The Body in the Dales

by J. R. Ellis

  ‘You weren’t waiting to attack Atkins when he came out of the pub?’

  ‘No. Is that what Susan told you?’

  ‘Even though you must have been very angry with him.’

  ‘You’re right there.’

  Craven decided to pull back and explore the wider context.

  ‘So how did you find out that your wife was having an affair?’

  ‘Susan told me herself when I confronted her.’

  ‘And how did you feel?’

  ‘Isn’t that obvious? Humiliated: the village cuckold. You wonder how many people had known but never said anything.’ Tinsley shifted uneasily, remembering the embarrassment.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘She packed a suitcase and went to her parents.’ That memory clearly hurt.

  Craven scrutinised Tinsley’s face.

  ‘So I wonder if you started the affair with Atkins’s wife as revenge?’

  Tinsley met Craven’s gaze.

  ‘I suppose there was a big element of that, and for Sylvia too. She was the one who actually turned up at the house and told me what was going on. God, she’s had a lot to put up with over the years from that bastard. No doubt she gets satisfaction from telling the partners of his conquests.’

  ‘And how did it develop?’

  ‘Is all this relevant?’

  ‘It is to me and to the enquiry, Mr Tinsley. I’m trying to establish how you were feeling about things and how strong a motive you had. The best thing you can do is answer my questions honestly.’

  Tinsley looked down.

  ‘I did find her attractive, but it also felt good to stick two fingers up at Susan and Atkins. It made me feel less stupid and trodden on.’

  ‘And was that feeling of vengeance enough or did you need more?’

  Tinsley seemed to be finding this increasingly difficult.

  ‘Look, Inspector, Susan and I were married when we were nineteen. People think it must always be wonderful in these little Dales villages, but it’s not brilliant if you’re a teenager and you don’t know anything different. We were at school together and our parents knew each other.’

  Craven nodded; he understood the patterns of rural life.

  ‘We sort of fell into marriage. Round here it’s either marry someone local and stay where you were born for the rest of your life or leave and go to the towns and cities. It was all right for me, I had a good job tending the dairy herd, but Susan never had the chance to do anything but bar and shop work. If we’d had kids, things might have been different. We tried, but she never got pregnant. She just got bored.’

  ‘So you’re saying you understood why she had the affair with Atkins?’

  ‘I knew Atkins from the caving club. He knew when a woman was vulnerable. He was entertaining and charming, you know. Yes, I was bloody furious and I hated that loud-mouthed, bragging bastard and . . . and it’s all a bloody mess. But it’s taught me that I do care about Susan.’

  He stopped and looked exhausted. ‘All I want now, Inspector, is for her to come back to me.’

  Craven decided to wrap up.

  ‘So going back to that evening. You left Sylvia Atkins by the green and went home?’

  ‘Yes, and straight to bed. That’s all I can tell you, Inspector. I’ve no one to give me an alibi. We could have stayed in the car and killed Atkins when he came out. We didn’t, but shall I tell you something?’ He looked at Craven with a grim smile. ‘I almost wish we had done.’

  Oldroyd enjoyed the journey over to Ingleton. It was one of the great perks of his job that he regularly got to drive across the Dales landscapes. At a stressful time like this when there was pressure to get results, he was able to relax and try to rest his mind. Today he listened to a CD of Elgar’s violin concerto as he coasted through the scenery. The problem was, if he got his mind off the case, he then tended to ruminate on his personal issues – in particular, what could he say or do that would persuade Julia that he was serious about renewing their relationship? Alison was right; she hadn’t completely given up on him, but it was unnerving to feel that he had to make the right moves because he didn’t really know what they were. Maybe it was time to invite her to something, but he winced at the prospect. What if she refused? He would feel rejected and further away than ever. When he got to Ingleton, it was quite a relief to have to think about the case again.

  He arrived at Johnny’s Café to find it surprisingly quiet. It seemed as if the shock of a second murder in the caving community was too painful even to get together to talk about. A couple who looked more like tourists than cavers sat in a corner drinking tea and looking at guide books. Alan Williams himself was taking a break from behind the serving hatch and was sitting at another table reading a local newspaper with a mug of coffee in front of him.

  Oldroyd went over. Williams recognised him immediately from the day that Atkins’s body was retrieved from Jingling Pot.

  ‘Sit down, Chief Inspector, I’ve been expecting you. We had Inspector Craven in here a few days ago. Things are obviously much more serious now; we’ve gone up a rank.’

  Oldroyd smiled at Williams’s sardonic humour.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know that there is a way you can help.’

  Williams put the paper down and Oldroyd saw that the attempt at being light-hearted was, as he suspected, a desperate one. His face was taut.

  ‘Well, of course I’ll help, but I don’t know how. I mean John Baxter, he’s the second member of our Caving Club to be found murdered. I don’t need to tell you that everybody’s devastated and some are downright bloody scared. Who knows who might be next? Where’s it going to end?’

  ‘I understand how bad it is for you,’ replied Oldroyd sympathetically. ‘You’re quite a close group, you cavers, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I was telling Inspector Craven about that. There’s a kind of fraternity develops. Even when you don’t like a person, it’s a shock when something bad happens. Nobody liked Atkins much, but nobody wants to bring a caver out of a cave dead, whoever he or she is.’

  ‘But it’s much worse when it’s not an accident and they’ve been murdered by someone who must be a caver themselves.’

  Williams was silent and looked down.

  ‘Yep,’ he said tersely. ‘And now it’s two.’ He looked at Oldroyd quizzically. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t be talking to you. I understand John had information he was going to give you but he got murdered first. It could be me next.’

  Oldroyd moved to reassure him.

  ‘Unless you know something about the murders, I don’t think you have anything to fear, and that goes for anybody else. I’d be grateful if you got that message out. I said at my press conference, this is no deranged serial killer. John Baxter knew something and I’m pretty sure he was killed because of that. How well did you know him, anyway?’

  Williams considered for a moment.

  ‘Pretty well, been on a lot of trips with him. He wasn’t very sociable; didn’t come in here much, just to the pub now and again. He was a very keen caver, though, and he loved diving, and that’s not for everybody.’

  ‘Because of the risks?’

  ‘Too right, it’s bloody dangerous. You dive into total darkness, not knowing what you’re going to find. People get killed all the time. John was a quiet sort of bloke but very brave in some ways, some would say daft. He’ll be missed.’

  ‘Did he have any enemies? Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill him?’

  Williams laughed, again rather grimly.

  ‘It’s the opposite of Dave Atkins, isn’t it? Loads of people won’t be sorry to see him dead, but John, no, he was a nice bloke. Didn’t have any family, caving was his life really, but he got on well with everyone as far as I know. Good builder and joiner too; did lots of work for people, extensions and stuff.’

  Oldroyd nodded; this seemed to confirm the theory that the murder was to silence him.

  ‘Did he have any special friends, people who could help
us a bit more?’

  Williams took a drink of his coffee and thought for a moment.

  ‘Not particularly, except for the blokes over in Burnthwaite, you know Geoff Whitaker, Simon Hardiman, Bill Watson. He used to go on trips with them a lot. They used to talk about it when we had a Cave Rescue meeting.’

  Not very helpful, thought Oldroyd, as those are all the people who are already suspects in the Atkins murder anyway. He sighed. This wasn’t getting him very far in narrowing the list down.

  ‘I know everybody must be as jumpy as anything and wondering who the killer might be. Are there any particular people or ideas that keep being mentioned?’

  Williams shook his head.

  ‘Naw. I’ve heard some wild stuff about strange people being seen around the caves; some think that he could have been a victim of some gang warfare, maybe he got too deeply into something he couldn’t handle, but nobody believes it. I know what you blokes would think about it and you’re right: why look for strangers who might have a motive when there’s so many people round here who would like to see Atkins dead? Anyway, Chief Inspector, you said I could help.’

  Oldroyd explained about the proposed trip down Winter’s Gill Hole. Williams frowned.

  ‘Winter’s Gill Hole. Well, you’ve chosen a right one there. You know it’s supposed to be haunted; a lot of people won’t go down it.’

  ‘You don’t believe that, do you?’

  ‘Well, who knows, Chief Inspector? Of course, I’ll get one or two of the lads and we’ll take you down. It won’t be pleasant but there’s not much to it if you show respect, like any other cave, but you want to be careful.’ He leaned over closer to Oldroyd. ‘Many people believe those caves have evil spirits in them which can lure you down to your doom.’

  Oldroyd was never sure exactly how serious Williams was on this subject.

  ‘Not nowadays, surely.’

  ‘Why not? Maybe these deaths are a kind of curse, the spirits telling us they don’t want us down there. Go up on Leck Fell at dusk and stand near one of the potholes that open up on the moor. You can hear tap, tap, tap down in the darkness, and it gives you the shivers, I can tell you. It’s the sound of the water dripping, but all the same.’ He shook himself as if from some ghostly memory.

  ‘Very atmospheric; are you trying to frighten us off from going down?’ remarked Oldroyd.

  Williams laughed too; his little joke a release from the tension he felt.

  ‘No, but I think you’re wasting your time. I can’t see how the caves are going to solve this crime for you.’

  ‘I think you may be wrong there,’ said Oldroyd.

  He thanked Williams and left. As he approached the door, a group of men with the tousled hair and muddy faces of cavers came in. They appeared to recognise Oldroyd and immediately went silent, drew back and looked at him suspiciously as he left the café, as if he might be the murderer himself.

  Seven

  T’watter goes dahn and niver comes back,

  And nather will thee, swallowed up bi’ t’black.

  Oldroyd woke up early on the next day feeling tired and deflated. He’d been turning things over in his mind all night and not slept well. He got out of bed, made a pot of tea, switched on Radio 4 and heard the farming forecast. He sat at the table rubbing his eyes and decided that he might as well go into work; he would never get back to sleep now. He was desperate to get down into the cave and see what they could find, but that would take a few days to organise. It was a long shot and he knew it might turn out to be an embarrassing failure, but he trusted his own judgement, at least in these matters.

  He left the flat in the early morning quiet. It was a sunny morning and there was a heavy dew on the Stray, the first sign of approaching autumn. Few people were around other than some joggers and dog walkers. The shops, bars and cafés were all still closed.

  When he arrived at HQ he found three reports waiting for him. The first report was of the discovery of the cave and its contents by the two officers from Skipton. It was highly likely that the person who had squatted in the cave had also followed Carter and himself across the fields, and, as Bill Watson was the only suspect missing from Burnthwaite, it was also highly likely to be him.

  The second report was from forensics and concerned the piece of metal found in the cave. It confirmed what he thought. The hook was made of cast iron and not of recent construction. It was at least a hundred years old. He was even more convinced that he had found one of Haverthwaite’s ‘iron contrivances’.

  The final report was from Tim Groves, and this was the least helpful: the post mortem on John Baxter. It confirmed the time and cause of death but contained nothing else of note.

  He was just musing on all of this information and feeling that things were beginning to gather momentum a little when his phone rang. On the other end of the line, Craven sounded rather excited.

  ‘Tip-off from Trevor Booth, landlord of the Red Horse; says he saw the elusive Bill Watson early this morning in the village. Watson didn’t see him.’

  ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘Sitting in a field behind a wall, obviously still in hiding; didn’t realise he could be seen from a window at the back of the pub.’

  ‘Anything else unusual?’

  ‘Said he wouldn’t have recognised him if he hadn’t a good long look; he was scruffy and bearded, as if he’d been living rough.’

  ‘That ties in with our theory; he’s obviously the one who’s been living in the cave. Any idea why he’s decided to come back to civilisation?’

  ‘Yes, Jim. It’s Burnthwaite Fair and Fell Race today. They have all those children’s races on the green every August bank holiday. I wonder if he’s turned up to see his daughter taking part. It’s just an idea, but you know what kids are like.’

  ‘Well done, lad, I’ll bet tha’s reight.’ Oldroyd and Craven also liked to use a bit of matey dialect, especially when things appeared to be going well.

  ‘Let’s get over there, plain clothes, no marked cars, park outside the village.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll have any choice, Jim; Burnthwaite will be packed.’

  ‘Of course, I was forgetting; well, that’s to our advantage. We’ll park in one of the fields they open up; the one by the bridge. Make sure everybody’s seen that photograph my DS got. I’ve put it on the website so we all at least have an idea who we’re looking out for.’

  ‘Will do. By the way, Jim, before you go, I interviewed Stuart Tinsley. He confessed to having the affair with Sylvia Atkins and that they were both in Burnthwaite the night Atkins disappeared. It confirmed what I thought about her story, so she’s in trouble for misleading us.’

  ‘Do you think they could have done it?’

  ‘Not impossible, plenty of motives between them. Tinsley doesn’t strike me as the vicious sort, but he could have been driven by the Atkins woman. That’s exactly what his wife was afraid of when I interviewed her.’

  ‘OK, the plot continues to thicken but at least it’s speeding up a bit; no one’s been eliminated but I have my theories.’

  ‘Knowing you, Jim, I’d be surprised if you didn’t. See you later.’

  Oldroyd rang off and felt some excitement himself. Although the list of suspects seemed to grow ever longer, at last things were moving. Today they should finally make their first arrest, and of someone who might lead them on still further.

  Preparations for the Burnthwaite Fair had been going on for some time. It was the usual type of rural village fete with local produce stalls, ice-cream vans, bouncy castles and other children’s games. The fair itself dated back to Elizabethan times, and since the nineteenth century, at the end of the afternoon, there had been a now-famous race up the steep fell that rose opposite the village green.

  Oldroyd drove into the village on a back road, avoiding the crowded centre. Beside him, Carter looked round at the bunting and the families heading for the large village green. The village fair, he thought, how quaint! Not really his scen
e. The only time he’d been to anything remotely like this was when a couple of mates had taken him off to some village in Surrey where there was a beer festival. All he remembered was a huge tent that stank of beer, and then downing one pint after another of potent stuff with names like Dragon’s Puke and Devil’s Piss before reeling out and collapsing in the corner of a field. He turned to Oldroyd.

  ‘Do you really think he’ll turn up here, sir? Why would he risk being seen at something like this?’

  ‘Pester power, Carter.’

  ‘You mean his kid?’

  ‘That’s right. You haven’t got any kids yet. Before you do, you have all these ideas about discipline and how you’ll never give in to them. Then it all goes out of the window when the little things plead with you. If Craven and I are right, Watson’s been away from his family since Atkins’s body was discovered. That daughter will have been on to her mother all the time, and if she’s been in contact with her husband, which is highly likely, he’s probably promised to come and see her in the race.’

  ‘How’s he going to manage that?’

  ‘That’s the interesting bit, and the challenge for us; he’s not going to stand at the side of the races shouting out her name. Anyway, let’s meet up with Craven.’

  Oldroyd turned the car through a gate in the drystone wall. A flat-capped farmer was standing by the entrance and Oldroyd lowered the window.

  ‘Afternoon.’

  The farmer nodded.

  ‘Two pounds fifty, please; tha’ll have to go reight to t’bottom o’ t’field near t’river.’ He pointed down the lines of cars.

  ‘Right.’

  Oldroyd drove slowly and bumpily down the slope past line after line of cars. It’s going to be busy over there, he thought.

  Ten minutes later, he and Carter were walking back to the village with Craven, who was parked near to them.

  ‘I’ve briefed all my lot and they’re positioned around the village. They’ve all got radios but they know to be careful how they use them. Do you think this bloke’s dangerous?’

  ‘If he’s the murderer he could be.’