by J. R. Ellis
‘Who was murdered this time?’ asked Saunders.
‘The poor chap who ran that little newsagent and store in the village. He was shot outside the shop and apparently the killer disappeared again. It’s extraordinary, isn’t it? What on earth do you think is going on?’
‘How would I know, James? I haven’t a clue.’
‘No, well at least the police can’t suspect us this time. We had no connection with the man at all.’
‘No,’ replied Saunders tersely. He glanced through the cafe window at the busy London street.
He didn’t want to be reminded about the whole business in Nidderdale. There were issues concerning him and Sandy about which he hoped the police would remain in ignorance.
‘Anyway,’ continued Symons, ‘I think all this carry-on may give the village a little notoriety, at least in the short term, and that in turn may well bring down the asking price for Fraser’s grouse moor.’
Saunders was rather disgusted by this. ‘James, that’s rather bad taste, especially in the circumstances.’
‘Well, every cloud has a silver lining, old boy.’ Symons chuckled, completely unabashed. ‘Even if it’s not for those directly involved. Anyway, I won’t keep you. I know life is hectic for all you City types. I just want you to know that I’ll be delighted if you’d join me on a shoot when I’ve taken possession of the moor. It’ll be good to have a reunion for old times’ sake, and we can remember Sandy. I might even invite that chap who got drunk and made a fool of himself. What was his name? He was some kind of car dealer, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, Rawnsley.’
‘He’ll be good for a laugh.’ Symons chuckled again.
‘I must say, you seem very confident about being able to acquire that land,’ said Saunders.
‘Oh yes. All in good time. It’s all part of the plan. Cheerio for now.’
Symons rang off, leaving Saunders shaking his head at the former’s insensitive breeziness in the circumstances. To Symons, the murders seemed to afford only curiosity and an opportunity for personal gain. And what did he mean by his ‘plan’? Was it just his ambition to acquire more land in the area, or was there something more sinister afoot?
At the Frasers’ manor house, Henrietta was encouraging her mother to begin the process of sorting through her deceased husband’s possessions. The death had been registered, probate applied for and the funeral arranged. Miriam was a little more relaxed but still tired after the shock. She protested that she didn’t want to be bothered with any of this yet, but Henrietta insisted.
‘There’s no time like the present, Mummy. If you put things off they’ll never get done. We’re only going to start with his study and his papers. We’ll just sort through them and see if there’s anything important. There won’t be anything personal which might upset you.’
‘All right then. You’ve always been busy and efficient like this. Your room was always immaculate and tidy and the teachers at school said you hated any mess.’
Henrietta laughed. ‘I know. I think I get it from Daddy. Look at this.’
They’d entered the study, in which everything was neatly arranged, although Oldroyd had left a few things out after his search a week ago. They spent some time going through various legal documents, with Henrietta making most of the decisions about what had to be dealt with immediately and what could be deferred. After a while, Miriam said she needed a break, and went to lie down for a while.
‘I’ll come and make a cup of tea in a minute,’ Henrietta called through to the sitting room. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes. Fine, dear. A cup of tea would be nice.’
Henrietta paused for a moment and looked around the room. Her father had some nice prints on the walls: Yorkshire landscapes and some cartoons of legal life. There was one of those caricature drawings which she thought she recognised as being the work of someone quite famous. She got up and lifted it from its picture hook, intending to see if there was any information on the back. She was surprised to find that the picture had been concealing a safe.
She placed the picture on the floor and went to the desk to see if she could find the key. Her search of the drawers revealed nothing. She thought about asking her mother, but she wasn’t sure what she might find in there, so she sat down and considered the possibilities. The desk was old and solidly built, so could there be a concealed compartment?
After a patient search, she found a catch hidden at the back of the desk. When sprung, it opened a small compartment concealed by ornate woodwork at the front, and inside was a key. She rushed to the safe and opened it. There was a folder containing papers, and a large cash box which was stuffed with money. Did her mother know about this?
‘Mummy,’ called Henrietta, going into the sitting room. Then she saw her mother was asleep on the sofa.
There was a knock on the door, and she rushed to answer before the noise woke her mother. Standing outside were Oldroyd and Steph. This was so unexpected at this moment that she exclaimed in surprise. ‘Oh, Chief Inspector! It’s you! What a coincidence! Please come in, but try to be quiet. My mother’s asleep.’
Puzzled, Oldroyd and Steph entered the little hallway.
‘Come straight through to Daddy’s study, I’ve got something to show you.’ Henrietta indicated the safe, the papers and the money. ‘It was quite by chance that I found this a few minutes ago. What do you make of it?’
Oldroyd looked at the sheets of paper, which seemed to be simple records of payments over quite a long period of time, apparently all from ‘H.S.’ Steph counted the money, which ran into the thousands.
He felt quite relieved to be maybe making some progress at last. ‘I agree with you that this is a coincidence, but I don’t think it’s difficult to explain. Our examination of your father’s computer showed that he’d been receiving payments from H.S. This is obviously the stash of money which he kept away from bank accounts where it could be traced. And he’s kept this, a little analogue written record, as backup.’
‘Who do you think this H.S. is, and why was he giving money to Daddy?’
‘The most likely person is Henry Saunders, who was up here for the shoot at the time of the first murder.’
‘Henry Saunders? He’s one of my father’s oldest friends. They were at school together.’
‘Well, maybe he was giving your father money because he was in financial difficulties, but I’m afraid it looks a little clandestine to me.’
‘You mean Daddy could have been getting money out of him? How? Surely not blackmail?’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘But that’s terrible.’
‘Desperation can drive people to do unexpected things. We’ll have to contact Mr Saunders and take it from there.’
Henrietta realised Oldroyd’s line of thinking. ‘Chief Inspector, are you implying that if Daddy was blackmailing Henry Saunders, then that might have been a motive for murder?’
‘I’m sure you realise that blackmail often results in violence, but let’s not jump to conclusions. We have no evidence against Mr Saunders yet and he wasn’t identified as one of the shooters.’
‘What could he have been blackmailing him about?’
‘We have no idea.’ Oldroyd decided to move things on. They had more work to do. ‘OK, so we’ll need to take all this as evidence. We don’t need to bother your mother about it at the moment. I’m sure she knew nothing, but we’ll have to check at some point.’
‘Thank you, Chief Inspector.’ Henrietta showed them out. She had lost all her breeziness. ‘You know, it’s funny how you think you know someone and then you find out that you didn’t, or at least not all of them. My father was always so efficient, upright and respected, and now it seems he became involved in shabby money-grubbing after mismanaging his affairs. It hardly seems like the same person.’
‘A lot of people harbour dreams, and many need them to survive,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘Sometimes the reality is different. Your father dreamed of living up here and owning a grouse moor. It seems he found t
he skills he had were not suited to the task.’
‘I think you’re right,’ said Henrietta, and she closed the front door behind them.
Bill Gibbs drove back in a police car to Pateley Bridge in a sombre mood. There had now been two murders on his patch and he felt he was letting DCI Oldroyd down. The killers identified lived locally, so he should be the one who was finding them. But he and his officers had drawn a blank with Alan Green and now there was this Vic Moore character. It was baffling.
As he neared the town, still deep in thought, he realised that the red vehicle in front of him was a postal van. As he’d been aware of following it for some time down the dale, the chances were it belonged to David Eastwood, who did the upper Nidderdale round. They had already checked at the post office, without success, to see if they had an address for Alan Green. But Eastwood might know something. He might also have delivered things to Vic Moore. It was worth a try.
Gibbs flashed his lights, which brought the van to a halt. He got out in the rain and walked over to see Eastwood’s concerned face leaning out of the lowered driver’s window. As long-time Pateley residents, they knew each other. ‘Don’t worry, David, I’m not stopping you for any problems with the car or anything.’
‘Oh, right.’ Eastwood looked relieved. The wipers in the van continued to swish from side to side.
‘It’s about these murders.’ The worried look immediately returned to Eastwood’s face. ‘I know you do the round that covers Niddersgill. We’re trying to track down a chap called Vic Moore. He lodged with John Gray, the artist.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen him in the Dog – Alan Green, too.’
‘Good. The point is: did you ever deliver any post to Vic Moore? If you can remember anything, it might prove useful.’
Eastwood thought for a moment. ‘Now you mention it, I don’t remember ever delivering anything with his name on. And that’s a bit odd isn’t it, considering he’s lived here for a couple of years?’
‘Maybe. And do you always do the delivery to Niddersgill?’
‘Yes. I’ve been doing it for eight years now.’
‘What about Alan Green? Did you ever come across him on your rounds?’
‘To speak to, yes, but not as far as the post is concerned. He lived here in Pateley, didn’t he? So I wouldn’t deliver to him.’
‘OK. Thanks, I’ll let you get on.’
Eastwood drove off, and Gibbs got back into the police car, his hair soaked with the rain.
Another blank. But what Eastwood had said made him more convinced than ever that there was something strange about these two suspects that went beyond their apparent ability to vanish into thin air.
Oldroyd and Steph returned to the village and the forlorn sight of the closed shop surrounded by incident tape, with a PC on guard outside.
Oldroyd spoke to the PC. ‘I presume Mrs Gorton is here?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she replied.
‘How is she?’
‘Not well, sir, as you can imagine. The doctor’s been. The poor woman’s disabled with arthritis and now she’s got this to deal with. If you go through the shop, there’s a room at the back which has been converted into a bedroom; I presume to avoid her having to go up the stairs.’
‘OK, we’ll go through.’
‘Sir.’
Oldroyd and Steph made their way through the dark, empty shop, past piles of unsold newspapers. He knocked on a door at the back of the shop and heard a voice asking them in. Inside was the room as described by the PC, with a bed in the corner. A thin woman was sitting in a raised armchair, her feet on a footrest. She looked pale and exhausted.
‘Mrs Gorton?’ asked Oldroyd.
‘Yes?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Oldroyd and Detective Sergeant Johnson. We won’t bother you for long, but we would like to ask you a few questions.’ They showed their warrant cards.
Mrs Gorton sighed. ‘I presume it’s about Peter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sit down.’ The detectives sat on a sofa opposite. ‘I’ve already told the policeman who came everything. I’ve no idea who could have wanted to kill Peter. I’ll never get over the shock of hearing the bang of that gun. Somehow I knew what had happened.’ She closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘I couldn’t do anything. It takes me a long time to even get up out of the chair without help. At first I was afraid I might be next, that it could be a raid on the shop, but everything went quiet. I didn’t hear anyone come in. Then I started to shout for help. It seemed a long time before someone came.’
‘So your husband had no enemies, as far as you know?’
‘No. I think everyone in the village liked him. Sometimes, if I was having a good day, I would come out and help him in the shop as much as I could. He was always chatting to people.’
‘Did you know Vic Moore?’
‘That’s the man who they say shot Peter? Not really. I don’t get out much. But I think I’ve seen him in the shop – just an ordinary man. He and Peter never had a disagreement that I knew of. I can’t make any sense of it.’
Neither can we, thought Oldroyd.
‘Where did you live before you came to Niddersgill?’ asked Steph.
‘In the cities. That’s why we were keen to come out here into the countryside into semi-retirement. We moved around a bit with Peter’s work and we ended up in Manchester.’
‘What did your husband do?’
‘He was a prison officer.’
Oldroyd looked up sharply. ‘A prison officer? Did he ever work at Strangeways?’
‘He did – that was his last job.’
‘Did anything unusual happen while he was working there?’
Mrs Gorton frowned. ‘How did you know about that?’
‘About what, Mrs Gorton?’
‘Well, there was a bit of an incident. Peter asked me never to talk about it – said he wanted to make a new start here and didn’t want things from the past to spoil it. It doesn’t matter now he’s . . . not here.’ The shock of this fact hit her; she stopped and began to weep. The detectives waited patiently.
‘Tell us what happened, Mrs Gorton,’ said Steph gently. ‘But take your time.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She dabbed her eyes, and with an effort managed to continue. ‘Peter was accused of mistreating a prisoner. He said it was all nonsense. He’d discovered the prisoner in possession of drugs and the man had gone for him. Maybe Peter was a bit too strong in fighting back. Anyway, he was suspended for a while and then they offered him early retirement. He was glad to leave – he’d had enough.’
‘Can you remember this prisoner’s name? It’s very important.’
‘Of course, it’s not something you easily forget after all that trouble. It was Patrick Wilson.’
Andy and Bill Gibbs were just completing the humdrum job of collating the witness statements when Oldroyd came crashing into the lounge at the inn, closely followed by Steph.
‘At last, I think we’ve got something tangible – two things actually, but I’m not sure how they’re related, if they are.’ He told Andy and Gibbs about the safe and the possibility of Fraser being involved in blackmail, and then what they’d learned about Gorton and Wilson. He was so animated that he didn’t sit down. ‘This is a link between the victims. It strongly suggests that Wilson is both alive and involved. He had the motive to kill both men: the judge who handed out his sentence and the prison officer whom he believed mistreated him.’
‘How is he involved, sir?’ asked Gibbs. ‘We’ve got two different suspects for the murders. Do you think he’s orchestrating his revenge from a distance? Sending out hitmen?’
‘That’s what Andy suggested, and he may be right.’
Andy beamed at Steph, who smiled back.
Oldroyd continued. ‘He’s the kind of big-time criminal who could get his dirty work done for him, and it would tie in with what John Gray told us about Vic Moore saying he had to do something he didn’t want to do.’
‘The problem is, sir
,’ said Steph, ‘you said yourself that Alan Green was an odd hitman, what with him being around in the village for two or three years before killing Fraser. And now we’ve got the same thing with Moore. He’s been around the village for quite a while, got to know people and so on, and then suddenly he shoots Gorton. It doesn’t feel like a gangland hit to me.’
Andy frowned at her and, behind Oldroyd’s back, she stuck her tongue out at him.
‘But it’s happened twice now, sir,’ said Andy, defending his theory. ‘As I said before, that must make it more likely that it’s gang-related. Green and Moore may have been involved in crime in the past and Wilson has called on some kind of loyalty. That’s how it works in gangs: once you’re in, you’re in for life, there’s no retiring. That would also explain why Moore and Green have shadowy pasts and we can’t find out much about them. They’d probably had enough of what they were doing and came up here to start a new life. But, as I say, you can always be called on by your bosses to perform a service. If Moore and Green hadn’t done what they were told, then they might have ended up dead themselves.’
‘That’s an eloquent defence of your point of view, Andy,’ observed Oldroyd.
Here, and again behind Oldroyd’s back, Andy stuck his tongue out at Steph, who had to stifle a giggle.
‘We need to contact the London Met,’ continued Oldroyd, ‘and get a full profile of Wilson: what he did, who he knew, where he lived, everything. And also tell them and the Manchester police that we think he may be still alive. The most likely scenario is that he returned to his old London haunts where he could lie low, and the Met might know where that’s likely to be.’
‘What about the business with Fraser and the blackmailing?’ asked Gibbs.
‘We’ve got to pursue that lead too. Henry Saunders was the most likely victim of the blackmailing. We’ll start there and get him back up to Harrogate for questioning. He didn’t have a motive to kill Gorton, but there’s still a chance that the two crimes are not connected and the Wilson theory is wrong. So, Bill, if you can contact Manchester and we’ll speak to the Met. Also, continue the search for Moore, though I think we know that will probably prove fruitless.’