The Yorkshire Dipper

by Maria Frankland

  “Fifty-two. She’d been persuaded to go out. Said it would do her good. She’d recently been widowed.”

  “Who the victim, or the daughter?”

  Mark laughs. “Forever the journalist, aren’t you? The woman. We’re not really using the word victim to describe her.”

  I sip my wine and shudder. It’s vinegary. “Well, if she’s not a victim, what is she?”

  “Victim suggests the involvement of a perpetrator.”

  “You’ve changed your tune. I thought you were keeping an open mind.”

  “According to DCI Ingham, there’s nothing to suggest, at this stage anyway, that these deaths are anything other than alcohol-fuelled accidents. Have you seen how steep and slippery the bank is down there? Especially at this time of year. On all three of the nights this year, it’s been chucking it down too.”

  “Well, it’s about time you were stepping things up, if you ask me – why hasn’t any fencing been put up there yet? You also said you were going to try to get hold of the case yourself.”

  “I have. DCI Ingham seems happy keeping hold of it, though. To be honest, I think a big case is keeping his mind off his marital woes, and yes, he’s on with the fencing, don’t worry. Let’s change the subject shall we?” Mark steps towards me. “I could do with some down time to be honest. Let’s talk about the wedding. Let’s talk about baby number two.” Putting his arms around my waist, his eyes light up and grinning, he adds. “Let’s make baby number two.”

  “Easy tiger!” I laugh, “I don’t mind plenty of practice making baby number two, but I’ve got a wedding dress to fit into next year.”

  We soon slip back into being who we’re supposed to be, Mark and Lauren, engaged and in love, rather than Mark and Lauren, police sergeant and journalist. Those victims though, and I will call them victims, are never far from my thoughts at the moment.

  I have an hour longer in bed the next morning. Half a bottle of wine has left me with a fuzzy head. Mark brings me a cup of tea and kisses me on the cheek.

  “I’ll take Alysha to school on my way to the station,” he says. “I’ve done her reading book with her and she’s had breakfast.”

  “You’re a good un,” I smile at him. “Don’t be late home tonight if you can help it.”

  “I’ll try not to be.” He smiles. “Especially if I’m in for a repeat of last night. He winks at me, before striding towards the bedroom door, still fastening his tie as he leaves the room.

  “Well done on your piece, Lauren.” Lindy looks up from her computer as I walk into the Press Association office an hour later. “It’s made the front page of the locals and page four and five in several of the nationals.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll take a look.”

  As I sit in reception, flicking through the newspapers, my mobile rings. It’s Mark.

  “I’ve been absolutely bollocked from my DCI because of your article,” he states, without even saying hello first. He sounds seriously pissed off with me. It’s a sharp contrast to our earlier parting.

  “Why? It didn’t say anything untoward. It’s only facts. I’m looking at it now, in the local. I don’t see why you’ve been bollocked.”

  “Lauren. It’s not facts. It’s opinion. It suggests that the police are inept. And with both me and my brother working for the force, it doesn’t look good that we’ve got a family member reporting against us. Will’s just rung too – he’s not impressed either.”

  “I don’t give a toss about what Will thinks. He might be your brother but he barely ever speaks to me. And I’m not family yet, anyway,” I say, huffily. “Besides, Will is in traffic, he’s nothing to do with the case, is he?”

  “We’re used to the press badmouthing us Lauren, but believe it or not, we actually do know what we’re doing with this one. You know I can’t tell you everything. I’m not allowed to, even if you weren’t a journalist – I signed a confidentiality contract when I started training.”

  “It’s a free country. I can report on whatever…”

  “Lauren. What I’m trying to say is that we’re being criticised in black and white by someone, you. You’re marrying a sergeant, me, who’s involved in the case.” His voice rises. “DCI Ingham has threatened to keep me completely away from anything to do with it. I’ve got some serious grovelling to do, especially with the mood he’s been in lately. It will damage my reputation if my line manager starts taking me off cases. And it may affect Will, too. So rein it in, will you?”

  Like I really care about affecting high and mighty bloody Will. Since I knocked him back all those years ago, he’s looked at me as though I am something he has stepped in. He honestly thought he could wade in and pull me away from Mark. Narcissist. I have discreetly fished for information when Eva and I have been chatting. It seems there is a nice side to him and he apparently dotes on his daughter. Alysha speaks very highly of him too and kids are, in my experience, the best judges of character. Wherever this nice side is, I’ve never seen it.

  “I’m not going to stop digging around Mark. So don’t ask me to. You knew what I did for a living when we met. I’m convinced these women are being purposefully drowned by someone. And I’ve got a professional responsibility to report the facts, and if need be help get justice for them.”

  “Just leave it to us love.” He sighs and sounds like his anger is easing. “Like I said, I’ll tell you things as soon as they become official. But I need to be able to trust you with things I tell you. Most blokes can go home and offload about work to their partners without it ending up in the local rag the next day.”

  “Trust me!” I slam the newspaper I’m holding onto the table in front of me. He’s being patronising now. A couple of the copy takers look over at me. “I don’t think trust comes into this, do you? Innocent women are dying. I will stake the area out myself on a Saturday night if I have to. If you lot can’t do your bloody jobs properly. And for your information – we are not a local rag!”

  There’s fury in his voice again as he replies. “Like I said, Lauren, there’s a lot going on behind the scenes that you don’t know about. And we don’t need you going around, raising fear in people where it’s not necessary.”

  “But it is necessary. You even told me to be careful!”

  “That was because of your hype, Lauren. Seeing the absolute worst in things rather than at face value.”

  “God. I thought it was your job to investigate things.”

  We remain in silence for a few seconds, then he says in a gentler tone, “Look, let’s not allow this to get between us. I just need you to run things you write by me before you publish them in future.”

  Anger is bubbling in the pit of my stomach now. “You do your job Mark and let me do mine.” I hang up without saying bye to him, then make myself a coffee. I find myself a corner of the office to quietly fume in. I meant what I said to him. I’ll investigate this myself if I have to. I start with Facebook.

  Because I like to work methodically, I start with the first death. With or without a perpetrator, they’ve all fallen victim to the monster that is the River Alder. It’s taken so many lives over the years, especially where it runs through one of the local beauty spots.

  It was only last summer when a nine-year-old boy had to be fished out. He’d been taken for a picnic and got out of his depth in a part known for its unpredictable ledges and sudden depths, creating deadly underwater currents. I’ll never forget the sight of his mother, all on her own, crouched on the riverbank, waiting for the divers to find him. She must have known they weren’t going to find him alive. I wanted to go and comfort her, but of course, they weren’t letting anyone through the cordon. My heart broke for her. No mother should have to go through that, especially alone.

  I look at the posts Joanne Mason, the first victim, wrote prior to her death. She seemed obsessed with her wedding plans, apparently looking forward to her fairytale, as she called it, after a first-time wedding on a shoestring. She’s shared ideas of flowers, cars and even t
able settings on her Facebook page. I couldn’t be bothered with all that. I tend to know what I want, find it, and whack a deposit on it.

  There’s many a happy photo with Robin who is, or was, her fiancé. Joanne looked well for her age, certainly not nearly fifty. There isn’t a trace of grey in her long, dark hair and her eyes are a piercing shade of green. I wonder if she’s used a filter on her photograph to make them look so green?

  There are several posts in the hours leading up to her death. Photos shared of an increasingly drunken-looking hen party. How could her friends have let her wander away from them? I would hope mine will look after me when I’m out on my hen do. Especially if I have one too many.

  There’s a tremendous outpouring of messages after her death. Firstly, there’s an announcement from her fiancé, Robin. If it hadn’t been for the subsequent drownings, and it was only Joanne who had died, I would have him down as a suspect. I shouldn’t be so judgemental, but I’m usually right to trust my gut. He does look shifty. He has thanked all the people who have posted individually.

  Two weeks later, her funeral has taken place. There’s another post from him. Today I laid my gorgeous fiancé, Jo to rest. How am I ever going to live without her? xx

  The post is littered with the usual condolences, then there’s been nothing written on her page since. It’s always the same. Once the funeral is over, everyone gets back to normal, as though nothing ever happened.

  I am going to find out what really connects these women and what has really happened. The police might be able to protect their resources and so-called reputation by saying it’s down to drunkenness, bad weather and it being a notorious stretch of river, but for me, and for the friends and family of these women, that’s not good enough.

  Lindy might think I get explicit information, directly from Mark, but she really couldn’t be further from the truth. However, he did tell me that he had taken a statement from the boyfriend of the next woman, Becky Thorpe. They’d apparently had a huge row, overheard by fellow diners, before Becky went to the Yorkshire Arms on her own. She had just stormed off, and her boyfriend hadn’t gone after her. Mark wouldn’t or couldn’t tell me what they had been rowing about. He won’t tell me anything unless it’s been officially released. Luckily, I can be good at reading between the lines and listening in to his phone calls. I don’t feel guilty for that, after all, I can’t help what I overhear.

  I recall the bouquet the boyfriend left at the scene where he had said Sorry. I had been struck by that because it was the only word on the card. It had been hooked onto a beautiful bunch of roses.

  On Facebook, he has posted photographs of himself with Becky, as well as a quote saying, Always tell someone how much you love them. You never know when it might be your last chance to let them know.

  I’m slightly consoled by the fact that the women were drunk. To some degree, it may have anesthetised the awful deaths they must have suffered. I can’t imagine anything worse than drowning. They must have been petrified. Hopefully the freezing water stopped their hearts before they were overcome with terror and the suffocation.

  I click onto Google to see if any information has emerged about the latest victim yet. It has.

  Police have revealed the identity of the latest women to fall victim to the stretch of the River Alder where it runs through the city centre. Veronica Hill, aged 52, of Oswaldkirk, entered the water between 12:30 am and 1:00 am in the early hours of Sunday 15th December.

  Veronica was out for the evening with her daughter and a friend. The alarm was raised by them when she hadn’t been seen for some time. Her body was sadly recovered from the water at first light this morning. She is thought to have consumed a substantial amount of alcohol prior to entering the water, therefore no other enquiries are being made in connection with her death.

  I click through to Facebook and type in Veronica Hill. It appears that her husband died recently too. There’s smiling photographs of them from last year. Veronica looks like a different person in photographs which have been posted after his death. It is as though a light has gone out. From carefree and sunny last year, her face has become marked with pain and loss. News of her death must be starting to filter, though. There are already three comments:

  I can’t believe it. Veronica, please get in touch and tell me it’s not true. We were only together the other day.

  Veronica, I knew you were struggling, but you could have come to me anytime.

  A lovely lady now reunited with her husband. Rest in peace. x

  I flick back to the news article. No other enquiries are being made in connection to her death.

  What a cop out. How easy it is to blame alcohol. The police might even read the ‘struggling’ comment and try to blame suicide. Anything to deflect attention from themselves for not taking enough action.

  Chapter Eight

  Jennifer

  Jennifer looked from her sister to her cousin who had been trying to talk her into staying out later. “I shouldn’t even be here, you know, I should be saving for Christmas. Eight and ten year olds don’t come cheap. Especially for us single mums.”

  “I’ll get the next one,” Natalie offered. “You should have said if you were short.”

  “Thanks sis. It’s just that I’ve got the babysitter to pay as well.” Jennifer checked her watch. “I think I’d better make this my last one. It’s after midnight already. So I’ll have to get the sitter a taxi home too.”

  Jennifer’s nights out had been few and far between since Alan had left them. He’d now got himself a new girlfriend, so was looking after the kids less frequently as the weeks passed. She had almost laughed when she had first met the woman he’d left her for. Janey was like a younger version of Jennifer. Dark, shoulder length hair, and appeared to have the same style of dressing. But what Janey didn’t have was the extra weight two children had inflicted on her, along with the eye wrinkles. Although, she didn’t seem to have much in the way of brains. Just a high pitched voice and extra-large boobs. Jennifer hated her with a vengeance.

  She missed having another adult around but didn’t mind having sole charge of the children. However, just once a month, the chance to get dressed up and go out made all the difference. To be able to relax and feel young again, without having to think about fish fingers, homework or playing referee. Thankfully, they seemed reasonably unscathed by their father’s departure, but then, he had pretty much left their day-to-day care to Jennifer, anyway.

  “You OK?” Natalie asked, pushing a glass of wine and a packet of crisps towards Jennifer. “You’ve gone all quiet. I worry when you go quiet.”

  “Just thinking how nice it is to get out,” Jennifer replied, looking around the pub and then back to her sister. “Thanks for inviting me. I know I’ve had a few but you are a fab sister you know. You’ve really looked after me through all this break up shite.”

  “What are sisters for?” Natalie replied, reaching across the table for her hand. “I still think he’ll come crawling back anyway – once he’s got bored of his airhead.”

  “We’re not just sisters,” Jennifer sipped her wine whilst deciding to dodge the crawling back comment. “If we hadn’t been related,” she said, “I reckon we would still have been friends.”

  “You soppy bugger,” Natalie laughed. “You must have had a few to be complimenting me like that!”

  Jennifer reached into her clutch bag for her ringing phone. “Oh no, it’s the babysitter. Probably ringing to see where I am!” She pressed the loudspeaker button. “Hi Kelly, what’s up?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb your evening, Jen, but Harry has been sick. Millie isn’t looking too clever either.”

  “Great,” Jennifer replied, envisaging a night of two pukers instead of a good night’s sleep after a gallon of wine. “I’ll get a taxi back. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “If you could,” Kelly replied. “You know I don’t do sick!”

  Jennifer took a large swig of wine as she dialled the taxi company.
By the time she got through, she’d nearly finished her glass. As luck would have it, they were doing a nearby drop off. She hugged her sister and said her goodbyes to the rest of the group.

  “Do you need me to come with you?” Natalie asked as Jennifer slid her arms into her jacket. “It sounds like you’re going to have your hands full with them two.”

  “No. I’m not expecting you to cut your evening short! It’ll be your turn one day to cope with puking kids – you enjoy yourself whilst you can.”

  “I’m never having kids! Well, just text me when you’re in the taxi safely.”

  “Gosh. I can’t believe you’re six years younger than me sometimes. Anyone would think it was the other way around.”

  “Promise!”

  “Will do.”

  Jennifer’s phone beeped. Your taxi will be outside in two minutes.

  “I’m off to wait outside Nat. I don’t want anyone else jumping in it. I need to get back home, sharpish.”

  “Don’t forget to text me. And then again when you get home.”

  Chapter Nine

  Lauren

  For a moment I think of ignoring the no number call flashing on Mark’s phone. But I soon think better of it. “Hang on a minute. I’ll give him a shout. Mark. It’s DI Jones on the phone.”

  Mark steps from the en suite, water pooling at his feet on the bedroom carpet.

  He takes the phone from me and puts it on loudspeaker whilst he dries himself.

  “Hi Mark. I’m sorry to bother you so early, but we’ve had another fatality. Same spot. The police divers are there now.”

  “Oh erm, hang on Sir.” He looks at me. “Give me a minute, will you hon?”

  I try not to get too huffy as I stride towards the door, feeling more than a little put out at being dismissed in this way. As I pull the door open, Mark tugs a work shirt from the wardrobe and I know I’ve got another Sunday on my own with Alysha.