by J. R. Ellis
‘Do you think he is?’
‘Still too soon to say. He was mixed up with Atkins all right, but we’re not sure how. They’ve all seen the photograph?’
‘Yep.’
They walked across the bridge and Carter looked over to where Oldroyd had demonstrated skimming on the first day of the investigation. Today the grassy banks near the water were full of families picnicking and children paddling in the shallow edge of the river.
As they neared the village green, the sound of a brass band drifted over from the far side. They began to walk past the stalls selling sweets and homemade cakes. Oldroyd stopped.
‘Better split up now,’ he said quietly. ‘Just wander round and stay alert.’
They went their separate ways and merged with the crowd. Oldroyd looked beyond the village, contemplating the broad sweep of Burnthwaite Fell shortly to be scaled by the racers. The upper slopes were reddish purple with the late August heather. It all looked grand and impressive, dwarfing the happy human activity below. The scene was so beautiful and inspiring that it was difficult to believe that they were investigating two brutal murders. The bustling fair was testimony to the doggedness of the human determination to carry on normal life whatever had happened. Surrounding it was an awesome landscape, indifferent to human affairs.
As Oldroyd mused on the scene, Carter was occupied by a group of medieval knights reconstructing a battle. He was more used to the music and energy of the street festivals like the Notting Hill Carnival. This was a quiet affair compared with that. Nevertheless, he found himself interested in the sword fights and jousting, and on the edge of the ‘arena’ he encountered the best thing of all: a medieval cannon. This was loaded with powder, then a taper was held to the touch hole and the cannon gave off a formidable crack, smoke and sparks belching from the front. An elderly man in costume with a grimy face seemed to be in charge of the cannon. Carter could imagine scores of men looking just like that on some battlefield in the past: smoke drifting over the brutal scene, the smell of gunpowder and the screams and cries mingled with furious clashing of metal.
Returning to reality, he walked on to another part of the green and encountered a scene far removed from a battle, but still competitive. Children’s races were taking place. At the moment it was the egg-and-spoon race and a line of eight-year-olds were running along trying desperately not to spill the precariously balanced eggs, to shouted encouragement from their parents and siblings. It seemed curiously twee and 1950s to the city-bred Carter, but there was also something touching about kids who could enjoy something old-fashioned and harmless. As he saw them giggling with the wholesome fun of it, he was saddened to think of some of the young kids he’d encountered in London: foul mouthed, sophisticated beyond their age, knocking about estates and getting into trouble. Not for the first time recently, he found that everything he knew in London seemed a long way away.
Across the other side of the green, Oldroyd was strolling past stalls selling homemade cakes and chutney. Further on he came unexpectedly to one manned by the Hardimans which was advertising Garthwaite Hall and the facilities it offered.
‘Afternoon, Inspector, what brings you here?’ said a surprised-looking Simon Hardiman as Caroline spoke to an enquirer.
Oldroyd was anxious not to have his identity broadcast too widely so he moved close to the stall and spoke softly.
‘Just a bit of undercover work, so I’d be grateful if you just kept quiet.’
‘Oh, right. Well, we’re just here for the publicity, you know; every little helps.’
‘Quite,’ said Oldroyd and moved on. He began to watch the egg-and-spoon race on the opposite side to Carter and at the same time look around the crowd. If Craven’s theory was right, this was where they needed to be alert.
The egg-and-spoon race came to an end with a round of applause. Around the green, various sideshows were in full swing. Some unfortunate individual, probably a teacher from the local primary school, was having wet sponges thrown at him. There was a big tombola stall and someone in a clown costume, which included a large headpiece. This caught Oldroyd’s attention; could that be Bill Watson? It was certainly a complete disguise, but surely too risky. If he was challenged, the whole thing could come unstuck. No, he would want something much quieter, in the background.
A voice came over the public address system.
‘The next race is the fifty-metre sprint; boys under eleven. Next after that will be the same race for girls. Boys, come up to the line, please.’
Oldroyd nodded discreetly to Carter across the green. The second race would be the one in which Alice Watson would probably run. Boys in shorts and running vests received pats on the back and words of encouragement and walked over to the starting line. Carter and Oldroyd were not watching them. They were scanning the crowd for Anne Watson and her daughter.
Oldroyd was the first to spot them. He moved behind the other spectators to avoid being seen. He spoke quietly into the radio.
‘Carter, they’re coming over on my side to my right. Try to stay inconspicuous.’
‘OK, sir. She won’t know us, will she? It was Steph who interviewed her.’
‘Yes, but she must expect that the police are out looking for her husband. Let’s not take any chances.’
Oldroyd watched the elegant woman wearing dark glasses and her daughter in a tracksuit and T-shirt. They came towards him but then veered off towards an ice-cream van. They stopped. Oldroyd looked hard. A starting gun went off and the boys’ race began. Oldroyd hardly noticed. That was not Bill Watson serving in the van, it was a ginger-haired man with a full beard. He handed the girl a can of cola and the mother paid. Oldroyd expected them to move on past him to the starting line, but they stayed by the van. The girl didn’t open the can. She was looking up and appeared to be talking to the man who had served her the drink.
Oldroyd frowned. There was something about this that wasn’t right; somehow, the angle of her posture was strange. She seemed to be facing further to the right as if she was talking to someone at the side of the ice cream seller, someone who was out of sight.
That was it! Watson was hiding in that van, standing to the right so he couldn’t be seen at the window! Oldroyd grabbed his radio.
‘Carter, he’s in that ice cream van, I’m pretty sure, hidden to one side. The girl’s talking to him now.’
‘Right, sir, shall we rush it?’
‘No, tell the others that we think we’ve got him. But we’ve got to do this carefully. If we pile into the van now it’s going to cause a terrible scene, ruin the show and the races and I might be wrong. We’ve just got to keep watching the van and go for it when the time’s right.’
‘OK.’
As Oldroyd finished speaking, the girl left the van and walked with her mother behind him to the starting line.
The boys’ race finished to great shouts and applause. A poor lad who had fallen was led away crying by his father. As the girls lined up, Oldroyd moved behind a tree so that he could keep the van in view without being seen.
‘On your marks, get set . . . Go!’ The starting gun blasted again. The girls shot off, pigtails bouncing, and Alice was near the front. Oldroyd kept his focus on the van and as the girls passed it a second figure came into view inside, craning forward to see what happened at the finishing line. As Oldroyd suspected, Bill Watson’s eagerness to see how his daughter did in the race had briefly caused him to betray his hiding place.
Alice came in second and then ran over to her mother, who was applauding enthusiastically. Oldroyd got on the radio again.
‘He’s definitely in there, Carter; I’ve seen him. I’m going to stay in this position. Tell the others to form a perimeter around the van, but at a distance.’
The detectives got into their positions and waited. The children’s races continued and in the distance, by the Red Horse, the sound of a piano accordion and a jingling of bells indicated that a Morris Dancing team had started to perform.
Oldroyd
turned to Craven. ‘What do you think he’ll do?’
‘I’m not sure, Jim. He’ll probably just stay in there and be driven off.’
‘That’s what I’m expecting; we’ll have to stop the van as soon as it gets away from here; keep the fuss to a minimum. Do we know who owns this van? He’s obviously helping Watson to conceal himself.’
‘Almost certainly a bloke called Jack Armstrong; bit of a wild character; yet another potholer. He’s got two vans, this and another he lives rough in.’
‘He hasn’t come up in our investigations, has he?’
‘No, but it could be just that he owed Bill Watson a favour, no questions asked. I can imagine Jack Armstrong having to lie low himself now and again.’
‘So he’d understand?’
‘I think so.’
‘OK, stay in position. I don’t want a big scene and pictures in the paper: “Police Ruin Burnthwaite Fair” and all that.’
Slowly the afternoon progressed; the van stayed put and did a brisk trade with the children and their parents. The green seemed to be full of people licking ice-cream cones, some with enormous chocolate flakes sticking out of them. Carter was sorely tempted himself, but knew it was out of the question. The detectives stayed in their positions maintaining a weary vigilance while everyone around them was enjoying themselves, unaware of the cordon of police waiting to pounce.
Late in the afternoon, families started to drift away and the stalls began to shut down. It was time for the climactic event of the day: the fell race. The start of this was on the road that ran alongside the green. Some people started to line the edge ready to cheer the competitors and others, who looked like serious runners, started to appear and gather on the road.
Still the van remained where it was but with a decreasing number of customers. As a group of men and women in running shorts passed the van, the rear door opened and a man stepped out quickly and joined the back of the group. He was also dressed in running gear.
Oldroyd grabbed his radio.
‘Watson has just come out of the van; he’s joined a group of runners going up to the line. Now we know his escape route: he’s going to run out of the village with the others, pretend he’s part of the race. Get to him before the race starts.’
‘Why didn’t he just stay in the van until it drives off?’
‘I don’t know. He probably knows we’re on to him, maybe he’s seen someone he recognised and this is his emergency option: try to escape before we stop the van to search it.’
Carter had moved across to the road where the runners were gathering. He saw Craven and his men moving over carefully. He pulled out the photograph of Watson and searched the faces around him. There was now quite a big crowd milling together; trying to locate one face was extremely difficult.
Suddenly Oldroyd was by his side.
‘I’ve tried to keep my eye on him since he left the van. He’s in that group there, I think.’
He pointed to a group of men in the middle of the crowd, but in running gear they all looked the same.
The race was about to start. Some local dignitary said a few words about this historic race and then a starting gun went off yet again. The runners moved off at a fairly slow pace, conserving their energy for the steep climb ahead.
At that moment, Oldroyd got a clear view.
‘He’s there! Craven! He’s by you in the red vest!’
People turned in surprise as the detectives burst into action. Craven ran forward, but Watson realised he was being pursued and ran off to the left into the spectators, pursued by Carter. They ducked and weaved through the crowd, Carter trying desperately not to lose track. There were angry shouts as some people were brushed aside.
‘What the hell’s going on?’
Watson was heading for the Red Horse, at the front of which the Morris Dancing team were performing. He darted quickly to the side of them, but Carter blundered straight in. Suddenly he was surrounded by dancing men waving handkerchiefs and then he collided with an outlandish figure dressed as a clown.
‘What the . . .’
Carter crashed to the ground and lay flat with a pig’s bladder on a stick resting on his head. The dance stopped and angry faces were looking down at him.
‘You dickhead; are you pissed or what? Are you OK, Martin?’
The clown was sprawled at the side of Carter. His cap, decorated with streamers, had fallen off. He scowled at Carter.
‘Aye, no thanks to him.’
Carter was already on his feet. He had no time to explain.
‘Sorry, but I have to catch that bloke, police.’
He barged his way through the group and ran off, much to the consternation of the Morris team.
Meanwhile, Watson had bolted down a lane between two cottages with Craven in pursuit.
‘Head him off!’ shouted Craven to one of his detective constables, who shot off down another alleyway.
Watson was heading for a stile that led into a field, but the detective’s route was more direct to the same point. Soon Watson was trapped between the detective and Craven. He tried to push through but was wrestled to the ground. Oldroyd came up behind.
‘Mr Watson?’
‘Yes. Ow!’ he muttered sullenly and then grimaced with pain from Craven’s arm lock.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Oldroyd.’ He showed his identification to Watson, who did not look surprised.
‘We need to question you about the murders of David Atkins and John Baxter.’
‘I don’t know anything about it.’
‘Which is why you’re running away from us now and why you’ve disguised yourself as a runner.’
‘I am a runner. I was doing the fell race. I didn’t know who you were. You frightened me.’
‘And why you’ve been hiding in an ice-cream van all afternoon.’
‘I wasn’t hiding. I was helping.’
‘From a concealed position, very likely. Take him away. He’ll be more cooperative when we get him back to HQ.’
Watson was bundled off to a nearby police car as Carter arrived looking somewhat dishevelled.
‘What happened to you?’ said Oldroyd.
‘I ran into those Morris men or whoever they are by mistake.’
Oldroyd chuckled. ‘The Morris Dancers? I didn’t have you down as someone who would dress up with bells around his ankles. I would’ve thought that was too middle aged and rural for a young cosmopolitan type.’
‘Very funny, sir; did you get him?’
‘Yes, he’s in the car.’
They walked down and re-emerged into the road. Luckily, the incident had done little to disrupt the proceedings. Most people had wandered back on to the green and a small number were watching the runners. Oldroyd glanced up the fell at a line of figures toiling up the slope between the rocks and on to the upper fell. Over by the Red Horse, the piano accordion could be heard again.
‘Never mind, Andy, the Morris Dancers seem to have survived their clash with modernity.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied a rueful Carter.
Bill Watson was sitting in the interview room waiting for Chief Inspector Oldroyd to arrive, his solicitor at his side. A PC with an implacable expression stood at the back.
Watson looked down at the table in front of him in despair. This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. Damn that Atkins! If only he’d not got involved with that bastard, he wouldn’t have ended up here. Now it was a game of cat and mouse with the police trying to work up a plausible story, and that detective looked a bit formidable.
At that moment, the said detective burst into the room, closely followed by his blonde cockney sidekick.
Oldroyd sat down opposite Watson and the PC pressed the button on the recorder.
‘The time is 5.30 p.m.; start of the interview of William Watson, suspect in the murders of David Atkins and John Baxter. Also present Detective Sergeant Andrew Carter, PC Lauren Clifford and Derek Smith, acting for Mr Watson.’
Oldroyd turned to
Watson and began in quite a mild manner.
‘Do you prefer Bill or William, Mr Watson?’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘But you’re known to everyone as Bill?’
‘Yes.’
‘Including Dave Atkins.’
Watson sighed. ‘Yes.’
‘Did you kill him?’
Watson looked up sharply and directly at Oldroyd.
‘No.’
‘Did you kill John Baxter?’
‘No.’
‘Can we progress from the monosyllabic replies? Perhaps you can explain why you’ve been living rough in caves up in the limestone fells since Atkins’s body was found?’
This time there was no quick reply. Watson remained silent.
Oldroyd’s eyes suddenly blazed and his face took on a fierce, hawkish expression. His voice became deeper with a controlled but menacing power. Carter was rather taken aback by the abrupt transformation.
‘Mr Watson, would you agree that it is rather suspicious? The body is discovered and you disappear without explanation? We know your wife had an affair with Atkins, which places you as a chief suspect. Now give us some clear and detailed answers and maybe we can sort this out. Otherwise you’ll be staying in here.’
Watson had edged back further in his chair before this onslaught, but he tried to fight back.
‘It was for personal reasons. My wife and I weren’t . . . getting on.’
Oldroyd grunted.
‘I see. Your relationship with Mrs Watson wasn’t going well, so you went to live in a cave. It’s not quite the normal place to go in such circumstances is it?’
Watson glanced at Carter and the PC as if appealing for help.
‘I . . . wanted to be by myself. I like being outdoors. I’ve been on a lot of solo expeditions up in Scotland and places and camped outdoors for days on end.’
‘That would be in a tent, though, wouldn’t it? Why did you choose a cave?’
Watson paused.
‘It’s true. I didn’t want to be found. A tent is too obvious.’
‘Why didn’t you want to be found? Was your disagreement anything to do with Atkins?’