They gradually drew nearer the target of their morning walk: the old delph, one of the last left in the area and which, if Joanna had her way, would soon be utilised, as nearly all the other defunct stone quarries had been, as a landfill site.
‘Talk about a disgrace!’ she declared as she neared the rim, slowing down for him to catch up. ‘Apart from being a blot on the landscape, what about the danger to children – and how many suicides have we had here?’
‘Three in the last eight or nine years, I reckon,’ Bob answered, puffing as he lumbered up to join her. He looked down into the quarry and a frisson of atavistic dread made the hairs stand up on the back of his thick neck. Why had she said that? Was she psychic, on top of everything else? At first, looking down, he thought it was a dog that had drowned.
‘Did I say three? It’s four now, by the looks of things,’ he warned her, pointing with a shaking finger to the surface of the water and issuing stern commands to his heaving stomach.
‘Oh, my God.’
After wind, rain and that first, soon-dispersed sprinkling of snow in October, mid-November had decided to be kind. Crisp and exceedingly cold, but sparkling. Beautiful, good-to-be-alive weather. Make the most of it, it can’t last, everybody was saying. Meanwhile, the sky was pale blue and clear, and down below, in the shelter of the valley, foliage here and there blazed red and gold as a Canadian maple grove. The sunlight was reflected in the still, glassy water in the bottom of the quarry, with the body floating serenely on the surface.
It was a long time since Rumsden Garth had seen such activity. Frogmen and other personnel all over the place, police vehicles on the uphill road leading to the disused stone quarry, including a battered old Volvo belonging to the Home Office pathologist.
‘Unidentified middle-aged female, well-nourished,’ Gillian Hardy was dictating crisply into the small microphone hung around her neck. ‘The body has been immersed in water – ’ She looked up, switched off when she saw Manning. ‘Two, no, nearer three days, I’d guess, Sergeant. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?’
Steve Manning, who thought himself case-hardened, averted his eyes from the bloated thing that now lay on the lip of the quarry. Drowned bodies were never pretty, and this was no exception, though he’d seen worse. ‘Suicide?’ he asked, for something to take his mind off it, not doubting that it was. Nobody who wasn’t intent on self-destruction would have reason to scramble over the broken dry-stone wall that surrounded the environs of the quarry, then make their way across the rocky wasteland, avoiding the disused shafts and all the rest of the detritus left behind when the workings were abandoned. Apart from kids looking for excitement, there was nothing in it for anyone else, only for those seeking oblivion in the water at the bottom of the quarry, where they were unlikely to be found for some time. This one had turned up sooner than most.
‘Suicide? Doubtful. There are injuries to the head, could have been caused when she went in, of course, but it’s unlikely. Killed here, probably. You’d maybe have problems otherwise, getting her across from the road.’
‘Not a lightweight,’ agreed the sergeant, no sylph himself, thinking, Murder, by God! Here’s excitement. ‘But you can get a car in.’ He pointed to the hearse bumping towards them even as they spoke, the driver apparently prepared to risk its suspension rather than face the prospect of humping the body back across the uneven wasteland. ‘No means of identification, doc? No? We’ll get a description out then, put an appeal on the radio,’ he went on, expanding on this, being over-chatty, not wanting to look at what she was doing.
There was a shout from the far side of the quarry, where the frogmen were still searching. A DC cupped his hands and shouted, ‘They’ve found summat else, Sarge.’
The suitcase was heavy, and when it was brought to the surface, and the strap around it unfastened, it was found to contain several rocks as well as items of clothing and a handbag.
‘That accounts for her belt being torn,’ the doctor said. Manning looked, and registered her meaning. It was evident that the suitcase strap had been threaded through the belt of her slacks before being fastened around the case, with the object of weighting down the body. The weight of the suitcase, however, had proved self-defeating, causing the belt to tear in the centre back and the body to float to the surface.
Richmond’s new abode in Albert Road had what passed for a garden. A couple of square feet of earth, just about big enough to contain six floribunda roses and a bare, narrow strip easily filled by a couple of boxes of bedding plants in their due season. Bounded by a low stone wall which had once had iron railings embedded into it – long since removed for the war effort - its main function was to separate his window from the pavement.
So that when the big car drew up on the road outside, it almost seemed to have parked itself inside the front room. From it emerged the ponderous, six-foot-three form of Detective Superintendent Jackson Farr.
‘I wanted to see you and I have to be in Huddersfield by twelve, so I thought it’d be quicker to pop in on my way,’ he announced with typical directness as Richmond opened the door to his thunderous knock. ‘It won’t take more than five or ten minutes, what I have to say.’
‘Time for some coffee, sir?’
‘I wouldn’t say no. And not so much of the bloody sir, not here, any road, just the two of us.’
He parked himself with some difficulty in one of the small moquette-covered chairs, looking like a circus elephant, waiting while Richmond brought in two mugs of coffee. ‘Three sugars, all right?’ Richmond hazarded.
‘Aye. Still trying to cut down but it’s a bit late in the day. Settling in then?’ he asked, looking round with candid deprecation. ‘Not a lot of room, is there?’
‘I won’t be here for long, I hope. It’ll do until I find somewhere permanent. I’m in no particular hurry, though.’
‘Right. Only one thing got with rushing!’
Jacks had been Richmond’s sergeant in the days when Richmond had been a DC. None better – and one case, at least, of rapid promotion through the ranks that was justified, in Richmond’s opinion. They’d always got on well, and Richmond knew, without being told, that he’d Jacks to thank for endorsing his application for the transfer back here.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.
Jacks sipped at the coffee, stretching his thick thighs towards the gas fire. Richmond sat in the chair opposite and by awkwardly angling his own long legs, managed not to entangle with the other man’s size twelves.
‘We’ve got a body,’ Jacks said abruptly. ‘Perfect timing, as usual, wouldn’t you know it? What with Gutteridge busy clearing his desk, hopping on one foot for Friday, can’t wait for his bungalow and his carpet slippers at Southport. Me, with more than enough on my plate, and short-handed into the bargain -’
‘And you’d like me to start?’
Jacks finished his coffee in one huge swallow. ‘You’d be doing us all a favour, Tom. If you haven’t any other plans, that is.’
Richmond shook his head and grinned. ‘Try keeping me away!’ What plans did he have for the next couple of weeks? He could see how Jacks was placed and followed his line of thinking. Manpower shortage apart, he wouldn’t want to land Gutteridge with a case he’d have little interest in, and with no hope of finishing off before his retirement party next Friday. Better have the new DCI, Tom Richmond, Gutteridge’s replacement, starting right at the beginning of a case. What was all that big city experience for, if not to make use of? As for Richmond himself – the rush of adrenalin at the thought of getting back into the swing of things made him feel suddenly alive. ‘When do you want me to start?’
‘Today?’ Jacks asked hopefully, his big face creasing into a huge smile of relief.
Richmond laughed. ‘Give me half an hour. And some idea what it’s all about.’
Jacks sat back. The chair springs protested ominously. He said, ‘Female floater in Rumsden Garth quarry. Not suicide. Doc Hardy says she didn’t drown, somebody cl
obbered her on the head before chucking her in. We’ve identified her as a woman that lives on the Clough Head Estate, name of Wyn Austwick. Why, what’s up?’
A bus ground up the hill, changing gear and darkening the room as it passed the other side of Jacks’s car. Richmond let the sound die away before he answered. ‘Sorry, Jacks. No go. Shan’t be able to help out, after all.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
Richmond had a sense of déjà-vu, the feeling of having been here before as he explained to Jacks just what the position was with Wyn Austwick and her connections with the Denshaw family and Low Rigg, what she’d told him that night at the Woolpack. Jacks listened in silence, with the concentrated interest that was his hallmark. ‘Same old story, isn’t it?’ Richmond finished. Personal involvement. Conflict of interests. On your bike, Richmond.
Jacks prised himself out of the armchair. Despite his bulk, he was an active man who never sat still for long, who liked to be on the move. Here, there was nowhere for him to move to, except four paces round the dining-table and back to his chair. He went twice round the circuit, then perched dangerously on the chair arm and sat deep in thought for several minutes.
‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘If what she said to you is right, there might – just – be a connection. On the other hand, it’s more likely she was feeding you a load of codswallop. No, you hang on a minute,’ he said as Richmond opened his mouth to intervene, ‘just answer me this. The truth, mind, no callifudging. Did you put in for this transfer here on purpose to sort out who did for Beth?’
Richmond thought carefully about what he should say. ‘I won’t deny I thought there might be – ’
‘Did you, or did you not, Tom?’
‘Yes, but – ’
‘I bloody knew it!’ Jacks exploded, ignoring the qualification. Richmond stayed quiet, leaving him to let off steam, feeling the adrenalin pump through his own veins, knowing for sure now that the answer to one case lay in the answer to the other. Let Jacks suggest what he wanted, Richmond knew that Wyn Austwick hadn’t been spoofing.
‘Soon as you applied, I knew it!’ Jacks was continuing. ‘All that claptrap about stepping stones to further promotion and – ’
‘That’s true.’
‘Aye, well, that’s as maybe. And it’s no use, is it, me telling you to forget it? But I will, any road. There’s no mileage in that sort of thinking, Tom. You know I can’t recommend reopening the case, much less put you on it.’ He paused. Richmond began to speak, but Jacks stopped him. ‘Shut up and let me think.’
Two minutes later, he said, ‘I want my head examining, but I need you on this investigation, this Austwick murder. So get on with it – and officially, if I hear you’re looking for further evidence about Beth, you’ll get your arse kicked. Off the record
… well, lad, we both know what we thought of the balls-up that was made of it. I was seconded down to Lincolnshire at the time, but I heard plenty.’ It was heartening to Richmond to know that others had felt the same way as he did, would have been even more so to have known it at the time. But men had their jobs to think of. ‘So – ’ Jacks stopped and pointed a finger like a pork sausage — ‘so, as long as I don’t hear about it … Understand me, Tom?’
Richmond only just stopped himself from jumping up and grasping his hand and thoroughly embarrassing both of them. He contented himself with a grin. ‘Understood – and thanks. You’ll not regret it.’
‘Not so bloody fast! I’ll be the one that ultimately carries the can, think on. This is my neck as well as yours, so I’ll still be keeping my hand on the tiller,’ he said, never one to shy away from a mixed metaphor, and as if there was any chance of him doing anything else but keep tight control. Jacks as a sergeant had always done that, why should Jacks as a superintendent be any different?
She’d lived on the Clough Head Estate, three doors away from another semi-detached bungalow with a Whiteley and Horsfall To Let sign in the garden, presumably the one Richmond had been offered and declined. Hers was at the end of the road, a quiet avenue of identical ones, set horizontally against the steep rise of the hill, with small sloping gardens back and front. Outside, paintwork and windows sparkled, inside it was unimaginatively furnished, but impeccably clean and tidy. The gas and water had been turned off, the fridge cleared out of all perishables, and the neighbour who lived across the way, an elderly woman walking with a zimmer frame, stated that Mrs Austwick had on Friday asked her if she’d like what was left of a pint of milk and some tomatoes since she was off to Torremolinos for a holiday. She hadn’t said what time she’d be going and Mrs Dalton hadn’t actually seen her leave because she herself had been picked up at ten and taken to the day centre, where she’d spent the day with other elderly and disabled people. Only the two houses opposite had any sort of view of the murdered woman’s house – Mrs Dalton’s and her neighbour, but there was no joy to be got there as the neighbour had been at work, like Wyn Austwick’s neighbours.
The task of sifting through the dead woman’s belongings was made easier by the neatness of the bungalow, though its impersonality was sad. Except for one framed snapshot, that of a smiling young man astride a motorbike, cradling his crash helmet, there was virtually nothing personal about the place.
The small second bedroom had been made into an office, furnished with a state-of-the-art computer and printer. Richmond told Manning he could have the pleasure of running through the stack of disks later, pleasing the sergeant, who was something of a computer buff. Together they went through the papers and documents neatly filed in one of the deep bottom drawers of the large desk, finding her financial papers, tax documents and bank books, as well as research papers from each of her former projects. But of the concert programme she’d shown Richmond that night at the Woolpack, there was no sign.
Manning whistled when Richmond pointed to the size of her monthly building society repayments. ‘What did she do to be able to afford that?’ he asked, obviously thinking of the hole his own much more modest repayments made in his salary.
‘According to what she told me, she didn’t make it from these.’ Richmond indicated the bookshelves ranged along one wall, one of them containing about a dozen light romances by someone called Bryony Thorpe.
‘She wrote books?’ Manning asked, with all the awe of one who took two days to write a letter, after two days thinking about it.
‘Either that, or she was Bryony Thorpe’s number one fan – but yes, I think they’re hers. I met her once, briefly, and she told me she was a writer.’ And Manning could make what he liked of that. It was substantially true, and disposed of any questions about his previous knowledge of Wyn Austwick, as far as Manning was concerned. But what interested him more than the romances was a set of nearly a dozen uniformly bound volumes in red leather on the next shelf, all accredited on their spines to different authors. ‘Recognise any of these?’ he asked Manning, who at first shook his head, then exclaimed in amazement as one or two names sank in. ‘James Holdsworth! Harrison Priestley! And get a load of this – Willie Muff! Stone me, who’d have thought he could string two sentences together?’
‘He probably didn’t,’ Richmond said, and explained why. ‘Somebody once had this bright idea and they’re cropping up all over the place now, these sort of outfits – willing to edit or write and publish the books for you.’ Their success, he felt, said as much for the need people seemed to have for contact with their roots as it did for what Wyn Austwick had described as a big ego trip. As an ego trip, it didn’t come cheap, he decided, cogitating on those business accounts. After production costs from the printer she’d employed were deducted from the hefty outright payment, she’d been left with a very decent profit by any standards, most of which had gone into the bank, along with a number of other sizeable, as yet unexplained, regular cash deposits. There were also some large standing orders to the name of Brentdale which, together with those big mortgage repayments, seemed to explain why she had maintained only a small balance,
despite what she’d been making.
‘You can see why she stopped writing romances!’ Manning said, still entertained by that other row of books and the notion of their so-called authors. ‘Would you credit it? Old Muff! Used to have a so-called antique shop – junk shop, more like – and a market stall, till he retired on the proceeds. Sold anything and everything. Should be some interesting reading in that, it might tell us a lot we’ve never been able to prove about his activities.’
‘What about these others, who are they?’
There was always one officer, somewhere around every police station, someone who was locally born, with inbred knowledge and an encyclopaedic memory. Here in Steynton, it was Steve Manning. A raw but promising young cadet when Richmond had worked here before, he was developing into a natural successor to Charlie Rawnsley. He was a big lad, Manning, his uniform holding him in like a corset. A tight cap of curly hair, rigorously barbered, fists like York hams. Not easily roused, but when he was, like a bull elephant. Salt of the earth, the soon-to-be-retired Gutteridge had informed Richmond, worth his weight in gold dust, which had to be considerable.
‘James Holdsworth’s an ex-mayor,’ Manning answered. ‘Harrison Priestley had the furniture emporium on Market Street, retired now, left his son to run it.’ Still chuckling, picking up another volume, he read out: ‘A Million Miles of Carpets, by Harold Brackenroyd. No longer with us, old Harold. Died last year. But here’s one the wife’ll be interested in – Margaret Whitfield, her old headmistress at the Girls’ High!’
‘We’re going to need to talk to these people. Something has to account for those cash deposits. She mentioned she had to have access to a lot of confidential documents in the course of her work,’ Richmond pointed out.
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