Prologue

 

 As a local, I knew of Harry Willingdon long before I met him. Several years back, the last year of secondary school, he made something of a dramatic return, having left Orkney Islands 25 years before. Local lad done good; splashing the cash in the local community, entrepreneurial support, funding local conservation & wild-life trusts, and a generous patron to local artisans.

 The biggest project undertaken was transforming the small farm he’d grown-up in once called Crook farm for the previous 120 years, but after the expensive re-building of the 3-bedroom farm house in to a 10-bedroom, four-story, imported-stone mansion, complete with observatory, the new name became Crook manor.  Adjoining land was purchased, excavating huge amount of earth to create a large shoe-shaped hill that arched around the impressive stone manor, shielding it from prying eyes and allowing trees to grow, on notoriously windy islands. It took almost two years to complete, but the planting of the many plants took years more.  The disruption to the local area was significant and was a cause for complaint, but he personally compensated locals and paid for the re-surfacing of roads.

 Since completion, Crook Manor has hosted a number of local artists collections as well and fund-raising events for local charities and more recently local politicians. Now a place for the great and the good to be. The design has won awards and featured in a number of architectural publications, while Harry Willingdon has become a well-known pillar of the community; respected and befriended. Yet, no one really knew where he got his wealth; a source of intrigue for the local community and those who could say they’d attended an event at the impressive stone and glass fortress.

 It was understood Harry Willingdon invested in businesses on the mainland and that he had some source of income, often making regular trips down south, or hosting business partners for excursions, by means of a sailing boat he has moored at the local pier. To avoid public interaction, and at a great cost, a pathway was constructed from the back of his land, connected by a special pathway that hugs the cliff-line and descends to the pier from the cliffs.  

 Harry Willingdon was also a man of clear contradictions; wanting to share the wealth, be recognised locally for his efforts to improve the community, hosting events, have pictures taken as a bastion of art and culture, yet wanted his privacy. There was a nine-foot stone wall built that encircled the trees with a state-of-the art security system to guard against unwanted intrusions.

All the same, his privacy was intruded upon on this particular summer when one of his business partners died on his property. The circumstances were tragic, yet, as a young recruit to the Northern Constabulary, I was able to get my first-hand view of the much-discussed Crook Manor. My chief Constable was concerned that the local police force may not have the tact and detachment required to deal with the case, so a Detective Inspector was sent from the mainland to investigate. As the constable accompanying Detective Inspector, I observed the extraordinary way eventful truth unfolded.

 The previous evening, Harry Willingdon and his French wife of a couple of years, were joined by friends. The husband had gone missing after he and his wife had an argument. After a search part was raised, he was found on the same pathway that hugs the cliff-line and descends from the back of the grounds.

Statements were taken by the police who attended after the ambulance had been called and I was to furnish these statements and the interim pathologist report to the incoming investigating officer when I picked him up from the ferry.