The Nidderdale Murders (A Yorkshire Murder Mystery)

by J. R. Ellis

  He was still immersed in his composition when he heard a voice behind him. ‘Chief Inspector? Is that you?’

  He turned to see Tony Dexter smiling at him. He was dressed in boots, walking trousers and a jacket. He held a pair of binoculars.

  Oldroyd stood up. ‘Yes, Mr Dexter. You’ve stumbled on me at an off-duty moment. I was just enjoying the view from here and doing a bit of writing.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, and you must take a bit of credit. When you talked about your poems the other day, it inspired me to do some writing myself. I’ve always intended to but I’m sure you know how work can get in the way.’

  ‘Oh, I do, Chief Inspector. I used to have a very time-consuming job, and I went through some difficult times.’ He looked into the distance and frowned, as if contemplating some painful memories. ‘It’s very hard to concentrate on writing or any other creative activity when you’re feeling stressed.’

  Oldroyd showed him part of his poem. ‘It feels a bit of a cheat,’ he said. ‘You know, just using place names.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ replied Dexter. ‘I think it’s very effective. After all, you’re only using the names like you would any other parts of the vocabulary to construct a poem.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Look, I’m walking across to the folly, do you fancy coming along? Don’t let me interrupt you if you’re still writing.’

  ‘No,’ said Oldroyd. ‘I was about ready to leave.’ He put the maps and notebook away and the two men walked along the top of the cliff, Oldroyd noticing that, in places, there were some sheer drops down into the woods below. You had to keep to the path and watch your step.

  The folly to which Dexter had referred was Yorke’s Folly: two stone columns built in the early nineteenth century as a work-creation project by the eccentric landowner John Yorke, of nearby Bewerley Hall. There had originally been three columns, but one blew down in a gale in Victorian times. The remaining structures looked out over the dale and formed a strange local landmark.

  Oldroyd and Dexter reached the site and sat on a bench behind the folly.

  ‘They’re clearly made to look like a Romantic ruin,’ remarked Oldroyd, as he traced parts of the structures that falsely suggested they’d once formed an arch.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Dexter. ‘I suppose it was part of that landscape trend for creating faux-Romantic ruins which they thought enhanced the landscape. Have you seen Hackfall?’

  Oldroyd had indeed visited that extraordinary collection of follies, grottoes, cascades, lakes and a fountain built in the eighteenth century in the Ure Gorge in Wensleydale. He felt he had much in common with Tony Dexter, and they chatted for a while about Yorkshire landscapes and history as they walked back down through more woods.

  ‘Have you seen the ice house with the cave spiders?’ asked Dexter as they were passing through a wooded area which had once been part of an estate attached to a large house. Oldroyd had to confess that he hadn’t, so they took a diversion from the path up to the structure set into the hillside. From the door, there was a short stone-built tunnel to the huge cylindrical brick-lined chamber where the ice had been stored. Dexter pointed out the large European cave spiders, Meta menardi, their white egg sacs hanging from the roof of this tunnel. Oldroyd was fascinated.

  ‘It’s amazing how they live in this dark and wet place, isn’t it, and manage to find enough food?’ he said, and Dexter agreed.

  Their walk eventually concluded back in Pateley Bridge.

  ‘Well, it’s been very pleasant, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘It has indeed,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘Do you need a lift back to Niddersgill?’

  ‘No. I have my van here. I may see you again up there in the village. I’m glad you enjoyed the ice house and the spiders. Don’t forget it; it’s a special place.’ Dexter walked off with a wave and Oldroyd watched him go. It had, of course, not been strictly professional to spend time with a person who remained a suspect in the case, but Oldroyd tended to ignore those kinds of rules if he felt like it.

  In this case he felt justified because when Dexter had described the ice house as a special place, he’d looked at Oldroyd very directly in a meaningful way.

  Was he hinting at something that he couldn’t or didn’t want to spell out?

  John Gray was at work in his studio in Niddersgill. His latest canvas showed a wide panorama of the windswept top of the dale with the ancient village of Middlesmoor hugging the high fellside. But he was painting without enthusiasm. The truth was, he was getting a little tired of painting local landscapes in order to make a living. He’d always known his stay in a comparatively remote rural village would be temporary, that he’d want to return to the city after a while. He was starting to feel that it would not be long before his work was done out here, and he would need a change: a change of environment and a change of subject for his art.

  He stopped for a moment and looked out of the window, which commanded a view of the fells. He loved the wild upland scenery, but restlessness was part of his nature. He was ready to return to the anonymity of an urban environment, at least for a while.

  His reflection was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Henrietta Fraser entered the studio.

  ‘Ah, John! Nice to see you again.’

  ‘Yes, Henrietta, come in – you’ve not been up here for a while.’

  ‘No, and obviously it’s not in the best of circumstances now, as you’ll appreciate.’

  ‘Of course. How is your mother?’

  ‘Oh, as well as can be expected, as they say. It was a terrible shock.’

  ‘It must have been. Please send her my regards.’

  ‘Thank you. I will.’ She turned towards the paintings on display in the gallery section. She always visited Gray’s studio when she was in Niddersgill and often bought something to take back with her to London.

  ‘It’s such a relief to come over here, I can tell you. My mother needs a lot of attention and after a while . . .’ She shook her head. ‘It wears you down. I needed a break.’

  ‘You know you’re welcome here any time.’ Gray enjoyed Henrietta’s infrequent visits. He felt she was a more discerning customer than many of the tourists who wandered into the studio.

  ‘You have been busy,’ she remarked as she walked through the gallery. ‘When was I last here?’

  ‘It was Christmas I think.’

  ‘Yes, and I love that snowy winter scene.’ She stopped by a painting that depicted the barns, walls and fells of Nidderdale dusted in snow below a heavy grey sky.

  Gray got up and went over to talk to her about it and others in the collection. She ended up buying the winter scene.

  ‘I know exactly where I’m going to put it. I have the perfect spot in my hallway,’ she said enthusiastically, as Gray wrapped up the framed picture. Henrietta lived in a Georgian terraced house in London.

  ‘I hope you’re happy with it.’

  ‘Oh, I know I will be. My father loved your paintings too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They’re still on the walls. My mother likes them.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad about that.’

  Conversation flagged a little. Gray was a little embarrassed, remembering that her father had been a difficult customer.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off. See you again before too long, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, bye for now.’

  Henrietta left clutching her package and Gray, shutting the door behind her, felt a little relieved. He’d considered telling her that he might well not be in Nidderdale for much longer, but had decided against it. However, he felt more than ever that he needed to end his time in the village and move on.

  ‘Get off me!’ shrieked Liz Smith, limping badly as she was frogmarched by two burly beaters into the police station at Pateley Bridge. Max, blood oozing from his lips, stayed in the Land Rover guarded by another man. He was still dazed and quiet. Bill Gibbs was talking to the station sergeant as the group appeared. He and his
small team had been slogging their way through details of gun licences. It had been very boring and fruitless. He actually welcomed some action.

  ‘OK, let’s just calm down,’ said Gibbs. ‘Let her go.’

  The beaters released their hold. The one who had chased her down said: ‘This woman was caught trespassing on a private moorland area and behaving in a way which could have caused danger to individuals involved in a lawful activity. We have another trespasser outside in the Land Rover.’ The words sounded rote, like a passage he’d been taught to recite.

  ‘Rubbish!’ exclaimed Liz. ‘The only creatures in danger are those beautiful birds, and from your bloody guns. We never do anything to put people in danger. Who do you think you are anyway, forcing me to come here against my will? You’re not the police.’

  ‘It’s a citizen’s arrest.’

  ‘Citizen’s kidnap, more like! Why haven’t you brought Max in? I’ll tell you why, because he was beaten up and you don’t want them to see how violent you are.’

  Gibbs, and officers at the station, had dealt with this issue many times before. He was familiar with the two sides of the game-bird shooting controversy and the enmity between them. He addressed the beaters first. ‘OK. You can make a statement to the sergeant here, but I warn you: don’t take the law into your own hands. You can report a crime if you think one has been committed, but you cannot physically restrain people like this, however angry you are. How was what they were doing endangering you and the shooters?’

  ‘They hid in the heather and sprang out. We could have fallen over them.’

  ‘That’s absolute crap!’ exclaimed Liz. ‘Bring Max in and we’ll see who was a danger to who.’

  ‘He got those injuries when he fell over and then he started to attack us.’

  ‘You lying bastard!’ shrieked Liz.

  Gibbs intervened quickly. ‘Right, that’s enough.’ He addressed the beater again. ‘I’m going to send an officer out with you to your vehicle to see if anyone needs medical attention. We’ll see what he says about how he got his injuries and we’ll take it from there. And remember what I’ve said.’ The beater looked sheepish, realising that it might have been a mistake to bring the sabs to the police station. He went out with a PC.

  ‘Ms Smith – in here, please.’ Gibbs indicated his office. They both went in and he shut the door. ‘Sit down. That’s a bad limp you’ve got. I take it they didn’t twist your ankle?’

  Liz remained sullen. ‘No. I fell over a heather root.’

  Gibbs sat behind his desk and looked at her. It wasn’t the first time he’d interviewed her about an incident like this.

  ‘You’re never going to stop doing this, are you?’

  ‘No. Why should we? It’s a cruel, brutal sport and it needs to be stopped.’

  ‘We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we? It’s not illegal and you are trespassing on those moors.’

  Liz shrugged.

  ‘They could bring a civil action against you or even one for criminal damage if they can prove anything.’

  ‘Let them try. We only disrupt them, we never damage anything.’

  Gibbs sighed. ‘OK, but you’re playing with fire, and one day someone’s going to get seriously hurt.’

  ‘Someone already has.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Fraser got what was coming to him.’

  Gibbs frowned. ‘And what do you mean by that, exactly?’

  Liz smiled. ‘Nothing, except he got what he deserved. He lived by the gun and he died by it.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very non-violent to me.’

  ‘He was a violent man himself. You remember Sam Cooper? None of us have been shedding any tears.’

  Gibbs looked at her closely. She was clearly very angry and it made him wonder what she might really be capable of in the pursuit of her cause.

  The next day, Oldroyd drove down the M1. Despite the lack of progress in the Nidderdale case, he was taking time off and going to his daughter’s degree ceremony at Oxford. His sister Alison was with him. Louise had managed to arrange guest accommodation for them at her college. The M1 was a motorway he detested, with its heavy traffic and its never-ending roadworks with queues and speed restrictions. At least the purpose of the journey was a good one.

  Alison asked Oldroyd about Louise’s plans. ‘So she’s doing an MSt this year?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know what she intends to do after that. If I know her, she probably doesn’t have any idea.’

  ‘Does it matter? I think people of our generation were too quick to enter jobs and professions and stay there for life.’

  ‘Like me, you mean?’ laughed Oldroyd.

  ‘Yes, a good example. Young people now try different things and do more travelling. Look at Louise, she’s worked in the women’s refuge and she’s been backpacking round the Far East.’

  ‘And she’s paid nothing into a pension scheme,’ said Oldroyd facetiously.

  ‘No, but it’s very limiting if you’re planning at the age of twenty-three for when you’re in your late sixties.’

  ‘Some people say there’ll be a crisis when the young generation get old and they’ve nothing to live on.’

  ‘Maybe, but hopefully society will have changed by then, in ways we can hardly imagine.’

  ‘With universal income and stuff like that?’ said Oldroyd.

  ‘Why not? We can’t go on with our present economic model that is creating huge inequality and destroying the earth into the bargain.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. But I get the impression that she’s doing a Master’s because she can’t think of anything else to do. She’s very capable, but somehow I can’t see her as an academic. She’d never conform to the systems and she’d be forever in conflict with the hierarchies over gender equality, environmental issues and so on.’

  ‘That’s what I like about her. She’s not afraid to speak out. She’ll find her niche eventually, you mark my words.’

  Oldroyd smiled. ‘Probably. She’s so different from Robert and always has been.’

  His son had done a degree in engineering at Birmingham, and now lived in the Midlands with his wife Andrea. His was a very conventional life compared to that of his sister.

  ‘You wouldn’t want her any different than she is. And it’s good, by the way, that you’re still coming down to Oxford for this, despite being involved in a tricky case. I can remember the time when you would have sacrificed family events to concentrate on your work.’

  Oldroyd winced at the memory. It was the reason his marriage had broken down. Those years of neglect couldn’t be changed, and he wondered how many more men of his generation had missed their children growing up due to an obsession with their job. He shook his head to rid himself of gloomy thoughts. Onward and upward, as the saying went. He was starting to change in a number of ways under the influence of Deborah, who was reinforcing the things his daughter and his sister had been saying for some time. To be honest, Julia had also said the same things but he hadn’t listened to her.

  ‘Our personalities are so complex and shifting,’ continued Alison.

  ‘I’m not looking forward to Julia being there,’ said Oldroyd. ‘It’s going to be awkward.’

  ‘Maybe, but you’ll handle it. Remember, you’re there for Louise so we don’t want any unpleasantness. Jim?’

  Oldroyd had lapsed into a reverie about the past and wasn’t listening. He suddenly became more alert as he saw warning lights flashing ahead.

  ‘Oh, not more bloody roadworks! We’ll never get there.’

  At Harrogate HQ, Andy and Steph were hard at work researching the Drover Road robbery, so far without a great deal of success. As Oldroyd had suggested, they were attempting to trace any relatives or close friends of the two men who had received long sentences: people who might have had a grudge against Fraser. Steph was concentrating on Philip Traynor, who’d killed himself in prison, but there was no trace of any family except for an ex-wife who’d divorced him
several years before. They’d had a son together who would now be about twelve. Traynor had pages of form, including membership of a number of gangs, and he’d done time for a series of offences.

  Steph sat up in her chair and stretched her back and neck.

  ‘Oh, I’m not getting far with this,’ she said as she yawned. ‘I can’t see anyone who would be prepared to take revenge against Fraser on Traynor’s behalf.’

  ‘It’s a long shot, isn’t it?’ said Andy, who was working on the computer next to hers. ‘I think the boss knows it but he’s desperate for a break like the rest of us. I don’t envy poor old Gibbs up in Nidderdale, checking on shotgun licences.’

  ‘No. The only thing about Traynor which I find puzzling is why he killed himself. It’s not usual for hardened criminals to top themselves like that. They know the game and if they’re caught they know they’re going down.’

  ‘Something must have got to him. Maybe, as the boss suggested, it was the long sentence.’

  ‘Yes, he had a son who he might have missed seeing, but – I don’t know – it doesn’t feel right to me. I’m going to look into that with the prison authorities. How about you?’ said Steph.

  ‘Like you, no luck with tracing any family for Wilson. He seems to have been a loner. I think we’re wasting our time with that approach. I think there are interesting questions about these two characters themselves, never mind any families and friends. Why did Traynor kill himself, and how did Wilson manage to escape like he did?’

  ‘I agree – why don’t you contact the prison where Wilson was kept, see if you can find out more?’

  ‘OK, I will. It would be great to present the boss with a breakthrough.’

  Steph smiled. ‘You always want to impress him, don’t you.’

  ‘I suppose so. But he’s somebody you feel you want to impress, isn’t he?’

  ‘I know what you mean, so let’s have a coffee and then get on with it. It might be me that finds the crucial information – I’ll race you!’

  ‘No way,’ said Andy, reaching over and switching her computer off.