The Body in the Dales Page 20

  ’appen it’s reight, an’ ’appen not,

  Listen hard, but stay afee’ard,

  Those who’ve tried it are mostly dee’ad.

  Oldroyd shouted in triumph.

  ‘Yes!’ He could scarcely contain himself. At last, some confirmation. This was a strong hint that there was indeed another way into the Jingling Pot system. Despite Haverthwaite’s teasing equivocation, Oldroyd had no doubt. A link must have been discovered in those early days of exploration from Winter’s Gill Hole and that link must still be there. For some reason it had been lost to the modern cavers. Oldroyd read the verse again. Behind its sardonic Yorkshire humour there seemed to be something sinister. Maybe this was the origin of the cavers’ superstition about Winter’s Gill that Hardiman had mentioned. Calling a cave the ‘Devil’s Passage’ might be a reminder of how caves were associated with evil, but Oldroyd sensed there was more than that.

  There was a warning of real danger.

  Six

  Tha’ll think tha’s dee’ad and gone to t’devil,

  If tha tries to climb down Ibbeth Peril.

  The sound of Carter’s mobile phone ringing disturbed the quiet. He was lying in bed. He groped over to pick it up and glanced at the time. It was 2.30 a.m. and for a moment, still in the haziness of sleep, he panicked. Then he looked at the number and smiled.

  ‘Hey, Jason!’

  ‘Hey, mate, how’re you?’

  ‘I’m good.’

  There was a stirring in the bed next to him as Nicola turned over. In fact, I’m very good, he thought to himself, grinning.

  ‘How’re you?’

  ‘The usual: skint and pissed. What a night!’

  ‘Just got in, I suppose. Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Up the City; started out at Malone’s; they’ve got some new fancy Czech lagers in there, five quid a bottle, mind you; had a bite to eat, moved on to that little bar near Lamb’s Conduit; stayed there most of the evening, then on to a club or two or three.’ He laughed. ‘It all gets a bit hazy after that.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Naw, nothing about, at least not available; there’s too many of these skinny blokes around; thin legs and arses, not a hair on their chests or faces. They look about seventeen but women seem to like them.’

  ‘You mean they don’t fancy old, fat, hairy gits like you?’

  ‘Hey, watch it! You’re not exactly the slim type yourself. Anyway, what’s going on up there? Dying wi’ boredom i’ Yorkshire?’

  The last phrase was delivered in a grotesque parody of a Yorkshire accent.

  ‘No, actually.’ He glanced over. Nicola had gone back to sleep. ‘I’m more successful than you.’

  ‘Lucky bastard; that didn’t take long. Are you stunning the Yorkshire lasses with your sophisticated London ways?’

  ‘I’ve stunned one, anyway,’ he lowered his voice, ‘but I can’t say any more at the moment.’

  ‘Why’s that? What the— You’re in bed with her now, aren’t you, you randy bastard!’

  ‘Shh!’

  Jason laughed raucously down the phone and mimicked a female voice.

  ‘Oh, Andy, do it to me again, please; stick your long London dick up me and—’

  ‘Shut up!’ said Carter in a stage whisper, but he couldn’t help giggling. Jason, struggling with his own laughter, shouted even louder.

  ‘Oh, Andy! I never come like this with a Yorkshireman. I . . .’

  Carter pressed the button and ended the call.

  Nicola stirred again.

  ‘Who was that?’ she asked in a sleepy voice without turning to look at him.

  ‘Just a mate of mine in London.’ He laughed again and shook his head. You couldn’t beat Jason for the old banter.

  Suddenly a mixture of feelings came over him. He felt a twinge of nostalgia for the old life in London, but he’d caught sight of his stomach, which was indeed on the fat side and hairy. He was pushing thirty, no longer in the first flush of youth. Jason’s failure to pull was a kind of wake-up call.

  He glanced at the figure beside him and felt a wave of self-disgust. How long could he go on behaving like a young lad, sleeping around like this? A lot of men would envy him, in bed with an attractive woman like Nicola, but the experience, despite his laddish joking with Jason, seemed rather empty. The last thing he wanted to be was a sad bloke nearly forty trying to pull women in bars.

  Unexpectedly, an image of Steph came to him and he regretted his last conversation with her even more bitterly.

  When Carter arrived at headquarters on Friday morning, he received a call from Inspector Craven.

  ‘Tell the DCI that I’m following up some useful leads with Atkins’s wife and I’ll report back as soon as I know more.’

  ‘You interviewed her then?’

  ‘Yes, over in Burnley. Very plausible, but I wasn’t convinced; she’s hiding something.’

  ‘Good luck then.’

  ‘Thanks. Also I’ve just had confirmed some information she gave me about Helen Whitaker.’

  ‘The wife of the bloke who found the body?’

  ‘Yes, it seems her brother was killed in a caving accident, and Atkins was involved. You and the gaffer will want to follow that up. How’s he doing, anyway? The pressure’s hotting up, isn’t it, with all this in the press?’

  ‘Yeah, OK I think, but he’s not in yet; he disappeared yesterday over to Shipley, is it? To a bookshop or something?’

  ‘Skipton. What was he doing there?’

  ‘Something about research into the caves.’

  Craven laughed. ‘He’ll have been to Gilbert Ramsden’s shop; it’s the best place to do any research like that. He’s a funny old chap; has a bookshop down by the canal, full of mouldy old books about all kinds of stuff, but mainly Yorkshire.’

  ‘There’s a lot of pride in this part of the world, isn’t there?’ said Carter.

  ‘Oh yes, God’s Own Country, as we like to call it. Stay here long enough and you’ll feel the same way. Speak to you later.’

  Carter smiled. ‘God’s Own Country’ – not a modest title.

  At that point, Oldroyd appeared clutching a large, heavy-looking book.

  ‘Andy, you’re looking a bit tired, lad. Busy night?’ He held up the book. ‘Very interesting things in here that I want to share with you and Steph.’

  Carter couldn’t imagine how an old tome like that could possibly have anything to do with the investigation but didn’t feel he could say anything.

  ‘Right, sir, but I spoke to Inspector Craven just before you came in and he had some important information about Helen Whitaker. I think you’ll probably want to go over and speak to her.’

  He told Oldroyd about the accident.

  ‘Hm. That is interesting. And she never mentioned it to you?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  Oldroyd put the book down and looked at his watch.

  ‘Well, no time like the present. This could be a very important lead. We’d better get over there and have our case meeting a little later. Leave a message for Steph.’

  It was typical of Oldroyd’s impulsive behaviour, and soon both detectives were driving along the route to the Dales, which was rapidly becoming quite familiar to Carter. On the way, they discussed the latest finding.

  ‘Of course, we can’t be sure about Sylvia Atkins’s motives, can we, sir? I mean, she might have told Bob all this about Helen Whitaker just to try to incriminate her and deflect attention from herself.’

  ‘Most certainly a possibility, but I’ve had the feeling for some time that events in the past have a lot to do with this case, as they do with many murders that have been carefully planned. The problem here is that there’s so much “past” with Atkins it’s difficult to know which bit has formed the motive for his murder.’

  ‘If she blamed Atkins for her brother’s death that’s a pretty powerful motive.’

  ‘True, but why wait so long to do something about it? Did she recently acquire an accomplice
who could help her? We’ll have to see what she says and decide what we make of it.’

  They were both quiet for a while. Then Oldroyd said abruptly, ‘I hear you’re a big success with the women officers, one in particular.’

  Carter was surprised and rather embarrassed, but he could hardly tell Oldroyd to mind his own business.

  ‘I hope you haven’t heard anything bad about me, sir.’

  ‘No, not particularly, but I thought you might have had better taste, especially as I think there’s another person interested in you who would make an infinitely better partner,’ he said sharply.

  Bloody hell, thought Carter, does nothing escape him?

  As if he realised that he’d gone a little too far, Oldroyd continued apologetically.

  ‘I know it’s none of my business, but I’ve worked with Steph for quite a while, since she was a young lass, and I’ve grown quite fond of her.’ He turned to Carter. ‘I just don’t want to see her hurt.’

  ‘OK, sir,’ said Carter and there was an awkward silence for a while. Carter couldn’t help smiling at his boss’s paternal concern for a young woman who he was convinced was quite capable of looking after herself.

  ‘I suppose you know why we’ve come back to talk to you again,’ said Oldroyd. He and Carter were in the sitting room of the Whitakers’ house with Helen Whitaker. Geoff Whitaker was at work at the Red Horse. She sighed and pursed her lips.

  ‘You’ve found out about Richard.’ She gave Oldroyd a look of defiance.

  ‘Yes. So, why didn’t you mention it when Detective Sergeant Carter here interviewed you before?’

  ‘I thought he was interviewing Geoff, not me. I don’t see why I should have brought that up. I don’t like talking or even thinking about it, Chief Inspector. It was a long time ago and I don’t see what it’s got to do with anything now.’

  Carter looked carefully at her. She seemed different this time; not the wife desperately trying to defend her husband and making accusations against people. This time there was the sense of a quietly strong character and one quite difficult to read. There was definitely some anger beneath the controlled exterior.

  ‘We understand that your brother died in a caving accident and that . . .’

  Oldroyd stopped; she had turned away and put a finger up to her eye.

  ‘I’m sorry, that was rather abrupt.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ Her voice broke slightly, then she regained control.

  ‘Richard was only seventeen. It killed my mother; she never got over it,’ she said simply and starkly.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to bring those memories back to you, but I believe David Atkins was involved, and you understand that everything concerning him is relevant to our investigation.’

  She exhaled a deep breath and, like most people faced with Oldroyd, realised there was no escape from giving him the information he wanted.

  ‘It was fifteen years ago. Richard was in this youth club; we lived in Grassington then, although I’d just gone away to start my training in Liverpool. I’m a physiotherapist though I’m not practising at the moment. I work part time in the Wharfedale Gift Shop. The club leader arranged for a small group to go potholing with a caver from the Wharfedale Club.’

  ‘David Atkins?’

  ‘Yes; the youth club leader had done some caving himself and there were only six from the youth club so I suppose the adult supervision was technically adequate.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’

  A pained look passed across her face.

  ‘They were abseiling down a waterfall underground. It was Richard’s turn and apparently he was doing fine when . . .’ She paused as she confronted the awful memory. ‘There was a rock fall, unexpected; it was supposed to be a safe area. A large piece hit Richard on the head. He was wearing a helmet but he must have been stunned. He lost his grip on the rope and went down too quickly. The combination of the blow to his head and the fall killed him. By the time they got him to the surface he was dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘The post mortem showed that his skull was thin at the point where the rock hit him otherwise he would have survived.’

  Oldroyd glanced at Carter before he continued.

  ‘Mrs Whitaker, I’m sorry to say this straight out to you, but it’s probably best if we get to the point: do you believe anyone was to blame for your brother’s death?’

  Helen Whitaker seemed to struggle with the question.

  ‘I don’t suppose so. The verdict at the inquest was accidental death. They’d done everything right, given them training beforehand. There was nothing wrong with the equipment. It was a rock fall; things like that happen in caves. All the parents had signed consent forms. My mother never forgave herself for signing one.’

  ‘And yet?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Nothing. Except I don’t think it would’ve happened but for David Atkins.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘After the inquest I spoke to the youth leader. He was a bloke called Mike Wentworth. He left soon afterwards; the whole thing upset him so much. He came from the north-east and went back up there; Newcastle, I think.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said although he couldn’t blame Atkins directly for anything, he was still angry with him because he thought he was pushing them on too fast; you know, all that macho stuff. In other words, if someone else had been in charge they wouldn’t have been at that point going down that waterfall. They were only kids.’

  ‘But the accident could have happened anywhere, couldn’t it? And your brother had a physical weakness.’

  ‘Yes, but a rock fall is more likely to happen where there’s water, so I understand, because it dislodges the rocks. Anyway, the fact is, I did blame Atkins for Richard’s death. I think I still do.’

  ‘But he didn’t do anything wrong.’

  ‘No, but somehow to me he’s responsible. It was because of him they were there.’ She put her hand to her head in frustration as if she could never get past this fact, however unfair or irrational it might be.

  ‘So do you hate him enough to want him dead?’ asked Oldroyd.

  She thought for a while before answering, as if analysing her feelings.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s been too long. I don’t feel as strongly about it now and I know I was probably unfairly imposing all my grief and anger on to him. But I still miss Richard; I can see him in my son, Tim. He never got the chance to become an adult; you know, have a family of his own and things like that.’

  ‘How does your husband feel about all this, Mrs Whitaker?’

  ‘He sympathises, of course, but he never knew Richard.’

  ‘So how did you feel about your husband getting involved with Atkins with this money business? I understand when you were interviewed before, your husband admitted to lending Atkins money and getting into an argument with him about it.’

  She hesitated and Oldroyd thought she was considering her answer carefully.

  ‘I wasn’t pleased, obviously, but Geoff and Atkins were in the same caving club and went on caving trips together. He didn’t feel the same way about him. In fact, more than once he took Atkins’s side, said the accident wasn’t his fault, caves are always dangerous and all that, but he knew I still felt differently.’

  ‘I have to ask you where you were on the night of Monday the seventeenth of August?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That was the last time David Atkins was seen alive.’

  ‘I don’t know. A Monday evening, was it? Geoff would have been working so I would have been here with the kids.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’

  ‘No. I suppose I could have gone out to murder him and then come back to check if the kids were still asleep.’ It was stated calmly but with sarcasm, implying that it was a ridiculous idea.

  ‘Did you know John Baxter?’

  ‘Not really. He was a bit of a loner; only went around with other cavers.’

&nbs
p; A silence followed and Oldroyd looked at her. She would have obviously needed an accomplice, but there was a deep hurt that had been festering a long time and ‘still waters run deep’, as his grandfather would have said. Had she carefully planned her vengeance over many years? If so, there was still the question of why she’d struck now.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Whitaker, that’s all for now.’

  After she had shown them out, Helen walked slowly back into the sitting room and opened a drawer in a sideboard. She took out a photograph album and sat down. Inside were photographs of herself and her brother when they were growing up. In one, they were very young getting dried after their bath and ready for bed. In another, they were going off to school together in the snow. Tears came into her eyes. She always found this album unbearably moving, but the tears were only partly due to the memories of her brother. She was increasingly anxious about the whole business of the murders.

  Carter drove on the way back. It was raining very heavily and he had the headlights on. He went slowly to negotiate the country roads. He wasn’t used to this kind of driving; weaving along between drystone walls.

  ‘What did you make of that, sir? Did you believe her?’

  Oldroyd had been rather quiet and thoughtful since leaving Burnthwaite.

  ‘I’m not sure. She was quite open about blaming Atkins, but then she knows we’re on to the business of her brother and we would eventually track down this Mike Wentworth. Steady, Andy, there’s a narrow bit here.’

  Carter slammed on the brakes and pulled into a passing place as the road became too narrow for cars to pass. A van came past, flashing its lights in appreciation, and they moved off again.

  ‘He’ll presumably verify that she was very bitter against Atkins so there was no real point in her denying it.’

  ‘The question is whether she’s telling the truth about her feelings now.’

  ‘Exactly, and as we know, her husband was somehow involved with Atkins, and we don’t know the truth about that yet, they may have both had a motive for killing him.’

  ‘It would have been a kind of poetic justice from her point of view, wouldn’t it, to have Atkins dead in a cave like her brother?’