The Whitby Murders (A Yorkshire Murder Mystery) - J. Ellis (ebook reader with internet browser TXT) 📗

café on auto pilot, she was so familiar with them. She didn’t intend to stay in the café for the rest of her life, but graduate employment opportunities were poor. Like many of her generation, she found it difficult to see how she would ever be able to do the things her parents had done and taken for granted: buy a house, raise a family, have a secure, well-paid job, retire on a good pension. Not that she necessarily wanted to follow this pattern, which seemed stifling and conformist, but as an Oxbridge graduate, she hoped to achieve something reasonably substantial in the world.

Maybe it was her fault. She’d done her work in the refuge with Louise and then gone round the Far East and Australia for a year. Was it time to commit to something more long term? Doing a Masters was the first step. It was time to do some research. She would have to fund it somehow, but it would be possible.

The café was quite near where Mark worked and he often came in at lunchtime to have a sandwich with her and a chat. At twelve fifteen he walked in wearing his smart work clothes. She served him his coffee and a toasted sandwich. ‘Sit over in that corner.’ She nodded to the place. ‘I’m due a break.’

Soon they were sitting together at a table eating their lunch.

‘How’s it going?’ asked Mark.

‘Pretty good, though I feel wobbly if I think about what happened. I could do without that.’ She pointed to a small Halloween display around the counter: spiders’ webs and a black bat. ‘I’m sick of all that black-witches-and-spiders stuff. But apart from that . . . I’ve never enjoyed work so much. I’m just glad to be away from that spooky town. It’ll be a long time before I go back if ever.

‘More important,’ she continued, sounding excited, ‘I’ve been thinking; I’m definitely going to do the Masters.’

‘That’s great to hear,’ said Mark, eating a piece of his mozzarella and cherry tomato panini. ‘What in?’

‘I’m going to do the Psychology Conversion. You can do it at St Catherine’s. I did quite a bit of counselling at the refuge and enjoyed it. I think I’d enjoy being a therapist.’

‘You’d be brilliant,’ said Mark, leaning over and grasping her hand. ‘I’m so pleased. When everything’s settled down life’s going to be great again.’

A sad thought came over Maggie. ‘It won’t be the same without Dom and Andrea though, will it?’

Mark frowned at her. ‘Won’t it? I know it’s tragic and terrible and so on, but they were a bit of a pain, weren’t they?’

‘Mark!’

‘They were though, weren’t they? Be honest. Always bickering, holding things up, spoiling the atmosphere. Our friendship group’s going to be much more harmonious without them.’

Maggie was shocked. She put down her tuna sandwich. ‘That’s really unfeeling. How can you talk about them like that?’

Mark looked a little sheepish as he ate some more panini. ‘Sorry, but whenever I was with them they never seemed happy. I suppose I haven’t known them as long as you, so I don’t have the attachment you have.’

Maggie took a bite of her sandwich and glared at him. ‘The fact is you didn’t like Dom because you never forgave him for copying your essay.’

‘Oh God! Don’t bring that up again.’ He seemed really angry.

‘It’s true though, but I don’t know what you had against Andrea.’

‘Look, I didn’t have anything against her, okay? It was just the two of them together; it was bad chemistry and . . . Oh, let’s just forget it.’

After this they were silent for a while and then spoke briefly to discuss what they were doing that evening. Mark left shortly afterwards.

Maggie returned to work. As she operated the espresso machine, she reflected on Mark’s uncharacteristic attitude and behaviour. It was true that Dom and Andrea had never really been his friends and that there was history between him and Dom. She could see how from his point of view their group would seem better without them and their prickly relationship. But still . . .

Andy and Jenkins arrived at the address in Tower Hamlets where Barnes and Holgate had shared a flat during their student days. It was in the gentrified part of the East End borough and appeared to be in a converted warehouse.

As the two policemen approached the door, a man got out of a car and walked up to them. It was a cold day, and he was wearing a coat with the collar up. His face seemed empty of expression and only his eyes gave a hint of the deep pain he was experiencing.

‘Are you Sergeant Carter?’ He had an east London accent. He held out his hand. ‘David Holgate, Dominic’s father.’ His voice faltered a moment but he quickly regained control. ‘Let’s go in.’ He produced a key and opened the door. The three went into a lift in silence up to the second floor, where Holgate opened another door.

‘Come in; this is where they lived. The police have been over it all once, but you’re from up there, aren’t you? Where it all happened,’ he said, addressing Andy. ‘You don’t sound like it.’ Andy explained that he’d been brought up in Croydon and had moved up to Yorkshire for promotion. Holgate perched on a wooden chair, looking exhausted and extremely uncomfortable to be in the flat.

‘I told the officers that came round: I don’t believe it, any of it. He wouldn’t have harmed anyone, especially Andrea. They were a close couple. And as far as killing himself, well . . .’ He stopped and shook his head as if the idea was beyond expression.

Andy and Jenkins had sat down tentatively on armchairs. ‘We have reports that they argued a lot.’

‘What couples don’t? It’s par for the course, isn’t it? I know he wouldn’t have harmed her.’ He looked away and seemed to be on the verge of tears. ‘I feel sorry for her parents; they must think our Dominic was a monster.’

Andy glanced at Jenkins,