by J. R. Ellis
Jason had developed a habit of breaking the trading rules in the stock market and had come very close to breaking the law on occasion. His behaviour had lost him a number of jobs, but he always bounced back because he was so good at what he did. Andy dreaded the moment when his friend would get arrested for being involved in some scam involving millions. He’d known Jason from his schooldays.
He turned to Steph in a more serious manner. ‘What do you think turns gifted people into criminals?’
‘Whoa! Deep stuff! You’ve been working with the boss so long now, you’re turning into a thinker. Have you got the brains for it?’
‘Cheeky! You’re right, actually. He makes you think about all kinds of stuff. When I first came up here, I was just interested in locking bad people up. I never thought about them as individuals and that things had happened to make them like that.’
‘It’s an important thing you learn from him: to think about the psychology of the people involved in a case.’
‘Yes. I can see how poor people with no education and skills might turn to crime, but why someone like Jason, or Patrick Wilson? Jason was a whizz at maths and stuff at school, he could have done all sorts of jobs, but here he is spending his time in a glorified casino – and, this is what worries me, getting more criminal. Wilson was a brilliant actor and an artist. He could have done all sorts of stuff and he ends up robbing banks and shooting people.’
Steph put down her book and paused before answering. ‘I think people like that have big egos.’
‘Too right, in Jason’s case!’
‘And they don’t like being told what to do. Nor do they like people getting ahead of them who they don’t think are as good as they are. Jason hates his managers who are paid more than him, and I’ll bet Wilson got frustrated not being able to make the big time as an actor. Breaking the rules is a way of putting two fingers up to the system – even better if they can get away with it. That makes the others look like fools.’
‘Wow, that’s amazing! You haven’t been working with the boss for all these years for nothing.’
‘And some are at their most dangerous when they’re thwarted or betrayed by someone. Their egos can’t take it. That’s why Wilson got so violent against people who’d mistreated him.’
‘Do you think Jason’s going to end up like that? I don’t mean robbing banks and killing people, but, you know, in trouble and in prison?’
‘Naw, he’s too much of a softie. There’s nothing malicious in him, it’s all bravado with Jason. Anyway, he likes the good life too much – he’d never risk going to prison.’
‘Yeah, I suppose. When I was working in the Met, I used to think that some evening I’d have to arrest him for drink-driving or something. I’ve worried about him a lot.’
‘Well, don’t, and tell him of course he can come up here, with or without a partner.’
‘That’s what he needs: a partner – someone who will clip his wings and make him live a steady, dull life like me.’
She threw another cushion at him.
‘So it’s another success for you, Jim? How on earth are you going to cope with his gigantic ego, Deborah?’
Alison was entertaining Oldroyd and Deborah at the vicarage in Kirkby Underside where she was the vicar of the local church. The three of them were seated at the table. She’d cooked an excellent vegetarian dish with aubergines and tamarind. Oldroyd reflected on how this would have been enhanced with tender cubes of lamb, but kept such thoughts to himself. He stood up from his seat and performed an elaborate bow.
‘It was another complicated affair,’ said Deborah.
‘He specialises in them,’ said Alison.
‘I know, but this one was beyond the pale: two murderers who didn’t exist and a disguised bank robber taking his revenge on people in a small dales village.’
‘All in a day’s work,’ said Oldroyd, laughing and taking a sip of red wine.
‘Wasn’t it a weird coincidence that all those people were in the same village?’
‘Good question. It was only the two murder victims who were in Niddersgill by chance. Hart was there to keep watch on what was happening in a secret operation that was a disastrous failure. There will be some repercussions from that, so don’t say anything.’
‘OK, but still, the two people Wilson was after just happened to end up in the same small place?’ said Deborah sceptically.
‘I know, people struggle with things like this and start thinking there’s some weird fatalistic or supernatural force at work that’s organising events from behind the scenes. In fact, if you think about how many events are taking place continuously in time and space, statistically, unusual things are going to happen. Apparently if only twenty-three people get together, there’s a fifty per cent chance that two of them will share the same birthday.’
‘Wow, that’s a low number of people! So what you’re saying is that coincidences are far more likely to happen than we think.’
‘Yes. And also when you look at many coincidences, there are often at least partial explanations for them; they’re not as random as they might seem. In this case, Niddersgill is very picturesque and an ideal retirement village, with houses available because there are fewer local people living there and working in farming nowadays. Alexander Fraser bought a grouse moor and a manor house, which he was likely to do as he’d grown fond of shooting and probably fancied moving to the country. If a local shop becomes vacant it’s going to attract another person from outside: Peter Gorton in this case, who wanted to make a similar move. So yes it’s a coincidence, but not quite so far-fetched as it might sound. It’s probably the kind of coincidence that happens fairly regularly.’ Oldroyd finished his drink. ‘It was also a coincidence that the two young women who worked behind the bar at the inn were the witnesses to the murders. I wondered about that for a while: were they involved in some way, but then what’s the big deal? They were both around the village and happened to be in the right place – or wrong, depending how you look at it – at the crucial time. What do you think, sis, with your theologian’s cap on?’
‘I agree with you, Jim. I think the whole notion of some kind of supernatural agency or fate which is determining what happens is untenable. Nor do I like the idea of a God who intervenes to do things if we pray to him. Events in this life appear to be random and there’s no obvious indication of any organising force behind it all. Having said that, Christians believe that God cares about us and is somehow involved in human history and our lives, so I keep a corner in my mind for the idea of Him, or Her of course, just nudging us in certain directions. It can’t be any more than that, otherwise we would lose our freedom to make choices.’
‘There have been people like Thomas Hardy,’ observed Oldroyd, ‘who believed that if there is an active force in the universe it is malignant, thus all the terrible twists of fate in his novels. What do you think, Deborah?’
‘Well, this is all heavy stuff,’ said Deborah, laughing. ‘I feel I’m in a university seminar. OK, well my perspective would be that, yes, events are random, but it’s difficult for us to accept this as it makes us feel insecure and out of control. So we try to look for patterns which might suggest that there is some purpose in things, even if we can’t discern what it is. It’s more reassuring to think that way.’
A vigorous debate ensued as the trio retired to the comfortable armchairs in the huge rectory lounge and drank coffee. All three enjoyed a discussion of the deep existential questions of life and came at them from different perspectives. It was very late when Oldroyd and Deborah left.
Deborah had stayed off alcohol and drove them back to Harrogate.
‘I like Alison, she’s such an interesting person. I’m not religious, but when you meet someone like her it makes you think,’ she said as she drove through the dark country lanes.
‘About what?’ muttered Oldroyd, who was dozing in the passenger seat.
‘I suppose about whether there is anything in it or not – you know, re
ligion. Someone like her obviously derives a great deal of wisdom from her faith.’
‘She does, that’s why I like talking to her about these issues. I used to try to be like her, but I couldn’t be. I just don’t believe all the supernatural stuff, and you have to be yourself. You can’t pretend.’ He put his hand on Deborah’s shoulder. He found her a wise and interesting person too, and he valued their relationship very much. It confirmed his decision to avoid any sort of involvement with Julia beyond the purely practical.
Deborah yawned as they entered the flat on the Stray. ‘Oh, look at the time, I’m going straight off to bed.’
‘I’ll be along in a minute.’
‘Don’t stay up late, remember it’s parkrun tomorrow morning.’
‘No.’ Oldroyd grimaced at the prospect, then went to his computer and brought up a photograph. It was Basil Rathbone playing the part of Sherlock Holmes in The Scarlet Claw. How amazing that he’d been helped to solve the mystery by the great fictional detective! What a part to play, and how well Basil Rathbone had played it!
He saluted both the actor and the character before he went off to bed.
The weekend went well and Oldroyd even improved his personal-best time at parkrun, but by Monday morning he was feeling his usual sense of anti-climax at the end of a difficult and tense case. Once the adrenalin stopped flowing he tended to flop. He arrived at the office fairly late and went to see Tom Walker. For once, the old boy was in a good mood.
‘Well done, Jim. Excellent work! You’re a crack team, you and those two sergeants. I’ve spoken to Bill Gibbs at Pateley too. I hear he put in some sterling work. He’s a damn good copper but not flashy: just the type that Watkins doesn’t appreciate.’ Oldroyd was expecting the usual growling diatribe at this point, but Walker was smiling. ‘Did you see him on telly last night? He was on that Yorkshire news programme being interviewed about management costs in the force. Someone got hold of some figures showing that he and his cronies are paid huge salaries while police numbers are going down. You should have seen the bugger squirm! He had no bloody answers of course.’ Walker’s relish of the chief constable’s discomfort was keen. Oldroyd kept quiet as usual, so as not to encourage him further.
‘So it was an escaped robber who had multiple identities? How did he get away with that in a dales village?’
‘Very skilful, Tom: a master of disguise and a brilliant actor. He took us all in.’
‘Well done,’ said Walker, then he sighed. ‘Anyway, I’d better get on. I’ve got to write a bloody report for Watkins on “Optimising Resources and Improving Performance in Negative-Revenue Circumstances”. He can never speak or write in plain English. What he means is how can we do more with less after the bloody cuts? I’ll bloody well tell him what I think and no mistake. Don’t forget to tell Johnson and Carter they did a good job. They’re the people who matter, not twerps like him.’
With that, Oldroyd made his escape.
Back in his office, he felt lethargic and dull. Why not go out for a while? Nobody questioned his movements, especially as he always got results and put in so many hours on difficult cases. Soon he was in the old Saab and driving out of Harrogate.
The weather had cleared and it was sunny again in Nidderdale. The crisp temperatures and developing colours on the trees showed that autumn was progressing. Oldroyd drove slowly up the dale, enjoying the scenery now that the pressure was off.
Passing through Pateley Bridge he saw that preparations were underway in Bewerley Park for the famous Nidderdale Show, one of the biggest, and traditionally the last, of the season of the north of England’s agricultural shows. It was good to see rural life continuing after the recent burst of unexpected violence. He thought he caught sight of Bill Gibbs talking to a farmer as he turned up the road to Niddersgill.
He was able to drive at a leisurely pace, in marked contrast with that of the previous week, when they’d driven urgently through the rain at top speed trying to prevent further violence. He parked in a lay-by just outside Niddersgill and grabbed his rucksack. Inside was his notebook; he’d decided to have another session in solitude contemplating the landscape and working on his poem. He walked quickly up a steep path on to the wooded slopes of the fell, and settled in a place from where he could see across Gouthwaite Reservoir to the fells beyond. There was a breeze which ruffled the surface of the water, making it sparkle in the sun. High fleecy clouds drifted across the sky and created moving shadows on the fellside, which was covered with a pattern of stone walls and barns. The distant peaks between Nidderdale and Wharfedale loomed higher – wild, remote and mysterious. It was the country of his heart, as D. H. Lawrence once said about Nottinghamshire.
A voice disturbed the quiet.
‘Ah, Chief Inspector, I thought that was you.’
Blast, thought Oldroyd, not again! He never seemed to be able to escape attention for very long. He looked round to see Liz Smith in red boots, moleskin trousers and a multicoloured home-knitted jumper.
‘Good morning,’ he said tersely, hoping she wouldn’t stay long.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t disturb you,’ she replied, echoing his thought. ‘But as I’ve run into you, I thought I’d stop to say thank you. I’ve said some pretty negative things about the police in the past, but you and your team were amazing.’
‘Thank you. That’s what we’re here for,’ replied Oldroyd.
‘Yes, I agree: catching the dangerous criminals and not harassing honest campaigners.’ She couldn’t resist making a political point.
‘Laws apply to the honest campaigners – as you call them – too.’
She ignored this comment. ‘I was shocked about Tony Dexter . . . or the man who turned out not to be Tony Dexter. I met him out by the reservoir only the other day. I thought he was an OK guy. He seemed to have the right attitudes to the environment and stuff. I can’t believe he was a bank robber.’
‘I think we can say he was a reformed bank robber. His attachment to the countryside was genuine and he helped us to bring down the murderer. I think he’ll be back.’
‘It makes you think about people. They’re not always who they seem to be.’
‘No, and it’s not a good idea to divide them up in a black-and-white way into heroes and villains.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Anyway, don’t you have some shoots to disrupt?’
Liz laughed. ‘Not at the moment. We’re taking a break after what happened at the last one, but we’ll be back. The fight goes on. I could never stop while birds are being shot for fun – it’s who I am.’
Oldroyd smiled at her. There was something about her that he liked and respected. She reminded him of his daughter in her feisty refusal to accept things she thought were wrong.
She looked at his notebook. ‘Are you writing poems?’ Her tone was sceptical.
‘Yes, why not?’
‘Just a stereotype, I suppose. I don’t expect policemen to write poetry.’
Oldroyd liked her frankness. He handed her the notebook opened at the poem he’d been writing since the day he’d interviewed Hart in his barn. He’d started it the day he’d met Hart in the woods, but had had no time to work on it since. She read it aloud.
‘That’s really good. So you’ve taken place names and fashioned them into a poem?’
‘Yes. All from Ordnance Survey maps.’
‘That’s such a simple idea but it works really well. Those old words and names convey the atmosphere. You’ve made a lovely rhythm out of it.’ She looked out over the landscape. ‘People think that activists like me are only interested in the politics of the countryside: kicking up a fuss and causing trouble. It’s not true; I told Tony or whoever he was the other day when I met him out here. I love the peace and beauty of places like this just as much as anyone else. What I do is not just about protecting the birds. All that shooting and blood and keeping people off the moors really disrupts the beauty and spirituality that people need. These places are sacred.’
Oldroyd looked again across the wide expanse of Nidderdale, which had recently been desecrated by human violence of a different kind. As he contemplated the beauty and stillness of the landscape, Oldroyd reflected that the disruption of the last two weeks had left no sign. The place was as serene and majestic as ever.
‘I agree,’ he said.
Dales Incantation
Crutching Close Laithe,
Yarnthwaite Barn,
Hawkswick Clowder,
Pikesdaw Barn.
Stony Nick Crag,
Low Dowk Cave,
Dumpit Hill Moss,
Swinsto Cave.
Bracken Pot Wood,
Outgang Hill,
Darnbrook Cowside,
Greenhaw Hill.
Numberstones End,
Lumb Gill Wham,
Seavey Crook Bank,
Lower Wham.
Tatham Wife Moss,
Quaking Pot,
Black Edge Shake Hole,
Jingling Pot.
Amerdale Dub,
Scosthorp Moor,
Huntershaw Ridge,
Sourmire Moor.
Gollinglith Fleet,
Crookrise Crag,
Oughtershaw Side,
Healaugh Crag.
Smearsett Copys,
Gaping Gill,
Warrendale Knotts,
Sourmilk Gill.
Attermire Scar,
Fountains Fell,
Lee Gate High Mark,
Wether Fell.
Dodderham Moss,
Agill Well,
Cumma Know Gate,
Cotgills Well.
White Beacon Hags,
Dickens Dike,
Great Shunner Fell,
Rom Shaw Dike.
Grey Mare Yethersgill,
River Dibb,
Jenny Twigg and her daughter Tib.
J. Oldroyd
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my family, friends and members of the Otley Writers’ Group for their help and support over the years.
The fictional village of Niddersgill is based on a number of settlements in Nidderdale. Other places are real, including Brimham Rocks, Yorke’s Folly, Guisecliff, Gouthwaite Reservoir and How Stean Gorge. The ice house containing the cave spiders also exists, but I have decided not to reveal its precise location so that the spiders may remain there undisturbed!