The Nidderdale Murders (A Yorkshire Murder Mystery)

by J. R. Ellis

  ‘Maybe not, but she was beginning to work it out.’

  ‘I see. It must have been worse than I thought. Anyway, he began to ask me regularly for money, ostensibly loans, but we both knew the money would not be paid back. I didn’t want my marriage to be damaged; I’m devoted to my wife, but we all like to play away a little at times, don’t we?’ He looked at Oldroyd, maybe expecting a smile of understanding, even complicity.

  ‘Do we?’ replied Oldroyd, in a tone that expressed his intense distaste.

  Saunders cleared his throat, somewhat embarrassed. ‘So I paid up. I could afford what he was asking. He never overstepped the mark and asked for too much; he would have thought it very ungentlemanly to be greedy and place me in difficulties.’

  Andy shook his head in disbelief at the strange moral code of a ‘gentlemanly’ blackmailer.

  ‘Even if the demands were not excessive, you must have wearied of handing over money to him,’ Oldroyd said.

  ‘I did, Chief Inspector, but I didn’t kill him. I assume that’s why I’m here, because you now think I had a motive to kill Sandy.’

  ‘Correct. The victims of blackmailers often snap at some point and lash out at their blackmailer.’

  ‘I didn’t. It was a nuisance, but I could afford it. In a way I blamed myself. I shouldn’t really have been there with Harriet, so in a way I was being punished. Also, you probably won’t believe this but I still thought of Sandy as my friend, a friend who’d got himself into a mess. He must have been suffering a lot but he was too proud to admit it. I recognise that attitude and I didn’t wish him any harm.’

  There was a hardness in Saunders’s expression when he talked about Fraser, and a faint curling of the lip that confirmed Oldroyd’s scepticism about much of this. But he changed the line of questioning. ‘Have you ever had anything to do with a man named Patrick Wilson?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He’s one of our chief suspects in the murder of Sandy Fraser. When he was a judge, Fraser sent Wilson to prison for a long time, but we think Wilson escaped alive and planned his revenge. You would have made a nice accomplice for him. You both had a grievance against Fraser.’

  Saunders laughed. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Have you heard of two men called Matthew Hart and Philip Traynor? They were involved in a robbery with Wilson.’

  ‘No.’

  Oldroyd looked at him, long and hard. ‘OK. We’ll leave it there. We have no hard evidence against you so you’re free to go, but stay where we can contact you.’

  ‘He certainly had a motive, sir,’ said Andy after Saunders had left the room. ‘But somehow I don’t think he’s involved. I can’t see him as someone who would get in with the criminal underworld. And then, conveniently, in that underworld there’s someone who also had a motive for killing Fraser. It doesn’t stack up.’

  ‘No, for the most part I agree,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘But I think he underplayed the anguish and anger of a person who is handing over money to a blackmailer. It’s not impossible that he might have arranged for a hitman to relieve him of his tormentor. And remember, coincidences do occur. He may have met Wilson.’

  ‘But what about the second murder, sir?’

  ‘I don’t think he was a part of that, but if Wilson was involved in Fraser’s murder he may have discovered that Gorton was here in the same village, and then continued with his revenge killing alone.’ Oldroyd yawned and rubbed his forehead. The stress was taking its toll on his energy levels and he didn’t find his own theories very convincing. He could do with another escape into his new poetic creativity. ‘Has the information on Wilson arrived from the Met yet?’

  ‘I’m expecting the file soon. I’ve heard from Inspector Gibbs. He says that the Manchester police and prison authorities had nothing new, but they did confirm that Gorton had been accused of assault and that he’d taken early retirement under a cloud.’

  ‘OK, well, let’s see if anything’s arrived.’ He slouched over to his computer, desperate for a breakthrough.

  The bar at the Dog and Gun had a very sombre atmosphere. The reporters had left and the group of locals who gathered there regularly had now lost three of its members – one dead and two disappeared; they had no idea what to make of it. Ian Davis, grabbing a quick pint or two at lunchtime, was at the bar with Wilf Bramley. There was no one else there. The two hardly managed a conversation and instead stood sighing, tutting and murmuring phrases such as ‘I dunno’ and ‘What the bloody hell’s goin’ on?’ in between taking swigs of beer.

  Kirsty was behind the bar. She was feeling better but still worried that Alan Green or even Vic Moore might come back to get her, and she had insisted on a male member of staff being close by during her shifts.

  ‘How’s Jeanette?’ asked Davis.

  ‘Not brilliant, as you can imagine. She’s gone home to her parents in Northallerton for a while, to get away from here.’

  ‘Ah don’t blame her, poor lass,’ said Bramley. He sat on a bar stool, rubbed his unshaven chin, and shook his head as if trying but failing to make sense of it all. ‘It’s a bloody funny do that both you and ’er witnessed them murders, in’t it?’

  ‘That’s what everybody’s saying,’ replied Kirsty as she dried some beer glasses. ‘I don’t know what to make of it. It could just be coincidence, but the really creepy thing is that both me and Jeanette felt that Alan and Vic wanted us to see them. To see their faces. They looked at us before they ran off.’

  Davis drained his glass. ‘Just time for another, Kirsty.’ She pulled him a fresh pint. ‘That’s bloody crazy, but what’s worse is that we knew Alan and Vic. They drank in here with us. They were good blokes and then they go committing murder and . . . Peter . . .’ His speech trailed away and he shrugged.

  ‘If it really was them,’ said Kirsty.

  ‘Eh? What do yer mean? Ah thought you said you both had a good look at ’em?’ said Bramley.

  ‘We did, but Harry’s got a theory.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Davis, sounding sceptical.

  ‘Yes. He says we saw them, but only at a distance. It could have been someone impersonating them.’

  ‘But you saw their faces.’

  ‘Yes, but not really close up. They could, you know, have been made up to look like Alan and Vic.’

  ‘What!? So what’s happened to the real Alan and Vic?’

  ‘Harry says they could have been kidnapped, and then this person – or there could have been two of them – disguised himself, or themselves, as Alan and Vic to put suspicion on them. And that’s why they wanted us to get a good look at them – that’s the murderers – but not too close, so that we would say it was Alan and Vic. Oh shit, I’ve not explained that very well!’

  Davis laughed. ‘I think I followed it. Is Harry going to tell the police about this big theory?’

  ‘He might. You have to admit, it makes sense. Do you really think Alan and Vic would murder people for no reason?’

  ‘Where did these . . . mystery folk come from, then?’ asked an also-doubtful Bramley.

  ‘That’s for the police to find out.’

  Davis laughed again. ‘What a load of tosh! He’s got an imagination, I’ll give him that, and too much time on his hands by the sounds of it. I don’t think you’re keeping him entertained at night.’

  Kirsty hit him with the tea towel. ‘Hey! You cheeky bugger! Shut your face! Everybody seems to know about Harry and me.’

  ‘You haven’t exactly kept it a secret. We’re always spotting you two making out by the back door.’ Grinning, Davis nodded towards the other end of the inn. ‘One night, me and some of the lads I work with were here late and we crept round to the back where you can see the window of Harry’s room, and guess what? No light was on, because he wasn’t there, was he?’

  Kirsty was outraged but she took it humorously. ‘You rotten sods, there’s no privacy with people like you around, is there?! It’s a wonder you didn’t try
to look into my room as well!’

  ‘We would have done if it hadn’t been at the front.’ Davis’s eyes twinkled with mischief.

  ‘No!’ cried Kirsty. ‘You disgusting voyeurs!’

  ‘Never mind, lass,’ said Bramley with a chuckle. ‘It’s only because they wish they could have been there themselves.’

  Kirsty laughed uproariously at this, and Davis went bright red. ‘Oh! Look at him. Blushing! And him a married man. Does Jenny know you like to stalk couples?’ she taunted.

  ‘No . . . Don’t say anything . . . I . . .’ stammered Davis, on the defensive. ‘Bloody hell!’ he laughed. ‘I should have kept quiet. Anyway, to get back to Harry’s theory. What’s going to happen to the real Alan and Vic now? Are the murderers going to release them? Then they’ll both say they were being held captive, won’t they?’

  Kirsty frowned. ‘I’m not sure. Harry hasn’t said anything about that.’

  ‘And why did these people want to murder Fraser and Peter Gorton anyway?’ continued Davis. ‘And why bother dressing up as someone else in the village? Why didn’t they just kill them?’

  ‘Maybe to lull their victims into a false sense of security or . . . Oh! I don’t know! You’ll have to ask Harry.’

  ‘I will, don’t worry. I’m glad he’s not in charge of the investigation.’ Davis had enjoyed pulling Newton’s theory to pieces, but Bramley was not so sure that it lacked credibility.

  ‘Aye, well,’ he began with a lugubrious sigh. ‘What if Harry’s reight? Who maht be kidnapped next? And waar still: who maht be shot next?’

  This silenced them all.

  The humour and laughter had been a welcome relief from the shock and horror of recent events, but Bramley’s comment brought them back to the reality: two people had been shot, the reasons were unclear and there was no guarantee that there would not be another victim.

  ‘Anyway, I’m off back to work,’ said Davis, who staggered a bit as he left the bar. Kirsty looked after him and frowned.

  It was time she made a call.

  At Harrogate HQ, Oldroyd was poring through all the information that had finally arrived from the Met about Patrick Wilson. His form was impressive. Although it seemed that he’d come to crime late, in his early thirties, he’d built up a large portfolio of criminal acts, beginning with fraud and then progressing to burglaries and armed robbery. He was clearly a hardened and dangerous career criminal who despised law enforcement and was capable of violence. He’d attacked police and prison officers several times. Oldroyd could imagine the provocation that had led to Peter Gorton confronting him in some way in Strangeways jail. The planning of his robberies showed that Wilson had a sharp and cunning brain.

  This led Oldroyd to muse, as he often did, on the cliché that if these intelligent criminal minds actually used their intelligence in a legal way, they would probably make more money and not end up incarcerated in prison.

  The file contained a police photograph of Wilson: an ordinary-looking man with thinning hair, grey eyes and a moustache. Oldroyd searched the face for clues. Was there anything familiar in the features?

  Oldroyd felt some vague sense of recognition, but it was easy to imagine that you’d seen someone before; people were more similar to each other than was commonly thought, and every face had many like it in the population as a whole.

  Where was Wilson now? A man like him would have many links in the underworld, so the likelihood was that he was holed up somewhere plotting his revenge on the people who, in his view, had treated him badly. Maybe they should try offering a reward for his capture. That might tempt one of his cronies to betray him. Personal gain was always paramount to these people, but there was a rough code of behaviour among them: the penalties for betrayal, especially to the police, were severe.

  This made Oldroyd think of Matthew Hart, the man who had turned against Wilson’s gang. Presumably the Met knew where he was and had warned him that Wilson could be alive and free. If the police had done their work properly there should be little chance of Wilson tracking him down.

  Oldroyd looked up from the screen and rubbed his eyes. Where did they go next? It was really up to the Met to try to find Wilson. All the other theories seemed to have led nowhere. Wilson was the only suspect who had a motive to kill both Fraser and Gorton – that is, if he really was still alive. It was all so insubstantial and there seemed to be no immediate prospect of bringing things to a conclusion. It left Oldroyd feeling powerless.

  Soon, he knew, Watkins would be on to Superintendent Walker complaining about the lack of results, and then Oldroyd would be called in and would have to listen to one of Walker’s tirades about Watkins, while trying to explain why no further progress had been made. He grimaced at the thought.

  At least he was going to York that evening to see As You Like It with Deborah. It would be a welcome break from this frustrating case.

  ‘Look, you’re not going there tonight, right?’

  ‘Oh come on, love. I work hard – everybody goes for a pint when they’ve finished work.’

  Ian and Jenny Davis were having a row in the kitchen of their cottage. It was early evening and the kids were upstairs playing. Jenny was by the door with her arms folded and Ian was on the sofa looking away from her.

  ‘You never have one pint though, do you? It’s always a few and then you come home tipsy or drunk. Kirsty rang and she told me you’re going there at dinner time in the middle of the day as well.’

  ‘What? Wait till I see her. I don’t go every day. It’s just for the odd pint. She should mind her own business.’ He looked sheepish.

  ‘She’s worried about you, like I am. You’re drinking too much, Ian. It’s not doing you any good and we can’t afford it.’

  Davis looked very uncomfortable. ‘OK, it’s been a bit over t’top recently, I admit, but it was all because of that bloody Fraser. He was making my life a misery. It cheers me up to be in that bar with the others. We always have a laugh.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, while her indoors does the ironing and puts the kids to bed.’

  ‘I put the kids to bed a lot!’

  ‘Sometimes. Anyway, it’s got to stop, Ian. Do you want to be a father who drinks the family money away?’

  ‘No, but it’s under control – I know how far to go.’

  ‘That’s what they all say until they end up alcoholics.’

  ‘Alcoholic!’

  ‘You heard what I said. What makes you think you’re different to everybody else? As if we haven’t got enough problems in this village without you drinking our money away. And that’s another reason I prefer you at home at the moment. Two people have been killed and I worry when you’re out.’ Unexpectedly, she burst into tears. Davis was shocked.

  ‘Oh love, don’t. Look, I’ll stay in tonight, and why don’t you come with me to the Dog more often? Then you can watch how much I drink.’

  ‘I’d like to, but what about the kids? We haven’t got a babysitter.’

  ‘Well, there’s a bloke I work with. He has a teenage daughter and she’d like to earn a bit o’ money. So I could ask him if she’s available. We wouldn’t have to give her much and it would be a change for you.’

  She dried her eyes and looked at him. ‘Yes. Why not? I want to get back to playing darts again. I used to be good, remember?’

  ‘I do. It’s time you got out more. And I promise I’ll cut down on the boozing.’

  She stopped crying and gave him a hug.

  Out in the Vale of York, the evening weather was calm and the sky clear. The lines of trees and small copses in the flat fields were starting to go yellow, with hints of orange and brown. Huge machines were moving up and down, doing some harvesting of wheat and barley in the last hours of daylight.

  Deborah was driving the Saab as she and Oldroyd entered the old part of the city. As they crossed Lendal Bridge, Oldroyd looked over to see that the river was very high after the recent rains up in the dales, from where the Ure, Swale and Nidd flowed down and joined
to form the Ouse near York. Flooding was a notorious problem in Yorkshire’s ancient capital.

  They parked in the big car park down Gillygate and walked back past the Theatre Royal, down Davygate, Parliament Street and Piccadilly to the magnificence of the fourteenth-century Merchant Adventurers’ Hall. The stunning timber-framed Great Hall was being used by the small touring theatre company, and what an amazing setting it was for Shakespeare! Oldroyd and Deborah took their seats, and he looked up into the high ceiling. The indoor performances by Elizabethan troupes of actors in some of the great houses of the day and London’s Inns of Court must have been very much like this: a small but attentive audience, polished wood reflecting candlelight, voices echoing up among the high roof beams of the steeply pitched wooden frame.

  The performance was a great success. The energetic group of four young actors managed to present the play with minimal scenery, props and costumes, and by each one playing numerous parts. Deborah and Oldroyd enjoyed glasses of wine in the interval in a magical atmosphere of conviviality inspired by Shakespearian comedy.

  After the show, it was dark as they walked back through the narrow streets.

  ‘Well, that was wonderful!’ said Deborah, who was full of enthusiasm. ‘I’ve been taken to a different world and I don’t want to come down to earth.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream is described as having been “translated” into a new place and self. Shakespeare always gets the right word.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Deborah, very laconically for her. She was still absorbed by the play and its atmosphere. Oldroyd was content to walk on quietly for a while too, because, yet again, Shakespeare had given him an idea to work with.

  ‘Do you know,’ he said when they arrived back at the Gillygate car park, ‘we need to keep coming to see Shakespeare. This is the second time a play has given me an idea about a case.’

  When he and Deborah had watched a promenade production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Ripley Castle early in their relationship, that too had kick-started his brain into solving a seemingly impossible crime.