MURDER AT THE FOLLY an addictive crime mystery full of twists by LEWIS ROY

Author:LEWIS, ROY
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Joffe Books crime thriller, mystery and suspense
Published: 2021-10-07T00:00:00+00:00

2

The staff in the department at Morpeth were somewhat subdued during the next few days. It had been a matter of gossip that the deputy director had been interviewed by the police regarding the killing of Alan Crickley and at first Arnold had been pressed for details, but he had refused to discuss the matter. Some of the gossip must have got back to Karen Stannard for she finally took some of the girls in the typing pool to task in no uncertain manner, and thereafter an uneasy atmosphere prevailed. It was one Arnold was pleased to eventually get out of when he and Syl Kirkby were called upon to visit a prehistoric site in the West Alien valley that the department had been mapping. It gave Arnold the chance to visit one of his favourite pubs for lunch, near the Blue Back bridge.

The dale itself was one of sharp contrasts — a sweeping fell, wild and peaceful, but in the valley there was the precipitous Allen Gorge, a descent from the broad heather moor and a change from the high, wild Pennine views into an ordered landscape of estate lawns, shaved plantations and well-stocked pastures.

Kirkby was silent and preoccupied as they drove, so Arnold was able to concentrate on the views, recalling the old days with his father, when they had walked the fells and heard the swish of sedge grasses in the autumn wind, and the cry of the curlew as night drew in over the darkening hills. They drove down at last through Thornley Gate and along the Burn Tongues road and parked at the Blue Back inn, for a bar snack. Arnold pointed out to Kirkby the view up the valley from the bridge, in his estimation one of the finest in the north country: past birches and hazels to the thin spire of Whitfield Church rising gracefully above the top of the trees and the curve of the river.

They leaned on the old bridge and admired the view in the late afternoon sunshine. Kirkby had said little all day, at the site or during the drive, and Arnold respected his silence. Now, as the warmth of the sun touched their faces and the shadows grew longer on the river banks, Kirkby suddenly said, ‘There’s a lot of talk in the office.’

‘About what?’

‘The killing.’

‘It’s inevitable. The gossip will die down.’

‘You knew Crickley, of course.’

‘Not very well.’

‘What did you make of him?’ Kirkby asked in a guarded tone.

Arnold glanced at his companion. He shrugged. ‘Not a very pleasant man . . . but I suspect one who’d been scarred in some way, in his past. Maybe it affected him. Or maybe it was his job. He was always trying to ferret out stories. That can affect a man’s relationships with his fellows — and maybe sour him too.’

There was a short silence.

‘You remember that day at the Friends’ meeting — when you introduced him to me? He seemed to think he knew me.’

‘I remember. You said you’d never met.

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