The Body in the Dales Page 7

  ‘Anyway, can’t talk to you all night, I’m off out. There’s a new bar opened on North End; meeting Gary and Simon there. What you up to, then? Cosy night in? Mug of cocoa? Do they have any proper bars up there or is it all real ale and packets of pork scratchings?’

  ‘I’ve seen some places worth exploring when I get the time.’ It was difficult to explain to Jason, who seemed to be able to go out every night of the week and go to work the next day, that his commitments precluded midweek carousing unless he was off duty. Also, he’d lied; seeking out bars in Harrogate had not been uppermost in his mind during his brief time in the town.

  Jason rang off and left for his night out with his customary cheeriness, but Carter did not feel envious. He was content to be where he was.

  At the same time, Oldroyd was sitting in Café Nico near the bus station reading the Guardian and drinking coffee. He was waiting rather nervously for his wife to arrive. When they separated they’d agreed to meet occasionally to discuss things. What things, exactly, they had left open but they usually talked about the children, what was happening at work and then some family memory. She’d been away over the summer so he hadn’t seen her now for quite a while. The children were no real problem any more, apart from money. Robert was at Birmingham University studying Engineering and Louise was doing A levels and had recently started to discover the night life in Leeds.

  Julia had moved out of Harrogate and now lived in a terraced house in Chapel Allerton, which was much nearer to her job as a History lecturer in a sixth-form college in Leeds. Louise had agreed to move from her Harrogate school sixth form to the same college as long as her mother didn’t teach her for anything. Louise shared her mother’s flair for History and her parents were both hoping that she would follow in their footsteps to Oxford.

  Oldroyd sat and thought about the past. He’d met Julia at Oxford at a disco dance. They’d married soon after graduating and moved back to the north, where Oldroyd began his career in the police force. It seemed strange to many people that someone so individualistic, so witty and sharp, should want to join a somewhat regimented organisation, but Oldroyd was fascinated by the challenge of solving puzzles, not simply intellectual puzzles but puzzles concerning people and their motives, and he believed that a strong but humane police force was necessary in a civilised society to uphold the rule of law.

  But it was this same love of police work that had caused problems in their relationship. As he progressed through the ranks, he spent more and more time on investigations. He’d been selfish. Julia had her own demanding job, but he’d tended to leave most of the domestic work and childcare to her. Their relationship had slowly deteriorated until the break had come three years before. He didn’t think there was anyone else involved; she’d just tired of coming second all the time to his work. The separation had taught him that he did value his family more than anything but the realisation had come too late. He glanced up from the newspaper. He could see down the street from where he was sitting but there was no sign of her yet. He felt a tingle of excitement, waiting for her arrival.

  ‘Hello, Jim.’

  The sound of her voice was unexpected but pleasant. She’d entered by a different door. His initial elation was succeeded by disappointment. There was a distance and formality in the way she spoke. The intimacy that had once existed between them was gone.

  ‘Hi . . . I . . .’ It was rare to see Oldroyd at a loss for words.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late, I’ve just been doing a bit of shopping. It’s so relaxing to come here after the crowds of Leeds.’

  ‘Cappuccino?’

  ‘That would be nice, thanks.’

  Oldroyd had a good look at her as he got up to fetch the coffee. She was over fifty now, very slim and attractive and sporting a suntan after her summer holiday. She settled herself in an armchair opposite his, pulling her green cashmere cardigan around herself.

  Oldroyd returned with the coffee. This was always a difficult moment.

  ‘How are things?’

  She sighed before replying. ‘Oh, not bad. I can’t say I’m looking forward to going back to college next term.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘It’s not the students. I still enjoy the teaching. It’s all the bureaucracy and paperwork.’

  ‘I know, it’s the same in the police now and everybody I speak to says the same about their job. It’s all targets, performance criteria, the business culture and managerialism. I think all senior managers from all the professions have been taken away to some government indoctrination centre and had a chip inserted so they stay on message about targets, performance management and all the rest of the bloody nonsense.’

  She laughed. He’d always been able to make her laugh and he loved her smile. There was a pause as she sipped her coffee. Oldroyd felt uncomfortable; there was still a rapport between them, but also a barrier.

  ‘We’ll probably get an OFSTED inspection this year; that’s another thing to look forward to. Anyway, not to worry; we had a great time in Cephalonia.’

  ‘Oh yes, you went with Janet, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. It was great fun. We stayed in this little hotel on a cliff top overlooking the sea; spectacular views. We really went because it’s the setting for Captain Corelli’s Mandolin. It reminded me of Crete. Do you remember we went that last summer before Robert was born?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have you been away at all?’

  ‘No, not this summer. I might try to go somewhere in the autumn, but . . . I don’t know where yet.’ He had been going to say that he had no one to go with, but that sounded too self-pitying.

  ‘Work still comes first then?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘No, but what does it say, Jim, if you can’t ever get away for a holiday?’

  They’d strayed on to the taboo subject.

  Julia finished her coffee and put the cup down on to the table.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said with a smile that brightened the atmosphere again, ‘let’s go across the Stray, shall we? It’s a nice evening.’

  They left the café and walked a short way through the pleasant streets to the Stray. This was their usual route whenever the weather was decent, especially in summer. They always ended up sitting on a particular bench talking about the children and what they were doing, although Oldroyd, who kept in regular contact with his son and daughter, knew most of it anyway.

  They walked across the green sward, which at this moment reminded Oldroyd of the University Parks in Oxford. It had been one of their favourite places to go walking in their student days.

  ‘Has Robert told you about his latest girlfriend?’

  ‘Yes, he’s mentioned her; says he might bring her up when he next pays us a visit.’

  Robert shared a house with friends in Birmingham and tended to stay there over holiday periods. He didn’t come home much any more. Oldroyd felt sad and somehow responsible for this, feeling that his son was escaping his unhappy family.

  ‘I’ve been getting the attic room ready for them.’

  Oldroyd thought how the world was different now, remembering the times he had crept across the landing at night to Julia’s room when they were staying with her parents before they were married. Who would really want to go back to the falsity and hypocrisy of those times?

  ‘How’s Louise? I spoke to her the other day; she didn’t sound tremendously enthusiastic about the new term.’

  ‘No, but she’s got to get down to it.’ Louise had got top marks in all her subjects at AS, without working very hard. Her parents were still convinced that she was going to be ‘found out’ at some point.

  ‘Has she done any reading over the summer?’

  ‘Not much, I don’t think. She’s been working at that café nearly every day and blowing the money at night in the clubs.’

  Oldroyd sighed. He wasn’t so much worried about his daughter drinking under age, although that could cause him embarrassment if she ever got
into some kind of scrape and the press got hold of it. It was more that he didn’t want her to waste her potential. He took consolation in the knowledge that this was a perennial concern of middle-class parents.

  ‘She’s got that History aptitude test for Oxford in November, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s up to her, Jim. If she’s serious about it she’ll do the work. Anyway, it’s nice to hear that you’re so concerned about her progress after all those years when I had to go to their parents’ evenings and sports events by myself because you were always too busy.’

  ‘I know; you don’t have to remind me.’

  They arrived at their bench and sat in silence looking across the Stray towards the distant road and hearing a faint hum of traffic. As dusk settled, coloured lights twinkled in the trees that lined the road.

  When she’d finally gone, Oldroyd was left wondering in a puzzled and wistful way what the real meaning of these meetings was. He enjoyed them. Did she? Did she just want to keep him involved with the family or was she assessing him to see if he had changed? Or sending a message that somehow he wasn’t receiving? Did she still care for him? He enjoyed his professional tussling with problems but found these deeply personal questions very painful to contemplate. He walked slowly back again over the grass in darkness to his flat which overlooked the Stray. Standing at his sitting-room window and feeling lonely again, he could just make out the dark shape of the wooden bench where they’d sat.

  Three

  If on th’edge tha tries to sit,

  Tha’ll be dahn Hunt Pot, that evil slit.

  It was early in the morning of the day after the discovery of the body. The village of Burnthwaite was still in shock. In the quiet streets, people with sombre expressions were conducting whispered conversations. The normal air of rural tranquillity had been replaced by shock and fear.

  However, not everyone was concerned by recent events. At Fell Farm, just outside Burnthwaite, Fred Clark, utterly indifferent to the discovery of Atkins’s body, had been up and working since 5 a.m. and was now waiting for his cowman, Stuart Tinsley, to arrive for work. The cows were still in the sheds, but should have been out in the fields by now.

  Clark ran a mixed-stock farm, the biggest in the area. It had been in his family for generations, but he’d built it into a very successful enterprise through a combination of traditional farming knowledge and shrewd business sense. He had cows down in the rich pastures of the dale bottom and sheep on the high and rougher fell slopes. He looked after the sheep himself in addition to the other work of organising the farm; those hardy animals roamed happily over the hillsides in all weathers. The cows were more complicated, with milking regimes and additional health issues. He needed some specialist help with that.

  Tinsley had always been a good, reliable worker. He was well qualified and knowledgeable, lived locally and knew the area. That was until the last few days, during which his behaviour had become odd. He was morose and uncommunicative, and he’d started to arrive late; a cardinal sin in Fred Clark’s book.

  A farm was a business, which was what a lot of townies didn’t realise when they walked over the fields in spring looking at the cows and sheep and the wild flowers and thinking how pretty it all was. To him those animals represented income and the grass was a raw material used in the production process. In a business everyone had to pull their weight; no one could be carried.

  It was time to have a word with Tinsley, he thought, as the cowman came into view cycling furiously up the farm track. Tinsley jumped off the bike and leaned it against the wall of the farmhouse. Then he saw Fred Clark watching him. Clark was six feet two and built like one of the bulls in his fields. He was not noted among his employees for his humour. He paid well and was fair, but was not the kind of man to joke with. It was all a serious business to him.

  It was impossible for Tinsley to avoid saying something. So he spoke while walking purposefully towards the cowshed.

  ‘Morning, Mr Clark; sorry I’m late.’

  ‘You’d better come over here. I want a word wi’ thi.’

  Clark’s gravelly voice was flat and menacing, one that brooked no argument. He looked at Tinsley with his craggy, expressionless face.

  ‘This is t’second time tha’s been late this week, and tha were off yesterday morning bringing that body up.’

  Tinsley was a member of the Cave Rescue and had been involved in the operation of the previous day.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sorry. I’ve been having few problems.’

  Clark frowned. He noticed Tinsley was walking with a bit of a limp.

  ‘What’s wrong wi’ thi leg?’

  ‘I twisted my ankle yesterday.’

  This did not produce a favourable response. It was a general agreement among employers in the dale that members of the Cave Rescue, like lifeboat men, could take time off work if they were called out. Clark, of course, didn’t think much of the arrangement. Scrooge-like, he begrudged anything which took up time for which he was paying, and part of his functional view of the countryside was a disdain bordering on contempt for activities like potholing. To Clark and farmers like him, those ‘bloody ’oles in t’ground’ were a nuisance mainly because an occasional hapless sheep was apt to stray too near the edge and plummet to its death, which was money lost. Idiots who climbed down to where it was dangerous, mostly a load of townies again, deserved all they got. He didn’t even bother to ask Tinsley about how he had found the experience of bringing the body of a local murder victim to the surface.

  ‘Tha should have more bloody sense. Anyway, tha’d better get on with thi work. Don’t be late again. Those beasts need looking after. I’ve got my eye on those milk yields and if they go down I’ll be on to thi.’

  After delivering this laconic warning, he turned away and strode back into the farmhouse.

  Stuart Tinsley hurried miserably on to the cows. Getting on the wrong side of his employer didn’t help. His life had been messy enough in recent times, but in the last two days it had become infinitely worse.

  He quickly opened the gate to each stall and cajoled the cows out of the shed. A house martin flew with terrific speed past his head and arced up to its neat little mud nest stuck to the wall. Normally he enjoyed the sight of such things but today he was too preoccupied and distressed.

  As he followed the lumbering animals along the track, splodgy with cow muck, down to the field, he thought again about the previous day and the trauma of bringing Atkins’s body to the surface. He’d never expected that. He felt a spasm of anger and he kicked the metal gate as he closed it behind the last of the cows to enter the field. It was really all that bastard’s fault anyway. He wished he’d never heard of the man. Tinsley was yet another person in Burnthwaite whose life had been affected by the activities of David Atkins; another person who was not sorry to see him dead, however disturbing the retrieval of the body had been.

  When Carter arrived for his second morning at West Riding Police HQ in Harrogate he was much less nervous than on the previous day and took more notice of his surroundings. It was a beautiful and unusual building for a police station. Constructed of brick in a curiously formal Queen Anne style, it was low-lying with two symmetrical wings at each end built at right angles to the main building. It looked more like a minor stately home than a police station and totally unlike the modern high rise, functional workplaces Carter was used to. The effect was completed by a set of ornamental gates, which opened up on to a small car park.

  Inside, security was very relaxed compared with the Met. He said hello again to the woman officer at reception and this time was able to complete his forms for an identity card. On his way to the CID section, he passed a group of uniformed officers starting their shift and filing in a relaxed manner into a room to receive their briefing.

  The day began with another meeting in Oldroyd’s office. As he entered, he saw that there was a young, smartly dressed woman who gave him what might be called a half smile. Oldroyd waved him over.

>   ‘Ah, Andy, this is Detective Sergeant Stephanie Johnson. Stephanie is the third part of our team. I’m sure you’ll find her an excellent colleague. Stephanie, Detective Sergeant Andrew Carter.’

  They shook hands and exchanged greetings.

  ‘Call me Andy,’ said Carter.

  ‘And I’m Steph. Welcome to Harrogate. You’re not from around here, are you?’ she asked in pleasant northern tones. She was dressed in linen trousers and had curly dark blonde hair.

  ‘No, London. I was in the Met.’

  ‘Ooo, the Met. That’s where they think all the real police work gets done, don’t they, sir?’

  ‘Now Steph, have you ever heard me say anything like that?’ Oldroyd teased. ‘Anyway, I’m going to leave you two together for a while as I’ve just been summoned to see the super. Fill her in on the Jingling Pot business, Andy, and we’ll meet up again at eleven.’

  He promptly left the room and there was a short, awkward silence. Carter felt as if he had been put well and truly on the spot. They sat down on the easy chairs and Carter shuffled his notes. He felt a little intimidated as she was obviously more experienced than him as a detective sergeant and was used to working with Oldroyd.

  ‘Er, I hear you’ve been on holiday?’

  She gave him another half smile. ‘Yes, we went to the south of France, to a water-sports centre.’

  ‘Great, did you have a good time?’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve been before. It’s always fantastic fun.’ Carter wanted to ask who ‘we’ were but thought that was too personal at this stage. He wasn’t sure what to say next.

  ‘So,’ Steph broke the silence. ‘You’d better bring me up to speed with the investigation.’

  Carter began a rather halting account of the previous day’s events. There was something about the situation that disrupted his normal fluency. He felt a certain uneasiness beneath the surface, as if she was trying too hard to be pleasant.