Murder in the Afternoon (35 page)

Sykes drove to the edge of the moor. This was the place
Bob had spoken of in his cups, where he used to come with Ethan. He and Ethan had hiked this way every Sunday as lads, and had continued when the opportunity arose. The wind helped Sykes on his way, a light rain whipping the back of his neck. He hitched up the scarf Rosie had knitted for him and wound it tightly.

This was the place Harriet said her father and Uncle Bob sometimes brought them on a Sunday, the walk that Bob Conroy had described, as he cried into his beer last night.

By driving, Sykes had chopped off what he imagined may have been the early section of Conroy’s hike, but he was left wondering whether he had struck out from the right spot.

The path led through rough moorland. Sheep nibbled coarse grass. Trees grew sparsely. This part of the moor offered no protection from the elements. When the land dipped unexpectedly, it turned boggy. The stout boots, that had formed part of Sykes’s payment when he worked in security for the boot and shoe company, were soon caked in mud.

It was what a bookmaker would call long odds, but Harriet had supplied clues: walk upstream, cross a rickety bridge, pass the standing stones shaped like upturned mushrooms. Look for a copse and an abandoned bothy.

It had sounded simple, and no doubt would be if Harriet were doing the walking. Country children could read a landscape in a way that a townie never would. With no street signs, pubs or shops to guide him, Sykes felt like a landlubber crossing a choppy sea on a sledge.

After a good hour’s walking, he began to guess he had struck out in the wrong direction for the woods that Harriet had described as an enchanted forest. Where to now? Bob Conroy had boasted of the splendid views from high rocks.

In the dampness of the afternoon, and with the light mist, his field glasses were not much help. Not a solitary human could he see. There must be a hundred secret places, caverns, disused mines, where a man familiar with the landscape could hide.

In the distance, Sykes saw a clump of trees and, to his left, farm buildings.

Somewhere far off, a dog barked.

He veered off, to try the farm buildings that he could see on the horizon. A man out on such a night as last night would need shelter. Bob Conroy would know the farmers, but Sykes knew that the police would have set up their own search, drawing on reserves of manpower and local knowledge.

When he finally reached the farm, he half expected to have to supply difficult explanations. He searched a barn, full of farm machinery that looked like medieval torture instruments, and stacked with sacks of something that stunk; an empty cowshed; a stable where a horse cheered up at his approach and let him stroke its flanks. Defeated, he knocked on the door, asked for a glass of water, and whether his friend Bob Conroy had passed this way. The water was supplied with hospitable speed, but the question about Bob drew a blank.

Instinct kept him moving. Hadn’t Mrs Shackleton once said to him that if he were an animal, he would be a bloodhound? But a bloodhound would have tracked its prey by now.

He reached the edge of the wood, where bracken crunched underfoot. Part of him had given up even a shred of hope of finding Bob Conroy. Leave it to the proper police, the voice in his head mocked. You’ll be hard pressed to find your way back to the motor. The
movement he saw from the corner of his eye could have been a squirrel, or a crow, but then he glimpsed the figure, sitting on the low branch of a nearby tree, legs dangling, looking like an illustration from a children’s story: the green man, or an agile King Lear, all rags and dirt.

Bob’s face was smeared, his clothing torn. He looked down from the branch with a wild look that told Sykes the man did not remember him, did not recognise him. Bob dropped from the tree and, like a startled animal, ran.

‘Bob!’ Sykes called after him. ‘It’s me, your drinking pal! Wait!’

Bob Conroy ran. He had lost a shoe so surely couldn’t keep up much of a pace, but he twisted and turned through the trees so that now Sykes saw him, now he was gone. A twig cracked. A startled pheasant flapped its wings and came so close to Sykes’s face that Sykes held his hands in front of his eyes. When he opened them, there was no sign of Bob.

‘Bob!’ he called again. ‘Bob Conroy!’

And then he had a thought, and stopped still under a tree, his back to it, looking up at the branches.

Sykes pursed his lips. He repeated the whistle that Kate told him Harriet used when she reached the quarry last Saturday and wanted to let her father know that she was there.

He let out a single long trill, followed by a short one. Paused. Repeated the signal.

After several moments, he heard a sound close behind him. Sykes stood his ground, his back to the tree, and waited.

A hand appeared round the side of the tree and touched his arm. Only with great effort did Sykes stand still.

‘Is that you?’ the voice said.

Sykes did not answer. Slowly, Bob came round from the other side of the tree. His jacket bore scorch marks from the fire. He smelled of smoke and of bracken. ‘You feel real. Not a ghost.’

‘I’m no ghost.’

‘You take different forms, is that it? It’s you. You came to me in the fire. You warned me.’

‘Who did?’

‘You. Ethan. You’ve taken a different … I think … Have I lost my wits?’

He fell to the ground. On all fours, he scrabbled among the tree roots, pulling at a wild mushroom, digging his knuckles into the dirt. He shoved a mushroom in his mouth.

‘Don’t do that, man!’ Sykes said, helping him up from the ground, feeling the tremble of cold or fear that rushed through Conroy’s being.

‘I’m with you now. You’ll come to that farm. It’s not so far.’

‘No!’

‘You’ll be safe. It’s time to … find your shoe. Come with me.’

‘Are you … do you take different shapes now that you’re dead?’

‘Your mind is tired. I’ll take care of you now.’

‘Take me with you. Take me to … where is it we go? Across the river … what’s it called? Didn’t we say that once?’

‘Yes.’ Sykes took his arm. Either the man had run mad or was feigning madness, and if he feigned, then he should tread the boards. If he feigned, it may be because he had murdered a man and wanted to be regarded as mad, not bad.

Side by side they walked back through the wood. And what made Sykes believe Bob did not pretend was that he never winced whether his bare foot touched a stone, or a bramble. He walked like a lamb beside its mother.

‘Where are we going?’ Bob asked.

Trusting Bob’s madness did not extend to a loss of his sense of direction, Sykes asked, ‘How far are we off Otley?’

‘Otley?’ Bob repeated, as though the place were the far side of Tasmania.

‘Yes. That’s where we’ll find Mary Jane. She’s asking for you.’

The long Saturday afternoon stretched into evening. Harriet and Austin stayed outdoors, to play on the swing, Harriet said. But when I looked out, they were perched on the dry-stone wall by the Jowett, watching, waiting for their mother.

Eventually, I went across to them. ‘Why don’t you come inside? We can have a game. Do you have snakes and ladders, or a pack of cards?’

Reluctantly, they gave up their vigil, when I explained that their mother would not be back today, and that tomorrow they’d see their grandma.

Harriet dug out a set of draughts and set up the board on the table. ‘Austin can be on your side, Auntie Kate.’

Again, I had that feeling that she was the adult, obliging me, taking her responsibilities seriously. I had not told them that Mary Jane was at Applewick Hall. It was too close. They might ask to go there and fetch her home.

The room grew more gloomy as dusk gathered. Austin and I won a game. He liked kings, because they could move in any direction.

Harriet took a taper from the mantelpiece and lit the lamp.

Another hour passed before Sykes returned. He joined the game on Harriet’s side and in quick succession the pair of them took two of our kings for huffing.

Sykes supped a glass of dandelion wine and ate a slice of pork pie as we played one more game. He looked through the window. ‘Drawing in dark. I’m sorry to say I’ve put a bit of a scratch on your motor, Mrs Shackleton. You’d better come and take a look while we can still see.’

We went outside and carefully examined an old scratch. ‘I found Bob Conroy. I’ve taken him to Otley Courthouse. The chief inspector’s having a doctor to look at him and he could be sent to hospital. He’s in a state of shock and confusion, with burns to his hands and arms.’

A chill wind made me shiver. The setting sun gave the sky an orange glow.

‘What does Conroy have to say for himself?’

‘Nothing, that makes sense, not to me at any rate. The chief inspector may get something out of him.’

‘How is he?’

‘Raving. Incoherent. He said that he realises now there never was a lost lamb. That Ethan was right. His brother was murdered. I tried to calm him down.’

‘Is there any news of Millie?’

A pair of wood pigeons came to rest on a nearby tree.

‘No. Let’s hope someone has taken her in and that she’ll be found soon.’

He was holding something back. ‘Spit it out, Mr Sykes. What else did Bob Conroy say?’

Sykes stared at his muddy boots. He rubbed the side of his sole against a tuft of grass. ‘Nothing of consequence. What persuaded him to come along quietly, come to
Otley station with me, was when I said he would see Mary Jane.’

I knew what he was not saying: that Bob Conroy and Mary Jane conspired over Ethan’s death. Sykes was no longer looking at me, but staring at the scratch on the car.

I turned back and looked at the cottage window. The scratch on the car story had not fooled Harriet and Austin. They peered out, reading our moves. We would have to go back inside. Before we did, I said, ‘I don’t know whether Conroy is guilty of murder or not. What I hate is that he makes it appear that Mary Jane wanted rid of Ethan and she didn’t. If treacherous Conroy ever does cough up for a decorative window for the church, it should feature a full-length Judas. Mary Jane’s fond of Bob Conroy, that’s all.’

Was it all? I didn’t know. If anyone else were doing as I did now, trying to be convincing, I should think they had a weak case.

‘What do you want me to do, Mrs Shackleton? Shall I go on looking for the little girl?’

‘I’ll go inside and ask the children. Perhaps they may know Millie’s hiding places.’

Harriet and Austin were back at the table, pretending interest in another game of draughts.

‘Mr Sykes says that your uncle Bob is being looked after by a doctor. He’s going to be all right. But do you know where Millie may have gone? We’re worried about her.’

‘Run away,’ Austin said. He leaned on the draughts board, knocking a couple of pieces to the floor.

‘Where might she have gone?’

Neither answered.

‘Did she say where she came from?’

Harriet picked up the draughts pieces. ‘From that place
you said, that I measured.’ She set the pieces back on the board.

‘From Blackburn?’

‘No, the other place. Clitheroe.’

‘You make a start on the game. I’ll be back in a minute.’

Outside, I told Sykes what the children had said.

‘I’ll pass it on to the chief inspector shall I, Mrs Shackleton? He can have a call put through. But I don’t see the child will have found her way back there. And surely Mrs Conroy will have already told them all they need to know.’

A streak of red in the sky promised a fine day in the morning.

‘How about you go over there tomorrow, Mr Sykes? I know it seems unlikely, but perhaps Miss Trimble didn’t die because she claimed to have seen Mary Jane by the quarry. Perhaps she died because of some connection with Clitheroe.’

Sykes waited, his long-suffering what’s-she-up-to-now look asking for more information.

‘Miss Trimble’s cousin Clara is married to the verger at Clitheroe Parish Church. Mrs Percival Watmough.’

‘Why would I contact her?’ Sykes sighed. ‘That’ll be a great assignment. Sorry to burst in on your trouble, but my boss thinks your cousin Aurora Trimble was poisoned, and it could have been because of something you said. And there’s a girl with some sort of Lancashire accent who’s gone missing.’

‘I’m sure you’ll handle it beautifully. If you look in the folder on my dining room table, you’ll find photographs. There’s one of Millie.’

‘All right. I’ll see what I can do, but it will be Millie I’m searching for. I can’t go around claiming a woman was
poisoned when we’ve no evidence, and the police aren’t investigating that.’

‘We don’t know what they’re investigating. Marcus tells me what he thinks it’s helpful for me to know.’

Sykes nodded, but with no great enthusiasm. ‘All right. I’ll go tomorrow.’

‘How will you get there?’

‘I’ve a pal with a motorbike.’

‘Don’t tell me, he owes you a favour.’

Sykes laughed. ‘How did you guess?’

When he had gone, and I went back inside, Harriet said, ‘We usually have a bath on Friday and last night we didn’t.’