To Die Alone (12 page)

Harris and Butterfield sat in the greasy spoon café in a side street off Roxham’s main shopping drag, cradling mugs of tea and looking across the table at Matty Gallagher.

‘You ordered?’ asked Harris.

‘Yeah, got the usual,’ nodded the sergeant then looked at the inspector with a worried expression on his face. ‘Look, level with me, will you, guv? How much trouble I am in over this Farmwatch thing?’

‘Curtis was not desperately impressed – with either of us.’

Gallagher nodded glumly.

‘So what do I do?’ he asked.

‘You? You keep your head down. The only real problem will come if Curtis decides that this is a way of getting me out.’

‘Surely it’s not that bad? Not after last Friday? I mean, all that good publicity.’

‘Who knows what goes on in the addled brain of Philip Curtis?’ shrugged the inspector. ‘If he reckons that he has to sacrifice someone for the sake of his career he’s capable of doing anything. One thing is for sure, if either of the lads had been killed last night, you and me would be doing school crossing patrol now.’

‘Whatever happens,’ said Gallagher, ‘thank you for trying.’

‘No problem.’ Harris reached out and lightly touched his sergeant’s hand. ‘I can’t afford to lose good officers even if they are Cockney wide-boys. Anyway, enough of this sentimental shite – tell me about the PM. I take it that Trevor Meredith did not fall on his penknife?’

‘Certainly didn’t,’ said Gallagher, relieved that the conversation had moved on: despite his desire to get to know his chief inspector better it always felt uncomfortable when it happened.

‘So what did the good doctor say? He able to manage without the expert guidance of young Butterfield here?’

Gallagher chuckled: Butterfield looked gloomily at the chief inspector.

‘Reckons the knife had a serrated edge. Thinks it might be a kitchen knife of some kind.’ The sergeant glanced under the table, to where Scoot was sitting. ‘Hardly the kind of thing you would take with you when out walking the dog.’

‘Indeed not,’ said Harris. ‘So have we got a time of death?’

‘Best he can say is mid to late morning yesterday. You were right, the doc says that it is possible that he lived for up to half an hour after the attack. Bled out, the poor bastard. The doc says that the fact that it was cold and wet makes it difficult to be more precise about these things, though.’

‘That fits with what we know anyway.’ Harris took a sip of his tea and looked at the detectives. ‘Not that we know much, mind. However, it does all rather point away from your roving lunatic theory, Matty lad, and towards my hunch that this was a premeditated murder.’

‘Maybe,’ said Gallagher.

Butterfield’s mobile phone rang and she excused herself and went to stand in the doorway. Within a couple of minutes, she was back just as three cooked breakfasts were being delivered to the table.

‘So, come on, where are we with all of this?’ asked Harris, reaching for the ketchup bottle as the constable took her seat again. ‘Is any of this making sense?’

‘Not yet,’ said Gallagher, through a mouth of bacon.

‘Then maybe I can help,’ said Butterfield, picking up her cutlery. ‘That call was a friend of mine. Anyone want my black pudding?’

Gallagher reached over.

‘So who is this friend?’ asked Harris.

‘He runs the vet’s down in Ramsay, it’s the one my dad uses. My friend says that customers had been deserting Thornycroft’s place in droves. Not exactly Mr Popular was James Thornycroft. What’s more, my friend reckons that his business was in deep trouble.’

‘And men in deep trouble,’ said Harris, ‘will do anything to get out of it.’

‘Exactly,’ said Butterfield.

It did not take Gillian Roberts long to drive the short distance to the housing estate on which James Thornycroft lived. She was thoroughly enjoying herself. The previous day, when she had been on a training course at headquarters in Carlisle, she had listened with mounting frustration to the bulletins coming through about the death of Trevor Meredith, desperate to be involved. She had protested when Curtis had informed her the previous week that she had to attend the event and saw the murder of Trevor Meredith as the ideal get-out clause. However, her arguments that she was needed back at Levton Bridge were rebuffed by the fresh-faced instructor: a sulking Roberts guessed he was one of these fast-track university types who had never even done a foot patrol in his life. At one point, he had even suggested that she was ‘poisoning the banquet’ with her continuous objections. Roberts had given a derisory snort.

The residential course was supposed to run into a second day but that morning, she had got up early and rung Harris, pleading to be released. Harris, who had little time for such activities anyway and had protested when Curtis informed him that he was losing his detective inspector for two days, had readily sanctioned her departure. Roberts had taken great delight in telling the young instructor where he could stick his course. Now, as she cut the Renault’s engine outside the detached house, Gillian Roberts was delighted to be involved in the case at last. A mother of two in her early fifties, she affected a somewhat matronly demeanour, but behind the avuncular façade was an officer as tough and sharp as they came, one who thrived on the challenges of the job. She had once said that having two teenage boys meant that everyday police crises paled into insignificance compared with the challenges presented by her offspring.

She got out of the car and looked at the house. Which was when she noticed that the front door was ajar.

‘So what was Thornycroft doing wrong?’ asked Gallagher, chasing a piece of fried bread round the plate. ‘How come he was losing all those punters?’

‘Well,’ said Butterfield, ‘the first thing he did when he took over was push up his prices and put a lid on all the free little jobs that the previous guy did. That’s why he and Meredith fell out, if you recall.’

The others nodded.

‘What also pissed people off,’ continued the constable, ‘and this will be no surprise to you, guv, is that people simply don’t like James Thornycroft.’

Gallagher looked at her quizzically.

‘Thornycroft called him Hawk,’ explained Butterfield.

The sergeant winced.

‘Ouch,’ he said.

‘Not everyone dislikes him, though,’ said the inspector, taking a sip of tea. ‘Curtis thinks the sun shines out of his backside.’

‘That’s part of the problem,’ said Butterfield.

‘Curtis is
all
of the problem, Constable,’ said the inspector. ‘If I teach you nothing else, let me teach you that.’

Gallagher laughed out loud.

‘What I mean,’ said Butterfield with a smile, ‘is that Thornycroft gives the impression that he is something special, kow-tows to people he thinks are influential but makes no effort with ordinary folks.’

‘Oooh,’ said Gallagher, with a sly look at the others, ‘airs and graces. That’s enough to get a man killed Oop North.’

Harris scowled. Gallagher chuckled and shovelled scrambled egg into his mouth.

As they talked, none of the detectives noticed the young woman walking quickly past the window, the tears streaming down her cheeks. Or the man who followed a few seconds later.

Feeling her heart pounding, Gillian Roberts walked up the drive towards the front door of James Thornycroft’s house. Instincts screaming out that something was wrong, she wondered whether or not to call for back-up and wait for its arrival before entering the property. With a shake of the head, she dismissed the idea and pushed open the door.

‘Mr Thornycroft?’ she shouted into the deserted hallway. ‘Are you OK, Mr Thornycroft?’

‘However,’ said Harris, taking a gulp of tea, ‘for all James Thornycroft might be a dodgy so-and-so, none of this makes him a killer, surely?’

‘I hate to agree but I can’t see it either,’ said Butterfield, reaching for a piece of toast. ‘I still reckon that if we find the lads who shot at the farmers then we will be pretty damned close to who killed Trevor Meredith.’

‘Which brings us back to the dog fighting,’ said Harris.

‘Or guys casing out farms to nick stuff,’ said Gallagher.

‘More likely, given their reaction, that they were friends of Gerry Radford,’ said Harris. ‘Maybe they were up here casing out Jenner’s Farm. The farmers were parked on Jenner’s land, remember. Maybe Trevor Meredith set something up after all.’

‘They certainly didn’t mess around when the Farmwatch lads clocked them,’ nodded Matty Gallagher, hitting the bottom of the ketchup bottle and dropping a ridiculously large dollop on to the remains of his meal. ‘Damn it, why does that always happen?’

The others chuckled and watched in silent fascination for a few moments as he tried to extricate his food from the morass.

‘Bloody Southerners,’ said Harris.

Gillian Roberts stood in the living room and stared down at the motionless man lying in front of her, one leg twisted behind his body, an arm hanging limp and his features battered and bloodied.

‘Shit,’ she muttered. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

‘So,’ said Gallagher, wiping round his plate with a piece of bread, ‘if you are right, guv, might it not be time to pay a visit to your Mr Radford?’

‘Already in hand,’ said the inspector enigmatically. ‘Already in hand, Matty lad. Just got to play a bit of politics, first.’

‘Brilliant,’ breathed Butterfield, eyes bright. ‘Absolutely bloody brilliant.’

‘Does that mean—?’ began Gallagher.

‘All in good time. Come on,’ said Harris, draining the last of his tea and getting to his feet, ‘let’s get back up to Levton Bridge.’

Gallagher frowned: the inspector’s refusal to elaborate on his thoughts had served as a reminder that, despite what appeared to be recent warming in the men’s relationship, Jack Harris remained as secretive and infuriating as ever.

‘Right,’ said Harris. ‘Matty, I want you to go back to the station—’

‘Do I have to?’ asked the sergeant. ‘I was rather hoping to stay down here. Curtis will be absolutely—’

‘If Curtis cuts up funny, tell him to talk to me.’

‘And where exactly will you be if Curtis goes on one of his rampages?’ asked the sergeant, adding acerbically, ‘not struggling with phone reception again, I hope?’

‘The mobile is always on for you,’ said Harris, producing a wallet from his jacket pocket and placing a ten pound note on the table. ‘My treat, boys and girls.’

‘So where will you be while Curtis is chewing my arse out?’ asked Gallagher, following Harris towards the door.

‘Myself and the good constable here will check out this David Bowes character – his cottage is just off the main road on the way back. Then we will pay a visit to James Thornycroft.’

As the officers emerged into the street, the inspector’s mobile phone rang. Taking it out of his suit jacket pocket, Harris glanced down at the screen.

‘Curtis?’ asked Gallagher, shooting an anxious expression at Butterfield.

‘Hiya,’ said Harris into the phone. ‘How’s it hanging?’

‘Not Curtis,’ said Gallagher cheerfully.

‘Still at Roxham,’ said Harris into the phone. ‘Yeah, can be. All right, see you then – oh, and thanks, matey. I owe you one. A big one.’

‘Definitely not Curtis,’ said Gallagher.

The inspector finished the call and turned to the others with a beam on his face. He was about to speak when the phone rang again.

‘Jesus Christ, it’s like Piccadilly Circus,’ exclaimed the DCI. ‘Hello, yes, Harris.’

This time, his expression was different, a grim silence as he listened to the person on the other end.

‘Curtis,’ said Gallagher gloomily. ‘Got to be.’

After a few grunts, the inspector pressed the cancel button.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Butterfield.

‘That was Gillian. I am afraid that our little chat with James Thornycroft will have to wait.’

Shortly after lunchtime, Matty Gallagher was standing in Roxham General Hospital, staring moodily out of the fourth floor window, across the roofs of the houses to where, when the buildings petered out, the farming flatlands began, stretching away into the distance. The sergeant gave a deep sigh as he watched a mainline train gathering pace, heading south out of Roxham station. He liked south. London was south. Everything he knew and loved was south.

The decision to move north had been the toughest one of his life. The reason for the decision was Julie Marr, the bubbly blonde he had met when both of them were working in London. Gallagher was a detective constable at the time, Julie a nurse, and it did not take long for love to blossom. However, Julie had been born in Levton Bridge and her parents still lived in the area, so it was no surprise to the sergeant when she announced one day that she wanted to apply for a transfer to Roxham General Hospital. He had always known that one day she might want to go home.

The thought of leaving the City appalled Matty Gallagher. As he had gloomily told friends before he left, it was a long way to be able to hear the sound of Bow Bells. However, after deliberating for several days, he put his love for Julie before his love for the bright lights of the Capital and, with heavy heart, applied for a transfer, securing a posting to Levton Bridge. Shortly after their move north, the couple had married. For a few weeks, they had lived in a rented house in Levton Bridge until one day, and to Gallagher’s immense relief, Julie announced that she had forgotten how claustrophobic the town was. The couple moved an hour’s drive down the valley to Roxham, buying a house close to the town centre.

The move had improved things slightly for the sergeant and now, as he glanced down towards the nearby town centre, he resolved, as he always did, to make the best of things, if only for Julie’s sake. Roxham might not be much of a place, thought Gallagher as he looked out across the roofs, still glistening with the rain from the night before, but it had a damned sight more life than Levton Bridge. Besides, Roxham did have one big attraction and he was watching it disappear from view. Roxham stood on the west coast railway line, which allowed Matty to get to London in a few hours if he wished to see his family or hook up with friends. Julie never demurred when he took off; she realized that drinking sessions in old haunts were his way of coping with life in the North.

‘Penny for your thoughts?’ said Harris, walking up behind him and handing over a plastic cup of coffee from the machine.

‘Oh, you know … just thinking.’

‘Seen the train again?’

‘Am I that transparent?’ said Gallagher with a rueful smile.

‘I want you to stay, you know.’

‘Yeah, I know. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it, guv. Besides, I know I can’t change things. Julie is determined to stay up here. I’ve even toyed with the thought of a transfer to the local Nick.’ He gestured out of the window towards the nearby communications mast. ‘Be easier, we live ten minutes’ walk away and Julie works here anyway.’

‘I know, and the people here don’t get nosebleeds when they get on a train,’ said Harris slyly. ‘But why transfer? If you’re stuck with us woolly-backs you might as well stay at Levton Bridge.’

‘Yeah, I know, but Roxham has a bit more happening.’

‘Fourteen thousand and eighteen,’ said Harris.

‘What?’

‘That’s how many people it has. It’s hardly a thriving metropolis, Matty lad, and last time I checked we had more murders in our division than they had in theirs.’

‘Yeah, I know but….’ The sergeant’s voice tailed off.

‘Besides, you’d hate it down here,’ said Harris. ‘Take the DI. The man’s a complete plonker. We had him at Levton Bridge for a while, you know. Before we got Gillian. I taught him everything he knows. Trouble is, he forgot it all once he got his feet under the desk down here.’

Gallagher smiled.

‘And the DCI?’ grinned Harris, thoroughly enjoying himself as he warmed to his theme. ‘Jesus, don’t get me started on Dougie Ramsbottom.’

Gallagher chuckled.

‘And as for the divisional commander,’ said Harris. ‘Think Curtis without the friendly bedside manner.’

Gallagher roared with laughter then, the inspector’s rant over, both men lapsed into silence and, seeing the train finally disappear from view, the sergeant felt a sudden urge to change the subject: there was still something uncomfortable about discussing personal matters with Jack Harris.

‘Thanks for the coffee.’ said the sergeant, looking down at the murky brown liquid and grimaced. ‘I assume it is coffee?’

‘I’ll have it if you don’t want it.’

‘Why?’ asked the sergeant, glancing at the cup in the inspector’s hand.

‘There’s a nasty spot of rust on the Land Rover I want to get rid of.’

Gallagher marvelled at the comment: it seemed that the inspector’s uncharacteristically good mood of recent days was holding despite what had been happening. Matty Gallagher wondered why. He knew that the inspector had been delighted with the outcome of the crown court case the previous week, but they’d had good results before and he had not responded so cheerfully to them. No, thought Gallagher, staring out of the window again as Harris sipped his coffee, there had to be something else. Something, as ever, that Jack Harris was not telling him. Gallagher decided not to ask.

‘Any news on Thornycroft?’ he said instead.

‘They’re still operating but it’s touch and go. Fractured skull. I had a quick word with wifey. Reading between the lines, their marriage was in trouble over his money problems. Sounds like the man’s life was falling down around his ears.’

‘Do we assume that means he was susceptible to getting into things he should have avoided?’ asked Gallagher.

‘Who knows? Wifey sounded like she didn’t care what he was doing. Sounds like they had been virtually leading separate lives for weeks.’

‘Any word from the DI?’

‘She’s still at their house. She got young Wayne Howe to take a look at Thornycroft’s computer.’

‘What, looking for games, was he?’ said Gallagher drily. ‘That’s all he does as far as I can see. You know, I walked past his office the other day and he was shooting aliens or something like that.’

‘Well, his knowledge has come in useful this time,’ said Harris, craning over as far as he could to watch an attractive blonde walking across the hospital car-park. ‘You know, Matty, sometimes I wish I were ten years younger.’

Gallagher leaned over as well.

‘Dirty dog,’ he said.

‘Which reminds me, I had to leave Scoot in the car. I’ll have to nip out and see how he is soon. Anyway, according to young Wayne, it seems that James Thornycroft was deleting pictures of injured dogs at the time he was attacked. He’s still ploughing through them but he says there are some real shockers.’

‘Like you said, find the dog, find the killer.’ Gallagher glanced at the inspector. ‘You don’t look so convinced now, though.’

‘It all makes sense. It’s just….’ Harris frowned. ‘I don’t know, I can’t shake this feeling that we are missing something. Something we saw yesterday but did not see, if you see what I mean.’

‘Not really, guv. Too many sees.’

‘Indeed,’ said Harris, reaching into his jacket and producing a piece of paper. ‘Anyway, for the moment our biggest concern is what links Meredith and Thornycroft with Gerry Radford. Our resident computer geek also turned up this from Thornycroft’s computer.’

He handed it over to the sergeant.

‘Our lot faxed a copy down to Roxham nick.’ Harris gave a slight smile. ‘It took Roxham a few minutes to work out what the strange buzzing noise was in the corner of the room but they got there in the end.’

‘Now, now, they are my esteemed colleagues to be,’ said Gallagher then glanced down at the fax. ‘Wow, that’s good stuff. Looks like I may to have revise my opinion of young Wayne.’

‘And there’s more where that came from,’ said Harris, taking a sip of coffee and grimacing. ‘Bye, that’s bad stuff, Matty lad. As you can see, Thornycroft and Radford have been in regular contact via email. According to Wayne, they would have assumed that the link they were using was secure but he managed to get into it.’

‘Do we know how?’

‘I never ask questions like that. The result justifying the means and all that.’

‘That one of Curtis’s phrases?’

‘Ah, no. No, I don’t think so.’

‘Well, however he did it, this gives a definite link between Thornycroft and this Radford bloke,’ said Gallagher. ‘Mind, we were lucky that it’s the summer holidays. A few weeks earlier and young Wayne would have been in school.’

Harris chuckled.

‘So,’ said Gallagher, looking back at the fax, ‘does this confirm that we reckon one of Radford’s heavies did for Thornycroft?’

‘Got to be a possibility.’

‘Should I get back to the factory?’ asked Gallagher, glancing at his watch. ‘Sounds like there’s plenty to do.’

‘We have another little job to do before we go – and one that I would rather Curtis did not know about just yet.’

‘Hang, on, guv, I don’t want to get involved in anything dodgy, particularly given what happened last night. I am not exactly going to be his favourite—’

‘Look,’ said Harris, with an urgency that surprised the sergeant. ‘I meant it when I said I do not want you to go. I know things can be a bit tame up here, but maybe I can give you the next best thing to London.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ll tell you in a minute, but I have to be able to trust you,’ said Harris. ‘This case is heavier than either you or Butterfield realize and I do not want Curtis sticking his neb in until I am ready to tell him what is happening. One stupid comment from him and it could blow everything.’

‘Bloody hell, guv,’ said the sergeant, taken aback by the intensity of the inspector’s comments, ‘what are you on about?’

‘I’ll tell you on the way,’ said Harris enigmatically, starting to walk down the corridor. ‘But first, Scoot will need a wee. Come on, there’s some bushes next to where I parked.’

Butterfield and the two uniforms, a fresh-faced constable in his early twenties and a young blonde girl about the same age, arrived in Stonecliffe shortly before 2 p.m. (Lord, Butterfield had thought when introduced to them in Roxham, even to me police officers look young. She liked the idea, made her feel superior.) The village was like so many of the others in the hills, set against sheer slopes which rose up from houses huddled round a bridge over a stream. It had no more than fifty slate-grey cottages crammed into just three streets, a pinprick on the main road which wound its way up the valley before breaking out into moorland.

‘The letting agency reckoned David Bowes rents number twelve Front Street,’ said Butterfield, glancing down at her notebook. ‘Got a red door.’

‘That must be it,’ said the young man excitedly, pointing to a cottage in the middle of the terrace. ‘Shall we raid it?’

‘Well, we’ll knock on the front door first,’ said Butterfield, giving him an odd look.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Got carried away. This is my first murder inquiry.’

‘No kidding.’

Approaching the cottage, the officers noticed that the curtains were closed and that there was a pint of milk on the step. Butterfield peered through the front window, trying to make out the shapes within, then turned her attention to the bottle of milk. She prised off the top.

‘Fresh,’ she said. ‘If he’s done a runner, he’s not been gone long.’

She reached up and knocked on the door. The officers waited for a few moments but there was no sound within and no suggestion of movement.

‘Check round the back will you?’ she said to the young constable.

He nodded, jogged enthusiastically up to the end of the street and disappeared round the corner.

‘He always like that?’ asked Butterfield.

The young girl nodded ruefully.

‘Put the blues and twos on for an out-of-date tax disc yesterday,’ she said.

The two woman stood in silence for a few moments then the young female constable looked shyly at Butterfield.

‘What’s he like?’ she asked.

‘Who? Bowes?’

‘No, Jack Harris.’

‘Why do you ask?’ said Butterfield.

The girl hesitated.

‘Go on, spit it out,’ said Butterfield.

‘I wondered if he would take me for CID in Levton Bridge? I’ve watched our CID at Roxham. I know what they do.’

‘I shouldn’t say that if you meet Harris,’ said Butterfield. She looked the girl up and down. Slim, she thought, a nice figure, curves in the right place but not too many of them, nice face, good hair. Blonde hair. ‘But yes, I’m sure he’d love to have you in his team.’

‘Really?’ The girl looked pleased.

‘Yeah,’ nodded Butterfield. ‘You’re just the type of officer he’s looking for.’

The male constable reappeared at the end of the street.

‘It’s all locked up at the back,’ he announced, jogging back towards them.

‘So what do we do now?’ asked the girl.

‘I’m not sure we can force entry without a warrant,’ said Butterfield, acutely aware that they were looking at her to make the decision. ‘We could ask the letting agency to bring a key up.’

A cottage door opened further down the terrace and a grey-haired woman emerged.

‘You’ll not find him,’ she announced. ‘He’s gone.’

‘What makes you say that?’ asked Butterfield.

‘Because he put two bags into his car and drove off.’

‘Could have been going on holiday.’

‘No, he were definitely leaving.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Butterfield.

The woman reached into her apron pocket.

‘Because he said he was going to ring the letting agency and tell them he weren’t going to live here no more.’ She produced a key. ‘Said something had come up and would I give them this when they sent someone up?’

‘Excellent,’ breathed Butterfield. ‘Do you mind if we have it?’

‘Be my guest.’

‘Thank you. Tell me, what kind of a man was he?’

‘Kept hisself to hisself. Nice enough, he’d talk to you if he passed you in the street. Didn’t see him much, mind.’