The Body in the Dales

by J. R. Ellis

  She slammed down the phone and gulped her gin and tonic.

  After his fruitless conversation with the cavers at Johnny’s café, Inspector Craven was hoping for better results when he tracked down Atkins’s ex-wife. Ex-wives and husbands, in his experience, were always good suspect material, especially if there was money or infidelity involved. Where Atkins was concerned, it seemed that there was often both.

  Sylvia Atkins had been found over the Pennines in Burnley, where she was a nurse in the local hospital. Craven and DC Angela Denby arrived at the house, a small semi in a modern estate. The paved-over garden was tidy but characterless. The wooden front door and window frames were in need of a coat of paint. Craven got a sense of struggle. It hadn’t been easy for the owner to keep this house going.

  Mrs Atkins had been contacted, so the police officers were expected. She opened the door before Craven could knock and gave them a curt, ‘Come in.’

  They followed her into a small living room, again tidy, but rather shabby. She indicated a place for them to sit but offered no drinks. Craven introduced himself and the PC and then began.

  ‘Mrs Atkins, we’re here to . . .’

  She immediately interrupted. ‘It’s OK; I know you’re here about my husband. I got to know as soon as his body was found.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I still know people in Burnthwaite. One of my old neighbours rang. Our kids are about the same age. They went to Burnthwaite Primary together. Anyway, it’s all over the telly and the newspapers now, isn’t it? Dave and that other poor bloke, John Baxter wasn’t it? I knew him too, a bit. He was in the caving club with Dave; I used to see him in the pub. Bad stuff; it won’t be going down well in Burnthwaite.’

  Craven looked at Sylvia Atkins before replying. She wore jeans and a T-shirt. She had short dark hair with a face that must once have been pretty but was now rather lined and careworn.

  ‘Was it right that Geoff Whitaker found Dave’s body?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘God, that’s ironic!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s just that Dave was involved in something, a long time ago now. Geoff’s wife’s brother was killed in a caving accident.’

  Craven raised his eyebrows. If true, that would need to be passed on to the chief inspector.

  ‘I see. What happened?’

  ‘Helen’s brother was just a teenager. Dave and another bloke took a party of them down and something went wrong. The boy was killed; I can’t remember his name. It was nobody’s fault though.’

  She looked up at Craven.

  ‘I’m not saying Helen had a reason to, you know, or anything.’

  ‘No, well, we need to ask you some questions about your ex-husband, Mrs Atkins. Can I ask you when you last saw him?’

  She got out a cigarette from a packet on the coffee table and lit up.

  ‘It’s over a month. I can’t remember exactly which day. It must have been a Thursday because I was on the early shift. He was here when I got back at about two o’clock in the afternoon.’

  ‘Why did he come?’

  She took a long drag and exhaled the smoke.

  ‘Not to see me, I can tell you that; he came to see Paul, our son. He still lives here with me. My daughter’s married; she’s in Manchester.’

  ‘Did he get on well with your children?’

  ‘Yeah, he did. Amy wasn’t too keen on her dad, to be honest. She’s the eldest and she remembers the split better than Paul; he was too young to really understand, but he gets . . .’ She stopped herself.

  ‘I keep saying “gets” – it seems strange. He got on with his dad well; he’s devastated, actually.’ She stopped again and looked thoughtful. Craven detected some inner conflict.

  ‘What did you think about that?’ he asked.

  ‘Huh,’ she shrugged. ‘I wasn’t delighted. Paul’s too much like his father as far as I’m concerned; brings his girlfriends back here all the time. I can’t tell you what it sounds like in the middle of the night. He’s got no bloody shame at all and neither have those bloody little tarts he goes with.’

  ‘I take it your marriage broke up, shall we say, acrimoniously?’

  She laughed, but Craven continued, ‘So did you bear any bad feeling against your husband?’

  She took another drag and replied sarcastically.

  ‘No, I thought he was a bloody great bloke. What do you think, Inspector? He was cheating on me with every bloody woman in Burnthwaite, and he’d been doing the same for years with any woman he could.’

  ‘So it was never a really happy relationship?’

  She paused again. ‘Look, I was going out with Dave when we were a couple of wild teenagers. We dropped out of school and were into everything: sex, drugs, you name it. My parents banned him from the house so we ran off together. We had a great time living on the road, sleeping on people’s floors, but I was pregnant with Amy by the time I was eighteen and it was never the same after that.’

  ‘How did you end up in Burnthwaite?’

  ‘Long story. We eventually got married. Dave had an uncle who ran an outdoor-pursuits centre up in the Lakes and he gave him a job. That’s where he learned all about caving and potholing and stuff like that and it was where he started shagging other women.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We lived in a little flat in Ambleside: a beautiful little tourist town, but not the kind of place for me. I was stuck inside all the time with a little baby while Dave was out enjoying himself. He didn’t care who it was; sometimes he seduced young women who were on courses at the centre. He was always good-looking and a great charmer, but I was stuck. I had the baby and no job.’

  ‘So what happened next?’ If nothing else, Craven was finding out a lot of useful information about Atkins’s background.

  ‘Dave got into computers in the mid-nineties, when PCs were starting to take off. Then he fell out with his uncle. He didn’t like Dave messing about with the girls and women at the centre and there was some argument about money. He accused Dave of fiddling something.’

  Craven raised his eyebrows. ‘Was that the first time, to your knowledge, that he may have been involved in fraud?’

  ‘No, not really; you always had to watch Dave with money. He could be generous, but if he needed money for a night out or for, you know, some stuff . . .’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Yeah, well, he’d pinch it or he’d borrow it from someone with no intention of ever paying it back.’

  ‘So you left Ambleside?’

  She crossed and uncrossed her legs and seemed uncomfortable in the chair. She was speaking very bluntly as if to show she was tough and didn’t care any more, but clearly talking about her past life with Atkins was not pleasant.

  ‘Yeah, Dave said it was too far out. We came to Burnthwaite and rented that house Dave still lives in – there I go again. From there he could commute to Leeds or Bradford if he got work in computers, but we were still out in an area where he could get outdoor-pursuits work as well.’

  ‘Did it work out?’

  ‘Work-wise it did. He seemed lucky. He got temporary jobs in computers, and if they came to an end he got work doing canoeing or potholing. Sometimes he did a bit of both. He also stopped doing drugs, said it was a kid’s game.’

  ‘What about the . . . relationships?’

  She took another drag, finished the cigarette and stubbed it out.

  ‘Oh, he didn’t stop that. I was still very young and naïve, of course. I thought when we left Ambleside we would have a fresh start. We had Paul as well by then. I thought he would finally accept his responsibilities. No bloody chance; he was up to his tricks again in no time.’

  ‘We understand he worked for Simon Hardiman.’

  ‘Yes, that was a few years ago.’

  ‘Did they get on?’

  ‘Why, is he a suspect?’

  ‘Along with many others.’ Did she realise that meant her too? She was trying to appear relaxed and not intimidated by
the situation, but the smoking and fidgeting told another story.

  ‘They did to begin with, but then he tried it on with Caroline and Simon got rid of him.’

  ‘Sorry to press you on this, but what about the final breakdown in your marriage?’

  She lit up again and blew out smoke.

  ‘It’s OK; I know you’re only doing your job. I’ve been expecting this. It doesn’t bother me any more. I’ve built a life of my own.’

  Craven looked around the room in a different light. What seemed rather shabby and basic to him was, of course, a source of pride to her: her independence, hard won after years of relying on an unfaithful, crooked husband.

  ‘I put up with it while the children were little, for their sake; classic, isn’t it? But then he started trying it on with friends I’d made in the village and I’d just had enough; he was making a fool out of me. It was nasty for Paul and Amy but better for them in the long run. They came with me and he stayed in Burnthwaite.’

  She flicked ash into an ashtray on the coffee table.

  ‘So that was it, Inspector.’

  ‘And how do you feel about him now?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I don’t feel any sense of loss if that’s what you mean. My feelings for him died a long time ago.’

  ‘Do you hate him?’

  She looked away from Craven and into the distance as if thinking deeply about her current feelings about this man who’d had such a massive effect on her life.

  ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘He treated me badly but, as I say, I’ve no feelings for him now. I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re driving at. I’ve moved on. I trained to be a nurse as a mature student and I’ve got this palace.’

  She glanced around the room and smiled at her own sarcasm.

  ‘Dave doesn’t – didn’t – mean anything to me any more. I didn’t need him.’

  ‘Can you account for your whereabouts on Monday the seventeenth of August?’

  Here there was another pause and the sharply observant Craven saw a worried look pass fleetingly across her face. It was the first time she didn’t answer directly and had a hesitant note in her voice.

  ‘Look, Inspector, I know I’ve told you how Dave treated me but I didn’t hate him enough to kill him. He was my children’s father.’

  Craven was insistent.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Atkins, but you will understand that we have to eliminate every possible suspect from our enquiries.’

  She thought for a moment.

  ‘That would have been when I was staying with my sister in Leeds.’

  ‘Why were you there?’

  ‘I visit her now and again to have a break from routine, you know. It’s hard being a single mother. Jane’s husband’s a barrister; they live in a big house in Roundhay. It’s very relaxing.’

  ‘I see. Well, if you could give your sister’s details to DC Denby – we’ll obviously have to check your alibi.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Was there anyone else you can think of who disliked your husband enough to want to kill him?’

  She laughed in her grim way again.

  ‘You could start with all the husbands of the women he had affairs with.’

  Then she looked more serious, as if she realised the gravity of the question.

  ‘He was not a popular man, but I can’t think of anyone who’d actually want to bump him off. I don’t know anything about what he was up to on the money side. It could have been someone who had been cheated out of money rather than made a cuckold. A lot of men value their money more than their wives.’

  ‘True,’ agreed Craven, who concluded the interview and left the house feeling a combination of admiration and suspicion. He started the car but sat thinking for a moment before driving off. Sylvia Atkins had clearly had a difficult life for a very long time, which had given her a hard and bitter edge. First trying to cope with a rogue for a husband and latterly struggling as a single mother. But something in her story didn’t quite ring true. Many of her replies seemed to come a little too easily, almost as if she’d been expecting the interview and had prepared herself. Her real attitude to Atkins was difficult to determine. The alibi would have to be checked and he could not eliminate her from the investigation.

  Sylvia Atkins watched from the window as the two police officers got into the car. As they drove off, she picked up the phone and quickly dialled a number.

  ‘Jane, it’s Sylvia. Listen, I’ve just had the police round. Yes, about Dave, but listen. I told them I was with you when he disappeared. Yes, I know, I’m sorry. They’ll be coming to see you . . . Yes . . . Jane, just stay calm and tell them I was with you Monday the seventeenth of August, just remember, that’s all you have to do. What? Of course not; what exactly are you saying? You don’t think I would ever do anything like that; I can’t believe you’re saying this. OK, fine, just tell them what I said . . . Yes . . . Bye.’

  She put down the phone, sat at the edge of the armchair and lit yet another cigarette. After a while, she picked up the phone again. It rang for a while before someone answered.

  ‘It’s me. The police have been. Yes, they wanted to know where I was when Dave disappeared . . . I know they’ve nothing on us but I think we ought to play safe. I’ve been on to Jane; she’s going to say I was with her that night. OK . . . No, nobody saw us, I’m sure.’ Suddenly she looked exasperated.

  ‘Well, what do you suggest? Me being there with you doesn’t look good, does it? . . . How will they find out? We can trust Jane . . . Yes, I’m sure. Anyway, they’re bound to get on to you soon and they’ll be over to see you so just keep your nerve and keep to the story: I was in Leeds, right? . . . OK, back to the cows.’

  Simon Hardiman had spent an exhausting morning cleaning various items of equipment while Caroline was doing an excellent job of showing a group of sceptical-looking teachers around the hall. Why the teachers looked so negative, he couldn’t understand; the teaching staff from the school had a great time while the kids were being looked after by the hall staff and taken out to do various activities. Anyway, he was able to make his escape for a couple of hours. He and Caroline periodically allowed each other these breaks as being cooped up at the hall all the time could get very oppressive. Sadly, they were very rarely able to go out together these days as it was nearly always necessary for at least one of them to be on duty.

  He drove down into Burnthwaite and parked the van in the car park of the Red Horse. Inside there was the usual lunchtime bustle of people, mostly tourists, drinking and eating. From behind the bar, Trevor Booth saw Hardiman and came over.

  ‘Well, stranger, we haven’t seen you for a bit.’

  ‘Too busy, Trevor, can’t get away.’

  ‘I thought this was your quiet time, you know, school holidays.’

  Hardiman laughed.

  ‘No such luck. When you’ve got fewer bookings you’ve got to take the chance to service all the equipment or decorate the rooms and stuff like that. Anyway, I’ll have a pint of bitter.’

  When the pint was pulled, he took a long drink and found it very refreshing. Turning round to survey the bar, he was slightly surprised to see Stuart Tinsley by himself eating a sandwich and drinking a pint. He went over to the table.

  ‘Hi, Stuart, didn’t expect to see you here at this time. Has Fred Clark let you out for the afternoon?’

  ‘Bloody hell no; he doesn’t know I’m here. He doesn’t like his workers drinking at dinner time, or after work, for that matter. In fact he doesn’t like anything which involves enjoying yourself; tight, miserable git.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘I only come here a couple of times a week, pretend I’m going home and I suck these on the way back.’ He produced a packet of extra-strong mints. ‘I’ll have to be getting back soon.’ He sighed and rubbed his eyes. He seemed worn out.

  Hardiman sat down.

  ‘It’s pretty bad with these murders, isn’t it? You went down with some of the team, didn’
t you, to bring Dave Atkins up? I was over in Skipton when the call went out.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Tinsley looked down and chewed on his sandwich. Like all the cavers who had been down to retrieve the body that day, he was not keen to talk about it.

  ‘Where was he, you know, in the cave?’

  ‘Right down at the bottom of the system, laid across Sump Passage.’ He took another bite of his sandwich; Hardiman had another drink of his beer.

  ‘It was bloody hard, I can tell you, getting him out; right through that Mud Crawl bit we had to just drag him through. It’s not much fun with a dead body.’

  ‘How do you think he got there?’

  Tinsley looked at Hardiman. ‘No idea,’ he said shaking his head.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Hardiman. ‘Then there’s John Baxter. Have you heard anything about that?’

  ‘Nothing, only what was on the news with that chief inspector bloke. Seems he was smashed on the back of his head in his garage. That’s a lot worse; he was a good mate of mine in the club, though he kept himself to himself most of the time. I don’t think many people will be crying over Atkins.’

  ‘Do you think it could have been a burglary that went wrong? There’s been a few break-ins recently. John might have caught the intruder, you know, who panicked, hit John and ran off.’

  ‘Could be, but didn’t you see that inspector on the telly? Said he thought John was about to tell him something about Dave Atkins, but the murderer got to him first; they seem to think the murders are linked.’

  ‘Maybe, you never know with the police. Have you had them round to see you yet?’

  Tinsley looked startled.

  ‘No, why should I?’

  ‘Well, with you bringing the body up, you know.’

  There was another reason but Hardiman didn’t want to mention it. Most of the village knew and the police were bound to get on to it soon.

  ‘They’ve been up to the hall.’

  ‘Who has?’

  ‘Same chap, that Chief Inspector Oldroyd. He was asking about when Atkins worked for us.’