonder what kind of image the public are forming of the police from these stories. Of course, it’s much worse on television: all these super-detectives with their tortured private lives triumphing over diabolical serial killers, after having evaded death themselves. It makes the ordinary, hard-grafting, unattractive guys like me look extremely dull.’