Malice On The Moors (6 page)

Powell remembered that Stumpy Macfarlane, the environmental activist with whom Dinsdale had a previous well-publicized confrontation, had been seen in the neighborhood around the time of Dinsdale's death. He mentioned this to Walker.

“I wouldn't know about that,” the landlord said stiffly. “Blokes like him should learn to mind their own business.”

A noncommittal grunt from Powell. Walker was obviously not a supporter of the Hunt Saboteurs Association. He took in his surroundings—the cozy snug to the left of the bar, the stone hearth and blackened oak beams, the walls done tastefully in dark green and hung with prints depicting Yorkshire's past cricketing glory. He took another sip of bitter. He had already decided that the Lion and Hippo would make an ideal base of operations. Centrally located and undoubtedly the hub of social life in the dale—not to mention a recommendation in the CAMRA
Good Beer Guide.
He inquired about a room.

Walker smiled thinly. “You can have your pick. The daffodil season in the spring and the summer months are our busy times,” he explained. “We don't get many visitors to the park this time of year, except for a few who come for the shooting, but, well, I don't expect there'll be any more shooting this year.”

Something suddenly occurred to Powell. “I'd better
book a room for my assistant, as well. She'll be joining me tomorrow.”

Walker shrugged. “The more the merrier.” He resumed polishing the bar. “Tell me, Chief Superintendent—that is, if you don't mind me asking—do the police think Dinsdale's death might not have been an accident?”

Powell eyed him speculatively. “Too early to tell, I expect.”

Walker shifted on his feet. “I mean, well, I shouldn't think they'd bring someone up all the way from London …” He left the rest unsaid.

Powell sighed. “That,” he said, “is a long story.” He climbed off his stool. “I'll get my things.”

As Powell was returning with his bag and gun case (which he'd brought along just in case), a woman came into the entrance hall from a room off to the right. From the computer and clutter of papers visible behind her, this room appeared to be the office. There was a framed picture of an older couple on the desk. “I'm Emma Walker,” she said, her tone pleasant but businesslike.

Powell introduced himself.

“Robert has told me all about you,” she volunteered.

Powell smiled. “Not everything, I hope, Mrs. Walker.”

“I've put you in Number Three. It's our best room. Second one on your left at the top of the stairs. Loo's at the end of the hall. I'll put your colleague in Number Two, next door to you.”

She was tall, attractive in an austere sort of way, with a certain preoccupied air that was hard to pin down. “We do pub grub next door and breakfast and dinner in the dining room,” she said.

“I'd like to spend the rest of the afternoon exploring
the dale. Could you do me some sandwiches to take along?”

“Of course. Would ham and cheese be all right?” Powell thanked her and started up the stairs.

He drove up past Dale End Farm and stopped to enjoy his lunch on a grassy bank beside the beck and watch the tiny yellow trout leaping in the spume. He returned by way of the East Daleside Road to the foot of Farnmoor Bank where he had started out that morning, thus completing his circle tour of Brackendale. When he got back to the Lion and Hippo, the pub was populated with about a dozen of its regular patrons, who eyed him suspiciously over their glasses. Whether this was traditional northern reserve or related to the fact that he was a policeman (which everyone in the village undoubtedly knew by now), Powell was unsure. He chatted with Walker about this and that, attempting to glean as much information as he could without appearing to be prying. He eventually managed to break the ice with a couple of the locals sitting beside him at the bar—one was the owner of the local garage and the other a retired farmer— and got an earful about Dickie Dinsdale. Several pints of best Yorkshire bitter and a traditional roast beef dinner later, Powell made his way up to his room and went to bed early. He dreamt that Merriman had him stuffed and mounted and put on display in the Millennium Dome as an early relic in Sir Henry's much vaunted Evolution of British Policing exhibit.

CHAPTER 4

Powell was not exactly looking forward to his meeting with the local police that morning. He knew that he would be regarded as an interloper, a trespasser on the local patch. And as he turned onto the Old Malton Road, he realized that in a curious way he regarded Detective-Sergeant Sarah Evans in much the same light. He located the police station without difficulty and pulled into the car park. She was waiting for him in a black Vauxhall. She got out of the car to greet him.

“Mr. Powell,” she said briskly.

“Evans,” Powell acknowledged. “Have a pleasant trip?”

“Yes, sir.”

It struck Powell for the first time, seeing her out of her natural habitat at the Yard, that she was quite attractive. Fairly tall with short blonde hair combed off her forehead, looking casual in a pair of jeans and an Arran jumper. Her expression, however, was formal. “What do you know about this business?” he asked, testing the waters.

She shrugged lightly. “Only what I was able to get from Bill Black, which wasn't much.”

“Didn't Merriman talk to you?”

“Merriman?” She seemed surprised. “No, sir, I …” She hesitated. “You didn't pick me for this job, did you?”

Powell looked at her. “No, Evans, I didn't.” Then he smiled. “Nor, I expect, would you pick me, if you had any say in the matter. But it looks like we're stuck with each other.”

“Yes, sir.” Chilly.

Powell sighed, turning towards the entrance of the police station. “Let's get it over with.”

Superintendent Cartwright of F Division of the North Yorkshire Police made it clear that he was not amused. From the outset, he insisted on referring to Powell as Cfa'e/Superintendent, the emphasis a pointed reference to the fact that the rank of chief superintendent had recently been abolished. Not the job, mind you, just the title. Now officers with the rank of superintendent have to apply for the positions previously held by chief superintendents, for which they get extra pay. So, in essence, the rank, duties, and salary of chief superintendent still existed, but the title did not. (Officers, like Powell, who held the rank kept the title.) A classic case of bureaucratic shuffling of the proverbial deck chairs.

Cartwright was a tall man with a thin, humorless face. He indicated that he was willing to cooperate up to a point but basically Powell and Evans were on their own. He ran through the coroner's findings. “A suspicious death, possibly caused by an adder's bite,” he concluded.

Powell looked skeptical. “Possibly? What's that supposed to mean?”

“You'd better talk to the pathologist about that,” Cartwright said tersely.

Powell noticed that Detective-Sergeant Evans was taking notes. Nothing like initiative. “What about Mac-farlane?” he asked.

“What about him?” Cartwright's manner was stiff.

“I understand that he was seen in the neighborhood around the critical time.”

“It's all in the file.”

“What do you have on him?” Powell persisted.

“Not enough to bring him in,” Cartwright admitted. “But he's involved in this, all right.”

“What's the name of the officer Macfarlane has brought charges against?”

“Inspector Braughton. He's in charge here.”

“I'd like to talk to him.”

“He's not involved in the present investigation, for obvious reasons.”

“I'd still like to talk to him.”

“If you insist.”

Cartwright's attitude was beginning to wear a bit thin. “What can you tell me about Dinsdale?” Powell asked.

“What do you want to know?”

Powell was a great one for verbal dueling, but he could hardly be bothered with somebody as predictable as the dull superintendent. “Get on with it, Cartwright,” he said wearily.

Cartwright looked at Powell, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. “He was one of the largest landholders in the Moors, a prominent businessman, and a Rotarian, I
might add. Very different than that scum, Macfarlane. Now, if there's nothing else, I really must be getting back to Northallerton.”

Powell had had about all he could take. “Just so we understand each other, Cartwright,” he said evenly, “I like this even less than you do. But if you have a problem, I suggest you talk to the chief constable about it.” He got to his feet.

Cartwright shrugged. “I do as I'm told, but we could have handled this one ourselves, no problem.” He paused for effect. “After all, we caught
our
Ripper; you're still looking for yours.”

“Touche,” Sarah Evans remarked, smiling for the first time as they made their way back to the public reception area.

“It's early innings yet,” Powell muttered.

Sergeant Evans got the distinct impression that her superior was the type to carry a grudge.

At the desk, Powell signed out the Dinsdale file and inquired about the whereabouts of Inspector Braughton.

“Day off today, sir,” the portly sergeant replied cheerily. “Back tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. I'll pop back then.”

“Very good, sir. Cheerio!”

Nothing like the civilized cliches to lubricate the social machinery, Powell thought as they walked out the door. He turned to Sarah Evans. “Why don't we meet in Pickering?” He opened the file folder and riffled through the contents. “I'd like to talk to the pathologist first. Let's see…Dr. Alan Harvey. Number Eleven, Birdgate Mews.”

“Right.”

“By the way,” Powell said, “I've booked you into the Lion and Hippo in Brackendale.”

“The Lion and Hippo?” she said doubtfully.

Powell smiled. “It's a long story. I'll give you the, er, bare bones over a drink later in the pub.”

“The pub.”

“Yes, Evans, the pub. Still the wellspring of local information in our increasingly complex and mobile society.”

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I see.”

Powell hopped into his Triumph. “Cheerio.”

Powell arrived in Pickering ahead of his colleague. He managed to find a parking spot in the marketplace, lit a cigarette, and waited. The blue dome of heaven above, the imposing Norman tower of the church overlooking the red-roofed houses, and Van the Man on the tape player. He was supposed to be on holiday, but it could be worse, he thought expansively. Despite his earlier reservations, his instincts told him that Sarah Evans was all right. And best of all, at the end of each day—however bright or dreary, bountiful or fruitless—a pint of best Yorkshire bitter awaited him at the Lion and Hippo. He bobbed his head to the beat and drummed on the steering wheel.
“I'm a working man in my prime, when I'm cleaning windows
—”

“Sir?” It was Sarah Evans.

“Er, hello, Evans,” he said, fumbling with the ignition switch. He scrambled out of the car.

She grinned. “I quite like Van Morrison, sir.”

He smiled sheepishly. “Yes, well, it must be nice to have talent.”

“I think the street we want is just back there,” she said, all businesslike again.

“Right.”

They soon located the tidy stone house in a narrow mews near the church. The door and the window trim were painted royal blue. On the side of the step, keeping guard over two empty milk bottles, sat an orange cat. A small brass plaque beside the door discreetly proclaimed
A.
s.
HARVEY, M.D.,
M.R.c.p.,
D.P.H.
Powell tapped on the door with the polished knocker. A riot of barking erupted in the house followed by the sound of animals hurtling themselves against the door and a raised voice vainly trying to restore order. “Quiet, you mangy lot, quiet!”

Powell and Detective-Sergeant Evans looked at each other. The cat blinked impassively. Eventually the barking stopped and the door opened to reveal a short, balding man with bushy white eyebrows. He held a squirming terrier in each arm and a pack of assorted retrievers and spaniels swarmed around his legs, whining excitedly with tongues lolling. “They haven't had their w-a-l-k today,” he explained, spelling the word so as not to incite another orgy of canine frenzy.

Powell introduced Sergeant Evans and himself, explained the purpose of their visit, and apologized for not calling ahead.

“That's quite all right. Please, come in.”

Fending off his dogs, Dr. Harvey ushered them down a hallway into a study at the back of the house that had a window looking out on the churchyard. He quickly closed the door behind him. Undeterred, the dogs began to run up and down the hall, slipping and sliding on the
hardwood floor. “My wife will be home soon,” he said hopefully.

There was a desk beneath the window and on the adjoining walls were tall shelves filled with books. Opposite, against the wall to the right of the door, was a small settee and coffee table. Dr. Harvey gestured towards the settee. “Please,” he said.

Powell and Sarah Evans sat down beside each other about as far apart as was physically possible without straddling the arms of the seat. Nonetheless, their legs almost touched.

Dr. Harvey pulled out the chair from his desk, swiveled it around, and sat down himself. “Now then,” he said, “what do you want to know?”

“I understand that you conducted the postmortem on Richard Dinsdale,” Powell began.

“Yes, an interesting one, that.”

“How so?”

“Well, to start with, we don't get many snakebites around these parts. And fatalities are even rarer.”

“You're referring to adders, I take it?”

“Right.
Vipera berus.
Quite common on the moors, I'm told, but it's a shy and retiring beast, rarely encountered by people. Dinsdale apparently was one of the unlucky ones.”

“He was definitely bitten, then?”

“Unquestionably. There were two puncture marks on the back of his right hand, as would be made by a snake's fangs. In addition, there were external indications of a reaction to the venom—localized inflammation around the puncture wounds, swelling, and so forth. And then of
course there was the proverbial smoking gun: one dead male adder found at the scene.”