The Royal Baths Murder

by J. R. Ellis

  Fenton was sweating. This had all come out of the blue; he’d had no time to prepare a story. Then he suddenly realised who must be behind this.

  ‘If Detective Sergeant Johnson has been giving you information, sir, I wouldn’t trust it.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Walker sharply.

  ‘She . . . She’s young and inexperienced and she jumps to conclusions about things. She and I have never . . . got on together.’

  ‘What on earth are you implying? That she has some grudge against you and is trying to get you into trouble? I’ve always found her a very reliable officer.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Derek. I’m not making any judgements now but I have decided this is a matter of sufficient seriousness that I’m going to report it to the PCC. There will need to be an investigation by members of another force. In the meantime I have to suspend you from all duties pending the said investigation. You will need to organise representation.’

  It was all very formal. Fenton decided to say nothing more. He was stunned.

  ‘Ian here is going to escort you off the premises. I have to say that I’m very sad that this has happened, but I can’t say any more at the moment.’

  Without a word, Fenton got up and left the room, followed by the DI. As he collected his jacket and was accompanied out of the office, he was watched by Steph, hiding behind a storeroom door. When he’d gone, she looked up to see Nicola, Cynthia and Sharon peering round another door. She gave them the thumbs-up sign.

  As Fenton was leaving the building, Hancock and Turnbull, together as ever, were just coming in. Their mouths dropped open as they saw their boss being frogmarched off the premises.

  ‘What the hell are you staring at!’ growled Fenton as he strode past them.

  Esther Stevenson and Charles Derryvale met for coffee for the last time before Derryvale headed off back to York. They had somewhat recovered from the traumas of the Murder Mystery Evening.

  ‘Well, what a festival it’s been this year!’ remarked Derryvale, munching on a croissant. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever be able to see this town in the same way again but I’m quite sad that it’s all over. It’s been so exciting.’

  ‘Honestly, Charles, it’s been terrible!’ replied Esther. ‘I’m glad it’s all over. I think I’ll find it better in future years. I can see now that Penrose was becoming a bit of an obsession with me, so much so that I couldn’t really enjoy the festival. I was concentrating on how we could disrupt and annoy him with our protests.’

  ‘I suppose that’s the end of all that, is it?’

  ‘Not entirely. We’re going to pursue things with his publishers. It’s a question of justice. The women he stole those ideas from need recognition. It might be easier now that he’s no longer here.’ She sipped her coffee, looking as focused and determined as ever, in spite of what she’d said about her obsession.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, though,’ continued Derryvale, wiping crumbs from around his mouth. ‘We’d better book in early for next year. After the exposure in the press the festival has had this year, people are going to be flocking here.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Derryvale’s eyes glinted mischievously. ‘I’m sure the police have finally found the real culprits, but did you ever consider that the whole thing could have been masterminded by someone on the festival committee? What an amazing publicity stunt! “The Crime Writing Festival Where Real Crimes Happened”. It’s guaranteed to get the punters in.’

  Esther pursed her lips. ‘Charles, that’s positively bad taste again and it’s not funny. Three people have been killed, including poor Pat Hughes.’

  ‘Bah! Yes, I suppose you’re right.’ Derryvale finished his coffee and looked at the cup with dissatisfaction, as if he’d have preferred it to have been filled with something stronger. ‘But what an amazing crime fiction story it would make, don’t you think?’

  Stevenson shook her head. ‘You’re incorrigible, Charles, and no, I don’t think it would make a good crime novel. If you wrote a plot based on what we’ve seen here, in the last two weeks, no one would accept it as being remotely credible.’

  John Sinclair heard on the radio that arrests had been made in the Penrose case. Good news at last, especially after that ghastly Murder Mystery Evening at The White Swan. It was a relief to him that no one he knew had been involved, and the effect on him was cathartic. A line had finally been drawn under his long relationship with Damian. While the killer had been on the prowl, he somehow felt that the malign spirit of his former lover was still brooding over the town.

  Amy brought in the post, and there he read further good news: one of his authors had been nominated for an award, which was marvellous publicity for John’s business. This made him realise that he had been wrong in the first place to ask for Damian’s help. Making a success of this business by himself was important for his sense of self-worth. He needed to free himself from his reliance on his charismatic but unreliable friend. Damian’s influence on him had been too strong, too long and, as the years passed, increasingly a burden. He rang Ed to tell him the news.

  ‘Yes, great, isn’t it? It’s all been cleared up. He was killed by one of his victims; those women that he seduced and stole ideas from . . . I feel fine about it; in fact, I feel that a burden has been lifted. I’m going to make this business succeed . . . I know I can do it. Look, let’s go out and celebrate this weekend . . . Yes, book a table at that Italian place you like for Friday night . . . Yes, that one . . . Why not? Things are looking up, Ed. We’ve got some happy times ahead.’

  ‘You stupid fool! How could you do such thing? Do you think you’re some kind of Mafia boss who can control the police? When you said you were going to deal with that detective, I didn’t know you meant like that. I didn’t know you already had an agreement with him when he came to interview me. He was very unpleasant.’

  Clare Bayliss was in an incandescent rage and the barn conversion on the edge of Nidderdale shook with her shouts and screams. Jack Sandford sat looking sheepish on the sofa. His shoulders were drooped and he looked away from Clare, who stood above him with her hands on her hips.

  ‘What else could I have done?’ he said. ‘He was on to me; he uncovered evidence a while ago that I’d accepted bribes. Your contract just added to the suspicion, although that was a genuine mistake.’

  ‘A mistake that also made the police suspicious of me; they thought I’d got the contract for the Baths so that I could somehow plan Damian’s murder.’

  ‘I know; I’m sorry, but my agreement with Fenton worked well until now. He had to act up being tough when he interviewed us because he had that sergeant with him.’

  ‘And what was the plan in the long term? You had a bent copper on your hands, who could have blackmailed you any time he liked.’

  ‘He couldn’t have said anything because I know things about him too. He’s taken bribes from me to stop any investigations.’

  ‘And who do you think would have been the most likely to be believed? A detective with years of experience, who would know how to present things to his own advantage, or Mr Big, the failed businessman-turned-councillor, who’s left a trail of evidence about his corrupt dealings. Mr Bean, more like.’

  ‘Hey, that’s not fair. My business hasn’t failed.’

  ‘Huh! Don’t think I don’t know why you don’t go into the office much. It’s nothing to do with your council work.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been doing a bit of investigation myself. You don’t have a bloody office anymore!’

  Jack shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. ‘The rent was too much. I decided to run the business from home. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me because you were embarrassed. And what happened to your dynamic workforce?’ Clare asked sarcastically. ‘You let them all go, I presume; doesn’t sound like a flourishing concern to me.’

  ‘Well, things have been . . . difficu
lt.’ All his confidence and charisma had drained away. He was almost whispering. She looked at him with contempt.

  ‘You’re a huge disappointment to me.’

  ‘Clare!’

  ‘Yes. After Damian, I thought I’d found someone who would be straight with me, someone I could trust. You’ve been plotting behind my back and keeping me in the dark about your business and your shenanigans on the council, and you’ve made me a suspect in these murders. Now you’ve lost everything.’

  Sandford squirmed but he knew it was true. He and Fenton hadn’t covered themselves well enough and someone, probably Ben Poole, had turned evidence in to the police. Once the investigation into Fenton uncovered everything, he would have to resign from the council and would probably face prosecution. He made a weak attempt to go on the offensive.

  ‘Anyway, you said you could put a stop to people prying. What happened to that?’

  ‘What? So it’s my fault, is it? I tried to warn off Ben Poole by putting the frighteners on poor Geraldine. I wish I hadn’t now. You make it so easy for people like him, there’s no point. I think you deserved to be caught.’

  ‘Clare!’ he repeated but it sounded weak.

  She gave him a steely glare.

  ‘So let’s be clear. You’re going to have to rely on me from now on and I’m going to be calling the shots. I’m sick of men messing up my life and I’m going to be in control. Understand?’

  Sandford looked into her implacable face and saw no mercy. He felt the bitter taste of defeat.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Andy, shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe it.’ He and Steph were in the sitting room of their flat in Leeds, overlooking the River Aire. They were sharing a bottle of red wine as Steph told Andy all that had happened with Fenton, including her alliances with Ben Poole and with the women in the office. She’d decided it was time to share things with him.

  ‘Well, it all happened, I can assure you, but you don’t say a word to anyone, not even the boss.’

  ‘That bastard, Fenton!’ said Andy as a spasm of rage went through him. ‘You should have told me he was harassing you and I would have—’

  ‘Exactly, which is why I didn’t tell you. You would have probably got yourself into huge trouble assaulting a senior officer or something.’

  ‘He would have bloody well deserved it.’

  ‘Maybe, but it was better this way. We didn’t want to go to the men to sort it out for us, as if we’re helpless. That just confirms us as weak, needing protection, subordinate. You know what I mean. There comes a time when you need to deal with it yourself.’

  Andy’s anger subsided, and he smiled at her with admiration as he drank his wine. ‘I’d like to have seen Fenton’s face when you all sprang out of your hiding places and snapped the photograph.’

  Steph laughed. ‘He wasn’t pleased, I can tell you. If looks could kill. He knew I was behind it. I don’t know whether he suspects I was involved in uncovering the corruption business, but as I was on that enquiry with him and objected when he closed it down, he must wonder.’

  ‘He won’t be coming back, that’s for sure. Good job too. It would have been really difficult for you to work there if he’d still been around, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, so it’s worked out well that we’ve got him over the other business too.’

  ‘God, that was risky, though. Following him around and investigating without permission like some kind of private investigator in a thriller! You could have got into serious trouble.’

  ‘Which is why you have to keep all this to yourself.’

  ‘So that journalist, Ben Poole, sent in a dossier of stuff about Fenton and Sandford?’

  ‘He did, and it ended up with DCS Walker. None of it was conclusive, but when they start to explore and find that Fenton shut down the investigation without reason, and when they look at phone calls, payments and council records, they’re going to discover exactly what was going on. They’d had a cosy arrangement for some time, I think. Fenton was just acting tough with Sandford and his wife when we interviewed them.’

  Andy looked at her again. ‘Tell me one thing, though. How do you feel about Fenton getting away with all that sexual harassment and blackmailing you? Wouldn’t you rather have called him out and let the authorities deal with it?’

  Steph thought for a while. ‘Good question. Yes, ideally, but we were worried that, as women are in the minority at work, Fenton would have been investigated by men and maybe let off with a slap on the wrist. They would have had to do something but it still might have been fudged.’

  ‘Surely they would have taken it seriously these days?’

  ‘You might think so, but you’re a man. It looks different from our perspective. There’s still a lot of chumminess between men and thinking that all this stuff with women is just a bit of fun, which the women can’t take because they have no sense of humour.’

  ‘Right. Well, what can I say? Good on you. I’m proud of you.’

  ‘Steady on, nothing patronising!’ replied Steph, but she was smiling.

  ‘You’re joking – I wouldn’t dare! Anyway, here’s to you.’ He raised his glass and drained it. Steph did the same.

  ‘Yes, it’s been one of the strangest cases I’ve ever been involved in,’ observed Oldroyd as he sat in an armchair in his flat. Outside, the evening light was slanting over the smooth acres of grass, as it had at Ripley Castle only a few days before. The pace had been hectic since then, and it was a relief to be able to relax. Deborah and Alison were sitting together on the sofa, and all three were sipping coffee after a meal prepared by Oldroyd. ‘Prepared’ was a little overstated. Like many men of his generation, Oldroyd’s cooking repertoire was very limited, but he rejoiced in the good selection of food now available in the better supermarkets. Tomato and red pepper soup from a carton, linguine with seafood and a sticky toffee pudding, all from the top range of prepared foods, had made an excellent meal. He sat with a satisfied smile on his face but this was more to do with the fact that, as expected, his sister and Deborah had seemed to get on really well from the moment they were introduced.

  ‘The seemingly impossible murder of a crime writer at a Crime Writing Festival,’ he continued, ‘and at the end we discover the whole thing was a kind of weird play devised by the psychopathic killer with herself in the starring role. It’s all enough to “do your head in”, as I think they say nowadays.’

  ‘You say the killer was hiding in the swimming pool?’

  ‘Yes, it was ingenious, but you gave me a hint, Deborah, at The White Swan, when you said the murderer could be hiding in plain sight. It reminded me about camouflage and how the person could be somewhere obvious but we couldn’t see them. I’d seen a picture of a chameleon that set me thinking, but you sort of confirmed that train of thought in my mind: that they were there but at the same time invisible. Also, she managed to stay underwater because she was breathing through a tube that ran through the tubular metal supports at the side of the steps into the pool. There was the answer straight in front of where we were standing, but we didn’t see it.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad to have been of assistance.’

  ‘Oh, that’s always happening, Deborah,’ said Alison. ‘He’s always picking up clues from things you say or things he sees when he’s with you.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Oldroyd. ‘I got the idea of the breathing tube when you were talking about the umbilical cord when you went off to see a parishioner.’

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ laughed Alison.

  ‘And all this in Harrogate, of all places!’ said Deborah.

  ‘Yes, I’ve long since learned that the more genteel and ordered a place seems, the more darkness is being concealed beneath,’ observed Alison. ‘But Jim, didn’t you say she had some real motives? It wasn’t just to do with her dark imagination, was it? Hadn’t that writer seduced her, stolen her stories and then left her?’

  ‘Yes, he’d pinched her ideas, but I’m not sure you could say he seduced her.
She was always well in control and was using him to try and get into the publishing world, and she bitterly resented his theft of her ideas, like they all did. The problem was that she reminded me of Iago in Othello. The motives given don’t seem to properly explain the actions: the twisted and almost exuberant way in which she enjoyed orchestrating the whole thing; just to gain fame? I’ve always thought that Iago is Shakespeare’s depiction of a psychopath, and it was the same with her: manipulative, remorseless, with an ultimately inexplicable darkness at the centre. She’s a highly intelligent and well-read woman, but her education is only a kind of civilised veneer over her ruthless and violent nature.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, Deborah, for your professional view about psychopaths. My detective sergeant asked me what causes them to behave like that and I couldn’t answer him.’

  Deborah put down her cup. ‘Wow, that’s a big one, Jim! The honest answer is, we don’t know. There are theories about deficiencies in the brain, but as a therapist I believe that our identities result from our experiences. I would say that people who exhibit those behaviours have failed to form attachments and learn what love is. They’re unable to empathise, and therefore live a completely self-centred life. It’s tragic for them as well as for the victims if they turn out violent.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Alison. ‘There are explanations for many of the bad things in the world, but sometimes we just have to accept that evil can be a mystery, a darkness we can’t always explain.’

  ‘That’s why Iago is the most terrifying character in Shakespeare,’ continued Oldroyd, ‘because in the end there’s no satisfactory explanation for what he does. He gives us plenty of motives himself but ultimately we’re not convinced. He thwarts our need for behaviour to be explicable, and that’s alien.’