The Body in the Dales Page 22

  ‘What about your family?’

  She felt an unusual desire to get to know more about him. He was still a rather exotic stranger to her.

  ‘My mum’s retired now and my sister’s a nurse. They’re OK. Mum’s coming up to see me soon.’

  ‘What about your dad?’ There was a pause and she realised she may have said the wrong thing.

  ‘He’s dead.’ Andy looked down at his plate.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s OK. It was a long time ago. I was telling the chief inspector about it. He was in the police too, got killed on duty.’ Carter looked up a little nervously, but he didn’t seem offended by the question. ‘Are any of your family in the force?’

  ‘No, Mum works in a jeweller’s shop and my sister works in the bank. My dad’s . . . not around, as I told you.’

  Sensing this was also a sensitive topic, Carter didn’t pursue it and instead picked up the bottle of red wine to defuse the slight tension.

  ‘Look, this is getting a bit heavy, have some more wine.’

  As they walked back from the restaurant to Steph’s car, Harrogate looked picturesque and romantic with coloured lights illuminating trees along the edge of the Stray. She was parked down Montpellier Road near to the famous Betty’s Café. Carter was a little unsure about how to play the situation, but he decided to go for it.

  ‘You could come back with me.’

  She looked at him and he smiled in what was, for him, an unusually coy manner.

  ‘It would be easier for work tomorrow.’

  She laughed. She had done a lot of laughing throughout the evening and it had done her good.

  ‘Thank you, gallant sir; only thinking about my convenience, very noble, but I have to get back.’

  She looked at him again. The fact was that part of her wanted to go back with him, but it felt too much too soon. She was desperate that he didn’t get the wrong message, so she smiled meaningfully and said, ‘Not yet.’

  It was a test for Andy and he passed it. Laddishness gave way to his more mature and sensitive side. He sensed that she was not being awkward or moody, but that she needed time. He was prepared to wait.

  ‘That’s fine,’ he said. He didn’t even attempt to kiss her, but put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said quietly and walked off back up the hill.

  It was the right thing to do. As Steph got into the car and drove off, she felt relieved; relieved that the evening had been so enjoyable and relieved that he obviously understood and didn’t feel she was rejecting him. This sensitivity made him even more attractive.

  The next day Carter’s mood was much jauntier as he strode through the early morning streets of Harrogate. He felt he was settling in now and there was nothing like the excitement of the start of a relationship to improve the mood. He was the only one of the team in the office when Craven rang.

  ‘Tell the chief inspector we need to add Sylvia Atkins to the list of suspects and a couple called Susan and Stuart Tinsley.’

  Carter was eating a doughnut he’d bought as breakfast on the way to work and washing it down with coffee. He quickly swallowed a mouthful.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I’ve tracked down a former friend of Sylvia’s in Burnthwaite, a Susan Tinsley. As soon as I spoke to her I sensed something was up. She admitted straight away that she’d had an affair with Atkins.’

  ‘Hasn’t every woman in Burnthwaite?’

  ‘Just about, but listen to this. Sylvia Atkins returned the compliment. She’s involved with Stuart Tinsley. The Tinsleys have separated, but he is still living in Burnthwaite. Now here’s the really interesting bit: Susan Tinsley says she’s sure that Sylvia was in Burnthwaite with her husband at the time Atkins disappeared; claims that she saw them in Tinsley’s car on the last night Atkins was seen alive. She’s clearly worried that her husband was persuaded into murdering Atkins.’

  ‘She could have made that up to implicate her husband and his lover – you know, the jealous wife – even though she was knocking off Atkins.’ Steph was right, thought Carter; it was unbelievable what goings on there were in the countryside. He wouldn’t be surprised if sex turned out to be at the bottom of this case as well.

  ‘That’s definitely a possibility,’ continued Craven. ‘I’m working on getting some corroboration for her story. My feeling, though, is that she’s probably telling the truth. I’m more interested in Sylvia Atkins when you think of the motive she had: all the years of abuse. She could well have persuaded Tinsley to do her husband in. Also, she spun this alibi to me about being with her sister in Leeds, which I didn’t buy. I think the sister had covered for her several times in case questions were asked.’

  ‘Could they have killed the other bloke, Baxter?’

  ‘That’s the problem; I’m not sure how Baxter’s murder would fit into any of these scenarios yet. Maybe he saw something suspicious. Anyway I’m on to it; I’m going to interview Tinsley.’

  ‘I expect he was a potholer too; nearly every bloke in Burnthwaite is.’

  ‘You’re right, he was. In fact, he was part of that Cave Rescue team that brought the body up.’

  ‘What? Not another! I’m beginning to think about conspiracies again: half the suspects brought the victim’s body out of that cave. It’s a bit weird, isn’t it? Anyway, I’ll tell the boss.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Fairly quiet at the moment.’

  ‘He’s like that; likes to work on his theories and expects you to do the same. At some point he’ll reveal his ideas and surprise you. OK, speak to you later.’

  Carter finished his doughnut, brushed the crumbs on to the floor, screwed up the paper and threw it at the bin. His luck was in and it disappeared into the rubbish. Craven had had a bit of luck too, but they could do with some more in this case, he thought rather glumly. So far, none of the leads amounted to anything really substantial. Everybody seemed to have a motive. Maybe Oldroyd was quietly on to something. He hoped so.

  Carter’s hopes were realised because, at the next case meeting, Oldroyd had a confident demeanour and a slightly self-satisfied look on his face, which Steph knew was an indication that he had something interesting to impart. However, he seemed content to wait. Coffee and chocolate biscuits were being consumed in the usual manner. Steph and Andy smiled at each other. There was a much better atmosphere between them now.

  Carter reported Craven’s discoveries about Sylvia Atkins and the Tinsleys.

  ‘This all just makes it seem more complicated, sir. The list of suspects seems to grow. I’ve been thinking about that last night in the pub, the last time Atkins was seen alive, and it seems most of the suspects were around there if we believe what people are telling us. The only suspect who wasn’t was Bill Watson, unless he was also lurking around outside somewhere.’

  ‘Or on an extended visit to the Gents,’ joked Oldroyd. ‘But you’re right, and I think it confirms the likelihood that those people are the serious suspects and that the killers will turn out to be among them.’

  ‘Also,’ continued Carter, ‘I was saying to Craven, it’s weird how many people involved with Atkins brought his body out of the cave, and that’s after Whitaker found the body. Bill Watson and Stuart Tinsley were there that day, and John Baxter.’

  ‘What significance do you think that has?’

  Carter didn’t want to sound too imprecise as he suspected Oldroyd would disapprove of vagueness.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure, sir, but I think I’m coming back to the notion of this being the work of a group. Maybe Atkins’s enemies formed some sort of alliance to get rid of him.’

  ‘One thing you’ve got to remember,’ said Steph. ‘In a small village like Burnthwaite, the same names do keep cropping up in different contexts; it doesn’t necessarily mean that there’s some conspiracy going on; it’s not like an anonymous city.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but it doesn’t mean there wasn’t
one either.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Oldroyd, who could contain himself no longer. With a flourish, he produced the Victorian volume that had caused him such excitement.

  ‘This is what I’ve discovered,’ he announced.

  Carter looked dubiously at the heavy book, but Oldroyd continued enthusiastically.

  ‘This was written by Sir William Ingleby, a very early explorer of the limestone caves. He included in it some poems by a local man: Joseph Haverthwaite.’

  This is even worse than his fuss over the old bit of metal, thought Carter. What could some old Victorian geezer and a crappy local poet from God-knows-when tell them about anything?

  ‘What does this have to do with the case then, sir?’ he asked, trying hard to keep the scepticism out of his voice. Oldroyd put the book down.

  ‘Remember on the first day when we went to Jingling Pot and they brought the body up? We were confronted by a puzzle: how and why would anybody drag a body so far into a cave system?’

  ‘We don’t know the answer to that yet, do we, sir?’ said Steph.

  Oldroyd paused and took in a breath. He enjoyed the drama of these moments.

  ‘I think I do have an answer to that now. Listen to this.’ He read Haverthwaite’s cryptic verse.

  Some men say and it maht be true,

  That t’Devil’s Passage can get tha through,

  From Winter’s Gill Hole to Jingling Pot,

  ’appen it’s reight, an’ ’appen not.

  Listen hard, but stay afee’ard,

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

  There was something sinister in this curious little verse that made a chill pass through Steph. Carter was bemused by the language but picked up enough of the meaning to start to see where this might be going.

  ‘You’ll have to translate most of that, sir, but was it saying something about a link?’

  ‘Exactly. I knew there was some rational explanation as to how the body got there. That was why I was questioning those potholers about links between Jingling Pot and other systems. They were all adamant that there was no other cave that could get you more quickly to that point. But when I thought about it, I decided that there simply had to be, but it could be a way which maybe no one knew about except the murderer.’

  ‘But that’s not possible, is it, sir?’ said Steph. ‘Lots of people know those systems.’

  Oldroyd pointed his finger at her.

  ‘Yes, but what if there was a way that was known about in the past, but had been lost and forgotten for some reason? It could have been rediscovered recently, and by the very person who became the murderer.’

  He turned to the book.

  ‘So I decided to do some research. What this little rhyme hints at is that there is indeed a link between Winter’s Gill Hole and Jingling Pot. I knew from the maps that that system was the most likely because it runs close to Jingling Pot, but everyone denied there was a connection.’

  ‘What’s all that about listening hard and, what was it, “stay afee’ard”?’

  ‘“Stay cautious, don’t be overconfident.” Haverthwaite calls this link the Devil’s Passage. In his indirect way, he’s saying it’s dangerous. In the book, Ingleby says that Haverthwaite and his companions tried to explore Winter’s Gill Hole but after two of them were killed, they abandoned it. I think those men died in this Devil’s Passage, which is why Haverthwaite says that those who’ve tried to go through are mostly dead. Simon Hardiman was telling me that cavers are superstitious about this system; they think it’s haunted. Maybe that all dates back to this.’

  ‘Why “listen hard”, sir?’ asked Steph.

  ‘I think that’s the clue as to how we can find where the link is.’

  ‘You mean go down to the cave and just listen for something?’ Carter was even more perplexed.

  ‘Yes. For what, I’m not sure, but there’s only one way to find out.’

  Oldroyd looked at his two assistants and his smile broadened.

  ‘We’re going down there.’

  ‘What, right down into the cave system, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Carter. I know you’re not used to things like that, but I think you said you came up to join us for the challenges and we can certainly provide you with plenty of them. Anyway, Steph here will look after you.’ He looked briefly from one to the other in a knowing way. ‘And we’re not going down by ourselves; we’ll have experts with us. I’m going over to see Alan Williams and get him to come down with us. He’ll take a bit of persuading that it’s worth it, but I’m convinced it is.’

  Craven arrived at Fell Farm in mid-morning with DC Denby to interview Stuart Tinsley. At the sound of the car coming up the lane, Fred Clark appeared from behind a shed, where he’d been tinkering with a tractor engine. He stared in a characteristically surly way at the officers as they got out of the car. He didn’t trust ‘t’bloody police’, as he dubbed them with his usual bluntness. They were usually here to harass you about licences for this or that, or to check up on you because someone had reported a spillage or that your muck heap smelled too strong: what the hell did they expect a pile of shit to smell of? Police were like the rest of officialdom generally: they interfered with your work and made things difficult with their regulations and bureaucracy.

  Luckily, Craven’s long experience with Dales characters had taught him how to handle people like Fred Clark. He walked straight up to the big farmer.

  ‘Morning, Mr Clark, sorry to interrupt your work, but I understand you have a chap working here called Stuart Tinsley.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Is he here today?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Then I’d like to speak to him, please. I won’t keep him from his work for long.’

  Clark’s frown deepened.

  ‘Is he in bother then?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you understand I can’t go into details on the matter. I just need to ask him a few questions.’

  Clark pointed to the cowshed.

  ‘He’s in thee’re.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Craven and the DC walked briskly over to the building where they found Tinsley cleaning the milking machines.

  ‘Stuart Tinsley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Inspector Craven and DC Denby.’ As he showed the ID, Craven thought he saw fear, quickly controlled, in Tinsley’s expression.

  ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘We’re investigating the murders of David Atkins and John Baxter. We need to ask you a few questions. Can we go somewhere?’

  Craven noticed that there was no instant denial of anything. Instead, he silently led them into a small shed-like room nearby, which obviously acted as a kind of rough dining room for the farm workers. There were a few battered chairs and a Formica-topped table. In the corner there was a grubby sink piled with dirty mugs. They all sat down without a word being spoken. Tinsley slouched and crossed his arms defensively as Craven began.

  ‘I’ve spoken to your wife, Mr Tinsley, and to Sylvia Atkins the deceased’s wife.’

  ‘What’s Susan been saying to you?’ He sat up and there was anger in his voice.

  ‘We’ll come to that, sir; it will be much easier if you let me ask the questions.’

  Tinsley’s anger seemed to subside; he still looked tense and sullen, but then he sighed and seemed to relax a little as if he’d decided that it was no use resisting.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘It’s true your wife had an affair with David Atkins?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that you are separated from her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And is it also true that you were having an affair with Sylvia Atkins?’ Again came the monosyllabic answer.

  ‘Yes.’

  Craven paused; he hadn’t expected such straight answers. Maybe that indicated that Tinsley had nothing to hide.

  ‘We have reason to believe that Sylvia Atkins was with you on the night of Monday the seventeenth of August. Is
that true?’

  Tinsley looked puzzled.

  ‘What, two weeks ago? Can’t remember, maybe. What’s so important about that?’

  ‘We think it was when Atkins was murdered.’

  Tinsley laughed.

  ‘Oh, I see, and you think Sylvia and I did it?’

  ‘We’re just making enquiries at the moment.’

  ‘Who told you Sylvia was with me?’

  ‘So you admit she was here in Burnthwaite that night?’ said Craven, ignoring the question.

  Tinsley started to sound angry again.

  ‘It was Susan, wasn’t it, Inspector? You have to understand that Susan’s very bitter, even though it was her that cheated on me first.’

  ‘Mr Tinsley, can you just answer the question, please?’

  Tinsley didn’t reply; he was considering what to say. His face contorted with anger, and then he looked at Craven, who was waiting for a reply.

  ‘All right, I suppose you’ll find out soon enough. Besides, I’m useless at lying, any road. Yes, she was here with me in Burnthwaite, but we didn’t kill him, Inspector.’

  ‘Sylvia Atkins’s sister,’ Craven referred to his notebook, ‘Jane Edwards, has stated that Sylvia was with her in Leeds at the time we’re considering.’

  ‘It’s not true, Inspector. Sylvia’s frightened that it will look bad if she was with me in Burnthwaite when her husband was murdered, and Jane is just under her sister’s thumb: she’ll do anything Sylvia tells her.’

  ‘The fact is that it does look rather suspicious if you were together here, doesn’t it? What exactly happened that evening?’

  Tinsley had laid his hands on the Formica table next to a large stain made by a coffee mug. Craven saw the hands curl and tighten into angry fists.

  ‘We just stayed in that night, I think. Wait, we might have gone over to Grassington and then come back at about nine o’clock. I don’t stay out late in the week. I start work very early. The neighbours knew she was there.’

  ‘Your wife claims she saw you both in the car by the village green at about the time you mention.’

  ‘That’s probably right. I was dropping her off. Her car was in the car park by the river and she was going back to Burnley.’