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Authors: Marjorie Eccles

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Echoes of Silence
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Richmond felt himself in a time warp as he wandered around the tiny premises. Stone built, with sash windows. Two up, two down, kitchen and living-room below and the small second bedroom over the stairs made into a bathroom, it had been untouched since being furnished just after the war. A beige-tiled fireplace adorned with a row of relentlessly burnished brass ornaments, a three-piece suite in rust-coloured uncut moquette with crocheted chair-backs, and a highly polished square oak dining-table with four chairs round it and a matching sideboard. The only modern additions were a gas fire and a television set of overwhelming dimensions.
The house made him feel like Gulliver in Lilliput. If he stood in the centre of the kitchen and stretched his arms out he could touch all four walls. You had to skirt the dining-table to get to the fire. He knew if he stayed much longer it would begin to give him the screaming habdabs but for the moment it would have to do. He'd thought his only problem would be keeping up the formidable standards of cleanliness – even the forty-odd-year-old gas cooker shone like new – but the problem was solved by Mrs Greenwood announcing that if he wanted her to she'd pop in every day and keep an eye on the place, as she'd been doing for her brother ever since his wife had died twelve years ago. Richmond didn't relish what he suspected could be an invasion of his privacy but he didn't doubt that his new landlady believed no man capable of doing anything other than bring in the coal and help with the washing up.
‘She's a good lass, Molly,' Charlie said. ‘Providing you don't tell her owt you don't want everybody in the northern union to know. Keeping her mouth shut's never been her strong point.'
 
 
Wyn Austwick made the preparations that were now habitual to her before going away. She'd always liked to see things nice and tidy, but when you owned your own place, such things became
specially important. She looked round with a sense of pride and achievement. This cosy little bungalow in Cresswell Close was the best place she'd ever lived in. She might even, if things went as she planned and hoped, settle here permanently. She'd had enough of moving around, living in rented rooms, and relished being comfortably alone, with her own things round her, and having only herself to please. There might be something to look forward to in the future, after all. For an instant she had a qualm of misgiving about that and closed her eyes, but it soon passed.
She cleaned out the fridge, carefully turned off the gas, water and electricity, opened her case to put in the document she'd shown Tom Richmond. Better safe than sorry. She checked again that she had everything necessary, then zipped up the case. The door bell rang. That would be the taxi she'd ordered.
Slipping her coat on, she gave a last quick look round to see that she'd missed nothing, then picked her case up, went into the hall and opened the front door. The last person she wanted to see was standing on the doorstep.
‘What in God's name are
you
doing here?'
‘It won't take long to explain, but we'd best go inside, unless you want all the neighbours to know.'
‘It won't do any good,' she retorted, ‘but now you're here, you'd better come in and tell me what you want. Only for a minute, mind. I'm expecting a taxi.'
Councillor Bob Widdop wasn't built for walking any further than needs must. The last time he'd walked this far had been from the concourse at Manchester airport to the jet waiting to take him on holiday to Madeira. He puffed valiantly on, several feet behind the trim form of his companion, Councillor Mrs Joanna Martin, as she walked lightly this Monday morning across the rough, uneven, rock-strewn ground of the old stone-quarry workings, overgrown now with grass and weeds and therefore all the more hazardous.
‘Come on, Bob,' she encouraged over her shoulder. ‘Only another fifty yards, it won't kill you.'
Councillor Widdop seriously doubted this. All right for some. All right for him, if he'd been twenty years younger, the same age as Joanna, one of the new breed of councillors, one of these young, trendy mothers with a university degree and seemingly limitless energy. A share in the running of her husband's information technology firm, three young children – and she still found time to sit on the council. A member of the public works committee, and relentless in pursuing causes. He toiled on, wishing he hadn't had that heavy fry-up for his breakfast.
They gradually drew nearer the target of their morning walk: the old delph, one of the last left in the area and which, if Joanna had her way, would soon be utilised, as nearly all the other defunct stone quarries had been, as a landfill site.
‘Talk about a disgrace!' she declared as she neared the rim, slowing down for him to catch up. ‘Apart from being a blot on the landscape, what about the danger to children – and
how
many suicides have we had here?'
‘Three in the last eight or nine years, I reckon,' Bob answered, puffing as he lumbered up to join her. He looked down into the quarry and a frisson of atavistic dread made the hairs stand up on the back of his thick neck. Why had she said that? Was she psychic, on top of everything else? At first, looking down, he thought it was a dog that had drowned.
‘Did I say three? It's four now, by the looks of things,' he warned her, pointing with a shaking finger to the surface of the water and issuing stern commands to his heaving stomach.
‘Oh, my God.'
 
 
After wind, rain and that first, soon-dispersed sprinkling of snow in October, mid-November had decided to be kind. Crisp and exceedingly cold, but sparkling. Beautiful, good-to-be-alive weather. Make the most of it, it can't last, everybody was saying. Meanwhile, the sky was pale blue and clear, and down below, in the shelter of the valley, foliage here and there blazed red and gold as a Canadian maple grove. The sunlight was reflected in the still, glassy water in the bottom of the quarry, with the body floating serenely on the surface.
It was a long time since Rumsden Garth had seen such activity. Frogmen and other personnel all over the place, police vehicles on the uphill road leading to the disused stone quarry, including a battered old Volvo belonging to the Home Office pathologist.
‘Unidentified middle-aged female, well-nourished,' Gillian Hardy was dictating crisply into the small microphone hung around her neck. ‘The body has been immersed in water – ' She looked up, switched off when she saw Manning. ‘Two, no, nearer three days, I'd guess, Sergeant. That's what you want to know, isn't it?'
Steve Manning, who thought himself case-hardened, averted his eyes from the bloated thing that now lay on the lip of the quarry. Drowned bodies were never pretty, and this was no exception, though he'd seen worse. ‘Suicide?' he asked, for something to take his mind off it, not doubting that it was. Nobody who wasn't intent on self-destruction would have reason to scramble over the broken dry-stone wall that surrounded the environs of the quarry, then make their way across the rocky wasteland, avoiding the disused shafts and all the rest of the detritus left behind when the workings were abandoned. Apart from kids looking for excitement, there was nothing in it for anyone else, only for those seeking oblivion in the water at the bottom of the quarry, where they were unlikely to be found for some time. This one had turned up sooner than most.
‘Suicide? Doubtful. There are injuries to the head, could have been caused when she went in, of course, but it's unlikely. Killed here, probably. You'd maybe have problems otherwise, getting her across from the road.'
‘Not a lightweight,' agreed the sergeant, no sylph himself, thinking, Murder, by God! Here's excitement. ‘But you
can
get a car in.' He pointed to the hearse bumping towards them even as they spoke, the driver apparently prepared to risk its suspension rather than face the prospect of humping the body back across the uneven wasteland. ‘No means of identification, doc? No? We'll get a description out then, put an appeal on the radio,' he went on, expanding on this, being over-chatty, not wanting to look at what she was doing.
There was a shout from the far side of the quarry, where the frogmen were still searching. A DC cupped his hands and shouted, ‘They've found summat else, Sarge.'
The suitcase was heavy, and when it was brought to the surface, and the strap around it unfastened, it was found to contain several rocks as well as items of clothing and a handbag.
‘That accounts for her belt being torn,' the doctor said. Manning looked, and registered her meaning. It was evident that the suitcase strap had been threaded through the belt of her slacks before being fastened around the case, with the object of weighting down the body. The weight of the suitcase, however, had proved self-defeating, causing the belt to tear in the centre back and the body to float to the surface.
 
 
Richmond's new abode in Albert Road had what passed for a garden. A couple of square feet of earth, just about big enough to contain six floribunda roses and a bare, narrow strip easily filled by a couple of boxes of bedding plants in their due season. Bounded by a low stone wall which had once had iron railings embedded into it – long since removed for the war effort - its main function was to separate his window from the pavement.
So that when the big car drew up on the road outside, it almost seemed to have parked itself inside the front room. From
it emerged the ponderous, six-foot-three form of Detective Superintendent Jackson Farr.
‘I wanted to see you and I have to be in Huddersfield by twelve, so I thought it'd be quicker to pop in on my way,' he announced with typical directness as Richmond opened the door to his thunderous knock. ‘It won't take more than five or ten minutes, what I have to say.'
‘Time for some coffee, sir?'
‘I wouldn't say no. And not so much of the bloody sir, not here, any road, just the two of us.'
He parked himself with some difficulty in one of the small moquette-covered chairs, looking like a circus elephant, waiting while Richmond brought in two mugs of coffee. ‘Three sugars, all right?' Richmond hazarded.
‘Aye. Still trying to cut down but it's a bit late in the day. Settling in then?' he asked, looking round with candid deprecation. ‘Not a lot of room, is there?'
‘I won't be here for long, I hope. It'll do until I find somewhere permanent. I'm in no particular hurry, though.'
‘Right. Only one thing got with rushing!'
Jacks had been Richmond's sergeant in the days when Richmond had been a DC. None better – and one case, at least, of rapid promotion through the ranks that was justified, in Richmond's opinion. They'd always got on well, and Richmond knew, without being told, that he'd Jacks to thank for endorsing his application for the transfer back here.
‘What can I do for you?' he asked.
Jacks sipped at the coffee, stretching his thick thighs towards the gas fire. Richmond sat in the chair opposite and by awkwardly angling his own long legs, managed not to entangle with the other man's size twelves.
‘We've got a body,' Jacks said abruptly. ‘Perfect timing, as usual, wouldn't you know it? What with Gutteridge busy clearing his desk, hopping on one foot for Friday, can't wait for his bungalow and his carpet slippers at Southport. Me, with more than enough on my plate, and short-handed into the bargain -'
‘And you'd like me to start?'
Jacks finished his coffee in one huge swallow. ‘You'd be doing us all a favour, Tom. If you haven't any other plans, that is.'
Richmond shook his head and grinned. ‘Try keeping me away!' What plans did he have for the next couple of weeks? He could see how Jacks was placed and followed his line of thinking. Manpower shortage apart, he wouldn't want to land Gutteridge with a case he'd have little interest in, and with no hope of finishing off before his retirement party next Friday. Better have the new DCI, Tom Richmond, Gutteridge's replacement, starting right at the beginning of a case. What was all that big city experience for, if not to make use of? As for Richmond himself – the rush of adrenalin at the thought of getting back into the swing of things made him feel suddenly alive. ‘When do you want me to start?'
‘Today?' Jacks asked hopefully, his big face creasing into a huge smile of relief.
Richmond laughed. ‘Give me half an hour. And some idea what it's all about.'
Jacks sat back. The chair springs protested ominously. He said, ‘Female floater in Rumsden Garth quarry. Not suicide. Doc Hardy says she didn't drown, somebody clobbered her on the head before chucking her in. We've identified her as a woman that lives on the Clough Head Estate, name of Wyn Austwick. Why, what's up?'
A bus ground up the hill, changing gear and darkening the room as it passed the other side of Jacks's car. Richmond let the sound die away before he answered. ‘Sorry, Jacks. No go. Shan't be able to help out, after all.'
‘What the hell does that mean?'
Richmond had a sense of
déjà-vu
, the feeling of having been here before as he explained to Jacks just what the position was with Wyn Austwick and her connections with the Denshaw family and Low Rigg, what she'd told him that night at the Woolpack. Jacks listened in silence, with the concentrated interest that was his hallmark. ‘Same old story, isn't it?' Richmond finished. Personal involvement. Conflict of interests. On your bike, Richmond.
Jacks prised himself out of the armchair. Despite his bulk, he was an active man who never sat still for long, who liked to be on the move. Here, there was nowhere for him to move to, except four paces round the dining-table and back to his chair.
He went twice round the circuit, then perched dangerously on the chair arm and sat deep in thought for several minutes.
‘Yes,' he said at last. ‘If what she said to you is right, there might –
just
– be a connection. On the other hand, it's more likely she was feeding you a load of codswallop. No, you hang on a minute,' he said as Richmond opened his mouth to intervene, ‘just answer me this. The truth, mind, no callifudging. Did you put in for this transfer here on purpose to sort out who did for Beth?'
Richmond thought carefully about what he should say. ‘I won't deny I thought there might be – '
‘Did you, or did you not, Tom?'
‘Yes, but – '
‘I bloody knew it!' Jacks exploded, ignoring the qualification. Richmond stayed quiet, leaving him to let off steam, feeling the adrenalin pump through his own veins, knowing for sure now that the answer to one case lay in the answer to the other. Let Jacks suggest what he wanted, Richmond knew that Wyn Austwick hadn't been spoofing.
‘Soon as you applied, I knew it!' Jacks was continuing. ‘All that claptrap about stepping stones to further promotion and – '
‘That's true.'
‘Aye, well, that's as maybe. And it's no use, is it, me telling you to forget it? But I will, any road. There's no mileage in that sort of thinking, Tom. You know I can't recommend reopening the case, much less put you on it.' He paused. Richmond began to speak, but Jacks stopped him. ‘Shut up and let me think.'
Two minutes later, he said, ‘I want my head examining, but I need you on this investigation, this Austwick murder. So get on with it – and officially, if I hear you're looking for further evidence about Beth, you'll get your arse kicked. Off the record
… well, lad, we both know what we thought of the balls-up that was made of it. I was seconded down to Lincolnshire at the time, but I heard plenty.' It was heartening to Richmond to know that others had felt the same way as he did, would have been even more so to have known it at the time. But men had their jobs to think of. ‘So – ' Jacks stopped and pointed a finger like a pork sausage — ‘
so
, as long as I don't hear about it … Understand me, Tom?'
Richmond only just stopped himself from jumping up and
grasping his hand and thoroughly embarrassing both of them. He contented himself with a grin. ‘Understood – and thanks. You'll not regret it.'
‘Not so bloody fast! I'll be the one that ultimately carries the can, think on. This is my neck as well as yours, so I'll still be keeping my hand on the tiller,' he said, never one to shy away from a mixed metaphor, and as if there was any chance of him doing anything else but keep tight control. Jacks as a sergeant had always done that, why should Jacks as a superintendent be any different?

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