by J. R. Ellis
Oldroyd feigned surprise.
‘What a morbid imagination you have, Andy, but yes you could be right and – watch it!’
Carter braked hard again as the dark shape of an animal loomed up in the road ahead. It turned and Carter saw two green eyes stare at him accusingly before it ran across the road and leaped over the wall.
‘A fox,’ said Oldroyd.
‘We’ve got some of them in Croydon, sir, believe it or not,’ replied Carter as he picked up speed again, ‘but you don’t usually meet them crossing the road.’
The next day saw the weather fining up as Bob Craven drove over from Skipton to Burnthwaite. He’d been pursuing a line of enquiry that had developed from his interview with Sylvia Atkins. The sister verified the alibi, but not without a little discomfort, according to the detectives who interviewed her. Craven was not convinced. Sylvia had one of the strongest motives after all those years of abuse by Atkins.
The only way forward was to find out more about her time in the village. For him and his team this would mean the hard slog of interviewing as many people as possible until they found someone who could help the enquiry. This was the unglamorous part of detective work that didn’t figure much in TV detective series. In these, he thought, with a wry shake of his head, investigations proceeded smoothly and rapidly to a conclusion with a minimum of effort and every interview was dramatic and charged with meaning.
As it happened, Craven was about to get the first piece of luck in this case in which everything seemed against an easy solution. He’d got his team to trawl through the list of Burnthwaite residents and identify people who might know Sylvia Atkins, anyone who’d lived there when she was in the village. While distributing the names to be interviewed among the team, Craven saw the name Susan Tinsley, who worked in the bar at the Red Horse. She was about the same age as Sylvia and it was highly likely that they would have known each other, given that there were not many women of that age in the village. Craven’s hunch was that she should prove an interesting source of information. He decided to interview her himself, and set off to find her at the Red Horse.
Craven parked in Burnthwaite and entered the pub to find it bustling with visitors consuming bar meals at the tables and locals propping up the bar. How many of those visitors, mused Craven, were here now because of fascination with Burnthwaite, the ‘Murder Village’, as it had been garishly depicted in one tabloid headline? On one wall were some black-and-white photographs of grinning potholers standing outside caves and underneath was a collection box for Cave Rescue. This all now seemed a little macabre.
He then saw Sam Cartwright, his large bulk perched on his usual long-suffering bar stool, and thought how key this popular local pub was proving in the investigation. Not only was it the last place in which both murder victims were seen alive, but it was also where suspects seemed to gather. Here was Sam Cartwright, and in the kitchen was Geoff Whitaker. If the barmaid, Susan Tinsley, proved a fruitful lead, what might this mean? What about the landlord, Trevor Booth? He had implicated Geoff Whitaker while claiming not to want to, maybe . . . Craven pulled himself up; he was allowing his imagination to race ahead of the facts, but the Red Horse did seem to be taking on a kind of ghoulish significance.
He walked up to the bar and tried to catch Trevor Booth’s attention. Before he could do so, he was spotted by Cartwright, who, like many people in the area, knew Craven.
‘Bloody ’ell, not t’police again. Trevor! Yer wanted.’
The landlord was at the other end of the bar talking to a couple of farmers. He glanced over with a worried expression as he saw Craven and immediately broke off the conversation and came over.
‘Inspector Craven, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it just a drink you want?’ he asked hopefully.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘It’s not about Geoff again, is it? I told the chief inspector and his sergeant what I know. They’ve spoken to Geoff; he wasn’t too pleased with me for saying what I did to the police and . . .’
‘No, sir,’ Craven hastened to reassure him. ‘It’s Susan Tinsley I need to speak to. I understand she works behind the bar here.’
Instead of being reassured, Booth’s face dropped even further.
‘Susan? Why? She’s got nothing to do with anything, surely. It is the murders you’ve come about?’
‘Yes.’ Craven glanced around the busy pub. ‘Look, if she’s here, it would be better if I came behind the bar; it would cause less fuss.’
Booth looked extremely harassed. How many more of his employees would the police want to interview about these terrible goings on?
‘Yes, she’s here; she’s serving in the other bar.’ He sighed. ‘You’d better come through.’
He lifted the counter up at the end of the bar and Craven followed him between the line of beer pumps on the bar and the optics on the wall containing various malt whiskies. Cartwright’s eyes followed him all the way but he didn’t say anything.
They passed through the archway into another bar with a near-identical set of pumps and optics. This was the public bar and games room. No food was being consumed here, but a darts match was in progress in one corner and a lively game of pool was ongoing in the centre of the room.
A woman behind the bar was talking and laughing with a group of young men who had pints of lager in front of them.
‘Susan!’ Booth called out.
The woman turned and the smiled died on her face. Did she recognise him? Craven was not sure. She had long auburn hair tied back and was wearing a low-cut, tight-fitting top that emphasised her ample bosom in the classic buxom-barmaid style.
His long experience of encountering a wide variety of human types and probing their motives had enabled him to develop a sort of sixth sense about people and their basic take on life. Here was a woman who needed and enjoyed attention, maybe because she’d not succeeded or been allowed to develop a fulfilling role for herself: very good material for a predator like David Atkins who must have seen her a lot in here.
‘This is Inspector Craven,’ continued Booth. ‘He wants have a word with you; you’d better go up into the back room.’
Susan Tinsley exchanged a perfunctory greeting with Craven but said nothing more as she led the way through the kitchens where a number of people, including Geoff Whitaker, were hard at work. Whitaker noticed the pair and watched them as they passed through. There was a cacophony of sounds from sizzling pans to extractor fans whirring and people shouting orders and instructions across the room. The heat, despite the fans, was intense and there was a strong smell of hot cooking oil. It was a relief to Craven when they left the room and went up a flight of stairs and into a small sitting room.
They both sat in rather worn armchairs and Susan immediately went on to the defensive.
‘I’ve been expecting you, with all these detectives asking questions about who knew Sylvia and Dave Atkins, but I don’t know anything about how Dave was killed and I didn’t know John Baxter at all.’
Craven smiled. She’d made the fundamental error of denying what she hadn’t been accused of and thereby admitting to a great deal. However, it also suggested that she was a very inexperienced criminal, if she was one at all. Craven was more than ever satisfied that he was on to something.
He settled his large frame in the chair and stroked his moustache: a habit when he was thinking carefully.
‘I’m right in assuming then, Mrs Tinsley, that you did know David Atkins fairly well, and his wife Sylvia?’
She squirmed in the chair a little and scowled.
‘Yes, fairly well,’ she said, repeating Craven’s phrase.
‘Is that all? Would you like to explain that in more detail?’
She flared in anger.
‘No, I wouldn’t; it’s none of your business and I’ve told you, I don’t know anything about him being killed and put in that pothole.’
Craven looked up sharply.
‘How do yo
u know he was killed before he ended up in the pothole?’
The sudden directness disconcerted her. She raised her voice.
‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Everyone round here knows that you couldn’t kill someone in a pothole like that; I mean it’s daft, isn’t it?’
‘I see.’ Craven paused, considering the best way to handle her apparent volatility. ‘Look, Mrs Tinsley, the reason I’m here is that I thought you might have some useful information about David Atkins and his wife Sylvia.’
He saw a look of hatred pass across her face.
‘Why?’
‘Because we’re interviewing everyone who knew Dave Atkins, and Sylvia when she lived in Burnthwaite. You must have known them, you’re the same age as Sylvia, you work in the bar and it’s a small place.’
She didn’t reply, looked extremely uncomfortable and seemed to be wrestling with a decision. She looked out of the window, then down at the floor. Finally, uttering a sigh, she seemed to resolve it; her demeanour changed. The hostility left her, and she seemed to relax a little. She took a deep breath.
‘You’re right, Inspector, I know both Sylvia and Dave very well. In fact, I’m not living with my husband at the moment, and that’s because a while back I had an affair with Dave.’
Craven maintained his composed professional expression, but privately he was delighted to have struck gold; it looked as if the list of suspects was about to lengthen still further.
‘The affair’s been over for quite a time now. You’ve probably already found out that Dave liked to “move on”, as it were.’
‘Yes.’
‘We tried to keep it all as quiet as you can in a place like this. One advantage of working in the pub: they can’t gossip about you because you’re there behind the bar. Anyway, I don’t feel any bitterness, at least not against him. It’s a different matter with that bitch of a wife of his. Stuart and I might be back together by now, but she had to have her revenge.’ She looked directly at Craven. ‘A lot of people would say I deserved it, but she went for Stuart when he was down; she behaved just like her husband, seemed to know when someone was vulnerable. But . . .’
All the sullenness was gone and unexpectedly she burst into tears. Craven sat with the same impassive expression. ‘As far as I know he’s still seeing her and I’m frightened because I don’t know what she might have persuaded him to do.’
‘In what way?’
She went quiet again and her hand nervously twisted the handkerchief. She seemed to be trying to summon up the will to say something important. Then it was as if the dam burst and she blurted out her fears to Craven, who was startled at how accurate his hunch had proved to be.
‘Because I saw them, Inspector, Stuart and her, in Burnthwaite when Dave disappeared, and before you ask me, it was in the paper that he was last seen in the Red Horse on the seventeenth of August. I remember that night because I was in there too, working, though I kept out of Dave’s way. Trevor was very understanding and let me work in the back bar when Dave was around. I had to go in there when Stuart came in too. It’s been awful. Anyway, I remember walking home and seeing a car parked by the green. I recognised it straight away as Stuart’s, and inside,’ she stopped to wipe her eyes, ‘I saw them: Stuart and Sylvia, just sitting there.’
‘Are you sure it was that particular night?’
‘Yes, because it was the last night that Dave was in the pub and I remember thinking how odd it was that all four of us were so close to each other at that moment; I was in the street, Dave was in the pub and they were in the car.’
‘Why was he still in the pub if you’d finished working?’
‘I finish at 9 p.m. on Mondays because I do a lunchtime shift as well.’
‘So I take it you’re saying that they could have been lying in wait for him.’
She twisted her handkerchief again and now she couldn’t face Craven.
‘I hope to God not, Inspector. I’ll never forgive that woman if she’s talked Stuart into . . .’ She was unable to complete the sentence. Her hands were shaking.
‘Why are you telling me this now?’
She shook her head.
‘I can’t stand it any longer; had to get it off my chest. I knew you’d find out sooner or later; I just want it over and done with, whatever . . . happened.’ Her voice trailed off.
Despite her obvious anguish, Craven found it hard not to smile. People had watched so many crime dramas on television that they believed the police always got their man. It would be a shock to them to know how many crimes remained unsolved, so in a curious way maybe this presentation of an invincible organisation by the media was a help to the police force. He decided he’d got enough from Susan for the moment and allowed her to compose herself and return to the bar, slipping out himself through the back entrance, past the rubbish bins where Whitaker had conducted his angry phone call.
Driving back to Skipton, he felt that at last here was something tangible to pursue: a bitter story of love and betrayal, of jealous revenge that could have ended in murder. If so, who were the guilty ones? Was it Stuart Tinsley, egged on by his lover to kill her husband to get revenge for years of mistreatment? Or could it be Susan herself with another accomplice, resentful at being rejected by Atkins? They murder him and then she has a convenient story that implicates her husband and his lover, a nice double revenge? Her distress about her husband’s possible involvement seemed genuine, but you never knew. However, what about Baxter? How did he fit into this lurid scenario? He didn’t seem like the kind of person who would be involved in steamy tales of lust and adultery.
He smiled and shook his head. Once again, his imagination was working overtime. It sounded more like material for a tabloid story or for one of the crime dramas he’d been thinking about rather than a rational and objective theory. But at least things were getting interesting.
The early evening found Steph and Andy at Giuseppe’s in Harrogate, at the very same restaurant in which Oldroyd had consumed his ravioli. This unexpected date was a result of Steph deciding that she was not going to give up and leave him to women like Nicola Jackson. Late in the afternoon, she’d found Andy in the office by himself.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked as she sat opposite him at her work desk.
He sat back from his computer and stretched. She watched admiringly as he flung his arms wide and revealed his broad chest.
‘It’s good. I’ve got that IT report for the boss. It confirms there was all sorts of dodgy stuff on Atkins’s computer, but they’re still working on cracking the code; should be interesting when they do.’
After a pause she said, ‘How’s it going with Nicola?’
He looked over quickly in surprise and frowned. She bit her lip: should she have said that?
‘Why, what’s it to you?’ He sounded a little angry and obviously resented the question.
‘Nothing. I just wondered.’ As she said this, she gave him a very meaningful look.
Carter was surprised but cautious. He’d given up on the idea that anything would happen between them and he was not sure whether this was another example of her blowing hot only to go cold on him again later. But he had to admit that he was glad that she was still interested in him, especially as the answer to the question was that Nicola had turned out to be nothing more than a one-night stand. She’d made it clear that she had other priorities; rumour had it that she was using her skills to seduce a DCI, a colleague of Oldroyd’s and a married man with a family.
‘It’s finished, actually.’
‘Oh, why’s that then?’
Steph was not really surprised at this news, but her heart leapt: he was available!
‘It was never really on, you know; just a bit of fun.’
‘Is that what all your relationships are like?’ She looked at him archly. ‘Just fun?’
‘No, it depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Dunno, on the person, I suppose, and how I feel about them.’
Carter looked at Steph with renewed interest. The signals were very positive, so why not give it another go? She beat him to it.
‘OK, so as you’re free at the moment, how about us going out for a pizza after work?’
‘Fine.’ He gave her one of his dazzling grins.
And so here they were, sitting under the former proscenium arch. Steph looked around and smiled.
‘This place has been here for ages. We used to come here when we were kids; they’re good with children, look over there.’
She pointed out various stuffed birds hanging from the ceiling and a model of Pinocchio’s house. Carter liked her to talk about her family life; she seemed to do it so naturally. He looked dutifully around the restaurant, but to be truthful he was finding it difficult to keep his eyes off her. He was usually quite confident with women, but on this occasion felt a little nervous.
The waiter brought starters of garlic prawns and Italian bread.
‘Tell me about your life in London. Did you have a wild time?’ Steph’s eyes were sparkling and teasing. She was trying hard not to link him with anything painful in her past.
‘Well, not really, too hard working, that’s my problem.’
‘I’ll bet.’ She laughed. ‘So it’s no great loss to come up here?’
‘On the contrary,’ he replied, looking at her. ‘It’s a big gain.’
‘Very charming,’ she replied with light sarcasm, but in truth she was charmed.
‘What about you? Do you want to get on in the force, you know, get a promotion and stuff?’
‘Maybe, although I don’t fancy getting too far into management. I can’t stand all that corporate managerial rubbish.’
‘Performance targets, mission statements, value for money; all bollocks, isn’t it? You’ll never get me to bow down before the great god Mission Statement.’
He mimicked an act of obeisance and she laughed again. She liked a man who could make her laugh.
‘Are you missing your mates, then?’
‘Not much so far; doesn’t take long to go back down there if I want to. You have to make sacrifices if you want to get anywhere.’