Malice On The Moors (10 page)

“Right.”

“How did you make out in Helmsley, by the way?”

“I spoke to one of the National Park ecologists,” she said eagerly. “She gave me bags of literature about adders, if you'd care to read…”

“I'm afraid I'm not one for bedtime reading. Why don't you distill it for me?”

Sarah summarized what she had learned about the natural history of adders, the only poisonous snake indigenous to the British Isles. Growing to a length of about two feet, adders are fairly common in the North York Moors Park, but, due to a secretive nature, they are rarely seen by the casual observer. As Dr. Harvey had indicated, their bite is not usually serious, although fatalities have been known to occur in cases where the victim experienced a severe allergic reaction or suffered from a heart condition. Adders tend to live a solitary life in the spring and summer but congregate in the autumn in abandoned animal dens and the like where they come together in a writhing mass—Sarah was unable to suppress a shudder at this point—primarily to retain heat during the winter months, it's thought, but possibly also for reproductive reasons. “A sort of snake sex orgy,” she commented.

Powell smiled. “Fascinating. I wonder how they'd sort each other out.”

She ignored him and continued. “Interestingly, adders
are also known to frequent cavities in drystone walls at this time of year.”

This caught Powell's attention. “What about shooting butts?”

She shrugged. “I don't see why not.”

“I wonder how difficult it would be to capture one?” Powell mused.

“I asked her about that. She said she once caught one using a butterfly net.”

“Do you like Indian food, by the way?” he asked casually.

“Pardon?” She looked slightly bewildered.

He looked at her. “You know, curry.”

“I love curry, but what does that have to do with… ?”

“I've prevailed upon our landlord to let me take over the kitchen later this evening. I thought I'd, er, make us dinner. I mean, if it's not too late …”

She smiled mischievously, amused by her superior's awkwardness. “I don't mind waiting, if it's worth waiting for.”

Powell signaled to Robert Walker for another round. “On the surface of it,” he said after he'd returned to their table with another pint of Tetley's for himself and a shandy for her, “the whole thing seems plausible enough—yet somehow it just doesn't
feel
right.”

An interesting choice of words, Sarah thought. “I know exactly what you mean,” she agreed. “Too neat and tidy.” She sipped her drink and considered her superior with renewed interest. Forty-something, she guessed, and handsome in a reserved sort of way. She had known him previously only by reputation; amongst the Met
rank and file, he had street cred, which counted for something. Although she had bumped into him a few times at the Yard, he'd barely acknowledged her. He didn't give the impression of being a snob, exactly—preoccupied might be a better word for it. During their short time working together, however, she'd found him to be an agreeable, if slightly self-conscious companion. And best of all, he'd given her free rein to follow her nose.

“I talked to Dr. Harvey again this afternoon,” Powell was saying. “A severe asthma attack could conceivably lead to death within thirty minutes. But despite the fact that Dinsdale had one of those puffer things on him, there was no trace of the drug in his system.”

She frowned slightly. “But even if he didn't have an actual attack, his asthma might have made him more sensitive to the snake's venom, right?”

He nodded. “Right.” His eyes tripped lightly over her. She was twenty years younger than he was and pleasant to look at. Keen, ambitious, and, from what he'd seen of her so far, highly capable. “Who's next on our contact list? “he asked.

“How about I do the ex-head keeper, Harry Settle?”

Powell nodded. “And I think I'll have a little chat with Inspector Braughton.”

“You don't think there's anything to Stumpy's charge of police brutality, do you?”

Powell shrugged. “It happens.”

She tossed him a strange look. “In my experience, people who break the law tend to be the authors of their own misfortune.”

“Perhaps. But, in
my
experience, it's generally best to
leave matters of retribution to the courts, God, or the wheel of karma—take your pick.”

She colored. “Of course, sir, I didn't mean …” She trailed off lamely.

Powell smiled to put her at ease. “I'll try to get to the bottom of it when I talk to Braughton. I need to know where we stand when I eventually talk to old Stumpy.” He emptied his glass with a prodigious gulp. “Now, then, it's time to start dinner. Roll up your sleeves, woman.”

She looked wary. “I thought you were making
me
dinner.”

He laughed. “Nonsense! It's never any fun just watching. You're going to have a hands-on experience, as they say. Now drink up.”

Powell bustled purposefully about the spacious kitchen of the Lion and Hippo. “Right, we're almost ready,” he said cheerily. “Chop the garlic and ginger as finely as you can.”

A mock salute from Sergeant Evans. “Aye, aye, sir!”

“It's bloody marvelous being able to work in a kitchen like this,” he added as an aside, surveying the gleaming gas cooker and the assortment of copper saucepans hanging from the old beams.

“Here you are,” said Sarah. “One tablespoon fresh garlic, two tablespoons ginger root, finely chopped.”

“Now, I want you to pay close attention; I'm only going to do this once.” He gestured towards a cast-iron pot sitting on the flaming cooker. “I'm heating a quarter cup of cooking oil on high heat. By rights, I should be using a
karai,
which is a sort of Indian wok, but any heavy
pot will do. Before we get started, I'll run through the ingredients.”

These were arrayed on a large butcher's block beside the range. He pointed to each item in turn: “Garlic and ginger; one pound of fresh leg of lamb, cut into one-inch cubes; one medium onion, sliced; a green bell pepper, chopped into one-inch pieces; a small tomato, coarsely chopped; half a cup of canned crushed tomatoes; half a teaspoon of ground red chilies, more if you like—”

“I like it hot,” she interjected.

He raised an eyebrow. 'All right, one teaspoon of chili powder. A teaspoon of paprika and half a teaspoon or so of salt.”

Sarah had produced her notebook and was scribbling madly.

“Before I begin, I should point out that the
karai
style of cooking originated in northwest Pakistan and—”

“Could you get on with it?” Sarah prompted. “I'm bloody famished.”

“Right. We start off with our garlic and ginger—” a loud sizzle as the ingredients hit the hot oil “—and stir-fry for about thirty seconds. Now we add everything else except the green pepper and fresh tomato. The trick is to keep stirring and shaking the pot like this so that nothing will stick.” A rhythmic clattering as Powell worked both hands. “This should take about twenty minutes. I'll add the green pepper and fresh tomato near the end.” An intoxicating aroma began to fill the kitchen. Bloody marvelous, Sarah thought. He cooks, too…

While Powell presided over the
karai
lamb, Sarah busied herself with the rice.

“Voila!”
Powell announced, setting the fragrant pot on a small table set in the corner of the kitchen.

Sarah nearly muscled him aside, trying to get her nose over the pot. She sniffed ecstatically. Tender morsels of lamb glazed with spices and tomato amidst a garnish of green pepper.

“You won't be served until you sit down,” Powell said sternly.

She didn't argue.

Half an hour later, Sarah stuck out her tongue and began to fan it with her hand. Then she leaned back and sighed contentedly. “Can we do that again some time?” she asked.

“I always like to smoke afterward,” he said, feeling for his cigarettes.

She smiled tolerantly. “Where did you learn to cook like that?”

“From a master. Do you know the K2 Tandoori in Charlotte Street?”

She shook her head.

“The proprietor, Rashid Jamal, is an old friend of mine. The K2 is a fertile oasis in my otherwise arid existence.”

She smiled and took a sip of her lager. “You don't seem like the arid type to me.”

“You'd be surprised.”

“I'd like to try it some time.”

“Hmm?” He exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“The K2.”

“I'll take you there for lunch when we get back.”

“I'd like that. My older brother and his mates used to occasionally drag me along on their university pub crawls.

We always ended up in some curry house about three in the morning.”

“You'll make some lager lout a fine wife,” Powell observed dryly.

“Not a chance. I'm going to be commissioner some day,” Sarah asserted, only half jokingly.

Powell grimaced as he pushed himself away from the table. “I can see that you need to be taught some humility. I'll wash, you dry.”

The next day dawned dreary and wet. Brackendale was shrouded in low clouds that obscured the high tops, creating an oppressive, slightly claustrophobic atmosphere. Powell was more than happy to escape to Malton to see Inspector Braughton and leave Sarah Evans behind to pursue the locals. He had called the previous afternoon to set up an appointment with Braughton, who had not exactly been enthusiastic about the prospect of a meeting. Powell was certain, however, that the local inspector would be able to provide some useful information.

As he pulled off the A169 onto the Old Malton Road, the drizzle turned into a downpour, drumming a fierce tattoo on the roadster's convertible top. Rather alarmingly, water had begun to drip onto the passenger seat. A few minutes later, he pulled into the car park at the police station and parked as close to the entrance as he could. He removed the ashtray from the dash, opened his door a crack and dumped the contents outside. Filthy habit, he thought. He carefully placed the ashtray on the seat beside him to catch the drips. Then he bailed out of the car and made a run for it.

An hour later, Powell was still sitting in Inspector Braughton's office.

“After Dinsdale hit him, then what?” he asked in an even voice.

Braughton hesitated. “I cautioned Macfarlane and was about to take him into custody when Dickie—I mean Mr. Dinsdale—pointed his shotgun at the lad—” he swallowed “—then he pulled the trigger.”

Powell stared at Braughton in disbelief. “He did
what!”

“The gun w-was unloaded, of course,” Braughton stammered, as if this excused everything. “Look, I know it doesn't look good. If I had it to do over again, I'd have done something about it, but it's water under the bridge now, isn't it?”

“Christ Almighty, Braughton. Leaving aside your duty as a policeman for a moment, didn't it occur to you that Stumpy would crucify you in the media over this? And who could blame him?”

Braughton said nothing.

“And bad press is the least of your worries. I hear you've also been charged with assault.”

“It'll be my word against Macfarlane's, won't it?”

“You'll be testifying under oath,” Powell reminded him.

Braughton averted his eyes. “When we arrived on the scene, an unlawful protest was in progress,” he said in a practiced monotone. “Emotions were running high and there may well have been some rough stuff before we were able to intervene and restore order. It's as simple as that.” He ran his hand over the top of his balding head in a nervous gesture and seemed slightly surprised to find little but skin.

“Who tipped you off to Stumpy's plans?”

“Mr. Dinsdale.”

Powell's expression evinced surprise.

“A few days before the Twelfth,” Braughton explained, “he called to say that he had reason to believe that Macfarlane was planning to disrupt the shoot. After the trouble on Ilkey Moor last year, we took the threat seriously. We arranged to wait at the Hall while the shoot was in progress, then move in when we got the call from one of the gamekeepers.”

“Mick Curtis?”

Braughton nodded.

“Did Dinsdale provide any evidence to support his claim that he'd been targeted by Stumpy?”

“Evidence? He turned out to be bloody right, didn't he?” Braughton said indignantly.

“Let's cut to the chase, shall we, Braughton? I understand that Stumpy was seen in the neighborhood around the time of Dinsdale's death. I get the impression that Superintendent Cartwright suspects foul play and considers Stumpy the prime suspect.”

Braughton looked uncomfortable. “Macfarlane was stopped the day before by a constable in a routine check on Blackamoor Rigg Road, literally in sight of the Hall.”

“A routine check,” Powell repeated, a skeptical note in his voice.

“Aye, as it so happens.”

“Go on.”

“When the constable checked his driver's licence and realized who it was, he asked him what he was doing in the vicinity of Blackamoor Hall.” He paused before delivering the punch line. “Sightseeing was what he said.”

“Where does he live?”

“York. He's a student at the university.”

“I'll need his address. By the way, has anyone talked to him since Dinsdale's death?”

Braughton nodded sourly. “He's got an alibi of sorts. His girlfriend claims he was with her. Chloe Aldershot, her name is. Another bloody student. She's one of the protesters charged along with Macfarlane, so I'd take her word with a grain of salt. Daughter of Lord Aider-shot and a flaming anarchist, that one.”

Powell frowned. “I'll need her address and telephone number, as well.” There was something gnawing away at the back of his brain, but he couldn't quite grab a hold of it. “Did you know Dinsdale, on a personal basis, I mean?”

Braughton shrugged. “I met him on a few occasions through his stepmother. Mrs. Dinsdale and I are both members of the local horticultural society. We share a passion for orchids.”

“What was your impression of him?”

Braughton seemed to consider the question carefully before replying. “He had an abrasive nature, you'd have to say. Bit of a know-it-all. He gave the impression that he enjoyed the trappings of wealth—the shooting and so on—but didn't like to get his hands dirty.”