The Nidderdale Murders (A Yorkshire Murder Mystery) Read online

  ‘Like the ones we saw that time at Brimham Rocks,’ said Oldroyd, referring to a previous case where he and Carter had nearly been murdered at that strange Yorkshire beauty spot.

  ‘Right, sir. Don’t remind me.’ Andy shivered at the memory.

  ‘The difference is that those two stones are standing together in a sea of bare moorland,’ said Dexter. ‘You can see them for miles, except if you go up there in mist or fog, and then it can be quite a shock when they suddenly loom up at you. Actually, if you get to them you’re probably completely lost as they’re off the main track.’ Dexter seemed to enjoy the eeriness of it all, but Andy didn’t welcome a reminder of his Brimham Rocks experience. It had been freaky and misty that day too, but this had probably saved them as it had concealed their position from their attackers and enabled them to escape.

  Oldroyd brought things back to the questioning. ‘Did you know Alan Green? He’s an odd-job man.’

  ‘I’ve heard the name. Does he do gardening as well? I think I’ve seen him around the village.’

  ‘Yes. Did he ever do any jobs for you?’

  ‘No, Chief Inspector. I do everything myself. It’s important to become more and more self-sufficient in preparation for the world to come. If the human race is to survive, we’ll have to grow more of our own food and live sustainably.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Oldroyd, while Andy looked sceptical. ‘Were you aware of anyone else who might have wished to harm Mr Fraser?’

  ‘No, Chief Inspector, I can’t help you there. I’ve not lived here that long, though I don’t think Fraser was here much before me.’

  Oldroyd would have liked to stay longer and talk to Dexter about the Yorkshire landscape, but time was limited and there were other people to interview. Dexter came outside with them and pointed to the moors. ‘Jenny Twigg and her daughter Tib are just up there on the moor. There’s a story that the names are based on two women who ran an inn and murdered someone, so it ties in well with your investigation. A bit uncanny, though, isn’t it?’ he said, laughing.

  ‘Quite,’ repeated Oldroyd.

  Steph walked down the narrow road out of Niddersgill, between the drystone walls. She was looking for the field where Liz Smith had her caravan. She needn’t have worried about missing it: posters with screaming slogans about cruelty to animals adorned the side of the small, shabby caravan which was parked near to the wall overlooking the road. Entering the field through a nearby gate, Steph wondered what the villagers thought.

  As she approached the caravan she heard music, presumably coming from a radio, and saw that there was a window open. She was in luck. She went up the metal steps and knocked on the door. It was opened by a woman in her thirties with longish dark hair tied back. She was wearing jeans and a chunky, brightly patterned cardigan which looked home-knitted.

  ‘Yes, who are you?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Johnson,’ replied Steph, showing her identification.

  Liz Smith frowned. ‘Police? What do you want?’

  ‘We’re investigating the murder of Sandy Fraser. I presume you’ve heard about it?’

  ‘Yes, good riddance as far as I’m concerned, but I don’t know anything about it, sorry.’ She was starting to close the caravan door.

  ‘I’m afraid I need to ask you some questions,’ insisted Steph. ‘Can I come in please?’

  Liz sighed and pushed the door open again. Steph followed her.

  Inside, there was a basic kitchen at one end and a table and seating at the other, which presumably converted into a bed. It was a cramped space, made more so by the mountains of magazines and posters, piles of clothes, rows of boots and shoes, and the cardboard boxes containing vegetables and knitting wool. On the table was an old laptop with a cracked screen.

  Liz pushed things aside to create a space for Steph to sit down at the table, while she sat by her laptop on the other side. ‘As I said, you’re wasting your time, but go ahead.’

  ‘I understand that you and Mr Fraser did not get on.’

  Liz made a sound that indicated contempt. ‘That’s an understatement. He was an arrogant bastard who thought he had the right to butcher wildlife. Not only that, he organised parties of people, mostly men let’s be honest, to come and do it.’

  ‘So you and some other people tried to sabotage them?’

  ‘We did. We’re part of an animal-rights group, all above board, nothing secretive. We don’t do violence, not like the shooters. I mean, people are animals too, aren’t they? So it would be a bit hypocritical to harm them.’

  ‘You were there on Friday, weren’t you?’

  Liz looked at Steph with defiance. ‘Yes, we were. If they have a right to shoot, then we have a right to try to defend the birds.’

  ‘Isn’t that dangerous, given that shotguns are going off all the time?’

  Liz shrugged. ‘I suppose it could be, but we’re committed to helping the innocent birds.’

  ‘And doesn’t it cause conflict? Did you have a confrontation with Mr Fraser on Friday?’

  ‘No, the beaters chased us off. They’re the ones who are violent. They’ll beat you up if they get the chance. But I think we saved a few birds, sent them up out of the heather before the shooters were ready to aim at them. That’s all we can do. These people are powerful and dangerous.’

  ‘Have you ever been treated violently yourself?’

  Liz paused. ‘Yes. But not since I came here. It was down in the Calderdale area. We were set upon by a group of beaters with their sticks. The police, of course, weren’t interested; we were trespassing, causing a nuisance, blah-blah. They always side with the Establishment.’ She looked challengingly at Steph.

  ‘Well, I hope not,’ Steph said. ‘The police are here to protect everyone’s rights.’

  Liz grunted cynically. ‘If only that were true.’

  Steph pressed on, ignoring this comment. She didn’t have time to enter into a discussion about the role of the police. ‘There was a much more serious incident concerning Mr Fraser a few years ago, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Was there?’ Liz’s tone remained sullen and insolent.

  ‘I think you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, the murder of Sam Cooper,’ Liz blurted out angrily.

  ‘So I take it that you blame Mr Fraser for this man’s death, despite the fact that it was ruled as accidental?’

  ‘Me and many others. I was there. Fraser chased him with a stick shouting at the top of his voice. Sam must have been terrified. He dropped down unconscious and died. It was horrible. The authorities just covered it up like they always do.’

  ‘Did you and others in your group want to get revenge on Mr Fraser?’

  Liz laughed derisively. ‘Of course, but not by killing him. We make sure that we’re there to disrupt every shoot he’s involved in.’

  ‘Where were you on Friday evening, just after midnight?’

  ‘Here asleep at that time. I’m an early riser.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. There isn’t anyone I’m shagging at the moment, male or female, and I don’t get many visitors staying in this little shack.’

  Steph ignored the provocation. ‘Do you possess a shotgun?’

  Liz burst out laughing. ‘What would I do with one of those? They’re instruments of death for wildlife in the countryside: rabbits, crows, pigeons, as well as game birds.’

  ‘OK.’ Steph looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You don’t appear to like living in the countryside very much, so why do you live out here?’

  ‘Isn’t that obvious? It’s to be near my work, as it were. We have a duty to try to protect animals from what goes on out here. We want to make sure farmers are looking after their animals properly and we do our best to prevent any random killing for sport.’

  ‘Who’s “we”?’

  ‘Me and the others in the group. I’m not going to tell you who they are. We’ve had enough harassment from the police in the past. We don�
��t do anything that’s against the law.’

  Steph also ignored this for the moment, though the time might come when they would need to know who else, beyond the people of Nidderdale, might have had a motive for killing Fraser.

  ‘I take it these people don’t live in the village?’

  ‘No, they travel in when we’ve got a protest on.’

  ‘So why don’t you? Wouldn’t you be happier in the town, away from all this abuse of animals as you see it?’

  Liz smiled. ‘No, I’m an awkward bugger. I like to be here and a thorn in their flesh. They know I’m here watching them.’

  ‘You must get abuse from people.’

  ‘Yeah, from some. I’m actually more sympathetic to farmers than you might think, as long as they look after their animals properly. It’s their jobs and livelihood. I think it’s wrong to kill animals for food, but I don’t blame the farmers. Actually, you’d be surprised at how many local people tell me they support our cause, especially against the grouse shooters. Killing animals for pleasure is obscene. I don’t care how many of those poor birds they eat or sell to restaurants, their main motivation is the shoot. I’m not popular with those people, I can tell you. It’s a wonder I wasn’t the one you found shot dead.’ She laughed again.

  ‘Do you know a man called Alan Green?’

  ‘Never heard of him. If he’s local, I don’t mix much, so there’s a lot of people I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you know anyone else who might want to cause harm to Mr Fraser?’

  ‘Any animal-rights campaigner who knew about him,’ Liz answered flippantly, and then became more serious. ‘But no, I never heard about anyone else who threatened him or anything, though I don’t think he was popular with the people who worked for him.’

  ‘OK. Thank you,’ said Steph, getting up to go. ‘That wasn’t too hard, was it?’

  Liz gave her a half smile. ‘No. I wonder what will happen now with the shoots. Who will take over that moor? I can’t imagine his wife or family wanting to run a grouse shoot.’

  ‘It could be sold.’

  ‘Probably. Anyway, we’ll be ready for whoever comes next. The fight will go on.’

  In the bar at the Dog and Gun, some of the local regulars were having a lunchtime drink. Kirsty was not behind the bar. The atmosphere was subdued and the murder was the main topic of conversation. It was rare for something so dramatic to happen in a small rural village.

  Peter Gorton was taking a break from the shop and having a drink with Ian Davis and a man called Vic Moore, a freelance copy-editor who lodged with the artist John Gray. Vic was chunkily built with black hair, and he always wore dark glasses due to an eye complaint. He came from the Midlands originally and still had a Birmingham accent.

  ‘The village is like a flipping graveyard,’ he said. ‘There’s nobody about. I have to admit, I looked around me when I walked over here to check there was nobody around with a gun. It’s no fun having a murderer on the loose, is it?’

  ‘A few people have phoned me saying they’re not leaving their house and could I deliver things to them,’ said Gorton. ‘What the hell do you think’s going on? I hear Kirsty’s saying she saw Alan Green shoot him. Can you believe that? Alan? What the bloody hell for? He was in here only a few hours before. He said Fraser was a bit of a bugger, but he wouldn’t kill the poor sod because of that, would he?’

  Davis took up his pint glass and drained half of it in one draught. ‘Naw. Kirsty must have made a mistake. Mind you, it’s funny ’ow he’s buggered off, isn’t it? I hear t’police can’t find him. They were looking all over Pateley yesterday afternoon according to my mate Barry.’

  ‘He always seemed a decent chap to me, though I haven’t known him all that long,’ said Moore, who was sipping from a whisky and soda. ‘But you never know with people, do you?’

  That set people around the pub shaking their heads and muttering at the puzzle of it all.

  ‘Have the police been to talk to you yet?’ said Gorton to Davis.

  ‘No, but I’m expecting ’em. I know it’ll get out that him and me didn’t get on that well, but let ’em come, I’ve got nothing to fear. I hope that woman sergeant comes – she can interview me any time.’ He sniggered.

  ‘That’s enough of that, Ian, or I’ll dob you in to Jenny,’ said Jeanette, who was covering for Kirsty behind the bar.

  ‘Get away with yer, and pull me another pint,’ said Davis, who had now drained his glass.

  ‘From what I hear, they’ve spent their time interviewing his shooting cronies, and that inspector and his sergeant were seen walking up towards Dexter’s place,’ said Gorton.

  ‘And the woman went to see Liz Smith,’ said Moore.

  ‘Yeah, I wonder what she made of her: madwoman in a caravan,’ laughed Davis. ‘Actually, do you think she might have done it? She hated Fraser, didn’t she? Especially after that do a few years ago. Mind you, didn’t we all?’

  ‘I assume they’re still after Alan. Do you know where he lived in Pateley, Vic?’

  ‘Me? No. I thought he lived somewhere round here.’

  ‘No. He’s not a villager. He came a few years ago, just before you. He started doing jobs for people; he always said he lived down in Pateley, but nobody seems to know where,’ said Gorton, taking a drink of his beer.

  ‘He did some gardening for John a while back, he just took cash in hand. I suppose he’s one of those private sorts – doesn’t like people knowing too much about him,’ observed Gorton.

  ‘Maybe he had a mysterious past,’ said Davis.

  ‘Alan?’ asked Moore.

  ‘Yeah – well, they say still waters run deep.’ Davis glanced out of the window and saw Oldroyd and Andy coming into the inn. ‘Ey up, t’coppers are back. Careful what you say.’

  ‘They’ve got you lined up if they can’t find Alan,’ said Gorton with a teasing smile. ‘They already suspect you, the disgruntled employee who’s handy with a shotgun.’

  ‘Bugger off!’ laughed Davis, and drained half of his second pint.

  Steph had got back earlier and was already in the lounge when Andy and Oldroyd came in. The inn staff were going to supply some lunch again and Oldroyd, a bit peckish after his walk, was looking forward to it. But first there was work to be done in reviewing what they’d found out. Steph reported first.

  ‘Well, she’s a character all right, sir, very outspoken and not at all defensive. She admitted straight away that she hated Fraser due to the animal-rights stuff and, as we expected, there’s a lot of anger about that incident where the sab bloke died. She and the sabs blame Fraser; she called it a murder. She has no support for her alibi that she was in bed in her caravan at the time of the murder. She only had a few hundred yards to walk to here so she could easily have done it. I was wondering if she or someone else could have disguised themselves, so Kirsty Hemingway thought she saw Alan Green, but it doesn’t really make sense because how would the murderer know that Kirsty would be looking out of the window at that moment, or that anyone else would see them at that time of night, in the dark? Also, why would Alan Green disappear like this if he’s innocent?’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Oldroyd. ‘I suppose the murderer could have wanted to disguise themselves just in case anyone did see them, but in that case why not just put a mask on your face? No, I think we have to conclude that Kirsty saw, or thought she saw, Alan Green. Unless she’s lying, but we’ve no evidence yet of anything like that. So, what did you think of Dexter, Andy?’

  ‘I thought he was a bit of an oddball too, sir, and he’s another one who had no time for Fraser. It’s quite feasible that he walked down to the village that night and did him in. Like Liz Smith he can’t prove his alibi, and, by the way, it strikes me they’ve got a lot in common: they were both enemies of Fraser and both live alone without much contact with the villagers. I wonder if there could have been any collusion between them. They both wanted the grouse shooting stopped, for different reasons.’

  Oldroyd frowned
. ‘Maybe, but it’s not a very convincing plan as neither had a good alibi and, in the end, what would they gain? Just because Fraser’s gone it doesn’t mean the grouse shooting won’t continue. Someone will buy that moor with the shooting rights, and on it will go.’

  Andy shrugged. ‘I think you’re right, sir. We could just be wasting our time developing unlikely theories when it’ll probably all be resolved as soon as Alan Green is found. I’m sure a motive will emerge. Maybe they knew each other somewhere else before they came to the village.’

  Oldroyd looked at Andy and smiled. He was very pleased with the progress that his two young detective sergeants had made over recent years in their analysis of evidence. He remembered that when Andy had first arrived, he’d been eager to slap the handcuffs on the first likely suspect who emerged in a case. Now he was much more thoughtful, and recognised that things were often far more complex than they appeared.

  ‘That’s a good point, Andy. We don’t seem to have uncovered a very convincing motive so far in any of the people we’ve interviewed, so we’re going to have to dig deeper; and the answer, as you imply, might well lie in the past. We need someone back at HQ to investigate Fraser’s financial situation. That might reveal something interesting. We’ll also look at Bill’s report on that incident on the moor.’

  ‘I agree that Alan Green still seems the likeliest suspect,’ said Steph with a sigh, ‘but somehow things don’t seem right.’

  This gave Oldroyd further satisfaction, because he’d also taught them to pay attention to their instincts and feelings about a case, as well as to their reasoning. Doing this prompted you to continue to examine the evidence and to look for things you might have missed.

  ‘I agree, so we can’t just sit back and wait for Alan Green to be found, the work has to go on. Next on the list is this gamekeeper, Ian Davis. There was clearly a lot of tension between him and his employer. We’ll also have to talk to this farmer, Wilf Bramley, who was Fraser’s tenant, and the shopkeeper, as they were both in the bar. But we’re not doing anything before this . . .’ His eyes lit up as the sandwiches and coffee were brought in.