The Whitby Murders (A Yorkshire Murder Mystery) J. Ellis (distant reading TXT) 📖

know a lot more about who they all are, what they’ve done, where they’ve been. And by the way’ – he paused and raised a hand – ‘I don’t want either of you to think I’m doing this just because my daughter has doubts. I definitely believe we need to keep the investigation going.’

‘Of course, sir,’ replied Granger, though there was the hint of a smile on her face too as she didn’t entirely believe her former boss and mentor. As a parent herself she knew that there was always a powerful tendency to humour your children’s ideas.

‘By the way, how did you get on with the parents?’ asked Oldroyd as the meeting came to an end.

Granger frowned. ‘Not pleasant. The mother was almost speechless with grief and kept bursting into tears. The father was angry and he seemed to be taking his grief out on Whitby; claimed he hated the place. Apparently Andrea had an uncle here who her father described as a rogue; said he had to close his business in Leeds because he was on the fiddle.’

‘Louise told us that Andrea had mentioned an uncle in Whitby.’

‘Ian Withington. He has a jeweller’s shop in Church Street – Whitby jet and all that.’

Steph looked up. ‘We found a necklace containing Whitby jet amongst Barnes’s things in the flat,’ she said.

‘Nothing unusual in that,’ said Granger. ‘Mr Barnes said his daughter often visited her uncle here.’

‘Did she?’ said Oldroyd thoughtfully. ‘I think we should pay him a visit. Does he actually have a record of criminal activity?’

‘Not as far as we know, sir,’ said Granger. ‘But as you know, that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been up to no good.’

Oldroyd and Steph walked down the length of Church Street to Withington’s Whitby Jeweller’s shop, which was housed in an old building near the steps up to the abbey. The rain had completely cleared and the sky was now bright. The sun glinted on the puddles in the street.

The Goth Weekend was over, and though the streets were no longer full of people in elaborate costumes there were still a few goths around. Gothic was now part of Whitby’s identity throughout the year, and it tied in well with the Dracula tradition.

On the way to Withington’s they passed a number of other jeweller’s shops, all of which were at least partly trading in the eponymous black gemstone for which the town was famous.

‘Do you know,’ observed Oldroyd, ‘Whitby jet is actually a form of coal? It’s made from wood that has been under extreme pressure. It’s been used in Britain to make ornaments since the Neolithic period.’

‘Really, sir?’ replied Steph with a very slight edge of sarcasm and a smile on her face. She had a deep admiration for her boss in many ways, even if his enthusiasm for all things Yorkshire at times descended a little into mansplaining. She had learned to subtly undermine this.

Oldroyd looked at her and frowned. ‘Sorry, I’m at it again, aren’t I? Giving you an unwanted, probably boring lecture about something.’

Steph laughed. She approved of the way a man of Oldroyd’s generation was prepared to learn and change. And that he was prepared to take it from a woman who was his subordinate in rank. ‘It’s never boring, sir, but it’s great that you’re more aware you’re doing it.’

‘Good! Who knows? Someday I might be certified as fully “woke”!’

Steph laughed again just as they arrived at the shop. Their attention was immediately caught by the window display, which combined craftsmanship in silver and jet with a gothic emphasis on spiders of all sizes fashioned into earrings, brooches and ornaments. Some were on silver webs and all had heads and abdomens made of the black jet. The centre piece was a magnificent and terrifying creature of impressive size attached to a necklace. In addition to an enormous heart-shaped black abdomen and diamond-shaped head, sections of its wonderfully long, curved and delicate legs were also made of jet.

Steph shuddered. ‘God, that’s creepy, sir. I wouldn’t fancy wearing any of that stuff. It might appeal to my sister, though. She went through a goth phase when she was a teenager, and she still sometimes dresses in black and even kept the light-purple hair. She used to hang around outside the Corn Exchange in Leeds on a Saturday afternoon. Drove my mum mad, said she looked like a witch.’

‘It has a terrible beauty about it, though, don’t you think?’ said Oldroyd, admiring the huge spider necklace. ‘I’ll bet that one costs a bob or two. Anyway, let’s go in – if we dare!’ He pretended to tremble as he opened the door.

Inside they found the goth and black-jet theme elaborated in greater variety in the jewellery cabinets. There were black bats with silvery wings and skulls with jet eyeballs; a bracelet was laced with silver skulls and black jet roses. The first assistant they saw was wearing black jet spider earrings. The detectives showed their ID.

‘We’d like to speak to Mr Withington, please.’

‘I’ll get him for you.’

Oldroyd looked around the shop. ‘Never has the goth who is serious about ornamentation been so well catered for,’ he observed with his usual wit.

‘At a cost, though, sir. Have you seen the price tags?’ replied Steph.

The assistant returned. ‘He says to come into his office.’ Oldroyd and Steph followed her into a back room where a sharp-faced man with reddish hair and a moustache turned from his computer. Oldroyd thought he looked like the classic spiv as he introduced himself and Steph.

‘Ooh, well, I don’t often get a visit from the police,’ said Withington in a pretentious and false accent, which Oldroyd had heard before and always described as ‘posh Yorkshire’. The clumsy combination of Yorkshire and RP vowels grated on him. ‘But I suppose that’s a good thing. What can I do for you? Is it to do with Andrea’s murder? Absolutely shocking. My sister will be devastated. I’ve been trying to summon up the courage to call her;