The Nidderdale Murders (A Yorkshire Murder Mystery) Read online

  He rang back for a brief chat with Alison, and to accept her invitation. Although it would have to be postponed, as Alison would also be coming to the hastily arranged degree ceremony.

  Finally, he sat down with a cup of tea. Not long ago, before Deborah had taken his diet and his general health in hand, it would have been a glass or two of red wine after work.

  Deborah was going to an early film showing with some friends this evening and she would be coming over later. Oldroyd settled down on the sofa after putting on a CD of Schubert’s Impromptus. He liked to relax when he got home in the evening and collect his thoughts about the case he was working on. There was often insufficient time and opportunity during the frequently hectic activities of the day to reflect on what was happening. These piano pieces always calmed him down and prompted him to think deeply.

  The murder of Sandy Fraser seemed to be reasonably straightforward. Although Oldroyd had speculated about the young barmaid being involved in a plot and deliberately misidentifying the killer, he didn’t really think it was likely. The disappearance of Alan Green seemed to imply his guilt. It was not the action of an innocent man. Nevertheless, Oldroyd’s instincts were telling him that something was not right.

  Was it the lack of motive so far identified? Why would an odd-job man and gardener kill a man like Fraser? If he had, there must be some history between them. Murders did take place in villages and not just in Agatha Christie novels, but had Fraser lived there for long enough to make real enemies? Had something from his past pursued him to Niddersgill and exacted a bloody reckoning?

  Oldroyd closed his eyes to listen to a particularly exquisite passage of the Schubert.

  When Deborah arrived at the apartment, it was dark. She found Oldroyd asleep on the sofa. The CD player was switched on but the CD had long since played to the end.

  She nudged him. ‘Wakey, wakey! I can see you’re ready to paint the town red on this Saturday night. Maybe I should have chosen a younger man.’

  Oldroyd stirred and yawned. ‘It’s your fault for exhausting me with all this running. Plus, I’ve actually been working all day.’

  ‘Poor you. And I suppose you’ll be going in tomorrow as well?’

  ‘Yes, sorry. It’s always like this when a serious case blows up.’

  ‘Not to worry, I can arrange to meet Dawn in Leeds.’

  ‘Good. Look, I can’t be bothered to cook. Let’s go for a drink and then a pizza.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘How was the film?’ said Oldroyd, getting up from the sofa.

  ‘Excellent, you would have liked it – set in small-town America. You thought you knew the characters, but when the film moved on to the backstories you realised the early bit was only scratching the surface of their lives.’

  Oldroyd was putting on his jacket as Deborah opened the front door.

  ‘Interesting – that’s exactly how I’m feeling about this murder in Nidderdale.’

  ‘Honestly! You relate everything back to work.’

  ‘I know, it’s bad, but I’ll forget about it when I’ve got some wine and some food inside me.’

  ‘Right. I don’t want work mentioned one more time this evening!’

  Oldroyd was happy to agree but he couldn’t guarantee that. Unbeknown to Deborah, his thoughts might stray back occasionally.

  Two

  Tatham Wife Moss

  Quaking Pot

  Black Edge Shake Hole

  Jingling Pot

  On Monday morning, David Eastwood arrived in his red van to deliver the post. It was another bright day with clouds drifting overhead, and all seemed peaceful and tranquil in the beautiful village. The only physical indication that something violent had happened was the blue-and-white incident tape draped around an area near the entrance to the Dog and Gun. But the place seemed unnaturally quiet and there were fewer people about as he worked his way around the houses and cottages surrounding the green.

  People seemed to regard him as a reassuring presence, as a number of them came to the door to collect their post from him directly. Some of them confessed they’d not been out of their houses since the murder of Sandy Fraser, and Eastwood was the first person they’d spoken to. He saw in the worried faces of the older villagers, who’d mostly retired to Niddersgill from the towns and cities, a certain perplexity, a sense that things were just not right: they’d come here for peace and tranquillity, not for murder and mayhem.

  He’d nearly finished his deliveries, and was about to call in at Gorton’s shop for a can of Coke and a brief chat, when he saw an old Saab enter the village, drive up to the inn and park near to his van. A man got out and walked quickly over to him. He held up a warrant card.

  ‘Are you the postman David Eastwood?’ asked the man.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Chief Inspector Oldroyd. I’m leading the investigation into the murder of Sandy Fraser. Is that your van?’ He indicated the red post van.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you also possess a black van in which you visit this village when you’re not working?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you come over to the inn please? We need to ask you some questions.’ The tone was friendly but firm, and Eastwood felt he couldn’t refuse.

  In the hotel, the postman was shown into the residents’ lounge, where he and Oldroyd were joined by Andy and Steph. He still had his postbag, which he laid on the floor.

  ‘I assume you’ve heard about what happened here on Friday night?’

  ‘Yes. I heard about it on television. He was shot outside here, wasn’t he?’ replied a nervous-looking Eastwood.

  ‘He was. Now, we have a witness who claims to have seen your van parked just across from here behind some houses. Were you in this village on Friday evening?’

  Eastwood was clearly shocked, and hesitated. He seemed about to deny it but then uttered a quiet ‘Yes’.

  ‘And why were you here?’

  Eastwood sighed and hesitated again. ‘You see, it’s private, and . . . and secret, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Were you visiting a female friend?’ asked Oldroyd bluntly.

  Eastwood squirmed a little with embarrassment. He looked away from Oldroyd only to encounter a cold stare from Steph.

  ‘Yes, I was, but please can you not make it public? My wife . . . doesn’t know. She thinks I’d come to Niddersgill to meet some friends at the Dog.’

  ‘I see. Well, you’ve done the right thing by telling us. Too many people in these situations take fright, lie to the police and get themselves into all kinds of difficulties when the lies are revealed. We’ll need the name and address of the person concerned and we’ll have to interview her to check your story, but other than that – how shall I put it? – your secret is safe with us.’

  Eastwood looked relieved. ‘Her name is Theresa Rawlings. It’s number one in that row of cottages: Gouthwaite Terrace. At the end of the row. I was parked at the back. It’s true that you could have spotted the end of the van from the inn. I would have parked further down the lane, but there was no space.’

  ‘Did you hear or see anything unusual that evening?’

  ‘I . . . er, we heard a bang which sounded like a shotgun, but round here you think nothing of hearing that, even at night and especially at this time of the year. There are shotguns going off all the time. Just after that I left and drove back to Pateley. I noticed some people outside the Dog, but I thought nothing of it.’

  ‘OK,’ said Oldroyd. ‘That seems to tie in with what our witness said, so we’ll leave it there for now.’

  A sheepish Eastwood picked up his bag and left to continue his round.

  Andy was grinning. ‘Caught having his bit on the side, sir! The look on his face! He was starting to go as red as a beetroot when you forced him to confess.’

  ‘Serves him right, the little rat,’ said Steph, not looking in the least bit amused. ‘I can’t stand men like that. He has the poor little woman at home, no doubt looking after his ki
ds and cooking his dinner, and he comes out here cheating on her. He probably does it all over the place. Very convenient, isn’t it? To have two vans, and drive around the dale amusing himself.’ She would have liked to have expressed this in more colourful language, but felt her boss might not approve.

  ‘No, not a pleasant individual,’ agreed Oldroyd, who got up from his chair. ‘Anyway, send a DC round to interview that woman and see what she has to say. We’ll have to get moving now; we’ve a lot of people to interview today. Steph, I want you to go round to talk to Liz Smith, while Andy and I go in search of this chap Dexter, who lives up on the fells in a barn.’

  Oldroyd and Andy headed up a steep and winding bridleway out of Niddersgill on to the fells above the village. They walked between drystone walls with sheep and cows grazing in the fields at either side, as they headed towards the higher moorland. Rob Owen had explained how to get to Tony Dexter’s small converted barn. The bridleway was just about passable for a four-by-four, but not for Oldroyd’s car, so they had to walk.

  As they ascended the path, the heavy stone embankment of the dam of Gouthwaite Reservoir with its Victorian castellated stonework came into view, and then the beautiful long stretch of water behind. Oldroyd thought it was the most picturesque reservoir he knew.

  ‘What do we know about this bloke then, sir?’ asked Andy. He was enjoying the walk. He’d come to love these sweeping Yorkshire landscapes and the wonderful bracing air that filled your lungs as you got up on to the tops.

  ‘Not much. Apparently he styles himself as a poet and environmentalist and had a few run-ins with Fraser about grouse shooting. I wouldn’t say he was a prime suspect, but he’s worth talking to.’

  Rounding a corner on the rocky, uneven track, they saw a low barn which at first looked empty, but as they got closer, they could make out a rudimentary vegetable patch in front of the door, together with compost heaps and birdfeeders. The blades of a small wind turbine were spinning round and a bicycle was leaning against a wall.

  ‘This looks like the place all right,’ said Oldroyd. He walked past the leeks and onions and knocked on the door. After a pause, it was opened by a tall, thin, wiry man with wild hair and a bushy beard; he was dressed in dirty jeans and jumper.

  ‘Hello,’ he said cheerfully. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘We’re police officers,’ replied Oldroyd as he introduced them and they showed their warrant cards. ‘We’d like to ask you some questions.’

  The smile immediately left Dexter’s face. ‘Oh, what on earth for?’

  ‘Have you heard that Sandy Fraser has been murdered?’

  ‘What? No. It takes a while for news to get to me. I haven’t been down to the village since Thursday. When was this?’

  ‘Friday night. Can we come in please?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Dexter led them into a large kitchen and dining area which must have covered the whole of the ground floor. There was a mezzanine floor above with a door that likely led to a bedroom. A large window gave a panoramic view over the dale. In one corner there was a desk with a computer and a large bookcase behind it against the wall. Oldroyd saw that the shelves were full of books on nature and the environment: landscape, ornithology, global warming, ecosystems and so on. There was also a substantial poetry section, mostly poets who wrote about nature in different ways: Wordsworth, Hardy, Edward Thomas, Ted Hughes. There were a number of old sofas and chairs around the room, all covered in colourful drapes. On the floor were faded, dusty rugs.

  ‘Please, take a seat.’ Dexter looked down at his dirty clothes. ‘I’m sorry I’m in such a grubby state, I’ve been gardening all morning. I still have a lot to do here. I’ve been here three years and my next project is to create a big vegetable patch at the side of the house to add to what you saw at the front. It’ll keep me in food for much of the year. Can I get you a drink? Tea? I don’t drink coffee I’m afraid.’

  ‘Yes, tea will be fine,’ said Oldroyd, glancing at Andy for confirmation. They were thirsty after their walk. Dexter went over to the hob and put the kettle on. Oldroyd and Andy continued looking around the room. The walls contained some prints but also posters from environmental campaigns. Dexter brought the tea over in large mugs emblazoned with campaign slogans: ‘Frack Off: Say No to Fracking’, ‘No to Nuclear Power’, ‘Save Our Bees’.

  Dexter sat down on an armchair and put his hands on the arms. ‘I take it if Sandy Fraser’s been murdered, you must be looking for suspects, and you’ve heard that he and I didn’t get on.’

  ‘That’s not far from the mark,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘So tell us more.’

  ‘Well, let me say first that I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Do you have an alibi? Where were you on Friday evening?’

  Dexter shrugged his shoulders. ‘No, I don’t have an alibi. I’m a bit of a loner. I don’t go down to the village much and I live here by myself. I was here on Friday night, but I can’t prove it.’

  ‘Do you possess a shotgun?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK. Well, tell us what you thought about Fraser.’

  ‘I didn’t like the man, but it was what he did and represented that I objected to the most. Grouse shooting is very damaging to the environment, Chief Inspector. Wildlife such as mammal predators and birds of prey are killed because they threaten the grouse, and the burning of the heather releases carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. These people – they’re all wealthy – they think the countryside is there for their amusement. They create an artificial environment which benefits the grouse but at great cost. They also dig drainage channels which leads to a very fast run-off of water. That’s why the towns in the valleys below many of these moors have been flooded.’ Dexter was starting to get angry. ‘Anyway, that’s just the beginning. I could talk to you all day about how destructive it is.’

  ‘But of course Sandy Fraser disagreed with you?’

  Dexter laughed. ‘He certainly did, but it was his manner that I found so offensive. I’m no coward: I went round to his house and confronted him on his doorstep. I told him what I thought without being aggressive. He invited me in but he wouldn’t engage with the issues. He thought it was an outrage that anyone should even question what he did with his own land, that kind of attitude – said it was none of my business.’

  ‘Have you ever done anything to disrupt the grouse shooting?’

  ‘No, Liz is your person for that. Liz Smith. She’s an animal-rights campaigner and very much into direct action. I respect her and her group, but I don’t really see the point. The shooters get so annoyed that they become more determined to carry on. You have to defeat these people with argument and persuade politicians to change the law.’ He took a drink of his tea and looked at Oldroyd. ‘I suppose that’s why I’d say to you that it wouldn’t make sense to me to get rid of Fraser. Someone else would just come and take his place.’

  ‘Unless he got to you on a personal level.’

  Dexter laughed. ‘Yes, but I can assure you he didn’t. No one does.’

  Oldroyd looked around at the landscape prints. ‘These hills and dales mean a lot to you, don’t they?’

  ‘Absolutely, Chief Inspector. It may not be a completely natural landscape; it’s been affected by human activity for thousands of years and there’s lots we could do to improve it, but there’s a wild beauty which really gets into your soul if you spend a lot of time here.’

  Oldroyd nodded and smiled. He couldn’t have agreed more. ‘Who did those paintings?’

  ‘A local chap, John Gray. He has a studio attached to his house in the village. He’s more of a recluse than me. You don’t see much of him. I wandered into his place one day and he would hardly talk to me – said he had a cold and his voice was bad. He just carried on painting, facing the canvas away from me. Very rude and anti-social. That’s what some artists and writers get like. They spend so much time by themselves, they forget how to relate to people. I understand it when you’re in this landscape. You feel you could merge w
ith it and become one with the trees, heather and streams. Anyway, I liked his work so much that I bought those prints and had them framed in Pateley Bridge. By the way, Gray must have known Fraser too. When I went to his house that time I saw some of Gray’s paintings on the wall, and they looked like originals.’

  ‘So how come you ended up here, sir?’ asked Andy, thinking that Dexter was a bit of an oddball, and not as interesting as Oldroyd seemed to find him.

  Dexter took a deep breath and appeared to think about the answer for a moment. ‘Like many people, I’ve had problems in my life: divorce, job issues, you know. I just decided to pack in the rat race and come up here. I got this place fairly cheap; it was in a bad state and I’ve slowly done it up. I make enough money with my writing to survive and I’ve never regretted it for a moment. My life has purpose now: I’m involved in crucial campaigns to save the world from destruction.’

  ‘What sort of writing do you do?’ asked Oldroyd.

  ‘I do articles for various online sites and print journals. And I write poetry. Mostly about the landscape and its natural life.’

  ‘I thought so, judging by your poetry collection,’ replied Oldroyd, nodding towards the bookshelves.

  ‘Oh, you’re obviously a literary man yourself, Chief Inspector.’ Dexter’s eyes brightened with enthusiasm. ‘I’m especially inspired by the natural structures in the landscape around here – you know, Brimham Rocks, and Jenny Twigg and her daughter Tib.’

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Andy, bewildered. Being from Croydon he still struggled, not only with the Yorkshire dialect but with a number of the rural traditions and beliefs that locals took for granted.

  Dexter laughed. ‘They’re two outcrops of millstone grit up on the moors not far from here.’