To Die Alone (14 page)

‘Kinshasha,’ he murmured.

‘Guv?’ said Gallagher.

‘Kinshasa,’ repeated the inspector, turning to face the others. ‘It’s in the Republic of Congo. Mind, they called it Zaire when I was there.’

‘Zaire?’ said Gallagher. ‘Isn’t that where Gaynor said her husband worked for that charity?’

‘Certainly is.’

‘What were you doing in Zaire?’ asked Butterfield.

‘I was with the army. Some kind of crappy goodwill visit.’ Harris looked back at the head. ‘I saw these for sale then. They’re made of plaster but the hair is real – well, allegedly. They are supposed to represent a throwback to the early days of Man. I nearly bought one, actually.’

‘God knows why,’ said Butterfield. ‘It’s an ugly thing. I wouldn’t have it in my house, I can tell you that. It’d give me nightmares.’

‘I don’t suppose DFS sells many of them either,’ said Gallagher bleakly. ‘What you thinking, guv, that James Thornycroft knew this David Bowes character?’

‘Hell of a coincidence if he didn’t,’ said Harris.

‘Yeah, but are we sure it’s his?’ asked Butterfield. ‘It is a rented house, after all.’

‘Have you got that inventory from the letting agency?’ asked the inspector, glancing at Gallagher.

The sergeant reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and produced a typed sheet.

‘Not here,’ he said, scanning it quickly. ‘No, I reckon you’re right and that it was brought here by David Bowes. Presumably, he forgot it in his haste to leave.’

‘Yeah, but so what?’ asked Butterfield. ‘I mean, I can’t see what some crappy head has got to do with what has been happening in Levton Bridge.’

‘Then it is time that you did some thinking, Constable,’ said Harris, ‘because this is the only thing, apart from their love of poker, that links David Bowes with James Thornycroft and Trevor Meredith.’

‘Bowes and Thornycroft I get,’ said Gallagher, with a puzzled expression, ‘but Meredith as well? Sorry, guv, maybe I am being thick but you’ve lost me there.’

‘Think back to last night,’ said Harris, walking back into the centre of the room. ‘In Meredith’s cottage. Remember, you said there was nothing there of the man. But there was something and we missed it. We all missed it. It didn’t seem important at the time, but it’s been nagging away at me ever since.’

‘The shield!’ exclaimed Gallagher excitedly. ‘That little shield hanging on the wall in the back bedroom.’

‘Precisely. If I am right, it came from Tanzania. I saw them when we were out there the year after we went to Zaire.’ Harris looked back at the head thoughtfully. ‘I think, guys and gals, that we have been looking in the wrong place.’

Shortly after 6 p.m., a weary Jasmine Riley got out of the taxi and walked up the driveway to the semi-detached house on the outskirts of Chester. The door was opened before she even had chance to ring on the bell.

‘Jasmine!’ exclaimed her mother.

‘Oh, Mum!’ she said, collapsing into her mother’s arms. ‘Oh, Mum!’

On leaving the cottage, a pensive Jack Harris, with Alison Butterfield in the passenger seat of the Land Rover, started the drive through the hills to Levton Bridge, with Matty Gallagher following a short distance behind in his own car. Not long into the journey, the inspector’s mobile rang and he leaned over to read the message on the screen.

‘Curtis,’ he grunted. ‘I’d better take it. I’ve ignored him all day and we need all the friends we can get at the moment.’

He reached over to activate the hands-free speaker.

‘Sir, how are you?’

‘Wanting to know what’s happening,’ said the superintendent’s voice, the irritation clear in his tone. ‘I mean, shouldn’t you be back here?’

‘On our way. Made a lot of progress already, mind. Has anyone said anything about the attack on the farmers?’

‘There’s a few questions being asked at headquarters but I think I’ve made it go away,’ said Curtis. ‘However, it could easily come back if we don’t get a fast resolution on this Meredith thing. It is attracting a lot of media attention – they are trying to whip up a panic about this mad dog. Sky Television has been in town most of the day and that damned fool chairman of the parish council even mentioned the Hound of the Baskervilles.’

‘I did tell Barry that it’s not on the loose. Besides, the forensics team have been up there all day and they’ve not seen anything.’

‘Have they found anything useful at all?’ asked Curtis hopefully.

‘Not much. The rain last night washed everything away. They turfed up Meredith’s phone but it was so wet that it’s proving difficult to get anything off it.’

‘Well make sure we do come up with something,’ said Curtis and the line went dead.

‘Ah, so supportive,’ murmured Harris and he looked at Butterfield. ‘Makes you realize what a lovely, fluffy boss I am, eh?’

The constable did not reply. She would not have known what to say anyway. Twenty minutes later, as the two vehicles approached Levton Bridge, the inspector’s radio crackled.

‘Control,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Can you proceed to the car-park at Haley’s Bank and meet the firearms team there?’

‘For why?’

‘There’s been a report of two armed men walking along the valley.’

‘That’s all we need,’ said Harris, slamming his foot on to the accelerator, the Land Rover’s sudden burst of speed startling Gallagher. ‘That’s not far from where Trevor Meredith was found.’

It took the Land Rover less than fifteen minutes to reach the car-park, the inspector sending the vehicle careering round tight corners on little back roads, the sergeant trying desperately to keep up behind him and more than once coming close to putting his car into a ditch. On arrival, the detectives were confronted by several marked police vehicles, a number of uniforms and half a dozen officers, dressed in black overalls and armoured vests, and holding firearms. Harris brought the Land Rover to a halt and leapt out, ordering Scoot to remain in the vehicle as he did so. Butterfield jumped out of the other side and glanced back along the valley road to see Gallagher’s car approaching.

‘What we got, Andy?’ asked Harris, walking briskly up to the firearms inspector.

‘The last report we have is that they are within a quarter of a mile west of here.’ The inspector turned and pointed to a blue 4x4 on the far side of the car-park. ‘We think that’s their vehicle.’

‘Who saw them?’

‘The forensic team on its way back from the scene. They were crossing the stream when these two guys emerged from some trees. They’ve got one of our lads with them in case the dog turns up, but he did not fancy taking them on his own.’

‘Very wise,’ nodded Harris. ‘There’s a chance they’re the ones who fired at our farmers last night. Do we know anything about them?’

‘How about a name?’

‘Always a nice start.’

‘The car,’ said the firearms inspector, producing a notebook from his pocket then flipping over the pages, ‘belongs to a bloke called Lane, Joe Lane. London address.’

‘It’s a good job we’ve got Matty with us then,’ said the inspector, turning as the sergeant walked over. ‘He can translate from the vernacular. Do you know him?’

‘Oh, aye,’ nodded Gallagher, ‘London is just like Levton Bridge really, one big village. Everyone knows everyone. Of course I don’t bloody know him!’

‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Harris, smiling at the sergeant’s comment and turning to the firearms inspector.

‘Cut them off on the path. Don’t want to spook them with all these vehicles. A couple of the lads went on ahead and reckon they’ve spotted somewhere just down the path. A bit of woodland.’

‘I know it,’ nodded Harris. ‘It’s ideal.’

It was not long before everything was set, the armed officers having concealed themselves within the woodland, their hiding place giving them a good view of anyone approaching along the dirt track. Harris and his officers stood further back, crouching behind a drystone wall, just able to view the scene if they peered over the top. It was not a long wait and within a few minutes, they saw two figures emerging from a corner in the path. Both wore green army-style camouflage jackets and green combat trousers and had green caps jammed on to their heads. Each had a rifle, fitted with a telescopic sight, slung over his shoulder.

‘Jesus,’ murmured Harris, ‘it’s a coup.’

He heard Gallagher give a low laugh behind him.

The firearms team did not stand on ceremony: within moments the air was filled with their shouts and the two men were lying face down in the mud, still not quite sure what had happened, their guns having been snatched from them and the police firearms trained on their quarry. Harris and the others sprinted out from behind the wall as the firearms team hauled the men to their feet and turned them to face the inspector.

‘Which one of you is Joe Lane?’ asked the inspector curtly.

The older of the two men nodded. A wiry individual with a weatherbeaten and lined face, he looked to the inspector like an outdoor man, one who knew the hills. Instinctively, and he did not know why, the inspector sensed that these were not the men they were looking for in connection with the death of Meredith.

‘Me’ said the man. ‘I’m Joe Lane and I would like an explanation as to why—’

‘And I,’ said Harris, ‘would like an explanation as to why you and your little pal are wandering around near a crime scene with firearms.’

‘We’re after the dog,’ said the other man, a spotty character in his early thirties.

‘Dog? What dog?’

‘The mad dog,’ said Lane. ‘We reckoned there might be a reward for shooting it. Reckoned them sheep farmers would pay up.’

‘If the farmers wanted the bloody thing shooting they would do it themselves, and take you with it.’ Harris stared at the men. ‘Besides, who are you to go out on something that cockamamie?’

‘We’re big game hunters,’ said Lane proudly. ‘We heard a radio report about the dog and reckoned you could use our expertise. We’re staying in that little town. Levton something.’

‘Big game hunters?’ said Harris, glancing at his sergeant. ‘In Levton Bridge?’

Gallagher laughed but Lane seemed offended by their attitude.

‘We just happen to be professionals and you need professionals in these kind of situations,’ he said tartly. ‘We’re expert trackers, been doing it for years. There’s a big market for the right animal, you know. We’ve hunted all over the world.’

‘All over the world?’

‘Oh, aye, South America, Canada, Africa – shot everything that moves in Africa, we have, antelope, lion, even bagged a gorilla once,’ said Lane proudly. ‘Big bastard he was.’

‘A gorilla?’ said Harris sharply.

‘Like I said, mate, folks will pay top dollar for the right animal. The Yanks they love it – having an animal head stuck over their mantelpiece. They pretend they were the ones as shot it.’

‘And where exactly did you shoot the gorilla?’ asked the inspector.

‘Congo. Mind, it was called Zaire then. Shot it for a retired American businessman. Some geezer from Tulsa. Least that’s what the bloke who hired us reckoned. Most we’d ever been paid for an animal.’

Harris shook his head, trying to control the distaste he was feeling and battling against the rising temptation to knock the man to the floor. Overriding it, though, was the mention of Zaire.

‘And who was this bloke?’ he asked. ‘This middle man in Zaire?’

Lane suddenly turned cautious, his suspicion aroused by the inspector’s interest in the subject.

‘I don’t remember,’ he said, not meeting the detective’s gaze. ‘It were a few years ago.’

‘Pity,’ said Harris, glancing at the firearms inspector, ‘because we were wondering if there is anything we can charge you with after your little jaunt this afternoon. I mean, do you know much it costs to scramble an armed response team? Got to get our money’s worth somehow. It’s all budgets, these days, eh Andy?’

‘Oh, aye,’ said the firearms inspector, latching on to the inspector’s train of thought as he lifted up Lane’s rifle, ‘and I can’t help noticing that this has been modified a little. In fact, I reckon it might turn out to be illegal if we got it down to the workshop, Jack.’

Lane looked worried.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘Maybe I do remember. Some bloke called Garratt. Paul Garratt.’

Harris looked disappointed.

‘Not David Bowes then?’ he asked.

Both hunters looked at him with blank expressions on their faces.

‘Ah, well,’ sighed Harris, ‘it was worth a go. I don’t suppose the name Meredith means anything to you either?’

‘Sorry, mate,’ said Lane.

‘The same for James Thornycroft then, I imagine?’ said Gallagher.

‘Oh, aye, we know him.’

‘You do?’ The sergeant looked at the DCI in astonishment.

‘Yeah, he was a vet. Worked for a charity in Zaire. Rescued monkeys or something. Run by an old geezer called Rylance.’

The detectives gazed at him.

‘Mind, we never met him,’ said Lane hurriedly, further alarmed by their interest. ‘We kept out of their way – old man Rylance did not exactly like our sort.’

‘I wonder why,’ murmured Harris.

‘When he heard that we’d bagged the gorilla, he went berserk, apparently,’ said Lane, glancing at his friend, who nodded. ‘Started offering cash for anyone who could find us, didn’t he? He was a good one for taking the law into his own hands was Donald Rylance. Folks said he was one of the good guys but they were all as bad as each other, if you ask me. Jungle law, that’s what it was out there, jungle law. We got out of the country p.d.q, I can tell you. We ain’t seen any of them for years.’

‘I don’t suppose you know where we can find this Rylance chap, do you?’ asked Gallagher.

‘Six feet under, mate,’ said Lane. ‘Got himself murdered a couple of years back.’

‘Know who did it?’

Lane shrugged.

‘You got a licence for that thing?’ asked Harris, glancing at his rifle.

Lane sighed.

‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘I get the message. You didn’t get this from me but the police reckoned it was this Garratt bloke did it. Mind, it’s not as if it’s a secret or anything like that. Everyone knows it.’

‘And where is this Garratt now?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t want to, neither,’ shrugged Lane. ‘We don’t want dragging into whatever he is up to. You don’t cross Paul Garratt unless you have to. We only worked with him because the money was good. Last time we saw him was after we did that gorilla.’

‘What’d he look like?’ asked the inspector.

‘Why so interested?’ asked Lane, still uneasy.

‘Just idle curiosity.’

‘I’m not sure about this,’ said Lane, glancing at his partner. ‘I really am not sure. Like I said, you don’t mess with Paul G—’

‘Listen,’ said Harris, ‘I’ll do you a deal: you tell me what I want to know and I’ll let you go without any further action – as long as you promise to get in your car and sod off out of my patch once we’ve finished.’

The two hunters exchanged glances.

‘Look, I really don’t know about this,’ said Lane. ‘I mean….’

‘Just ask yourself this then, do you really want to spend the night in my nick?’

Lane looked at the inspector’s muscular frame and close cropped hair and shook his head.

‘If I do tell you,’ he said, ‘you got to promise me that Garratt won’t find out.’

‘Somehow I think we will have other things to discuss than you when we catch up with him,’ said Harris. ‘So what does he look like?’

‘I reckon he’s your age. Brown hair, ’bout average height. Oh, and a scar.’ Lane ran his finger along his neck. ‘Just here.’