by J. R. Ellis
‘It doesn’t seem likely, but it got there somehow. It’s almost as if someone wanted it to be discovered. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Bye.’
Oldroyd remained silent.
‘Jim? Are you there?’
Oldroyd’s eyes were narrowed thoughtfully.
‘Yes, Tim, sorry. I was just thinking.’
Groves smiled; he was used to Oldroyd’s sense of drama and enigma.
‘OK. I’ll leave you to it then. Bye again.’
‘Bye.’ Oldroyd pressed the button on the phone to end the call.
Something Tim had said had made him think; odd how sometimes the most ordinary comment could suddenly give you a new perspective. Feeling a little more encouraged, he decided to go to his favourite Italian restaurant near the theatre to see if a plate of ravioli and a glass of wine would help.
After their lunch at the Royal Oak, Steph and Andy drove back to Burnthwaite together with DC Peter Robinson and DC Julie Lloyd. During the journey Steph was distracted again, but this time it was nothing to do with any personal issues. She was puzzling about what it was on the edge of her memory that concerned the case. It continued, however, to elude her and she had to abandon the effort as they arrived in Burnthwaite.
With DC Lloyd she made her way up the short main street away from the Red Horse. It was a warm afternoon and there were a number of people sauntering up and down eating ice creams or gazing at the neat, attractive cottages and gardens. Many of them were making for the Wharfedale Gift Shop. A barn at right angles to the road had been converted into a shop and art gallery. Stone steps led up to the first floor, which housed paintings by local artists in an airy room in which the wooden rafters had been exposed. The ground floor was packed with the usual variety of local craft wares, everything from cards, pottery and clothing to walking sticks and sweets. Outside was a small plant-sales area specialising in herbs.
Steph glanced at a few items of jewellery and a woollen jumper. It was good quality but very pricey. This place must be a goldmine in summer, but winter might be different, especially in bad weather. Steph’s practical mind was analysing these issues as she approached the counter. She showed her ID to the young assistant, whose eyes widened with fear.
‘Detective Sergeant Stephanie Johnson, West Riding Police. Can I speak to Mrs Anne Watson, please?’
The girl didn’t say a word in reply, simply bolted through a door behind her. In a moment a dark-haired woman in her late thirties dressed in expensive-looking jeans and a strappy top appeared.
‘Yes, how can I help?’ She met Steph’s gaze with composure.
‘Are you Mrs Anne Watson?’
‘Yes.’
‘Detective Sergeant Stephanie Johnson. I’m investigating the murder of David Atkins.’
The woman’s gaze dropped and she sighed.
‘You’d better come through here.’
The two detectives followed her into a rather cramped office and then through another door which led into the living room of the adjoining house. Here large white leather sofas stood on a wooden floor and there were imaginatively designed metal lamps and abstract paintings on the walls.
Anne sprawled over one of the sofas and pointed to another.
‘Take a seat. This is called living near your work. It certainly cuts down on the costs of commuting.’ She laughed cynically. ‘But it’s too damn near for me. Like everything else in this bloody village, it’s all on top of you and you can’t breathe.’
‘Is Mr Watson at home?’
‘No, he’s out, as usual, probably visiting some urban escapee artist who has a studio in a freezing old barn somewhere, though why anyone would want to escape to this place is beyond me. My husband does all the purchasing of that stuff out there and I run the shop.’
‘I take it you’re not happy here.’
Anne lit a cigarette and offered one to the two officers without acceptance. She inhaled deeply and blew out the smoke. DC Lloyd, whom Steph knew had a particular aversion to cigarette smoke, grimaced but remained silent.
‘Well, Sergeant, I can’t congratulate you on great powers of deduction. Yes, you’re right, it’s not my idea of heaven. I trained as an interior designer and didn’t think I’d end up selling postcards, fudge and soft-toy sheep.’
‘Is that why you had an affair with Dave Atkins?’
For the first time Anne Watson was thrown off balance, but she had a strong pull on her cigarette and soon recovered herself. Steph, having Oldroyd as her boss, knew something of the power of direct speaking.
Anne replied, ‘I could ask you how you knew about that but I can guess. You’ve been talking to those weirdoes next door to Dave.’
‘If you mean Gary Shaw and Carol Anderson, that’s correct. They both reported to my colleague that they had seen you late at night coming out of Mr Atkins’s house.’
Anne sniffed contemptuously.
‘I’ll bet they did. Just a couple of dirty-minded junkies, those two. Anyway, it’s no use denying it. They weren’t the only people who either knew or guessed what was happening.’
‘How long did the affair last?’
‘Is this really necessary?’
‘I’m afraid it is. We have to establish the facts. This is a murder enquiry.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you do.’
She gave Steph a searching stare and Steph knew what the woman was thinking: what’s a pretty girl like you doing in a job like this? Curiously, she had this response more often from women than from men, especially the ones who considered themselves arty or alternative. They thought everything to do with the police was demeaning to women who had to conform to a man’s world of regimentation. They didn’t seem to appreciate, as Steph did, that women were needed in the police force for many reasons, not least of which was the importance of countering the male tendency to macho behaviour.
Anne gave a weary sigh.
‘OK, if you want the gruesome details. Maybe I should get it published in the Wharfedale Gazette or some other pathetic little local rag. It will give all the farmers’ wives and the boring retired couples something to gossip about.’
Steph did not reply but waited professionally and impassively for the information. Anne saw that she would not be diverted from her purpose.
‘I met Dave about three years ago when we took on this place but we were only lovers for about a year until . . .’ She stopped and seemed to be genuinely affected by a moment of sorrow. Steph’s eyes narrowed slightly. It was difficult to tell just how genuine it was.
‘A lot of people will tell you he was a rogue, up to all kinds of shady business with money but I didn’t care about that. I liked his humour and his cynicism. He felt the same way about the people in these villages as I do and he could be so funny when he was imitating them and sending them up.’
‘Did he have any particular enemies that you were aware of?’
‘He had plenty, to be honest. He was too wild a character for a place like this. I bet you’ve already got lots of suspects.’
‘What about your husband?’
Again, the question stopped Anne in her tracks and she hesitated. Steph pursued her advantage.
‘I presume he knew about your affair?’
Anne stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit another. She was very anxious but still retained control. Did she suspect that her husband had done it?
‘He did,’ she said quietly.
‘And how did he react?’
The strain finally cracked her composure.
‘How do you expect?’ she said angrily. ‘He was fucking furious, obviously.’
‘Angry enough to commit murder?’
‘I didn’t say that. You realise he was one of the team that brought Dave’s body to the surface yesterday.’
Steph remembered Oldroyd’s words earlier that day to the effect that many discoverers of bodies turn out to be murderers. ‘Yes.’
‘Well, why would anyone volunteer to remove the body of someone they’d murde
red?’
‘You’d be surprised, Mrs Watson. It would draw attention away from them for one thing, wouldn’t it, as you’re suggesting?’ Anne didn’t reply. ‘Also, since your husband was a member of the Cave Rescue team, he would have to respond to a call-out. It would have looked strange if he hadn’t, wouldn’t it?’
Anne looked again at Steph, who was tight-lipped and grim.
‘I simply can’t believe that Bill would do anything like that. He’s just too placid. We’ve had our disagreements, obviously, but he’s not a murderer.’
Steph was not impressed by this either. How often did the calm and quiet man prove to be the cold-hearted killer, the one who could plan a deadly revenge? She thought of the mild-mannered Dr Crippen, who murdered his wife and tried to escape with his lover disguised as a boy. Where passion and jealousy were involved, who knew what the most unassuming person was capable of? She decided it was time to soft pedal slightly.
‘I appreciate that this is painful for you, Mrs Watson, but I’m sure you’re aware that it is our job to follow up every lead we have.’
‘Oh, I know that.’ Her tone was now rather bitter.
‘Have you noticed any change in your husband’s behaviour recently?’
‘No.’
‘We believe that the body had been in the cave system for over a week.’
Anne Watson raised her eyebrows.
‘Does that surprise you?’
‘Well, yes. Bill said that some of the cavers had been through the system only three days before and found nothing.’
‘We can’t explain that yet, but we’re working on it. Were there any particular days just over a week ago when he was out of the shop or away home for a long time? Did he behave strangely?’
Anne was silent and seemed to be thinking.
‘No,’ she finally replied.
Steph glanced sharply at her face and was not sure that she was telling the truth.
‘And finally, I need to ask you where you and your husband were on the night of Monday the seventeenth of August. We believe that was the last time Mr Atkins was seen alive.’
Anne shrugged.
‘I think I was here as usual. If it was Monday, Bill was out. He likes to go to different pubs round here, but I don’t know which one he went to.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Watson, you’ve been very cooperative. We’ll need to speak to your husband when he returns. When are you expecting him?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not sure.’
‘OK, we’ll be in touch.’
The detectives were about to get up to leave when Anne Watson suddenly said, ‘You’ll probably be wasting your time.’
‘Why?’
‘Sergeant, I wasn’t telling the truth earlier. I haven’t seen Bill since yesterday morning when the body was recovered. He came straight back here, told me about it and then went out again. He seemed very upset, which is not surprising as he’d just helped to bring Dave’s body to the surface, but he didn’t return last night.’
‘I thought you said his behaviour has been normal.’
‘It is; he’s gone off before when we’ve had rows. He usually goes to his sister’s in Ripon. I thought it had brought all the business of the affair back to him and he was angry about it again. It’s just that . . .’
She looked directly at Steph and now there was definitely fear in her expression.
‘I’ve rung his sister and he’s not there. I don’t know where he’s gone.’
Carter and DC Robinson found Burnthwaite Motors quite easily. In a tidy village with neat cottages and gardens, the place stuck out as dirty, old-fashioned and definitely not trying to attract any tourists. In the blackened forecourt stood an ancient petrol pump advertising Esso, and a tin sign for Castrol was fixed to a wall. The whole building, which was not much more than a glorified shed, was squeezed between houses and set back a little from the road. Down either side of the building were crammed ancient cars; Carter spotted two Morris Minors and a Ford Anglia. Others were beyond recognition. Some had been there so long that grass was growing through the rusted bodywork and their empty headlight sockets made them look like human skulls. The doors to the workshop were propped wide open with a brick on either side. Music was blaring from a radio, which, combined with the sound of a hammer banging hard on metal, made conversation impossible.
Carter peered into the gloomy interior, lit by two bare bulbs. Rickety shelves lined the grimy walls, full of grease guns, oil cans, socket sets and dirty boxes. Over everything there was a film of dirt and grease, ancient and ingrained. The rusty, oily smell was overpowering.
Carter ventured in, trying to keep his smart suit and shoes away from the oily filth.
‘Mr Cartwright!’ he shouted.
There was no reply. DC Robinson came up behind him, shaking his head and smiling.
‘Mr Cartwright!’ Carter bellowed at the top of his voice.
As their eyes adjusted to the relative darkness, the two police officers could see a van stationed over an inspection pit. Suddenly the banging stopped, sparks flew up from beneath the vehicle and a bright purple light lit up the pit. They could see the large outline of Cartwright holding a welding torch.
‘He’s doing a spot of welding on the chassis, Sarge,’ said DC Robinson.
‘I can see that,’ replied Carter grumpily, trying to dodge sparks as they flew towards him.
The sizzling of the welding torch seemed almost as loud as the hammering.
‘What are we going to do?’
‘Leave it to me, sir,’ replied Robinson. The DC picked up a probably rarely used broom and, crouching down, tapped Cartwright gently on the shoulder with the end of the handle. The light went out abruptly.
‘Who the hell’s that?’ boomed a voice.
‘Police, Mr Cartwright.’ Carter still had to raise his voice above the blare of the radio.
‘What?’
A huge head with a grimy face and hair appeared between the wheels of the van. It was wearing goggles that had been pushed up on to the forehead. Sam Cartwright looked up at Carter and his brow furrowed.
‘Oh, it’s you again. What the ’ell do you want? Haven’t you caught who did it yet?’
‘We want to ask you a few questions, Mr Cartwright. Can you . . . ?’ Carter gestured towards the radio.
‘No, I bloody can’t. I haven’t got the time to be talking to the likes o’ thee, I’ve got work to do. I’ve got to get this chassis fixed before five o’clock.’
With that, he disappeared under the van again. Carter looked at Robinson and shook his head.
‘Just go over and switch it off.’
Robinson walked around to the workbench on which the paint-stained radio was perched and switched if off. Luckily, there were no banging or sizzling noises from beneath the vehicle.
Carter crouched down so that his head was almost level with Cartwright’s. He tried to speak assertively but calmly.
‘Sir, I am asking you to cooperate. This is a murder investigation.’
Cartwright’s eyes glared through the goggles and for a moment Carter thought he was going to turn the welding torch on him. However, he suddenly tore the goggles off angrily and hauled his great frame out of the pit. He threw the welding torch on to the floor.
‘I’ve told you already, I don’t know owt abaht it. The only thing I know is that I’ll never get me brass now.’
This bloke’s definitely got a temper, thought Carter. He could imagine Cartwright being capable of smashing Atkins on the back of the head. But could he plan a murder? Had it been a spur-of-the-moment thing and then, when he’d realised Atkins was dead, he’d taken him down the pothole? He would still have been cursing the body for not paying him what he was owed as he’d dragged it to its final resting place. If Atkins had been killed in anger, then Cartwright must be one of the chief suspects.
‘I understand that, sir. Now, you told us that Atkins owed you money?’
Cartwright was about to launch into this subjec
t again but Carter continued.
‘But we want to ask you some more questions. Are you a member of the caving club?’
‘Not round here, no.’
‘You mean you’re not in the Wharfedale Club.’
‘No.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I fell out with that clever sod at Garthwaite Hall.’
‘Simon Hardiman?’
‘Aye, thinks he knows it all, that bugger, because he’s got a certificate in everything. Some of us were going down them caves when we were nobbut nippers.’
‘He means when they were just kids, Sarge,’ interposed Robinson, who was aware his superior needed a translation from time to time.
‘So you were a member for a time?’
‘Yes.’
‘And so was Atkins, wasn’t he? Did you fall out with him there as well?’
‘No. I’d no argument with him except he didn’t pay his bloody bills.’
‘So, where are you a member then?’
‘Over at t’Ribble Club.’
‘So I assume you know this Jumbling Pot?’
‘Jingling Pot,’ said Cartwright with contempt.
‘Yes.’ Carter looked slightly embarrassed; blast all those cave systems and their peculiar names.
‘Of course I do, I’ve been through there many a time. It’s not difficult.’
‘Have you been through there recently?’
‘No, not for a few years.’
‘And are you a member of the Cave Rescue team?’
‘Not now.’
‘Why’s that? An experienced bloke like you?’
‘How many bloody questions are you going to ask? What’s all this to do with Atkins getting bumped off?’
Carter stayed firm.
‘Just give me an answer, sir, please.’
Cartwright looked a little sheepish. After a pause he said, ‘I used to be a member but they said I was getting too . . . big and I wasn’t fit enough. Bloody cheeky buggers! Anyway, I told them to stuff it.’