Malice On The Moors

by Graham Thomas

  “It's certainly consistent with what we've been hearing over and over again, which always makes me suspicious. What did her father have to say about all of this?”

  “Not much.”

  “Did you ask him about the afternoon of the farmers' shoot? Why he changed places with that farmer's son?”

  She nodded. “It was the lad's first time, apparently. Mr. Elger was just being kind, I think.”

  Powell grunted neutrally. “Did he mention seeing or hearing anything unusual?”

  “From what I've been able to gather so far, the beaters remained in position on the moor during the critical period. The idea was that as soon as the fog lifted they'd be able to start the drive quickly. They would have been thirty or forty yards apart, out of sight of each other, and at least a quarter mile in front of the butts. Mr. Elger says he heard the two shots and wondered about it at the time but didn't do anything. He said that he heard some of the other beaters talking back and forth about it.”

  “Do you know if he talked to any of the other beaters?”

  “He says they met briefly as a group when Mick Curtis dropped them off at the starting point after lunch and again afterward when Harry Settle showed up to tell them what had happened to Dinsdale. So far, I've managed to track down three of the other beaters and they all tell basically the same story.”

  “So it's possible that any one of them could have been just about anywhere at the critical time?”

  Sarah frowned. “I suppose.”

  Powell emptied his pint. “Any news of our missing farmer?”

  She shook her head. “I've asked around; apparently it's not the first time he's gone off on a bender for a few days.”

  Powell grunted. “My round, I think.” He returned in a few moments with another pint and a glass of white wine. “You know what puzzles me about this business, Sarah?”

  “What's that?”

  “That someone didn't do for old Dickie a long time ago. The only person I've met so far who's had a good word to say about him is Mick Curtis, and that's only because Curtis was rewarded by Dinsdale at Harry Settle's expense. Not only was Dinsdale a mean-spirited, incompetent Peeping Tom, it now comes to light that he was making plans to destroy half of Brackendale and a traditional way of life, for his own profit.”

  “Charming character,” Sarah remarked.

  “Furthermore, a storeroom containing a plethora of toxic pesticides is broken into a week before Dinsdale dies of suspicious symptoms that resemble poisoning. Up on the moor in the fog where no one knows where the hell anyone else is. It's just too bloody perfect.”

  Sarah frowned. “If it hadn't been for the adder, I'd be inclined to agree with you.”

  He looked at her. “Latet anguis in herba,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Virgil. Beware the snake in the grass.”

  Sarah raised a suspicious eyebrow. “This isn't the first time you've spoken to me in a dead language. I'm beginning to wonder about you.”

  “A vestige of the education I spent so much of my life acquiring in order to prepare myself for a life as a copper.”

  She laughed then took a sip of her wine. “What's next?”

  “I've asked Bill Black to look up Ronnie Dinsdale's solicitor in London. Felicity let his name slip. Evidently, Mrs. Dinsdale used to be his secretary. I'm interested in the content of old Dinsdale's will. For instance, who inherits the estate now that his son is dead? His lawyer doesn't have to tell us anything, of course, but I'm hoping he'll be cooperative. Secondly, I've got great hopes for Sir Reggie. If we can just nail down whether Dinsdale was poisoned…”

  “And for me?”

  “Carry on with your list of witnesses. And you can add one more name to it: Francesca, the dark-eyed servant at Blackamoor Hall. She's constantly skulking around in the background looking guilty about something. Find out if she knows anything. And, oh yes, I'd like you to make some inquires about Felicity Jamieson. I get the impression that she, er, rather likes to put it about a bit.”

  Sarah shook her head in disbelief. “Why is a woman who likes the company of men always characterized as some sort of tart? If it's a man playing the field, he's just being a lad, isn't he? Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.”

  “Ouch! I simply wish to explore the possibility that one of her boyfriends may have objected to her stepbrother's penchant for watching, that's all.”

  Sarah blushed. “Sorry, I should have thought of that.”

  Powell laughed. “Chalk it up to experience.” He got up and picked up their glasses.

  She looked doubtful. “What time did you say you wanted to leave tomorrow?”

  “It's Saturday night!” Powell protested. “Just one more for the road?”

  She smiled at him. “All right.”

  Sitting in this fine public house with a highly agreeable companion, and viewing the world through an imperfect filter of best Yorkshire bitter, it was easy enough to forget that his wife was planning to abandon him for a year, not to mention the fact that the person he despised most in the entire Metropolitan Police Service was poised to take over the top job. Why shouldn't he let his hair down once in a while? He watched Sarah sipping her wine and wondered what she was thinking. “Penny for your thoughts,” he said, as precisely as he could manage it.

  “I was just wondering if you had any words of wisdom for someone like me who's just starting out.”

  He wagged his finger reprovingly. “Shop talk.”

  She smiled ruefully. “Guilty as charged.”

  “Words of wisdom? Let me see…” He thought about it for a moment. “The world,” he said presently, “is an unbearably sad place for a policeperson.”

  She eyed him warily, not knowing whether he was serious. “A policeperson?”

  He stared into his glass. “I started writing a novel, you know. I met a writer recently who inspired me to try my hand at it.” He looked up at her. “I suppose I felt the need to do something creative, to leave something behind a little more enduring than a legacy of departmental memoranda detailing the pros and cons of the latest reorganization proposal or something equally inane.”

  “I think I get the idea,” she said wryly.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I started writing this novel. After I'd roughed out the first few chapters, I made the mistake of letting someone whose opinion I value have a look at it. You know what she said?”

  “What?”

  “She said it read like it was written by someone who'd learned their English from P. G. Wodehouse.” He screwed up his face. “The thing is, I didn't know whether to take it as a criticism or a compliment.”

  Sarah burst out laughing. “What's it about, this book of yours?”

  Powell sighed. “Water under the bridge.”

  “Come on,” she teased, “you can tell me.”

  “That's what it's about. How you can't turn back the clock. How our individual lives are simply a microcosm of the larger expanding universe.”

  She shook her head in amazement. “What made you decide to become a cop, anyway?”

  “That,” Powell said, “is a long story, which I won't bore you with. Let's just say that a degree in classics, followed by a brief and unpleasant taste of army life, didn't equip me for much else.”

  “You'd have made a good teacher.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  She brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “I've learned a lot during the short time we've worked together.”

  He searched her eyes for meaning. “That's because you're an exceptional student,” he said.

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, I think it's important in any professional relationship for both parties to hold up their end. Don't you agree, sir?” She felt like a festering idiot.

  Powell finished his beer. “I couldn't have put it better myself, Sergeant.” He consulted his watch. “I'm afraid it's getting past my bedtime.”

  Back in his room, Powell thought about calling Mari
on but decided it wouldn't be prudent under the circumstances. Later, in bed, he lay thinking about Sarah Evans. Eventually he turned over, disgusted with himself. Christ, he thought, I'm a pathetic, self-centered bastard. Whatever her reasons, whether knowingly or not, he realized that Detective-Sergeant Sarah Evans had done him a good turn that night.

  CHAPTER 14

  Sarah Evans dropped Powell at the rail station in Malton just before nine-thirty. They hadn't spoken much during the drive from Brackendale, each absorbed in their own thoughts. As they crossed over the River Der-went, Powell was seized with a sense of foreboding that he was at a loss to explain. The feeling remained with him during the short journey to York, and when his train pulled into the station, he decided to walk to Heslington, a distance of about two miles. He had a good hour until his appointment near the university and his head badly needed clearing.

  The University of York, founded in 1963 on an estate at Heslington, consisted of a collection of unremarkable concrete blocks—housing colleges and lecture halls, a central hall, and a library—scattered over a wide area around a man-made lake. Powell's destination was Gwyneth House, a student residence on Thief's Lane adjacent to the campus. He located the redbrick building without too much difficulty, scanned the directory beside the door, and pushed one of the buttons.

  The intercom crackled. “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Macfarlane? It's Chief Superintendent Powell.”

  The lock buzzed and clicked open. Powell climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on the door of Number 23. “Come,” a voice called out.

  Powell opened the door and entered the room. A slight young man with short, ochre-colored hair was sitting at a computer desk typing on the keyboard. He looked around. “Have a seat,” he said. “I'm almost done.”

  Working on your latest tract? Powell wondered. He sat down on one of three wooden chairs arranged in the center of the room around a small oval table cluttered with papers, a calendar of graduate courses, a textbook titled Statistical Concepts in Animal Ecology, a half-full teacup, and a piece of dry toast. He took in his surroundings. Typical student digs: along one wall a single bed and washstand; along the other, the desk and a makeshift bookshelf-cum-stereo-stand, consisting of planks supported by concrete building blocks. Opposite the door, a west-facing window provided a distant view of the ever-present Minster. The walls were decorated with posters as well as a number of framed photographs, some of them signed, showing a more familiar Stumpy, with beard and long hair, along with various other people, several of whom looked vaguely familiar. One of them in particular caught Powell's eye—a smiling older woman standing with her arm around Stumpy. He squinted, trying to make out the woman's face. Bloody hell, he realized, it's Bridget Bardot!

  Powell's inventory was interrupted a moment later when Stumpy got up from his desk, walked over to the table, and sat down opposite him. “You mentioned on the phone that you wanted to talk to me about Dickie Dinsdale,” he said breezily. “Do I need to call my lawyer?”

  “I don't think that will be necessary, do you?”

  “That depends on why you're here, doesn't it?”

  Powell flipped open the textbook. “What are you studying, Stumpy? Anarchy 101?”

  Stumpy shook his head, as if in amazement. “You're all the bloody same, aren't you? As matter of fact, I'm doing a masters degree in biology. Not that it's any of your business.”

  “I'll come right to the point; I want to know what happened between you and Dinsdale at Blackamoor on August twelfth.”

  “Why should I tell you anything?”

  “Because,” Powell said, “I think Dinsdale was murdered. And I think you can assist us in our inquiries.”

  Stumpy sneered. “I'm not interested in helping the police. You've never done a frigging thing for me.”

  “I think his death had something to do with the Hull Water Corporation's scheme to flood Brackendale,” Powell persisted. “With Dinsdale out of the way, the project isn't likely to go ahead.” He looked blandly at Stumpy. “A victory for the environment, you might say.”

  Stumpy flushed. “What are you insinuating?”

  Powell shrugged. “You tell me.”

  Having temporarily regained his composure, Stumpy leaned back in his chair. “You know I don't have to tell you anything, but you're so far off the mark, I'm finding it difficult to resist the temptation to set you straight.”

  “I'm a big boy,” Powell said equably. “I can take it.” Stumpy eyed him shrewdly. “Am I a suspect?” “I've no reason to suspect you of anything at this point,” Powell answered truthfully. “If I change my mind, I'll caution you as required by law.”

  Stumpy laughed bitterly. “The law's an ass. I get the shit kicked out of me for staging a peaceful protest on Dinsdale's grouse moor and I'm the one who gets charged.”

  “It didn't turn out very well for Dickie either.” “Very clever, Chief Superintendent, but you needn't patronize me. I said I'd tell you about it.”

  “Why don't you start from the beginning, then?” “A few months ago,” Stumpy began, “I got wind of a proposal to dam the River Merlin in upper Bracken-dale to create a water supply reservoir for the City of Hull. I learned that the Hull Water Corporation had approached Dinsdale to see if he'd be willing to sell them the land they needed for the project. I was appalled, of course.” He was becoming increasingly animated. “A private bloody company proposing to destroy one of the few unspoiled areas left in the country for profit. In a frigging national park, for Christ's sake.” He glared at Powell. “You know what gets me about the neo-Thatcherite apologists for privatization that continue to run this country—and this latest lot are no better than the others—is their complete and utter moral bankruptcy. The triumph of blinkered ideology over responsibility to the people. They've basically sold the family silver at boot-sale prices, and despite the tedious rhetoric about lean and mean government and the so-called British entrepreneurial renaissance, the frigging trains don't even run on time anymore. If that's democracy, I'll take anarchy,” he concluded pointedly.

  Powell was not unsympathetic to Stumpy's position, but that was neither here nor there. “You mentioned that the Hull Water Corporation had approached Dins-dale …” Powell prompted.

  “Yeah, at that point I had no idea what his position was, so I—”

  “How did you find out about this in the first place?” Powell interrupted.

  Stumpy regarded Powell warily. “It's not relevant.”

  “I'll be the judge of that.”

  Stumpy seemed about to protest but evidently thought better of it. He shrugged. “I heard about it from an old girlfriend of mine, Chloe Aldershot. Her father, Lord Aldershot, is on the board of directors of the Hull Water Corporation. She got wind of it somehow.”

  Was Stumpy's apparent reluctance to involve Chloe due to a sense of chivalry or something else? This was the same girlfriend, Powell remembered, who had provided Stumpy with an alibi for the day of the farmers' shoot. He wondered what Lord Aldershot thought about his daughter fraternizing with the likes of Stumpy.

  “As I was saying,” Stumpy continued, “I initially got in touch with Dinsdale to feel him out. He was right pissed off when he realized who I was. It was obvious that he was promoting the scheme and hoped to make a tidy profit in the bargain. I tried to reason with him, pointing out that there was no way the public would tolerate the desecration of the North York Moors. He told me in no uncertain terms to mind my own business.” He smiled humorlessly. “The little bastard didn't know who he was dealing with. Before he hung up on me, I basically told him that I was going to stop him, one way or the other.”

  “When did this conversation take place?”

  “Late June, early July.”

  “I'm a bit puzzled. Why didn't you go public at that time?”

  “He would have denied the whole thing, as would the Hull Water Corporation. Then when the deal was signed, it would have been too late to do anything about it. I figured t
hat the best approach would be to take some kind of direct action that would dissuade Dinsdale from proceeding with his plans. That's where the idea of a protest on his grouse moor came from.”

  “A shot across his bow, so to speak,” Powell commented.

  “Exactly. A taste of things to come if he didn't forget about the water scheme.”

  “I understand that you even warned him of your intentions.”

  Stumpy laughed. “That was a great touch, don't you think? Look, I'm no bloody amateur—I'd planned the thing down to the last detail and I knew there was nothing he could do to stop me. Tipping him off in advance simply made the impact that much greater.”

  “But you must have known you'd get arrested.”

  Stumpy looked slightly disappointed in Powell. “All the more publicity to set the stage for the next phase if Dinsdale didn't back down.”

  Powell had to hand it to him—old Stumpy didn't miss a trick. “Getting back to the August twelfth protest, I am interested in hearing how you pulled it off.”

  Stumpy smiled, clearly enjoying himself now. “I don't think I'd be giving away any trade secrets if I told you. It was a piece of cake, really. Dinsdale probably expected us to come marching over the horizon, but I had other ideas. There were six of us altogether, and the problem was how to conceal ourselves in the thick of things until just the right moment. I hit upon the idea of digging into the moor—in foxholes, like. We started a week before the shoot, working at night and carrying the spoil away. During the day, we left our work covered up with plywood sheets camouflaged with blocks of cut heather. I don't mind saying that it worked brilliantly.”

  Powell had to admit that it had been an audacious plan, but hadn't Stumpy cut his teeth as an activist in the environmental movement by living in tunnels dug in the path of various road improvement projects around the country? “I understand that the local police showed up in due course to take matters in hand,” he said.