Malice On The Moors (16 page)

“That,” Powell said, “is a long story, which I won't bore you with. Let's just say that a degree in classics, followed by a brief and unpleasant taste of army life, didn't equip me for much else.”

“You'd have made a good teacher.”

“Do you really think so?”

She brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “I've learned a lot during the short time we've worked together.”

He searched her eyes for meaning. “That's because you're an exceptional student,” he said.

She cleared her throat. “Yes, well, I think it's important in any professional relationship for both parties to hold up their end. Don't you agree, sir?” She felt like a festering idiot.

Powell finished his beer. “I couldn't have put it better myself, Sergeant.” He consulted his watch. “I'm afraid it's getting past my bedtime.”

Back in his room, Powell thought about calling Marion but decided it wouldn't be prudent under the circumstances. Later, in bed, he lay thinking about Sarah Evans. Eventually he turned over, disgusted with himself. Christ, he thought, I'm a pathetic, self-centered bastard. Whatever her reasons, whether knowingly or not, he realized that Detective-Sergeant Sarah Evans had done him a good turn that night.

CHAPTER 14

Sarah Evans dropped Powell at the rail station in Malton just before nine-thirty. They hadn't spoken much during the drive from Brackendale, each absorbed in their own thoughts. As they crossed over the River Der-went, Powell was seized with a sense of foreboding that he was at a loss to explain. The feeling remained with him during the short journey to York, and when his train pulled into the station, he decided to walk to Heslington, a distance of about two miles. He had a good hour until his appointment near the university and his head badly needed clearing.

The University of York, founded in 1963 on an estate at Heslington, consisted of a collection of unremarkable concrete blocks—housing colleges and lecture halls, a central hall, and a library—scattered over a wide area around a man-made lake. Powell's destination was Gwyneth House, a student residence on Thief's Lane adjacent to the campus. He located the redbrick building
without too much difficulty, scanned the directory beside the door, and pushed one of the buttons.

The intercom crackled. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Macfarlane? It's Chief Superintendent Powell.”

The lock buzzed and clicked open. Powell climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on the door of Number 23. “Come,” a voice called out.

Powell opened the door and entered the room. A slight young man with short, ochre-colored hair was sitting at a computer desk typing on the keyboard. He looked around. “Have a seat,” he said. “I'm almost done.”

Working on your latest tract? Powell wondered. He sat down on one of three wooden chairs arranged in the center of the room around a small oval table cluttered with papers, a calendar of graduate courses, a textbook titled
Statistical Concepts in Animal Ecology,
a half-f teacup, and a piece of dry toast. He took in his surroundings. Typical student digs: along one wall a single bed and washstand; along the other, the desk and a makeshift bookshelf-cum-stereo-stand, consisting of planks supported by concrete building blocks. Opposite the door, a west-facing window provided a distant view of the ever-present Minster. The walls were decorated with posters as well as a number of framed photographs, some of them signed, showing a more familiar Stumpy, with beard and long hair, along with various other people, several of whom looked vaguely familiar. One of them in particular caught Powell's eye—a smiling older woman standing with her arm around Stumpy. He squinted, trying to make out the woman's face. Bloody hell, he realized, it's Bridget Bardot!

Powell's inventory was interrupted a moment later
when Stumpy got up from his desk, walked over to the table, and sat down opposite him. “You mentioned on the phone that you wanted to talk to me about Dickie Dinsdale,” he said breezily. “Do I need to call my lawyer?”

“I don't think that will be necessary, do you?”

“That depends on why you're here, doesn't it?”

Powell flipped open the textbook. “What are you studying, Stumpy? Anarchy 101?”

Stumpy shook his head, as if in amazement. “You're all the bloody same, aren't you? As matter of fact, I'm doing a masters degree in biology. Not that it's any of your business.”

“I'll come right to the point; I want to know what happened between you and Dinsdale at Blackamoor on August twelfth.”

“Why should I tell you anything?”

“Because,” Powell said, “I think Dinsdale was murdered. And I think you can assist us in our inquiries.”

Stumpy sneered. “I'm not interested in helping the police. You've never done a frigging thing for me.”

“I think his death had something to do with the Hull Water Corporation's scheme to flood Brackendale,” Powell persisted. “With Dinsdale out of the way, the project isn't likely to go ahead.” He looked blandly at Stumpy. “A victory for the environment, you might say.”

Stumpy flushed. “What are you insinuating?”

Powell shrugged. “You tell me.”

Having temporarily regained his composure, Stumpy leaned back in his chair. “You know I don't have to tell you anything, but you're so far off the mark, I'm finding it difficult to resist the temptation to set you straight.”

“I'm a big boy,” Powell said equably. “I can take it.” Stumpy eyed him shrewdly. “Am I a suspect?” “I've no reason to suspect you of anything at this point,” Powell answered truthfully. “If I change my mind, I'll caution you as required by law.”

Stumpy laughed bitterly. “The law's an ass. I get the shit kicked out of me for staging a peaceful protest on Dinsdale's grouse moor and
I'm
the one who gets charged.”

“It didn't turn out very well for Dickie either.” “Very clever, Chief Superintendent, but you needn't patronize me. I said I'd tell you about it.”

“Why don't you start from the beginning, then?” “A few months ago,” Stumpy began, “I got wind of a proposal to dam the River Merlin in upper Bracken-dale to create a water supply reservoir for the City of Hull. I learned that the Hull Water Corporation had approached Dinsdale to see if he'd be willing to sell them the land they needed for the project. I was appalled, of course.” He was becoming increasingly animated. “A private bloody company proposing to destroy one of the few unspoiled areas left in the country for profit. In a frigging national park, for Christ's sake.” He glared at Powell. “You know what gets me about the neo-Thatcherite apologists for privatization that continue to run this country—and this latest lot are no better than the others—is their complete and utter moral bankruptcy. The triumph of blinkered ideology over responsibility to the people. They've basically sold the family silver at boot-sale prices, and despite the tedious rhetoric about lean and mean government and the so-called
British entrepreneurial renaissance, the frigging trains don't even run on time anymore. If that's democracy, I'll take anarchy,” he concluded pointedly.

Powell was not unsympathetic to Stumpy's position, but that was neither here nor there. “You mentioned that the Hull Water Corporation had approached Dins-dale …” Powell prompted.

“Yeah, at that point I had no idea what his position was, so I—”

“How did you find out about this in the first place?” Powell interrupted.

Stumpy regarded Powell warily. “It's not relevant.”

“I'll be the judge of that.”

Stumpy seemed about to protest but evidently thought better of it. He shrugged. “I heard about it from an old girlfriend of mine, Chloe Aldershot. Her father, Lord Aldershot, is on the board of directors of the Hull Water Corporation. She got wind of it somehow.”

Was Stumpy's apparent reluctance to involve Chloe due to a sense of chivalry or something else? This was the same girlfriend, Powell remembered, who had provided Stumpy with an alibi for the day of the farmers' shoot. He wondered what Lord Aldershot thought about his daughter fraternizing with the likes of Stumpy.

“As I was saying,” Stumpy continued, “I initially got in touch with Dinsdale to feel him out. He was right pissed off when he realized who I was. It was obvious that he was promoting the scheme and hoped to make a tidy profit in the bargain. I tried to reason with him, pointing out that there was no way the public would tolerate the desecration of the North York Moors. He told me in no uncertain terms to mind my own business.” He smiled
humorlessly. “The little bastard didn't know who he was dealing with. Before he hung up on me, I basically told him that I was going to stop him, one way or the other.”

“When did this conversation take place?”

“Late June, early July.”

“I'm a bit puzzled. Why didn't you go public at that time?”

“He would have denied the whole thing, as would the Hull Water Corporation. Then when the deal was signed, it would have been too late to do anything about it. I figured that the best approach would be to take some kind of direct action that would dissuade Dinsdale from proceeding with his plans. That's where the idea of a protest on his grouse moor came from.”

“A shot across his bow, so to speak,” Powell commented.

“Exactly. A taste of things to come if he didn't forget about the water scheme.”

“I understand that you even warned him of your intentions.”

Stumpy laughed. “That was a great touch, don't you think? Look, I'm no bloody amateur—I'd planned the thing down to the last detail and I knew there was nothing he could do to stop me. Tipping him off in advance simply made the impact that much greater.”

“But you must have known you'd get arrested.”

Stumpy looked slightly disappointed in Powell. “All the more publicity to set the stage for the next phase if Dinsdale didn't back down.”

Powell had to hand it to him—old Stumpy didn't miss a trick. “Getting back to the August twelfth protest, I am interested in hearing how you pulled it off.”

Stumpy smiled, clearly enjoying himself now. “I don't
think I'd be giving away any trade secrets if I told you. It was a piece of cake, really. Dinsdale probably expected us to come marching over the horizon, but I had other ideas. There were six of us altogether, and the problem was how to conceal ourselves in the thick of things until just the right moment. I hit upon the idea of digging into the moor—in foxholes, like. We started a week before the shoot, working at night and carrying the spoil away. During the day, we left our work covered up with plywood sheets camouflaged with blocks of cut heather. I don't mind saying that it worked brilliantly.”

Powell had to admit that it had been an audacious plan, but hadn't Stumpy cut his teeth as an activist in the environmental movement by living in tunnels dug in the path of various road improvement projects around the country? “I understand that the local police showed up in due course to take matters in hand,” he said.

Stumpy's expression darkened. “Yeah, well, we know whose side
they
were on, don't we?”

“You
were
breaking the law,” Powell pointed out.

“I told you before what I think of the frigging law.”

Powell ignored this. “Why don't you tell me exactly what happened?”

“They rounded up my crew and left me behind with Dinsdale and the local inspector—Braughton, his name is. When there were no witnesses, Dinsdale knocked me down.” He glared at Powell. “Braughton just stood there.” He paused. “Then Dinsdale pointed his shotgun at me and fired.”

“He must have been a terrible shot,” Powell remarked sardonically.

“Very frigging funny.” Stumpy was indignant now.

“How was I to know that it wasn't loaded? Psychological abuse, I call it.”

“You and your associates were charged with criminal trespass, and you subsequently brought charges against both Dinsdale and the North Yorkshire police related to these alleged abuses.”

“Yeah, that's right.”

Time to take the upper hand, Powell decided. “You described the August twelfth protest as setting the stage for the next phase of your campaign against Dinsdale. What did you have in mind?”

“I already told you.”

“Tell me again.”

Stumpy sighed irritably. “If he didn't change his mind, I'd turn up the pressure and go public when the time was right.”

“He didn't change his mind though, did he, Stumpy?”

“Like I said, I had a contingency plan.”

“Did your plan include killing him?”

Stumpy leapt to his feet. “What a load of arse!” he shouted. “I'm calling my frigging lawyer!”

Powell stood up and faced him, a bland expression on his face. “That is your right, of course,” he said. “For the time being, I don't have any further questions, but I may need to talk to you again.”

There was a telephone in the entrance hall of the student residence. Powell placed a call to Chloe Aldershot, Stumpy's girlfriend—or was she an ex-girlfriend?—but there was no answer. He rang for a taxi.

After arriving back in the city center, he soon located a large, attractive pub opposite the city wall. He ordered
a pint of Theakston's Old Peculiar and a ploughman's to see him through. Sitting at a table near the window, he reflected on his interview with Stumpy. The environmental activist came across as a highly motivated young man who was fanatically dedicated to his cause. His track record in blocking environmentally questionable developments through direct action was impressive. The question was, how far was he willing to go?

While Powell could never countenance breaking the law, he saw a place for dissidents like Stumpy, if only to keep the Merrimans of the world honest, or at least on their toes. As a policeman, he had subjected himself to considerable soul-searching on the question of civil disobedience. If the cause was sufficiently just or noble, one should theoretically be able to act ethically by flouting the law, if that is what was required to redress the perceived wrong. The problem is, there are as many points of view on any given issue as there are people, and nowadays it seems that just about everyone feels aggrieved by someone or something. The chaos that would ensue if every person who felt hard done by took the law into their own hands didn't bear thinking about. There were times, however, when Powell wondered if his desire for stability and order was largely a reaction to the turmoil in his own life.