The Nidderdale Murders (A Yorkshire Murder Mystery)

by J. R. Ellis

  It was all done in such a discreet and charming manner. It had begun with a chance encounter. Unbeknown to Saunders, Sandy had been down in London, and they’d bumped into each other in a restaurant in Islington. Unfortunately, Saunders had a woman with him who was not his wife. Sandy had seen them behaving rather intimately together before he came over to their table, and Saunders had been forced to introduce his old friend to his mistress. A glance had been exchanged between the two men which confirmed that Sandy now had power over his old friend.

  Not long after that, Sandy came to his office and asked him for money. Of course, he was very apologetic and nothing was said directly about the encounter in Islington.

  ‘We all want to keep everything running smoothly, don’t we, old boy?’ he’d said, and Saunders knew what he meant. He didn’t want his marriage to be ruined, so the upshot was that he had regularly handed over quite substantial sums of money to Sandy. The conceit was that the payments were only loans, but both knew that there would never be any repayments. Luckily Sandy never asked for more than Saunders could afford. He was careful not to push things too far.

  After the murder, Saunders had decided that this sordid business needed to be kept out of the investigation, and so he’d denied any knowledge of Fraser’s money problems. He didn’t think they would be able to link anything to him as he’d always made sure that the payments were made in an anonymous manner. He’d had no difficulty in maintaining a confident demeanour when lying to the police.

  So that was that. He smiled. Sandy, his old friend, would not be asking for any further payments. He turned his attention back to his desk and to the task, as he’d explained to Symons, of making decisions. The decisions, if correct, that would bring in yet more money.

  When Andy and Steph arrived at work, they found their boss sitting in his office deep in thought.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ said Andy. ‘We don’t usually find you here so early.’

  ‘No. I couldn’t sleep. The pressure must be getting to me. I’ve just had Gibbs on the phone; that business in How Stean Gorge turned out to be a false trail, a local dealer hiding his supplies.’ Oldroyd sat back in his chair and yawned. ‘That means we’re back at the beginning again: no sign of Green; lots of other people with possible motives but nothing very convincing.’

  Steph put the coffee on, but there were no biscuits. She had recently noticed that they became depleted in her absence, and so now she had made them available strictly for special occasions only. They were locked in a cupboard and Steph had the key. Her male colleagues needed to be protected from themselves!

  Andy tried to introduce something positive by reporting on his research of the previous day. ‘Do you remember the Drover Road robbery, sir?’

  ‘Yes, that was over ten years ago, wasn’t it? It made a big splash in the press. It was very well planned and daring if I remember rightly. I don’t think they ever recovered the money, did they? Why do you ask?’

  ‘Fraser was the judge in the case.’

  Oldroyd raised his eyebrows. ‘Was he now?’

  ‘Yes. I was researching Fraser’s career yesterday while you were up at that gorge or whatever it was, and that was by far the most famous case he was involved in. I can’t find any link with his murder but I keep wondering if it might be important somehow.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, the sentences that Fraser handed out were pretty stiff, given that no one was hurt, so that could have caused those convicted to be angry and resentful.’

  ‘So that would be a powerful revenge motive for killing him,’ said Steph, handing round the coffee.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Andy. ‘Yes, but there’s a big problem with the idea.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Oldroyd with interest.

  ‘Well, of the three, Matthew Hart was given a new identity through witness protection and a light sentence, so he doesn’t have any grudge against Fraser. Philip Traynor hanged himself in jail four years ago, and Wilson’s dead, too.’

  ‘What happened to Wilson?’

  ‘Another bit of drama. This was in Manchester. He’d been in prison there, but escaped during a prison transfer. He managed to get away from the security officers as they were trying to get him into a van. Anyway, there was a chase through the streets and he ended up falling in the river and was drowned.’

  ‘I vaguely remember something about that. So those who might want revenge on Fraser are not alive to seek it?’ asked Oldroyd.

  Andy shook his head. ‘No, sir. It doesn’t look like it.’

  ‘What about their families or their friends in the criminal world?’ asked Steph.

  ‘That’s what I was thinking,’ continued Andy. ‘But it’s a bit far-fetched, isn’t it?’

  ‘Hmm. I don’t know,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘The families and friends never got those men back, and I do remember there were some questions asked about the sentences at the time. Those families would have blamed Fraser, thinking that Traynor killed himself because he couldn’t face the long sentence. And then Wilson died trying to escape from it . . . Yes, it’s all conjecture without much evidence, but I think it’s worth pursuing. Let’s face it: we don’t have much else at the moment. See if you can find out more and let’s see what emerges.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ Andy went back to his computer in the general office.

  ‘Revenge for something like that would be a powerful motive for the murder, wouldn’t it, sir?’ said Steph.

  ‘Yes. Far more convincing than any of the motives we’ve heard about so far. I think we’ve only scratched the surface of this case, but at least Andy’s found something interesting. It’s probably a good idea if you stay and help him with the research. There’s not much else to do – we’re in the doldrums.’

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘I’m going back up there. I’ll call on Bill Gibbs and then I’m going to do a Holmes walk.’

  Steph laughed as she went to join Andy in the office. This was her boss’s code for ruminating on the difficulties of a case while walking in the countryside.

  At the top of Evershaw Fell on the opposite side of the dale from Fraser’s grouse moor, armed men were gathering and the shotguns were about to start blasting again. Land Rovers were parked on a nearby track and beaters were moving into position. They were all being watched by figures lying very low and still in the thick, deep heather.

  ‘Wait until they get into position at the butts,’ whispered Liz Smith to the other three sabs hiding near to her. They were all dressed in camouflaged clothing. One was taking furtive glances behind them.

  ‘The beaters are over there – they’re going to drive behind us and to the left.’

  Several hours before anyone else had arrived, the sabs had placed themselves in a position between the route of the beaters and the butts. Their aim was to disturb the grouse before the shooters were ready, and before the beaters could deliver them up in batches to be shot. Once they’d sent the birds up into the air, the grouse wouldn’t return to that patch and the shoot would be ruined.

  Liz was watching the men in their expensive jackets and trousers as they separated into small groups and took their places at the butts.

  ‘Right, they’re ready – the bastards!’ she hissed. ‘Joe, what’s happening behind?’

  ‘They’re starting to move.’

  ‘OK.’ Liz waited a few seconds and then shouted: ‘Go!’

  At this signal, all four sabs stood up and ran in different directions, shouting, hooting and waving their arms around. Grouse sprang up all around them and flew away from the target area. Their cries filled the air, but this noise was soon joined by angry shouts from both shooters and beaters. The latter began to chase the sabs, who zigzagged across the heather to the right and left, trying to outrun their pursuers. Liz was being chased by a burly bearded man who was not very fast. She could have escaped but she caught her foot on a tough heather root and fell over heavily. She tried to scramble to her feet, but her ankle was painful and w
ouldn’t bear her weight. In a few seconds the man was on her, dragging her to her feet and forcing her arm behind her back.

  ‘Get off me, you bastard!’ she screamed. ‘You’re going to break my arm.’

  ‘I’d like to break more than that, you meddling bitch,’ said the man from between gritted teeth. ‘We’ve seen you here before – I’m sick of the lot of you. This time we’ve got you. You’ll be done for trespass.’

  ‘Trespass, my arse. You’ll be done for assault, more like, if you don’t let me go.’

  ‘Aggravated trespass. You’re coming to the Land Rover with me and we’re calling the police.’

  ‘We have to trespass to save the birds you want to slaughter.’

  ‘Do you now? Who says you have the right?’ He tightened his grip on her arm. Liz thought about kicking and struggling, but it was pointless; she couldn’t run away with her ankle in this state. Sullenly, she allowed the beater to lead her, limping, over to where the Land Rovers were parked.

  A large group of angry beaters and shooters had gathered there. Another sab, a slightly built eighteen-year-old called Max, had also been caught by two beaters. Blood was streaming from his nose and mouth and he was being virtually dragged along, bumping across the heather. The others had escaped.

  ‘Let him go, you bloody cowards!’ shouted Liz. ‘He’s only a boy.’

  ‘He’s old enough to break the law and be a bloody nuisance like the rest of you,’ called back one of the beaters. ‘Here, you, stand still!’ Max had started to struggle and the beater hit him over the head with his beating stick.

  This provoked fresh outrage in Liz. ‘You bastards! Don’t worry, Max, I’m a witness. Just like you lot, isn’t it? Blood sports – anyone’s blood. Look at his face! I can’t tell you how glad I am that one of your type got what he bloody well deserved last Friday! Especially as he had blood on his hands too.’

  This in turn offended a group of shooters who’d come over from a nearby butt to see what all the fuss was about. ‘Are you referring to the murder of Sandy Fraser?’ asked one, looking at Liz with withering contempt.

  She glared at him. ‘Don’t think we’ve forgotten about Sam Cooper.’

  The shooter loomed over her, still holding his gun. ‘Well, not only is that in extremely bad taste, but I think the police might well be interested in what you’ve just said. You clearly hate us enough to do something extreme.’

  ‘You can say what you damn well like to the police,’ replied Liz, as she was bundled into the Land Rover. ‘I’m already a suspect and I told them we fight to stop killing – we don’t do it ourselves.’

  The shooter came to the window, his face red with anger. ‘Don’t take that high-and-mighty position with me. You’re nothing more than a common criminal, trespassing on people’s land and interfering with lawful activities. You ought to be—’

  Liz didn’t hear any more as the vehicle set off. She sat in the back with her arms around young Max, who was stunned and silent, and tried to wipe the blood from his face with a tissue. The men in the front said nothing. She smiled. Two of them had been caught, but the shoot had been successfully sabotaged so it was mission accomplished. Often you had to suffer for what you believed in. As for her opponents: she meant what she’d said about Fraser. Sometimes bad things had to happen on the way to achieving a higher good.

  As the Land Rover passed through the village, Jenny Davis watched it go past. She was talking to David Eastwood, who was on his rounds. His red van was parked by the green.

  ‘I’m sure that was Liz Smith in the back of that Land Rover and it belongs to the Evershaw Fell shoot. I’ll bet she’s been up there with her cronies making trouble and they’ve caught her. Good for them. That lot are always making trouble for my Ian.’

  ‘It looked like her. I wonder if they’re taking her down to the police station. She’ll kick up a right fuss.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe she won’t be so keen to be a bloody nuisance in future if the police give her a good talking-to.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. Anyway, you’re looking very nice today. I like that skirt.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Jenny was well aware of Eastwood’s reputation and always remained aloof from his flirtatious comments.

  ‘He’s a lucky man, your husband.’

  ‘He knows that. Would your wife like to hear you say that? Never mind Theresa Rawlings.’

  Eastwood laughed nervously and saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere. ‘OK, well I’d better be getting on – good to see you. A pretty face always brightens up a man’s day.’

  She still didn’t respond positively, so he hitched up his postbag and headed off to a row of terraced houses across the green. The nerve of the man, thought Jenny as she continued on her way to the shop. Some people had no shame.

  She enjoyed popping over to Gorton’s shop. When you had a hungry young family you often ran out of bits and pieces before the weekly shop in Pateley, and it was a chance to meet and chat with people.

  As she opened the door, a bell sounded and Gorton appeared behind the counter. ‘Morning, Jenny, what can I get you?’

  ‘A carton of orange juice and a tin of baked beans, please. I’m always running out of beans. The kids love them on toast with cheese on top.’

  ‘Sounds good to me. When can I come to your place for tea?’

  Jenny laughed as Gorton went to get the orange juice and beans. Then: ‘They’ve arrested that Ryan Gomersall again,’ she said.

  ‘Have they?’

  Jenny continued as she handed over the money. ‘Yes. I had a call from our Anne this morning. She lives down in Pateley. Her husband Mark was in the pub last night with a mate of his who’s in the police. News travels fast round here.’

  ‘You’re not kidding,’ said Gorton.

  ‘He’s always been in trouble, that lad, ever since he was a teenager. Apparently a team of police arrested him in How Stean Gorge during the night – he was hiding drugs there.’

  ‘Good lord! They must have had a tip-off.’ Gorton frowned, and then looked thoughtful. ‘I wonder . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why would they mount a night operation like that just to catch a local bloke hiding some drugs? Maybe a person was seen at How Stean and the police thought it was Alan Green. They might have been disappointed to find it was Ryan.’

  Jenny shivered. ‘Oh, I don’t know, you might be right. It gives me the creeps that there’s a murderer on the loose. I just hope they catch him soon and it’s all over and done with. At least Ryan Gomersall wouldn’t kill anyone. Anyway, must be off. Bye.’

  As she walked back to the cottage, she felt gloomy again. She knew it was silly to suspect Ian, but she would never be able to rest completely until the murderer had been found. She thought about her conversation with Gorton. It had brought everything back to her again, and now another thought came to her: it seemed odd that Gorton knew so much about that police operation. What was going on there? Or was she imagining things?

  She shook her head. In this tense and suspicious atmosphere, your imagination could easily run away with you.

  After making a brief visit to Pateley Bridge station to encourage Gibbs, who had found no reports of stolen shotguns, Oldroyd put on his walking boots and headed down the path at the side of the River Nidd to the village of Glasshouses, where he was pleased to see the huge mill complex being converted into apartments. The weather was holding and it was a clear, still day, with some remnants of early-morning mist at the top of the fells.

  Oldroyd crossed the river in bright sunshine and followed a path upwards across the green fields with their dark gritstone walls, and entered Guisecliff Wood. This was a stretch of ancient woodland that clung around a steep and long stony edge: the eponymous cliff after which the wood was named.

  This was one of Oldroyd’s favourite places in the dale. It contained many unusual features, from Bronze Age rock art to an unexpected and beautiful tarn hidden among the trees. In spring it was dense with bluebells
and the sound of birdsong. Today it was full of the melancholy quiet of early autumn but no less beautiful, as the first leaves fluttered down from the trees and the colours of the foliage started to become more varied.

  Oldroyd walked up through the woods and followed a twisting path until he reached the top of the ridge. He found a spot to sit from where he had a wonderful sweeping view of the dale from Gouthwaite Reservoir, beyond Pateley, down to the outline of Brimham Rocks. He was intending to think about the case, as he’d told Steph, but was also taking this opportunity to make a start on his new hobby: writing. He took out a notebook and a couple of Ordnance Survey maps, then he looked out over the magnificent scene. Descriptive poems celebrating landscape were common, but difficult to write without resorting to clichés. He got out the maps and saw how many unusual names for fields, summits, woods, rocks and moorland there were in the dales area. It was a wonderfully evocative language. You could feel its Viking age and its Yorkshire eccentricity and strangeness.

  He started to copy some of them down in his notebook and realised he was writing a poem, just by arranging the names in verse form and creating a rhythmical pattern that was also very alliterative:

  Crutching Close Laithe

  Yarnthwaite Barn

  Hawkswick Clowder

  Pikesdaw Barn

  Stony Nick Crag

  Low Dowk Cave

  Dumpit Hill Moss

  Swinsto Cave

  Tommy Hill Pasture

  Outgang Hill

  Darnbrook Cowside

  Greenhaw Hill

  Numberstones End

  Lumb Gill Wham

  Seavey Crook Bank

  Lower Wham

  When he read it back, he realised that he’d liberated the poetic potential of the names, and those four stanzas were just a start! It was exciting, and he spent the next hour or so constructing a long poem that read like an incantation celebrating the places of the moors and dales. It was very absorbing. Deborah was right: this creative activity was going to benefit him.