Threadbare Read online

  Threadbare

  Book Nine in the Harrogate Crime Series

  Malcolm Hollingdrake

  Copyright © 2020 Malcolm Hollingdrake

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  I

  Dedicated to Bill O'Brien and Barbara and Jim Ashcroft

  True Friends

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Featured Artist

  Acknowledgements

  When humans act with cruelty we characterise them as ‘animals’,

  Yet the only animal that displays cruelty is humanity.

  Anthony Douglas Williams – Inside the Divine Pattern

  ***

  I must be only cruel to be kind;

  Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.

  William Shakespeare

  Prologue

  Heading north out of Harrogate, Julie slid along the bench seat and rested her hand on Cyril’s knee. Neither spoke as the sun dappled the road before them. At Ripley they turned off the Ripon Road. In no time Cyril manoeuvred the Bentley into a car park and collected a bag from the boot.

  “Fountains Abbey?” Julie asked, confusion and a faint disquiet evident on her face.

  Cyril smiled. “You’ll have to trust me, doctor.”

  They soon reached the ruins of the Cistercian Monastery. He walked over to the bridge spanning the small river, the Skell, before putting down the bag. Removing a blanket he threw it over the bridge’s low wall.

  “I take it this seat will be okay and the view to your liking?”

  “Cyril, you know I think it’s the most beautiful place in Yorkshire but then … so is Brimham Rocks and Ramsgill and …” she laughed. “Only kidding. This is my favourite, honest.”

  He moved towards the bag, removed two flutes and a box, lifted the lid and presented it. “Would this be to the lady’s taste?”

  She read the word Krug and a date. “Have you solved the murders, Cyril Bennett?”

  He removed the cork, the popping noise loud and sharp, making her smile. He poured the two glasses.

  “You have, haven’t you? Clever man.”

  He stopped her from taking a sip. “Just a minute.”

  Putting his hand in his pocket, his fingers felt for the small box. He took it out and knelt before her. “Dr Julie Pritchett …” He opened the lid of the small blue box revealing his mother’s engagement ring. “Will you … please … marry me?”

  Julie put her hands to her lips, looked at the ring and then at Cyril, as a tear swelled in her eye.

  Chapter One

  July

  You could almost feel the tension as so many people crowded onto the railway platform, each seemingly jostling for a space in which to say their farewells and prepare for their journey. In some ways the scene was familiar; all large Victorian period stations seemed to be made the same way. The skeletal ironwork designed and constructed at Paddington Station by the engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel was strong and powerful. Cyril Bennett could almost smell the atmosphere, he could conjure the smell, the heady mix of coal steam and oil he enjoyed when travelling on the Skipton to Bolton Abbey line. He could hear the excitement as he let his eyes wander along the row of passengers eagerly preparing to board the train; unembarrassed he observed their embraces, saw them check their luggage in anticipation and start to climb aboard.

  It was as he panned the group from the left to the far right that he saw what he was looking for and he leaned forward, concentrating his gaze on three people; one, an officer in plain clothes, was prepared and had already removed his handcuffs as his colleague laid a firm hand of the law on the shoulder of the man about to board. Cyril moved a little closer and smiled as he surveyed the suspect’s expression of total surprise and horror and Cyril could only speculate as to his next move. That conclusion, however, he would never know as this moment was frozen in time, set for posterity, oil paint on canvas. It was at this intense moment of concentration and speculation that he was startled himself as a hand firmly grasped his shoulder. He jumped instinctively and turned to be greeted by Julie’s smiling face.

  “Sorry I’m a little late, phone call just as I was leaving and you know that curiosity always gets the better of me. Besides, knowing that we were meeting here I knew that time would be an irrelevance and not be something that concerned you.”

  Cyril leaned over and kissed her. “Do you know this painting?”

  Julie turned and looked at the huge canvas hanging in an elaborate gilt frame. “I don’t. Didn’t ever know William Powell Frith existed until you mentioned this exhibition.”

  “It’s from the Royal Collection but it’s this that draws me in.”

  Julie looked in the direction of Cyril’s pointing finger and immediately smiled. “It’s your day off, DCI Bennett, and you come and drool over a painting depicting a crowd of people that includes what we can only guess to be two plain-clothes police officers arresting some poor chap about to board a steam train back in another century.”

  Cyril brought his hands up to his face and allowed his fingers to massage his eyes. She could almost hear his thoughts … give me strength probably followed by pearls before swine. Julie smiled inwardly before slipping her arm over his shoulder. She sang in whispered tones, “Wind me up, let me go. You make it so easy my lovely man … it’s absolutely wonderful, Cyril.” She giggled and took a seat in the armchair positioned in front of the painting. “Okay, my house-trained art critic, tell me all about it.”

  It would be an hour before they descended the steps of the Harrogate Mercer Art Gallery. The sunlight reflected off the polished brass handrails that curved gently away from the door like welcoming arms.

  “Coffee or a drink?” Julie said as she slipped her arm in his.

  “All forms of life are depicted in those paintings, Julie, from the highest of the high to the lowest form of humanity. All you need to do is look. You can see it in their expressions by simply reading their eyes. Goodness, William Frith could paint and that painting of The Railway Station was stunning. Did you know that it sold for £4,500 in 1862? Believe me, that was a fortune then.”

  Julie stifled a yawn. He had pontificated long enough and it did not go unnoticed. Cyril led Julie up Swan Road.

  “It doesn’t get bet
ter. A couple of hours surrounded by outstanding art work and a beautiful companion.” He kissed her cheek. “Then we have The Old Swan and a beer outside. What more could a man ask on a summer’s day?”

  Chapter Two

  August

  Looking at the carpet he knew what the future held. It was laid out there beneath his feet like his life before him; a woven maplike pattern, a two-dimensional family tree – it had seen better days and happier times but then, had not he? He recalled a poem by Yeats.

  Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

  Enwrought with golden and silver light, the … he paused and looked again at his feet, … Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

  Even after all these years in situ the carpet was still a fashion statement from the past; they had much in common – a past.

  A mirror hanging on the chimney breast briefly drew his attention. He stared at the white hood and blue mask, all marks of his profession, one he had toiled over for longer than he cared to remember; it camouflaged a great deal. The eyes returned the same stare, there was no emotion, they seemed dull, tired and yet there was defiance. He immediately looked away and down at the blue covers that wrapped his shoes and then at his gloves; he wiggled his fingers as if checking each still worked. If only he had a pound for every time … he shook his head, glanced back at the mirror, he had been distracted long enough.

  Moving towards the chair positioned directly to the right of the television, he allowed his foot to touch a threadbare patch, a marker where the same feet had rested hour after long hour. It was, he thought, the indelible mark of time lost in pursuit of mindless, soon forgotten pleasure. To him it seemed a wasted life but to others it was life itself. One man’s meat, he said to himself as if justifying his stance on the matter. Here, on this spot, the carpet’s pattern was long gone leaving the coarse, inner, criss-crossed threads like bleached sinews in a decomposing corpse. Turning, he considered the carpet’s surrounding pattern. It was faded; brown diamonds ran diagonally to the edge of the carpet, a wrapped border that deliberately failed to reach the walls but was positioned away exposing a moatlike barrier of brown stained floorboards. In 1971, there had obviously been no need for a fitted carpet.

  The room was quiet apart from the melodic, metronomic sound of the clock sitting on the mantelpiece; the only audible beat within the room’s walls that signalled progress, a sense of future and time progression and yet here, within the four walls, the space showed none of that optimism. It was dead, without character or warmth, a time capsule separated from the outside world by the unnaturally yellowing net curtains and grimy glass. To the observer, the world was there but beyond the glass; if you listened carefully you could hear it, but it was a generation away.

  On closer inspection, even the walls were tinged with a hint of brown. He allowed his eyes to follow the ceiling’s edge. There the nicotine stains were darker, jaundiced. Occasionally the paper was trying to slough off the anaglypta separating, sliced, crisp and curling. It was hard to believe that once, for a brief period in time at least, this room had been the height of fashion. It was valued and loved but now in the semi-dark it seemed to be a mere shadow.

  A siren, way off in the other world was barely audible but it prodded him briefly out of his introspection before he returned his eyes to the threadbare patch which seemed to have a greater connection than any part of the room to the person or persons who had occupied that chair. It made him realise what his next course of action had to be, after all, he was growing threadbare too, no longer the person he once was but that would change.

  Removing a craft knife from his pocket he cut one of the exposed threads from the worn area. It now sat, curled and lifeless on his outstretched, gloved palm before his fingers closed over it. Within seconds it was safely stored within a plastic bag which he placed in his pocket. Walking over to the wall, he took a set of keys from a hook and left. He allowed himself one last glance back at the scene, his eyes lingering on a small picture on the far wall. It brought a smile behind the protective mask.

  ***

  Owen went through the doors of Tennant’s Auction House and stood by the staircase that ran in a majestic curve on either side of the stainless steel balustrades, contrasting with the marble and glass. This was not what he was expecting and he had whistled on first seeing the auction house building when they had moved off the road. He turned to Hannah and raised his eyebrows. “Bloody posh this, love. I thought these businesses were in old, damp churches or schools. This place must have cost a fortune. It’s more like a stately home!”

  Hannah sought advice and registered before going to look at the items on which they wanted to bid. It had been Julie who had asked them to bid on one specific item for her – the Herbert Whone painting was perfect in many ways. She had handed the catalogue to Owen and assured him that Cyril would not be bidding on any of the items within the sale. It was as he flicked through the catalogue, more out of boredom than interest, that he saw the photograph of the small bronze statue entitled Liberty. He could visualise it standing on Cyril’s desk, even if only as a paperweight. It was the title that made him think it inappropriate; after all, he was getting wed! Hannah suggested they look and if they liked it then the decision was made.

  They went up the stairs and through to the viewing gallery. The Whone was the first thing they saw: a painting, a palette of greys depicting a Yorkshire stone farmhouse in the snow, set with what appeared to be a gas type lamp in the foreground.

  “Bloody hell, that’s as miserable as sin, would make more sense at a funeral than a wedding! Mind, have you seen his Theodore Major and that one by the Frenchman, Valette? He seems to like the dark and moody stuff, that’s what comes with a life working in the shadow of life’s underbelly.”

  “Stand back a bit and it might look better,” Hannah suggested.

  “Put a concrete wall between me and the painting and it’d be perfect.” Owen grinned, stooped and kissed her head.

  “When we have coffee, I’ll tell you something about the artist that might make you understand the reason Julie wants it at any cost,” Hannah replied squeezing his hand.

  “She’s not from Yorkshire, is she?”

  Soon they found the bronze. It stood no higher than eight inches; a tag was wrapped around the lower part detailing the lot number. Owen did not know whether he was allowed to handle it so he asked one of the porters. He gently weighed it in his hands, turning it and holding it away. “That’s gorgeous!” He smiled at Hannah. “We have to try to get that.”

  Checking her watch, she saw they had half an hour before the start of the sale and went into the café.

  “So why the miserable painting?”

  Hannah took out a piece of paper from her bag. “Herbert Whone was born in Bingley. His parents were both musicians and they encouraged him to play the violin. Getting any clues, detective?”

  Owen nodded. “Go on, Sherlock.”

  “He studied in Paris after the war and then played at the Royal Opera House and then,” she paused, “played for the BBC Symphony Orchestra and who else do we know who …?”

  “Cyril’s mother.”

  “Strangely enough, on his retirement he lived in Harrogate. One of his paintings is in the Mercer Art Gallery.”

  “They may have played together. He might have known …” he stopped. “I now see why she wants the painting.”

  Within the hour they had secured both items and were heading back home.

  Chapter Three

  Owen peered under the chair allowing his hand to run blindly along the cold of the laminate floor covering. He thought it had bounced off his shoe and then disappeared quickly from sight. It had to be there. Goodness Cyril had only given it to him the evening before with the firm instruction, ‘Don’t lose it!’ He could still hear the order ringing in his ears. Pulling out his phone he turned on the light. It was clear from what he could see that this part of the flat was a stranger to the vacuum cleaner. Myriad masses of fluff
, like miniature tumbleweed, moved with the strength of his breath. He found a fifty pence piece, a wrapped mint and a bottle top. He removed his jacket and was now totally prostrate, his head as close to the chair as possible. It could not be anywhere else.

  “Hannah!” The high-pitched plea carried his desperate plight to another room.

  ***

  Cyril checked his watch and shook his wrist before taking another glance. Butterflies bounced around his stomach as he looked in the mirror again. He had dressed far too early and he knew it. The noise from the bedroom made his nerves even worse. He turned and watched Wendy, his stepmother, appear. She looked amazing. The deep blue of the dress, the small contrasting bolero jacket and the hat screamed wedding. Cyril felt so proud. Walking over he bent and kissed her hand.

  “You look beautiful, mother, simply beautiful.” They stood momentarily, their eyes smiling and proud.

  “Your mother is here in me, Cyril. I know it, feel it. When I close my eyes, I see her, hear her voice as I have done since the day she died. I’ve been proud to be your stepmother.”

  Cyril watched as her eyes closed and her hand gripped his. Her expression fluctuated, her mouth twitched as if she were in conversation with an invisible being. She lifted Cyril’s hand and kissed it.

  “She’ll be with you today.” She paused and smiled. “Believe me, we are closer to her than you think.” She opened her eyes and the small tear swelled like a tiny jewel before bursting. Cyril raised his finger and caught it before bringing it to his lips.

  “Bless you, as I now realise I have been blessed with having two mothers.”

  ***

  Hannah was standing to Owen’s side.