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

‘No, like I said, he’s a difficult person to get to know.’

‘And what is your opinion of his art? Is it good? Does he deserve more recognition?’

Dr Murphy paused to consider. ‘That’s a difficult one. I have seen some of his work. Ben’s style is abstract and experimental. I find it very vibrant and effective, if predominantly dark, but as far as success goes, if you mean prominence, fame, money, then in the performing and creative arts we all know that can never be guaranteed however talented the artist. There’s a great deal of fortune involved in attracting the attention of critics, the media, sponsors, publishers, theatre directors and so on.’

‘That must be very frustrating to those who want to be successful but feel they’re not getting what they deserve.’

‘Yes, whether you’re an artist, actor, musician or whatever. It can be very hard.’

‘Does Morton ever talk about his private life? His relationships?’

‘No, and I think that was another way in which he seems a little remote; we know very little about him.’

‘Do you think he is capable of being violent towards anyone?’

She thought for a moment and then shook her head. ‘I can’t see it. He’s always very genial and considerate. I’ve never seen him angry with anything or anybody. It would surprise me, but then again I wouldn’t really know.’

‘You know, I haven’t done this for years!’

Oldroyd and Deborah were on the sandy beach at the west side of the town. They’d taken off their shoes and socks, turned up their trousers and were paddling at the edge of the water. Oldroyd was carrying their footwear in a rucksack. The sea was cold to their feet but invigorating. It was a windy afternoon with clouds scudding across a huge blue sky, which stretched out across the choppy North Sea. The wind was whipping the dry sand up into their faces and they had to keep turning their heads away from the more severe gusts. Herring gulls were sailing effortlessly overhead without flapping their wings as they used the eddies in the wind to keep themselves in the air. Oldroyd prodded about in the wet sand with his toes, winkling out shells and coloured stones.

‘It’s wonderful!’ exclaimed Deborah as she allowed the tiny waves at the edge of the water to lap over her feet. ‘Look at all these colours. I’m going to make a collection of these to take back.’ She spent some time collecting rounded and flat stones of differing hues. She loaded them into the rucksack and took a drink from their water bottle. She handed the bottle to Oldroyd and then suddenly announced: ‘I’m going to run.’

‘What, in your coat?’ asked Oldroyd. They were both wearing weatherproof jackets.

‘Yes, why not? Come on!’ she called to him, setting off down the beach, slapping through the water in the direction of Sandsend. Deborah had persuaded Oldroyd to start running and they did parkrun in Harrogate on Saturday mornings when they were at home and sometimes a little ‘parkrun tourism’, as it was called, visiting other parkruns nearby. His fitness levels had improved but he couldn’t keep up with Deborah, who was lean and very fit. She had been running regularly for years. He set off after her, mentally making the excuse for his no doubt inferior performance that he was carrying the rucksack. He jogged at a steady pace, watching Deborah disappear into the distance but enjoying the exhilaration that he’d discovered running gave him, which was worth the effort involved.

After they’d gone some distance, Deborah arced away to the left up onto the dry sand and towards some rocks. Oldroyd finally reached her, puffing up the slight gradient from the water’s edge. Deborah was sitting on a rock looking as if she’d merely strolled to that point.

‘That was great,’ she said as Oldroyd sat down. ‘Let’s have another drink and a snack.’

Oldroyd, out of breath and sweating slightly, took off the rucksack. Deborah opened it and took out the water bottle and two muesli bars. Oldroyd would have preferred a chocolate brownie, but accepted Deborah’s supervision of his diet which, together with the running, had enabled him to lose weight and feel much fitter.

‘You did well – especially carrying that rucksack. I thought we needed a bit of extra effort to burn off last night’s indulgence,’ said Deborah, referring to the fish and chip treat at the Seagull Café.

‘Yes, you’re right. I think we’ll go back to the Seagull again tonight, it’s such a great place, but I promise not to have fish and chips this time. I’ll have fish, but something healthier like scampi.’

‘That’s still fried,’ cut in Deborah, ‘and I expect you’d have it with chips. I think a nice fish pie would be better.’

‘Okay, you win, I—’ His phone went off, and he scrambled to get it from the rucksack. ‘Sorry, it’s Andy reporting back. I was expecting him about this time.’

‘Fine, I’ll go for another paddle while you’re talking to him.’ She strode off down to the water. In the distance another group of gannets was circling in the sky and diving into the sea. Some raucous gulls flew overhead.

‘Andy, how’s it going?’ began Oldroyd.

‘Okay, sir, can I hear seagulls in the background?’

‘Yes, I’m on the beach. Paddling actually.’

‘Wow, isn’t the water freezing? It’s the end of October.’

‘Pretty cold, yes, but it feels great.’

‘I think I’ll stick to the indoor pool at our gym,’ laughed Andy. ‘Anyway, sir, I followed up on Holgate. We met his father at the apartment. That wasn’t easy; he was gutted as you can imagine. Needless to say, he doesn’t believe his son would have killed his girlfriend, nor would he have killed himself. He said that Holgate could have got a gun from his uncle – that’s Holgate senior’s brother who was in the army. He wasn’t aware that his son had any enemies. He dismissed the plagiarism business as a motive for Garner to harm his son. I’ve still got