by J. R. Ellis
‘Well, that’s fine with me,’ replied a tired Deborah.
When they got back to Harrogate it was quite late, but Oldroyd said he was staying up to watch something.
Deborah looked at him suspiciously. ‘This is work, isn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid so, but it does involve watching a film, so it should be quite entertaining.’
Deborah yawned. ‘OK, but don’t stay up too late, and don’t wake me up when you come to bed.’
‘I won’t. It’s been a great evening.’ They kissed and Oldroyd went to his computer. What he’d heard tonight in the play had reminded him that he’d been so preoccupied with the case in the last few days that he’d forgotten to look up the Sherlock Holmes film. He soon found it on YouTube.
For the next hour and a quarter he was plunged into the black-and-white world of the film with its sinister music and melodramatic dialogue. It transported him back to his childhood, when these films with Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce had thrilled and scared him. Despite the dated corniness there was still a power about the film, especially in Rathbone’s steely and commanding presence as Holmes. Oldroyd could see how, in 1944, the film would have been terrifying. By the end, he had not only been entertained, but enlightened.
He crept to bed in the dark, making sure that he didn’t disturb Deborah, and then lay awake for quite some time feeling the excitement of the possible breakthrough.
John Gray was up early the next morning, even though the weather was very wet again and a thick mist had returned. He liked to listen to the news bulletins or read the latest stories on his laptop. Niddersgill had featured prominently in yesterday’s news, including Chief Inspector Oldroyd’s press conference. In today’s early bulletin, there hadn’t been anything new.
Things felt odd in the house now that Vic had gone. He missed him, but of course he knew that he would never come back, not after a crime like that. After recent events, the village didn’t feel the same either. Even though he spent most of his time in the studio, he could sense a change in the atmosphere. It was no longer relaxing and he felt once more that his stay in Niddersgill was limited. In fact, it seemed the right time to move on. He was tiring of the small-village atmosphere. Now that the shop was closed, you couldn’t get even basic things like milk and bread without going into Pateley Bridge. Actually, he’d found a way round this. He had an arrangement with the Dog and Gun to provide him with milk and a loaf of bread every other day until the shop reopened. It was time to collect these.
He put on a waterproof coat, and walked across the green. He encountered no one in the frightened and shut-up village except David Eastwood, who was wearing a light, waterproof coat over his red T-shirt. The two men exchanged nods. At the back of the inn, the door was answered by Harry Newton.
‘Morning, Mr Gray, have you come for your bread and milk?’
‘That’s right.’
Harry went back inside and returned with a sourdough loaf and a carton of milk. ‘Weather’s broken,’ he said, as Gray handed over the money.
‘Yes, but we can’t complain, we’ve had a good run of fine days. Bye.’
After this routine exchange, Gray walked back across the green. The weather didn’t concern him. He had a busy day ahead.
When he’d seen John Gray on the wet village green, a thought had struck David Eastwood and he’d stopped to watch Gray walk over to the inn. Yes, it was curious. He would have to contact Inspector Gibbs.
When Steph and Andy arrived at Harrogate HQ, Oldroyd was already there. This was unusual and a sign that he had fresh ideas about the case which he wanted to pursue.
‘Andy,’ he said abruptly before Andy had got properly into Oldroyd’s office. ‘Get on to the Met again. I want more information about Patrick Wilson. That stuff they sent us was all well and good, but it was just his criminal record. I want to know more about him as a person and I’m particularly interested in what he did before he embarked on his criminal career.’
‘OK, sir,’ replied Andy, somewhat puzzled, and went immediately to the general office where he had his desk.
‘Are you on to something then, sir?’ asked Steph, who’d known her boss a long time and had learned to read his moods. This morning he looked upbeat and animated.
‘Maybe, Steph. I’m hoping to confirm my theory when Andy gets the information. If I’m right, we’ll need to get back to Niddersgill fairly sharply, although I don’t think anyone else is at risk. Can you get on the phone to Inspector Gibbs and warn him that we may need his help?’
‘OK, sir.’ Steph left the office with some eagerness to perform the task. She was also pleased that at last it looked as if some progress would be made.
The phone rang and Oldroyd answered it, expecting Tom Walker, but it was Andy.
‘Sir, I’ve got DCI Riley from the Met on the phone and he wants to speak to you urgently.’
‘Right, put him on.’
‘DCI Oldroyd?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s DCI Riley here. I’m in charge of undercover operations at the Met. I’m sending you the information you asked for about Patrick Wilson’s early life.’
‘Good, but why are you ringing?’
‘Because there are things going on in that village in Nidderdale that it’s time you knew about, and you’ll have to move quickly if you want to take advantage of them.’
Andy and Steph heard the sound of Oldroyd’s voice on the phone and he seemed to be getting more and more excited. They edged into the office, sensing that things were about to kick off. As soon as he came off the phone, Oldroyd scanned through the file on Patrick Wilson that DCI Riley had sent.
‘Good Lord! That’s it. That confirms what I thought. My God, those idiots at the Met! Why didn’t they tell me earlier?’ He turned around, both anxious and exhilarated, and saw Andy and Steph looking tense in anticipation of what might be about to happen. ‘Right, you two. This is it – it’s all falling into place. Get a fast squad car, we need to get up to Niddersgill as quick as we can. There is someone else at risk. I’ll tell you about it on the way. And we’re going to need armed support. I’ll clear it with DCS Walker.’
Tony Dexter was reading a book on the geology of the dales while he waited for the rain to ease off. Then he was going to walk further up the dale towards Angram Reservoir and see what the bird life was doing. It was very quiet in the barn, apart from the drumming of the rain on the roof.
There was a knock on the door. He had few visitors and wasn’t expecting anybody. He looked through the window and tried to see who it was, but he could only see a huddled figure in an outdoor jacket with the hood pulled up. As soon as he unlocked the door, it was forced wide open and Dexter saw the muzzle of a shotgun. The man holding the gun came in out of the rain and threw back his hood.
‘Matt,’ he said. ‘How nice to see you again.’
‘You!’ said Dexter.
‘You don’t sound surprised. You knew I’d turn up at some point, didn’t you? You have to answer for what you did, but first you’re going to show me where you’ve hidden the loot.’
Bill Gibbs took the call from Andy and was about to leave the Pateley Bridge station when his phone went again. It was David Eastwood.
‘Yes, David, make it quick, I’ve got to get up to Niddersgill pretty sharpish.’
‘OK. It’s just that, remember you asked me the other day if I’d ever delivered any mail to Vic Moore at that cottage in the village and I said I hadn’t?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I don’t know whether it’s important, but in fact I don’t think I’ve ever delivered anything to John Gray either, except junk mail with just the address on, you know. As far as I can remember, nothing’s ever gone to that cottage with their names on. It’s as if they don’t exist.’
Andy drove the police car swiftly up the narrow roads through the pelting rain. By the time they arrived in Niddersgill, the rain was less heavy. They were followed by another car containing two armed officers. Gibbs w
as waiting for them by the village green with DC Potts.
‘There’s no answer at the door of Gray’s house,’ he said.
‘We’ll have to break in. He could still be in there and, by the way, we need to start using his real name: Patrick Wilson,’ said Oldroyd. They walked over towards the cottage.
‘The bank robber who was supposed to be dead?’ said an amazed Gibbs. ‘He’s the artist?’
‘Yes, he’s very much alive, ruthless in exacting his revenge, and, it seems, a master of disguise. He’s managed to live in this village for quite a while, posing as a painter, without anyone recognising him.’
‘But why should anyone here recognise him? He’s a criminal from London.’
‘Correct. But the man who gave him a long jail sentence was Fraser, and the man who he thinks mistreated him in Strangeways was Gorton. There’s more, but I’ll come to that later.’
They had arrived at John Gray’s cottage. Oldroyd rapped on the door. ‘Wilson, open up. We know what’s been going on. We’ve got armed police officers with us.’ There was no response. Oldroyd stood back. ‘OK, break in.’
The door soon gave way under a heavy assault from the hefty officers, who went in first and moved quickly through every room in the cottage, reporting back that there was no sign of anyone.
‘Blast it! But I think I know where he is. He must have decided to make his final move. He knew we were on to him after that press conference yesterday.’ Oldroyd turned to Gibbs. ‘Bill, take these officers and go up to Tony Dexter’s barn. And we need to call him by his real name too: Matthew Hart.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The bank robber who turned Queen’s evidence. I’ll tell you more later – just get up there. He’s in terrible danger. I just hope you’re not too late.’
Gibbs, Potts and the armed officers left.
‘Sir,’ said Steph. ‘You haven’t said what’s happened to Alan Green and Vic Moore. Were they hitmen after all?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think they’ve disappeared back to London or anything. I think we’ll find them here.’
‘Here, sir? In this cottage? Do you mean Wilson’s locked them up?’
‘Bloody hell, sir,’ said Andy. ‘But where?’
‘We need to look for another room that’s concealed. It was probably a cellar at one time. It shouldn’t be too difficult to locate. Let’s get these rugs up.’
The three detectives searched through the ground floor. It was Andy who found it, under a piece of carpet in a small utility room.
‘Here, sir. There’s a trapdoor with a metal ring flush with the wood.’
Steph and Oldroyd rushed over.
‘Excellent,’ said Oldroyd. ‘Now let’s take care. I have a feeling we may only find what’s left of them.’
At this, Andy and Steph steeled themselves to find some gruesome remains, and Andy pulled up the trapdoor to reveal a stone staircase leading down into darkness. There was a switch near the top. Oldroyd clicked on the light and led the way down. What they found at the bottom shocked the two sergeants.
Gibbs managed to get the police car slowly up the track to the converted barn. All the officers piled out and surrounded the building. The door was already open. Gibbs went inside cautiously with one of the armed officers, but the barn was empty. The open door and the fact that a laptop had been left on suggested a hasty departure. Gibbs was still reeling from Oldroyd’s revelations about the real identities of two people in the village. So Tony Dexter was really Matthew Hart, one of the Drover Road robbers. Why was he here in Niddersgill? Whatever the answer to that was, he was clearly in danger now. If DCI Oldroyd was right, Patrick Wilson would want revenge on the man who’d betrayed him.
It seemed likely that Wilson had abducted Hart. Blast it! They’d clearly been several steps behind this character throughout the case.
Gibbs looked round. There must be a reason why Hart had not been shot immediately, the most likely being that he had some information that Wilson needed. Could there be any clue as to where they might have gone? It seemed unlikely, but they were desperate to find something before it was too late. Just inside the door, Gibbs saw a small piece of folded paper on the floor.
Was it possible that Hart had dropped this to leave a clue?
Gibbs looked at the paper: on it was a picture of a spider.
Steph, Andy and Oldroyd gazed in wonder at the contents of the cellar room in Wilson’s cottage. It was set up like an actor’s dressing room, with mirrors, lighting, make-up, props and costumes on racks. There were some wigs on a model head. The eyes in the head stared at them. There was no sign of Alan Green or Vic Moore.
‘This is spooky, sir,’ said Steph, who shivered at the ghoulish atmosphere of the secret underground lair. ‘But there’s no one here.’
Oldroyd was sorting through an old wardrobe. ‘Yes, here they are!’ He pulled out two hangers containing clothing: a dark suit with a padded jacket, and a green jumper with corduroy trousers. ‘I’m judging this on the descriptions of the two men, but I present to you: Alan Green and Vic Moore.’
‘What, sir? You mean the clothes they wore?’
‘No, Andy. This is all they were, because they never actually existed. They were parts played by Patrick Wilson. He put on these costumes and he murdered Fraser and Gorton. His third identity was John Gray, the artist.’
‘What?’ said Andy, still not following.
‘Sir, on the way up you said Wilson was in disguise in the village but you never said he had three identities,’ said an astonished Steph.
‘No, because I wasn’t completely sure about it until we got here, and now I’ve found all this. It took me a long time to realise that Wilson had sent us on a wild goose chase looking for people who weren’t real. It was supremely audacious; he even talked to us about Vic Moore and showed us his bedroom. He also told us that Moore had had instructions to do something he didn’t want to do, which lent weight to the idea that he was being controlled by someone. I was completely taken in for a while.’
‘So that’s why “Alan Green” and “Vic Moore” made sure that those two women recognised them as the killers – so we would be confused. God! Poor Inspector Gibbs; he spent all that time trying to trace Alan Green in Pateley Bridge and the other villages,’ said Steph.
‘I know. He’s not going to be pleased. Except that we’ve finally cracked it.’
‘Hold on though, sir,’ said Andy, who was flabbergasted by this outlandish discovery. ‘How could he be three people at once in a village like this? Surely someone would realise?’
‘That’s what I thought for a long time. I suspected that something might be going on with disguises but I never contemplated the extent of Wilson’s deception. It was an exquisite piece of acting. We found out from the Met file that he was an actor before he turned to crime, and earned quite a reputation as being the kind of performer who could utterly transform himself into different characters using make-up, prosthetics, wigs, accents and so on.’
‘Even so, sir, surely someone would notice. I mean, they could never be together at the same time, could they?’
‘That’s right, and that’s where another piece of consummate skill came in: timing. He arrived here as John Gray after he’d discovered that Gorton and Fraser were in this village, and found the ideal cottage with a cellar to rent. It was a very convenient coincidence for him that two of his targets were in the same place. So remember, no one here had ever seen him in his real identity as Patrick Wilson, and “John Gray” kept himself to himself in the role of the semi-reclusive artist. It gave him a reason not to mix much with other people.
‘So then he waited, and suddenly Alan Green appears in the village: Geordie accent, brown wig and false moustache. No one would ever think: that’s John Gray dressed up. He makes sure that “Green” becomes well known in the village, but no one asks too many questions about where he lives. He can invent a back story if he has to. He drinks in the inn and does odd jobs for people, even Fraser and
probably Gorton; it’s a good way of monitoring them.
‘After a while he introduced his third identity. This was trickier, but he pulled it off. “Vic Moore” was taller than Green – that would be due to inserts in his shoes – and fatter; that’s why he wore this padded jacket. He wore more formal clothes, spoke in a Birmingham accent and always wore dark glasses. There was probably some kind of prosthetic to fatten his face. All of this was very subtle, nothing crude like stage make-up. It was so good that no one recognised “Green” in this new identity. The difficulty is that he needed Vic to be a part of village life too, and for that he also had to be a regular at the Dog and Gun.’
‘So how come no one realised that they were never there together?’ persisted Andy.
‘It’s the illusionist’s trick of suggestibility. Unless you’re actually thinking about it and looking for it, why would you notice that they never appeared together? As Green he would talk about Moore and vice versa. They would ask where the other one was and maybe call each other on mobile phones, pretending to have a conversation. It was all so skilfully done that I’ll bet if you sat down now with Bramley, Davis, the people behind the bar and any other regulars, they’d all probably say that they were sure that Green and Moore were often in the bar together and they got on well with each other. The idea of them being separate people had been presented to them so many times that they actually believed it. And why not? You wouldn’t even consider the idea that there’s a man in the village disguising himself as different people. Even if you were sure you’d never seen them together, you’d think that it was probably just you who hadn’t seen them and others had.’
‘Why did he need to have three identities, sir?’ asked Steph.
‘Green and Moore were like the shotgun cartridges Wilson used to kill Gorton and Fraser. Once they were spent they were discarded. They disappeared after the murders when the witnesses had seen them fire the shots, or thought they had. Those two young women, who were so insistent that they’d seen Green and Moore, unwittingly did a great job of putting us off the scent. Using a shotgun, of course, got us also thinking about the possible involvement of Fraser’s enemies in the shooting world. We started to look all over the place, but all the answers were here.’