The Body in the Dales Page 2

  It all sounded a bit fanciful to Carter and he dived in rather recklessly.

  ‘What do you mean exactly? He was killed by the cave itself? By a goblin or something? What’re you talking about?’

  Williams shot Carter a hostile look, taking in his accent and dress.

  ‘No, I mean that, where these caves are concerned, death is never far away if you’re not careful. What’s happened here is weird, but weird things happen down there.’

  Carter still had no idea what the man was talking about but decided not to pursue it.

  ‘I don’t know how those two found it all.’ Williams gestured to two of the group who looked more exhausted than the others. One was carrying a case that looked as if it contained photographic equipment. ‘They’re used to bodies but not the caves.’

  ‘Those are the crime scene officers who went down with the cavers,’ Craven informed Oldroyd. ‘As you can imagine, it’s a highly unusual crime scene.’

  ‘Even so, it’s a pity we couldn’t see the body where it was found,’ said Oldroyd, ‘though I appreciate the difficulties.’

  ‘Impossible to seal off the scene, Jim; you couldn’t be sure that there aren’t any other cavers around who could interfere with things. We couldn’t leave any officers down there; they’d get exposure if they stayed too long.’

  ‘I understand. I assume you got plenty of pictures?’ He addressed this to the CSI with the camera.

  ‘Yes, sir. Good job I had a powerful flash. It’s pitch black down there. There was really nothing except a dark muddy passage with a stream passing through.’

  ‘Did you search around thoroughly?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the other officer. ‘There was just mud and stones. The only thing we found was this.’

  He produced a plastic bag containing a small hooked piece of metal, rusty and ancient-looking.

  ‘Good man,’ said Oldroyd, examining the find. Carter looked on curiously.

  ‘What do you think it is, sir?’

  Oldroyd twisted and turned the object around.

  ‘I don’t know; maybe we’d better ask these gentlemen.’

  Oldroyd walked back over to the cavers, now in conversation with each other.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Oldroyd and I’m in charge of the investigation. Any of you know what this might be? It was found at the crime scene.’

  Williams took the bag and they all examined it closely. They shook their heads and he handed it back.

  ‘It looks like a hook or something.’

  ‘Is it anything you would use?’

  ‘No. All of our stuff is made of steel or alloy. This looks like a piece of old iron, a bit primitive.’

  Carter looked very sceptically at the bit of metal.

  ‘I can’t see how this is relevant, sir.’

  ‘Bits of metal don’t generally find their way deep into cave systems without a reason. This isn’t just a piece of litter.’ Oldroyd continued to look at it closely.

  ‘Inspector?’

  Oldroyd and Carter turned to see that the Cave Rescue team were on their feet.

  ‘Is it all right if we go now?’ asked Williams.

  ‘Have a word with Inspector Craven; he’s organised the recovery and he’ll be taking statements.’

  ‘We all knew him, you know.’ Williams pointed to the stretcher.

  ‘Yes, I understand he’s a local man; must be a shock to you all. Did he have any enemies?’

  Williams grunted and frowned. ‘His death’s a shock but no great surprise. Dave Atkins wasn’t exactly popular.’

  The two detectives were instantly on the alert.

  ‘Why was that?’ asked Carter.

  ‘He was what my dad would have called a dead wrong ’un. Always up to something dodgy to make money and messin’ about with other people’s wives and girlfriends,’ said another of the rescue team.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I don’t think you’d have to look far to find people who had a motive for doing him in.’

  ‘Was it you then?’ Oldroyd was suddenly direct and serious. The caver looked taken aback, until Oldroyd smiled.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve no evidence against you – yet,’ he added with another smile. ‘It sounds like we might have ourselves a lot of suspects.’

  Another of the team called out, ‘He was an absolute bastard.’

  ‘I get the message,’ said Oldroyd, ‘but wasn’t he one of you lot? I mean, a caver?’

  ‘Yes, he was in the Wharfedale Club but he wasn’t in the rescue team. He wouldn’t put himself out for anybody else even if they were trapped down a system,’ replied Williams.

  ‘Not everyone who’s in the club is also in the rescue team then?’

  ‘No, but most are. We think it right that we should use our skill and knowledge to save other people’s lives, even if they are a bunch of idiots who go down without the proper equipment and get lost. Like I said, people who don’t show respect to these ancient caves.’

  ‘Very noble.’

  ‘Atkins just laughed at the idea, of course; thought we were the idiots. He would have just left them to die.’

  ‘Ironic that he ended up dead down there himself then.’

  Williams shook his head. ‘Did I hear you say he’s been down there a while?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure, we’ll have to wait for forensics, but from my experience I would say he must have been down there for several days at least.’

  ‘You see, Chief Inspector, that doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Why?’

  Williams glanced at his companion.

  ‘Today is Monday. We went through this system following the same route on Friday, wasn’t it?’ The other caver nodded.

  ‘So I understand from Inspector Craven. And you didn’t see anything?’

  ‘No, there was no body in Sump Passage at that point, I can assure you.’

  ‘Are you absolutely certain about that?’ Carter was fed up of all this ‘mystery of the caves’ stuff. ‘I understand there are lots of holes and passages down there, so how can you be sure that you were in the same one?’

  It was immediately obvious that Carter had said the wrong thing again. For the second time Williams’s bearded face looked with contempt at the young detective.

  ‘Look . . . officer, we know these systems better than anyone else. Jingling Pot is a pretty straightforward one. We know where we were – Sump Passage – and I’m telling you, there was no body.’ He stabbed his finger at Carter to emphasise the point.

  ‘Why is it called Sump Passage?’

  ‘You’ve never been down a cave system, have you?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Carter.

  ‘The sump is the name for the deepest part of the system where water collects. Am I right?’ Oldroyd joined the conversation.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the caver. ‘Sump Passage is right at the bottom of the Jingling Pot system, one of the reasons why the stream in the passage constantly flows strongly. At the end of the passage, the stream goes off down a fairly narrow hole into an underground lake and there’s no way through.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It’s been explored with diving equipment.’

  ‘Diving?’ said Carter. ‘You mean people go underwater down there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That must be very dangerous.’

  ‘Yes, underwater and completely dark. We’ve lost a lot of cavers in the flooded systems.’

  Carter was struggling to make sense of this and he wasn’t sure how relevant it was, but Oldroyd was listening intently.

  ‘So no passages have been found out of the lake?’ he asked.

  ‘Only small ones, not large enough for anyone to get through. That lake has been well explored and it’s a dead end.’

  ‘What about the route through the system?’

  ‘After Sump Passage it starts to go up again; fairly easy route until you come out at Mossy Bottom Cave.’

  �
�So you’re absolutely sure you were in that, er, Sump Passage three days ago and there was no body?’ Carter still sounded sceptical.

  ‘Yes.’

  Oldroyd was looking thoughtful.

  ‘Are there any other ways to get into that system?’ he asked.

  ‘Only one. There’s a branch on the Wether Ridge Hole system that comes into Jingling Pot before Sump Passage, but that won’t help you. It takes just as long to get to Sump Passage if you go that way.’

  ‘And no other routes?’

  ‘No. Jingling Pot’s a well-known system and it’s been thoroughly explored in the last fifty years. We would know if there were any other ways to get down there.’

  ‘Was there anything different about Sump Passage today from when you went through on Friday – apart from the body, of course?’

  ‘Nothing apart from a bit of a rock fall, but they’re happening all the time.’

  ‘So there were some rocks and stones in the passage today which you didn’t see on Friday?’

  ‘Yes, but nothing major.’

  Oldroyd drifted off into a reverie for a few moments, then he turned to Williams again.

  ‘Is there anyone around here who you’d say was an expert in the history of caving? You know, someone who might know just a bit more about the systems and how they’ve been explored over the years?’

  Williams bridled a little at the implication.

  ‘You could try Simon Hardiman up at the hall. He’s quite well up on things like that, but I’m telling you, Chief Inspector, there are no other ways into that system and Simon won’t be able to tell you about any.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, but we have to explore all the possibilities, of course. When you say “hall” do you mean Garthwaite Hall?’

  ‘That’s right, him and his wife run an outdoor-pursuits centre there.’

  ‘I know it, and I know someone else who may be able to help too.’ He turned to Carter. ‘Come on, we can’t do any more here now. We’ll have to wait for the forensics report to confirm what I think. Let’s go back to Burnthwaite and I’ll buy you a spot of lunch at the Red Horse.’

  The short steep drive back down to Burnthwaite passed in near silence. Carter wasn’t sure that conversation would be welcome; the senior detective had lost his lively manner and had become distracted.

  Back in the village, Oldroyd parked alongside a smooth village green surrounded by old limestone cottages. Carter looked up at the fells rising steeply behind the village but Oldroyd, who had come to life again, hurried him on.

  ‘Come on, let’s have a quick look at the river.’

  He led the way along a narrow footpath by the road on to an ancient stone packhorse bridge. Triangular refuges jutted out from either side of the bridge, used originally by pedestrians to allow the laden animals to pass and now providing a convenient vantage point for the two detectives.

  ‘The River Wharfe,’ said Oldroyd in a reverential tone.

  Carter looked over to see the water tinged with brown. It gurgled and lapped against the pillar of the bridge, sticks and branches bobbing on the surface and speeding along on the fast current.

  ‘The water’s very high at the moment after all the rain. It’s a pity really; when it’s low you can watch trout swimming slowly upstream under the bridge, though it’s not easy to pick them out against the stones on the river bed.’

  ‘The water doesn’t look very pure.’

  ‘That’s peat brought down from the moors after the rain. Normally the water’s crystal clear and fresh.’

  Carter looked at Oldroyd. ‘You’re very fond of this place, aren’t you, sir?’

  ‘I should say so,’ he replied. ‘I used to come to this very spot as a child with my family for picnics. My sister and I used to catch bull heads and crayfish and play skim stones across the river.’

  ‘What’s a bull head, sir?’

  Oldroyd was back to his teasing. He looked at Carter with his head on one side.

  ‘What a deprived childhood the poor lad had! I suppose your experience of rivers is confined to the mucky old Thames?’

  ‘The Thames is pretty nice up at Oxford. My dad took us out on a punt there once.’

  ‘That would more likely have been on the Cherwell.’

  ‘Do you know Oxford, then?’

  ‘I was at university there, but that’s a long time ago. A bull head, Carter, is a small, fat, lazy fish that you can catch with your hands if you’re quick enough. And come on, I’ll show you how we used to skim.’

  Oldroyd went back across the bridge and down to the water’s edge.

  ‘There are hardly any stones here today. Normally there’s a kind of pebble beach here. You find a flat pebble. Let’s have a look.’ He picked away at the few pebbles still above the water level.

  ‘This will do. Let’s see if I can still do it.’ He held the stone between finger and thumb and threw it horizontally. The stone hit the water on its flat surface, bounced off, hit the water and bounced again. Altogether, the stone bounced five times before it hit the other bank, where it narrowly missed a duck. The bird quacked and flapped away.

  ‘Fantastic. I haven’t lost my touch,’ Oldroyd announced with a flourish. ‘That’s pretty good for these conditions. You have a go.’

  With some reluctance, Carter selected what he thought was a good stone, braced his strong shoulders and strode quickly to the water’s edge. He threw the stone hard but it splashed into the water and disappeared immediately beneath the surface.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Wrong trajectory, lad, you have to have your arm down and throw horizontally like this.’

  He threw another stone with the same result.

  ‘Try again.’

  Carter made another selection and followed Oldroyd’s advice. This time, the stone completed an honourable three bounces on the water before sinking.

  ‘Very good!’ cried Oldroyd. He turned from the river. ‘Come on into the pub. I’m driving, so I’ll buy you a drink. You want to try some northern beer.’

  Carter shook his head in disbelief as he walked behind Oldroyd towards the pub. The last thing he’d expected to find himself doing with his new boss on his first day was throwing stones into a river like a couple of kids.

  Soon they were sitting in the stone-flagged bar of the Red Horse. Carter had a pint of bitter in front of him. It had a creamy head and the taste was rich and strong.

  ‘Sup up, Andy, as we say round here. We don’t normally drink like this when we’re on duty, but it’s a special day, your first in the team. So cheers.’ Oldroyd’s knowing expression seemed to indicate that in fact drinking like this was not at all unusual.

  He held up his glass of orange juice and soda water and Carter brought up his pint.

  ‘Cheers. Anyway, as we had to leave the station so abruptly I’ve had no chance to ask you to tell me a bit more about yourself.’

  ‘What kind of things, sir?’

  ‘Your past, your family, where you were brought up, things like that. I like to know people’s life story; it tells you a lot about them.’

  Carter began an autobiographical outline, which he’d intended to keep brief, but he was prompted by frequent questions from Oldroyd, who seemed to want to know everything. He spoke about his boyhood in Croydon and how his father had died when he was only ten.

  ‘He was a policeman too, sir. He was shot in Soho by a drug dealer.’

  ‘Was he in the drugs squad?’

  ‘No, he was on patrol and he approached this bloke in a car that was illegally parked. He just got out, shot Dad and ran off.’ Carter paused and looked down before continuing. ‘It turned out the car was stuffed with heroin, but they never caught the gunman; disappeared without trace.’

  ‘Probably out of the country within hours. He’s unlikely to come back, either.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Were you close?’

  ‘Yeah, he used to take me to matches at Upton Park – West Ham, you know. He was broug
ht up in the East End, a real cockney. Do you follow football, sir?’

  ‘A bit, just on television now and again. I don’t go to matches any more. I used to watch the great Leeds side in the 1970s – you know, Billy Bremner, Johnny Giles, Jack Charlton. But about your father; was that why you wanted to go into the police force?’

  ‘It was always my ambition. I’m sure a lot of people thought it was just a dream, a way of connecting with my dad again, or that I thought I could catch his murderer, you know, that kind of kids’ stuff. I never wavered, although I wanted to be a detective, not in the uniform branch like him.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Because his murderer was never found. My mother’s never got over it. It made me realise how important it is that crimes are solved and people brought to justice, even if we can’t lessen the pain of the crime.’

  Oldroyd clapped. ‘Very good!’ he cried, then saw Carter’s rather crestfallen expression.

  ‘Sorry, lad, I meant it,’ he laughed. ‘I wasn’t making fun of you. People say I’m difficult to deal with at first until they get to know me: blunt speaking, unpredictable, things like that. But you’ll see for yourself no doubt.’

  A waitress brought two large steak sandwiches and a huge bowl of chips.

  ‘Well, what a first day!’ continued Oldroyd, changing the subject back to work. ‘Any further thoughts on the case?’

  Carter took a bite of his sandwich and another big pull on his beer while he struggled to marshal his thoughts.

  ‘Well, sir – this is very good by the way, thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome; local beer, brewed in Keighley.’ He stroked his own glass of orange juice and looked longingly at Carter’s beer.

  Carter began again. ‘There’re a lot of things we don’t know yet and there are a number of possibilities. As I don’t believe in magic, there’s obviously some practical explanation as to how the body got down there.’

  ‘Have you now ruled out the possibility that he was murdered down there?’

  ‘Not entirely, but I accept that it’s very unlikely.’

  ‘Cautious and sensible,’ said Oldroyd with a smile.

  ‘We know that he was a caver himself, so he’s not going to go anywhere near a pothole without equipment. We know he was unpopular, which is going to give us plenty of suspects. It strikes me as almost impossible that anyone who didn’t know anything about caves would hump a body down there, so it’s reasonable to assume he was bashed on the head by one of his fellow cavers. What I don’t understand is how or why they took the body so far down the cave system and plonked it where it was obviously going to be found. And this other thing about these cavers going through and not finding a body. That’s very suspicious.’