The Whitby Murders (A Yorkshire Murder Mystery), J. Ellis [free ebook novel TXT] 📗

‘I think he’s making a run for it,’ said Oldroyd. ‘Quick, get round into the lane at the back; there will be an exit there.’

Hampton ran off behind the shop and into a narrow cobbled lane just in time to see a figure come out of a door and run off.

‘Stop!’ shouted Hampton. ‘Police!’ But the man ran on.

Hampton chased him along the lane, and down a sharp turn back onto Church Street where his quarry ran into a group of tourists sauntering up towards the abbey steps. He ran past them, despite their angry cries but the collision enabled Hampton to gain on him. In desperation the man turned into an inn yard. Hampton closed in and pulled him to the ground.

‘Not a wise move, sir, running away from the police,’ he said as he hauled the man to his feet. ‘It always makes you seem guilty. I think we’ll make our way back to the shop, shall we? And then to the station.’

The sullen young man said nothing and just stared at the ground. He had no choice but to obey Hampton, who held him firmly by the shoulder with the other hand grasping his arm.

Ben was on the train again, this time travelling from Manchester Piccadilly down to London Euston. The short break with his parents had proved very restorative. He smiled to himself. It was wonderful how he could always expect the same welcome at home even though he was now nearly thirty and his parents were getting on a bit. By this stage, they knew very little about his life, which was probably just as well. Their world was very different from the one he now inhabited.

He got his laptop out and placed it onto the table. There were no people in the seats opposite. He needed to look through his PowerPoint slides for his next lecture. He enjoyed the teaching but felt exploited: temporary, part-time contracts were all he’d ever had in the academic world. In some ways he preferred part-time work because it gave him the chance to do his own artwork, but there too he’d not been as successful as he would have liked. Why were his talents not properly acknowledged? So many of the people with tenured jobs in universities were not as academically capable as he was. As for some of the artists whose artwork was praised, he believed his own work to be much better. It was often the way with gifted artists; they struggled for recognition from the establishment. It had been the same throughout history and he wasn’t the only one now in this position but at last he could see his prospects improving.

He gazed out of the window at the fields and hedgerows as the train sped south towards Birmingham. He was looking forward to meeting up with everybody again in London. After what had happened he was determined to make a new start and show them all what he was capable of.

It was a pity Louise was not going to be there. He wasn’t sure exactly what he felt about her at the moment, but he’d had clear signals from her that she liked him. Everyone’s feelings had been all over the place in Whitby, but there would be time to sort things out when they both got back to London.

‘I think it’s time for some plain talking,’ said Inspector Granger firmly with a grim expression on her face as she confronted the elder Withington across the table in the interview room. A solicitor was present.

When Alan Withington had bolted out of the shop, Oldroyd had gone straight inside to find the father furious with his son, calling him a spineless coward and much worse. Customers were staring at the two men so Withington again took Oldroyd into his office at the back. He’d refused to answer any questions and called his solicitor to meet him at the police station.

Granger continued. ‘What exactly has been going on with your jewellery sales and how was your niece involved? We’re having samples of all the items you have on sale analysed, so there’s no point trying to conceal anything. The game’s up. What the police in Leeds never managed to prove, we will, so you might as well tell us everything now.’

Withington paused, looking grim as if he was weighing up the options. ‘All right,’ he began, ‘not everything we sell is genuine Whitby jet. But it looks just as good so I don’t really see the problem.’

‘The problem is you’re selling it as if it’s made of a rare local gemstone and charging accordingly when it’s actually made of some kind of paste. It’s what’s called fakery, cheating, being a crook or however you want to describe it,’ said Oldroyd, who was angry at the man’s unapologetic attitude and had adopted his powerful and hawkish interviewing technique, which cowed the most hardened criminal.

‘Okay,’ said Withington, backing down. ‘We get a supply of stuff from this bloke in London who produces fake jewellery. We give him an original and he produces several copies. Alan negotiated the deal. He’s good at that, just no backbone when things get a bit tough.’

‘And where did Andrea fit in?’

‘She was just a courier. She brought stuff up when she came to visit. She did the same when we were in Leeds. We knew the police were watching me and Alan so it was less chancy for her to carry it and I wouldn’t trust the post or any delivery service where things might go missing.’

‘Why did she do it?’ asked Granger.

‘Money. I paid her; she was often short of cash, especially when she was a student, but her job in that theatre company didn’t pay much either.’

‘So she collected the stuff from your supplier and brought it up to you?’

‘Yes, then I gave her the money for the next consignment.’

‘But it all changed last Tuesday, didn’t it?’ said Granger. ‘She came