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

‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention it to any of the group,’ continued Ryerson. ‘They may not appreciate that I lied to them and I think some of them would disapprove of my behaviour.’

The women certainly would, thought Andy, whose attitudes had become much less laddish under Steph’s influence. Where he might have once smiled and colluded with Ryerson about his behaviour, he now looked upon him with a certain distaste as yet another man who thought women were there for his convenience and pleasure.

‘Your little secret will be safe with me,’ he said, unable to keep the hostility out of his voice. ‘If your story stacks up.’

‘Oh, it will, sergeant.’ Ryerson wrote down the address and telephone number of his lover and then got up to go. He turned to Andy as he left the office. ‘And if I were you I’d go back to Whitby. Close the case. You won’t find anything useful here in London.’

Andy gave him a withering glance. ‘We’ll see,’ he said. He turned to Jenkins as Ryerson left.

‘I didn’t warm to him, Sarge. Arrogant bugger if you ask me,’ said Jenkins.

‘I agree, and I’m not sure he was telling us the truth about his feelings for Andrea Barnes. Unfortunately, I have the feeling his story about being with that woman is probably true. That’s something for you to check out and make sure you get her to state the precise times he was with her that afternoon.’

‘Okay, Sarge.’

Andy frowned. After a hopeful start that was a rather disappointing outcome. However, it was only day one of his campaign in London.

Inspector Granger gave herself the task of tracking down Philip Owen, the Dracula actor in the escape room. It turned out he was living with his parents on the outskirts of the town in a small housing estate that had seen better days. The Owens’s house, however, was smartly painted and had a neat garden. There were new-looking double-glazed window frames. Aspirational council-house buyers, thought Granger as she parked outside the house. She wondered if their son had been a disappointment to them, with his criminal record.

She knocked on the door, which was answered by a portly red-faced man wearing a cardigan.

‘Yes?’ he said, looking suspicious.

Granger showed her ID. ‘Inspector Granger Whitby police. Can I speak to Philip Owen please? I assume he’s your son.’

‘Yes, I’m Tom Owen. Is it about that do at that room thing where our Philip works? He hasn’t got himself into trouble again, has he? I’m sick o’ t’police coming to t’door.’

‘I just need to ask him some questions. Is he in?’

‘Aye. It’s a good job his mother’s out, though. This would have upset her. Come in.’ Granger followed him into the house, which was adorned with flowery wallpaper and patterned carpets. ‘Have a seat.’ He directed her to a chair in a small living room crammed with ornaments and remained standing in the doorway.

‘We’ve never had any trouble with our Norman. He’s a motor mechanic, married with two little kids; lives up at Redcar, buying his own house. But our Philip; his teachers were always complaining about him. Since he left school he’s never had a job that’s lasted more than six months and then he started getting drunk and into fights. I’d have kicked him out of here, but his mother won’t have it.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know where he gets it from.’ He turned towards the stairs and called up. ‘Philip! There’s a policewoman here to see you. You’d better come down.’ He turned back to Granger. ‘He’s idling away in his room; he’s had no work since that room thing shut down.’

Granger heard a muffled cry in the room above of ‘Shit!’ and then the sound of someone coming down the stairs. Philip Owen appeared in the doorway, looking shy and much younger without his Dracula costume and make-up. He was wearing stained jeans and a t-shirt.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said his father, giving his son a withering look as he went out.

Owen edged into the room. ‘Sit down,’ said Granger, but Owen remained standing.

‘What do you want? I’ve told you everything about what happened at the escape room. I wasn’t even in the same room when that woman was stabbed and—’

‘Okay, take it easy,’ said Granger as Owen was starting to raise his voice in anger or fear and probably both. ‘And please sit down.’ This time he responded to her firm instruction and slunk sullenly onto a chair.

‘Why didn’t you tell us you had a conviction for attacking someone with a knife? You must have known we’d find out as soon as we made enquiries?’

Owen shrugged his shoulders. ‘It freaked me out a bit that she’d been stabbed so I thought I wouldn’t say anything as I had this link with knives. I didn’t think I was important enough for you to start investigating me.’

‘We’re more thorough than that, especially when it’s a really serious crime like murder; we don’t leave anything to chance. Now, tell me what happened when you were arrested.’

Owen winced as if the incident was all an unpleasant memory that he was now ashamed of. ‘I was only seventeen, remember that. I was in a . . . a sort of gang. We thought we were tough, defending our territory against other groups. We carried weapons. Sometimes things got nasty. One night we got jumped by this other gang in an alleyway down by the harbour. One of them had a knife, so I pulled mine, too. There was a scuffle and I ended up stabbing him. By accident, really. He had to go to hospital but he was okay. That was it. I took the blame, but I wasn’t the only one with a weapon; some of them had knuckledusters and razor blades.’ He looked at Granger with defiance. ‘And that was it. I’ve had nothing to do with anything like that since. And I don’t carry a knife.’

‘Did you know Dominic