The Nidderdale Murders (A Yorkshire Murder Mystery) Page 8

  Jenny Davis stood in the cramped kitchen of the small cottage down a back lane in Niddersgill which she and her husband Ian rented. Their two young children were playing in the living room. She had to go in periodically to deal with squabbles, but right now she had a rare moment of peace.

  She washed and dried her hands, pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and poured herself a glass of wine. If Ian could go to the pub, she could have a drink at home. On days when he wasn’t out on the moors he came home for his lunch. Unfortunately, he usually called in at the pub first.

  She heard the door and he came in. He swayed and bumped into the door frame.

  ‘What’s wrong with you? Are you pissed again?’

  ‘No, course not. They haven’t made a drink strong enough to get me drunk, love.’ He grinned at her inanely and then stumbled into the table, knocking her wine glass over.

  ‘You clumsy drunk! Just watch it!’ she shouted.

  ‘Hey, don’t shout, love, you’ll upset the kids; they’ll think we’re having an argument.’

  ‘Well, we are, you slob, you’re drinking our money away.’

  ‘I’m not, love, it’s just a few pints with the lads in the bar, you know, come here.’ He caught hold of her and his mouth slobbered over hers.

  ‘Get off me. I don’t want your beery breath in my face!’

  He sat down, still grinning at her. ‘I’ll bet you’ve made a cracking dinner. I want you to know how much I appreciate it.’

  She looked at him and shook her head. She couldn’t be angry with him for long. She hit him over the head with a tea towel. ‘Well, it’s a good job. I didn’t marry you to be a 1950s housewife, slaving away over a hot stove while you drink in the pub.’

  ‘I know, love, I know. You need to get a job as soon as you can when those two are a bit bigger, but in the meantime don’t worry about money.’

  She poured herself another glass of wine. She’d been brought up in Harrogate and trained as a nurse. She’d hadn’t minded coming out here when she married Ian – she liked the countryside – but the job opportunities were limited.

  ‘Why not? We’re always a bit short on the stingy wages he paid you.’

  ‘That’s the point though: the bugger’s gone, good riddance.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll get a better deal from the next gaffer.’

  Jenny looked at him, a little shocked. ‘You shouldn’t talk like that about someone who’s been killed, Ian.’

  ‘Why not? Stingy, moaning bastard.’

  ‘Shush! The kids will hear you.’

  ‘Well, he made my life a misery – never satisfied with anything. He deserved it.’

  ‘Ian! That’s horrible! And anyway, what makes you think you’ll get more pay from whoever takes over?’

  ‘It can’t be much worse, can it? We’re better off with him out of the way. Look, is dinner ready? I’ll set the table and get the kids to wash their hands.’

  ‘OK. Five minutes.’ She took a drink of her wine. His attitude to the murder of Sandy Fraser had unsettled her. Maybe it was because he was a bit drunk, but that callous reaction was not like him. For a dark moment she found herself thinking back to Friday night. Ian had got back from the bar at the Dog and Gun by about ten thirty and they had gone to bed. Surely he hadn’t got up and gone out to . . . ? No, she would have heard him. She was a light sleeper. She always heard him if he got up in the night. Jenny took another sip of wine. No, she was being silly; Ian would never do anything like that. Nevertheless, she found herself thinking that she would be very happy when the police found Alan Green, or whoever it was that had killed Sandy Fraser.

  Shortly after Steph left her caravan, Liz Smith made a call on her battered old mobile.

  ‘The police have been round . . . Yeah I knew this would happen, bloody police . . . I didn’t tell them any more than I had to . . . Oh, they always side with the Establishment . . . I told that policewoman that . . . Yeah, I did . . . Anyway, bugger alibis, they can’t pin anything on us, but I’ll bet they’d like to . . . No, I agree . . . Yep . . . Bye.’

  Liz smiled as the call ended. She was engaged in a war, a war that had been raging ever since she’d become involved with the fight to protect animals when she was a teenager. She’d learned early on that the people whom she was struggling against – hunters, shooters, factory farmers – were not going to change their views by persuasion. It was going to take force; hence she’d begun her campaign of disruption of hunts and shoots, and daubing graffiti on the walls and gates of chicken farms.

  She went over to a small wardrobe. The doors were covered in posters showing gruesome scenes of animals being killed or confined in tiny pens. She reached up and took down a scrapbook from the top of the wardrobe. She kept a record of her exploits: newspaper cuttings, photographs of the groups she worked with. She took pride in the fact that she’d been arrested several times and even served a short prison sentence. This was her life now and she was devoted to this noble cause. She’d left home as a teenager and gone to join a group in London. She had no contact with her family any more.

  Liz turned the pages of yellowing cuttings and blurry photographs. Some people would say she was a fanatic, an extremist. She didn’t care. She felt her life had a purpose beyond the empty conformist tedium of a conventional existence: a job, a car, and a house in the suburbs.

  When you were involved in a war, there were going to be casualties. She hadn’t been entirely honest with that young detective when she’d said that people were also animals, and that she would never be violent towards them.

  If people were torturing and killing animals, you had a duty to defend the animals. She had been involved in protests where people had been assaulted.

  Liz reached the end of her record, a blank page in the scrapbook. She would have to put in something about recent events. After all, it was something to celebrate that a major enemy of innocent birdlife was now dead.

  Ian Davis had finished lunch and was having a quick nap on the sofa before returning to work, when there was a knock on the front door. Jenny went to the door, which led straight into their living room, and opened it to reveal a man and a woman she didn’t recognise.

  ‘Is this the home of Ian Davis?’ asked Oldroyd. ‘We’re police officers investigating the murder of Alexander Fraser.’ He and Steph showed their identification.

  Jenny felt faint with the shock; it was as if her worst nightmare was coming true. Had her husband really been involved in this murder?

  ‘Yes,’ she tried to say, but no noise came out of her mouth. ‘Come in.’

  ‘Are you OK?’ asked Steph, concerned at Jenny’s white face and shocked expression. ‘It’s just routine questioning of anyone who knew Mr Fraser.’

  ‘Come in,’ Jenny repeated, feeling some relief. ‘Come on upstairs, you kids. Ian!’ She put the Lego and the wooden train track into a box and ushered the children upstairs, much to their dismay.

  Davis woke up when Jenny shouted at him, and was startled by the presence of the detectives whom he recognised from the inn. However, he soon composed himself. He’d sobered up and had been expecting this. He remained seated on the sofa during their introductions.

  ‘We need to ask you some questions about the murder of Mr Fraser,’ said Oldroyd. He and Steph sat on chairs; the floor and most of the surfaces were covered in odd bits of toys, jigsaw puzzles, crayons, pencils and half-finished drawings.

  ‘Fire away,’ replied Davis, yawning.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ continued Oldroyd. ‘You worked as a gamekeeper for Mr Fraser and you didn’t have a very good relationship with him. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes. It’s no secret that he and I didn’t see eye to eye. He was very demanding; nothing was ever good enough. He was always picking me up over summat. It gets on yer nerves after a bit. And he was a tight git as well. He never paid me what I deserved for doing that job. It’s hard work, out in all weathers up on t’moors. Of course he knew nowt about what’s involved, just expected everyth
ing to be in order when he wanted it to be.’

  ‘So, did you feel bad enough to want to harm him?’ Oldroyd understood the resentment of the skilled worker instructed by an ignorant boss.

  ‘To be honest, yes. There was many a time I felt like ramming his shotgun down his throat. Like on Friday. He was carping on to me all day: the beaters were too slow, I should’ve stopped them sabs from making a nuisance, on and on. And all this were in front of everybody. I could have smashed him in the face, but’ – he paused and looked at the detectives – ‘I didn’t and I didn’t shoot him later that day, either.’

  ‘You mentioned the sabs. Were you there when one of them died in a confrontation a few years ago?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t see much. That bloke had a heart condition, didn’t he? I don’t have much time for those sabs, and I don’t think you can blame Fraser for that, though he did go at him in a bloody rage.’

  ‘OK. You were in the bar at the Dog and Gun on Friday night, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, there were four of us: me, Peter Gorton, Alan Green and Wilf Bramley.’

  ‘And you saw Mr Fraser?’

  ‘We did. Him and his shooting-party mates were gathered there all dressed up for their posh dinner. Fraser always puts on this Highland dress crap, kilt and everything – makes a right idiot of himself. We could hardly stop ourselves laughing.’

  ‘So I presume they all went into that private dining area to eat?’

  ‘They did, and we stayed in t’bar. We were glad to get rid of ’em.’

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘Not long after half ten. I walked straight back here, and Jenny and me went to bed about eleven.’

  ‘Did you see anything or anybody when you left the inn?’

  ‘No. It was quiet.’

  ‘Did Alan Green leave at the same time?’

  ‘No. Wilf did, but Alan and Peter were still there when I left.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve heard that Alan Green has been identified by a witness as the murderer and he’s gone missing?’

  Davis shook his head. ‘Yeah, but I can’t believe it. Alan was just an ordinary bloke, did some gardening and stuff. I heard him say he wasn’t fond of Fraser. He’d done some jobs for him and Fraser took a long time to pay him, but I can’t believe he would have killed him over that. There must have been a mistake.’

  ‘How long have you known Alan Green?’

  ‘Since he came here a few years ago. I can’t remember just how long he’s been around now, but he’s a good bloke, fits in well; likes a drink and a natter in t’bar.’

  ‘Do you know where he lived?’

  ‘Pateley, wasn’t it? I don’t know. He didn’t live in t’village.’

  Oldroyd looked at the young man on the sofa. He seemed like a normal rural worker struggling to support his family. He was an unlikely suspect, even if he didn’t get on with Fraser.

  ‘What will you do now that your boss is dead?’

  ‘Me? Carry on where I am, I hope. I was just saying to Jenny, t’next owner o’ t’moor can’t be as bad as Fraser, so I’m hoping things will improve.’

  ‘So you admit you had a reason to want Mr Fraser out of the way?’

  Davis realised he’d fallen into a trap and scowled. ‘OK, yes, I’ve already said as much, but I didn’t shoot him.’

  ‘Do you possess a shotgun?’

  ‘Yes. It’s locked up in a cupboard upstairs and all the paperwork is in order.’

  ‘We’ll have to take that away to be checked.’

  Davis went upstairs to get the shotgun and, when he returned, Oldroyd thanked Davis for his time before he and Steph left.

  Outside, he turned to her. ‘You head off back to the inn, take the gun. It needs to go to forensics to see if it’s the kind of gun that was used. They don’t get much information from shotguns though. I’m just going to pay a quick visit to that artist Dexter told us about.’

  ‘OK, sir.’ Steph began to walk across the green, looking a little menacing with the shotgun, to join Andy and Potts, who were looking at statements and conducting further searches in and around the inn. So far, nothing further of interest had turned up.

  Miriam Fraser looked out of the narrow, mullioned windows of the manor house at the garden and the fells beyond, which were illuminated by sunshine. It was a beautiful view that had been one of the factors in persuading them to buy the house several years ago, but now it was unable to stimulate any joy in her. Everything felt flat. The house was quiet and seemed empty, cold and oppressive. The phone rang. It was her daughter Henrietta.

  ‘Yes, darling, I’m fine . . . well, as good as I can be . . . Yes, I’m looking forward to you coming tomorrow . . . That’s wonderful . . . Any idea what time you’ll be here? No, don’t bring anything, just yourself . . . I know . . . OK, then . . .’

  She chatted for a while longer, but when she put the phone down everything was quiet.

  Henrietta would be here soon to help her arrange the funeral. She would be around for a while. Her son would also come to stay later, but then he would go and she would be by herself again.

  She couldn’t tell her daughter what she really felt: that she was frightened of the future. Would she end up a lonely, isolated old woman in this house? Everything had been fine when she and Sandy had moved here, away from all the people they knew in the city, because they had each other, but without him things were going to be very different.

  Why hadn’t she foreseen this? Maybe she should move, but where to? She couldn’t go too near her children; who knew when they might move and leave her by herself again? But it would be so much easier to be near one of them.

  Miriam was also worried about money. What she’d told the police was true: Sandy had controlled all their personal finances and always told her not to worry. But she had the impression that there were problems. She knew he’d sometimes not paid his bills promptly, and he was always very anxious to arrange as many of those shoots as possible, as if he really needed the money. What if he’d incurred debts that he hadn’t told her about? She might have to sell the house to pay them off, and then where would she end up?

  Getting agitated, she went into the kitchen to make herself some tea and to distract herself from painful thoughts. She took the drink back into the sitting room. Clouds had moved across the sky, blotting out the sunlight. She shuddered in a moment of loneliness and gloom.

  Theirs had been a traditional marriage: she had given up her job as a legal secretary and followed her husband’s career. Sandy had organised everything and her role had been to look after the children and support him. Now she felt anger at how ignorant he’d kept her about so many practical aspects of their life. It made her feel weak and helpless.

  She would feel better when her daughter arrived, but she was still frightened about what they might find when they looked into Sandy’s affairs.

  She looked at a photograph on the mahogany table, of Sandy in his Highland dress. What had he been up to? Why had someone wanted to kill him?

  The guests at the Dog and Gun were getting restless. They were confined to their rooms and the dining areas and short walks near the hotel until Oldroyd decided that the police had acquired sufficient information and the guests could be released. He was expected to give this permission by the end of the day.

  Meanwhile, Henry Saunders and James Symons were in Symons’s room, passing the time by playing chess. They had acquired a set from the lounge. Saunders was very disgruntled and agitated.

  ‘I hope we can get away from here soon. I mean, we’re all very sad and shocked about Sandy’s death and so on, but some of us have work to do and I have to get back to London. I have important meetings tomorrow and the phone reception here’s rubbish, so I can’t contact anyone. I’ll have to ask to use the landline.’

  ‘Check,’ replied Symons, removing one of Saunders’s knights.

  ‘Blast!’

  ‘Calm down, old boy, you’re not concentrating. There’s nothing you ca
n do about it. We’ve just got to sit it out. It won’t be long now; they’ve got no reason to detain us any longer.’

  ‘No, but you never know with the police. They’re always checking and double-checking and asking you to go over things again.’

  ‘That’s how they work, grinding away at the same material looking for a lead, especially in a case like this. But they don’t always get there.’ Symons smiled.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Saunders.

  ‘The public have watched too many crime dramas and read too many crime novels in which the police always catch the culprit. In fact, there are lots of murders that are never solved. It’s a myth that justice will always be done in the end. There might not be such a thing as the “perfect murder”, whatever that means, but the police can’t always find the solution and catch who was responsible.’

  ‘I think we probably persuaded them that Rawnsley didn’t do it. Where is he, by the way?’

  ‘Sulking in his room I think. I haven’t seen the silly man since breakfast,’ replied Symons, while concentrating hard on the chess game.

  ‘They seem to think this Green character is responsible,’ said Saunders, still considering his next move. ‘Apparently that girl behind the bar saw him do it. It’s a bit weird, but it does look suspicious the way he’s disappeared.’ He decided to move a bishop to clear a path for one of his rooks.

  ‘Possibly. But I still fancy it was one of those “sab” people or whatever they call themselves – capable of anything, in my opinion. I told the police what I thought about them. By the way,’ Symons continued, changing the subject as he moved his queen into a threatening position, ‘what do you think will happen to the grouse moor now that Sandy’s gone?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I can’t think that Miriam will want to keep it. Oh! I’d forgotten about poor Miriam. I really ought to look in and pay my respects before I head off. Blast! That’s going to keep me here for longer.’

  ‘I thought I might put an offer in if it comes up for sale.’