To Die Alone (15 page)

‘It’s all here,’ said Matty Gallagher, quickly scanning the contents of the web page that he had called up on the computer on his desk. ‘Joe Lane wasn’t lying about any of it.’

Jack Harris and Alison Butterfield crossed the room to peer over the sergeant’s shoulder. It was shortly before eight that evening and they had convened in the CID room at Levton Bridge, over a sandwich and a cup of tea. Also present were three detective constables, two men and a young woman, and Gillian Roberts, who was sitting at a corner desk, reading through a file.

‘This Rylance bloke was at his house in the suburbs of Kinshasa,’ said Gallagher, leaning forward to read the news item, running his forefinger over the words. ‘June 2007 it was. Someone went in one night and shot him dead. Police ruled out robbery because nothing was stolen. This says they reckon he might have known his killer.’

‘Doesn’t say it was Garratt, though,’ said Harris.

Gallagher did another search.

‘But this does,’ he said, pointing to the screen. ‘This is BBC News three days later.’

Police name suspect in hunt for murder of conservationist
, the headline said.

Gallagher turned round in his seat to look up at the inspector.

‘You still thinking David Bowes might be Garratt?’ he asked.

‘Not sure,’ said Harris. ‘What would a man like that be doing up here?’

‘Maybe he was after Thornycroft,’ said Gallagher. ‘Something spilling over from their time in Africa.’

‘I’d happily put a bullet in him,’ nodded Butterfield, adding quickly on noticing their expression. ‘Sorry, figure of speech.’

‘Hey,’ said Gallagher, scrolling down the page, ‘they’ve got a picture of Garratt.’

This time, everyone else in the room crowded round to stare over his shoulder at the screen, gazing in fascinated silence at the grainy image of the man with brown hair and a scar running down the right side of his neck. The image looked as if it was taken from a larger picture. The caption confirmed it was Paul Garratt.

‘I reckon that’s David Bowes,’ said Harris, ‘and if he is still in our area, we have to get to him fast. God knows what else he’ll do if he’s brought some kind of feud here.’

‘Yeah, but about what?’ said Gillian Roberts. ‘And where does Trevor Meredith fit into it?’

‘Maybe this will tell us,’ said Gallagher, who had been doing another search, this time on the website set up by Rylance’s animal charity. ‘Ah, that’s a blow – looks like it has closed down. The site hasn’t been updated for the best part of two years.’

‘Yeah,’ said Butterfield, pointing to a small box to the side of the screen ‘The charity was disbanded after Donald Rylance died.’

‘Is there anything about Thornycroft?’ asked Harris.

‘Way ahead of you, guv,’ said Gallagher, clicking on a section entitled ‘The Donald Rylance Story’. He took a bite of sandwich while he waited for the page to load then glared at the screen. ‘Jesus, it’s getting worse. When is Curtis going to do something about it, guv?’

‘I’ll let you ask him.’

‘Ah, no,’ said Gallagher, who had been relieved to hear, when the sergeant arrived back at the station, that the superintendent had gone home. ‘No, it probably isn’t the best time.’

The sergeant gave another ‘tssk’ of frustration then leaned forward as the page eventually opened and a photograph slowly emerged showing an elegant white-suited, white-haired man with a goatee beard, sitting on a veranda sipping a cocktail. They could make out trees in the background.

‘That must be Rylance,’ said Harris.

‘Yeah, it is,’ said Gallagher, pointing to the caption. ‘Looks like his charity had some sort of reserve in the jungle and that’s where this was taken. There’s another picture down below it. Looks like it was taken at the same place.’

The sergeant scrolled down to reveal an image depicting a group of men beaming at the camera. Rylance sat in the middle of the front row, walking cane in hand, flanked by beaming African volunteers. On the end of the back row stood three white men. One of them was Paul Garratt, the detectives recognizing the picture as the source of the image used on the news website following the murder.

‘Well, well, well, look who it is,’ said Harris, pointing to the man standing beside him.

‘James Thornycroft,’ said Butterfield. ‘I’d know that supercilious smile anywhere.’

‘And that,’ said Jack Harris quietly, as he leaned over to peer at the third person, ‘beard or not, is Trevor Meredith.’

‘Yeah,’ said Gallagher, ‘but this says that he is called Robert Dunsmore. Maybe he shaved the beard off so that no one would recognize him.’

‘Does it say when the picture was taken?’ asked Butterfield.

Gallagher read the small print of the caption.

‘Eleven years ago,’ he said.

‘Which explains why we couldn’t find anything about Trevor Meredith before he turned up here,’ said Harris, patting his sergeant on the back. ‘Like you said, Matty lad, he was a non-person.’

‘It definitely looks like we are on the right track,’ nodded the sergeant.

‘Agreed,’ said Harris as the other officers returned to their desks, ‘but we should not ignore everything else. Gillian, have the background checks on the sanctuary thrown anything interesting up?’

‘All the staff are clean, none of them has so much as a parking ticket,’ said the DI, flicking through the file she had been reading.

‘What about this rumour of the place closing down? I seem to remember several letters about it in the local rag.’

‘Yeah, but a rumour is all it seems to have been, guv. The sanctuary denied it at the time, put out a statement to the newspaper. I left a message for Barry Ramsden to ring me back but he has not done so yet. We’ll know more when he does. Not sure if it is important, mind.’

‘You’re probably right,’ said the inspector glancing up at the clock on the wall and reaching for his jacket, which he had slung over the back of one of the chairs. ‘Come on then, show time.’

The DI nodded and stood up.

‘Matty lad,’ said Harris, glancing at the sergeant’s computer screen as he headed for the door, ‘can you print me out a copy of that picture of our friend David Bowes?’

‘Coming right up,’ nodded Gallagher. ‘What do you want me to do while you’re out?’

‘Can you drop in on Gaynor Thornycroft at hospital on your way home? I reckon she might know more than she is letting on.’

‘Come on, guys,’ said Harris irritably as he held up the computer print-out showing David Bowes’ face. ‘One of you must know something about him.’

The inspector was standing in the poorly lit bar, which he had ordered closed to customers: a uniformed officer was standing guard at the front door. The only people allowed in were the men sitting nervously in front of Harris and Roberts now. All had been summoned to the meeting an hour before and those who had proved reluctant to attend had been threatened with a police van being sent to pick them up, lights flashing and sirens blaring. None of them wanted that: they all knew how fast word of such incidents spread in Levton Bridge. Even though all were now here, they still sat saying nothing and resentfully watching the inspector as he paced the room. Perched on a stool at the bar, and wondering if it would be unprofessional to order a G and T, Gillian Roberts watched the inspector’s performance as well, but with amusement: it always reminded her of a caged tiger for some reason. She had seen him do it with villains enough times to know that the men in the room would be panicking.

At a table on one side of the room were Dennis Soames and Len Radley, the latter deliberately sitting a little apart from Charlie Myles: it was the first time the two men had met since their brawl in the market place the night before. On the other side, and sitting alone, was the trainee accountant, a skinny bespectacled man, and at the next table, the shopkeeper, a large man with a shock of black hair, and two local farm labourers in their twenties. The pub landlord, a ruddy-faced man in his fifties, stood behind the bar, glaring balefully at the inspector but only when he was sure Harris was not looking. Eventually, the landlord could contain himself no longer.

‘How long is this going to take?’ he said, glancing up at the clock on the wall. ‘I’m losing money, Jack.’

‘That’s DCI Harris to you, Eddie,’ said the inspector curtly. ‘And it will take as long as it takes. I’m happy to stay here all night if that is what is needed.’

The landlord sighed but said nothing. As Jack Harris walked slowly past each man, fixing them with a stern glare in turn, Gillian Roberts glanced down and double-checked the list provided by Dennis Soames in the canteen the night before: apart from Trevor Meredith, James Thornycroft and David Bowes, the known members of the poker ring were all there. She looked up and tried to read the men’s faces, to see who, if any, was concealing something, but all she could read was fear. Poor poker players they would make, she thought. Mind, it was understandable, Jack Harris did that to people: like the DCI had always said, administer the odd slap from time to time and you could run any small town in the world. What would Philip Curtis say if he realized the half of how Jack Harris really got things done in Levton Bridge, thought Roberts? She smiled at the thought.

‘Well,’ said Harris, glaring at the men. ‘I am waiting. What was Bowes like?’

No one said anything.

‘Let’s start with an easier one then,’ said the inspector, holding the picture up a little higher. ‘Can you confirm that this is definitely him?’

He turned to the landlord.

‘Come on, Eddie,’ he said. ‘It’s hardly a difficult question.’

The landlord nodded ever so slightly.

‘I’ll take that as yes,’ said the inspector. ‘If a grudging one. What was he like?’

‘I never really noticed.’

Harris turned to Roberts.

‘I was only saying to the detective inspector earlier today,’ he said, ‘that the licensing magistrates would take a pretty dim view of stoppy-back poker games being held at a pub in their area. In fact, am I not right in saying that they closed down the Mitre at Eppleton for something similar a few months back?’

‘Yes, they did,’ nodded Roberts. ‘Nasty business. The landlord lost his job, of course. Last I heard he was on the dole. Him, his wife and two small children living in a horrible little bedsit down in Roxham. Doesn’t bear thinking about. What’s more—’

‘OK, OK,’ said the landlord, ‘I get the message, but I really can’t tell you much. He was just a normal bloke who liked his poker.’

‘So whose idea was it?’

More blank faces.

‘Come on, gentlemen,’ sighed Harris. ‘I really – genuinely – do not want to get heavy over this. After all, we have turned a blind eye to things that just about every one of you does from time to time. Take Len, for instance, by rights I should have banged him up for trying to take my head off last night.’

Without realizing it, Radley reached up and rubbed his swollen nose, which was now sporting a livid bruise.

‘And you, Eddie,’ continued the inspector, ‘we’ve been ignoring your stoppy-backs for years. What we did not know about was the poker.’

‘I can’t see what interest it is to you anyway,’ said the landlord with a surly look on his face. ‘It was just a bit of fun. It didn’t harm anyone.’

‘It might have harmed Trevor Meredith,’ said the inspector quietly.

He watched the sidled glances between the men and the alarm on the faces of all of them.

‘Listen, guys,’ he said, his tone of voice softer, ‘you know me. I don’t care what you do after hours as long as it doesn’t impinge on anyone else’s life, but this time it has, hasn’t it?’

The inspector looked at Radley and Myles.

‘I mean, last night we had you two daft buggers squaring up to each other in the market-square and uniform reckon this place was bedlam yesterday. I think the trouble was all to do with gambling debts, and when two old friends like you come to blows we have to get involved. There really are no options. That’s not something I can keep from Curtis.’

Radley and Myles looked at the floor.

‘And when one of your regulars gets murdered,’ continued the inspector, looking at the landlord, ‘it becomes even more serious. I am pretty sure that what has been happening here has nothing to do with the murder, but I do want it sorted out. I want all debts settled within twenty-four hours and assurances that the poker comes to an end. In return, I’ll smooth things over at our end. Understand?’

The landlord looked at him glumly. No one else spoke.

‘So come on,’ said Harris wearily. ‘I had virtually no sleep last night and I really am starting to get sick of people stonewalling us on this. Will someone tell me what the hell has been going on around here? How did the poker start?’

There was a few moments silence.

‘It was Eddie’s idea,’ said the young accountant eventually. ‘Eddie, tell them.’

‘OK, OK,’ sighed the landlord. ‘Yes, it was my idea. We started three or four months ago. I knew it was wrong but business has been so quiet lately and I reckoned I could sell a few more drinks. It only started with three or four of us then the others kind of tagged along.’

‘And Bowes? How often did he play?’

‘Couple of nights a week.’

‘So do I assume that you remember what he was like now, Eddie?’ said Harris.

‘He was quite posh,’ nodded the landlord.

‘Yeah,’ said Len Radley, ‘he drank white wine.’

‘Positively regal,’ said Harris, with a smile. ‘Who would have thought it in a place like this?’

Eddie scowled at the comment.

‘Do we know where he came from?’ asked Roberts, the first time she had spoken during the encounter.

‘I did ask him once,’ said the trainee accountant. ‘You know, trying to be friendly, but he blanked me. Mind, Trevor Meredith, he were the same. He would never tell you anything about himself either.’

‘How did Meredith come to be part of your game?’ asked the detective inspector.

‘He saw me in the street one day,’ said the landlord. ‘Said he had heard what was happening and could he join in? Said he liked a game of poker from time to time. That’s when it started to go wrong.’

‘Wrong?’ asked Roberts. ‘What do you mean wrong, Eddie?’

‘We just played for fun but him and Bowes, they were more serious about it. Liked gambling for more money than the rest of us could afford.’ The landlord glanced pointedly at Radley and Myles. ‘And some of us got carried away, if you ask me.’

‘What about James Thornycroft?’ asked the DI. ‘How come he was involved?’

‘Came with Meredith one night. He seemed to know David Bowes. Mind, so did Meredith. Some times, the three of them would go off into the main bar and sit in the dark talking.’

‘About what?’ asked Roberts.

‘I don’t know. They kept their voices down and if any of us went close, they stopped.’

‘So what about…?’ began Harris but was interrupted by his mobile phone ringing.

The DCI glanced down at the name on the screen.

‘Look after things here, will you, Gillian?’ he said, and without further explanation the inspector walked out of the bar.

The detective inspector heard the door into the market-place open and could see through the pub window, illuminated by the street lights, the silhouette of Jack Harris pacing up and down, engrossed in his phone conversation. He did not return for fifteen minutes, by which time the DI’s interrogation was over and the men were sitting at the bar, nursing pints, and shooting occasional resentful looks in her direction.

‘I miss anything?’ asked Harris, returning to Roberts, who was seated at a table in the corner, well away from the others, the G and T in front of her. ‘You pay for that?’

‘Of course. Who was that on the phone?’

‘An old mate of mine in Customs,’ said Harris quietly as he sat down. ‘This is fast turning into what Curtis would no doubt call a multi-disciplinary operation.’

‘How come Customs are involved?’

‘When the Africa thing cropped up, I had this hunch. Asked my mate if he could do some digging around for anything on David Bowes.’

‘And?’

‘He’d never heard of him but when I mentioned the name Paul Garratt, the floodgates opened.’ Harris glanced round, keeping his voice low. ‘Oh, and he also knew all about Meredith when he was Robert Dunsmore – and, believe me, there is a lot to know.’

Before the chief inspector could elaborate further, the officers heard the front door of the pub open and looked up to see Butterfield striding purposefully across the room towards them.

‘Guess what?’ said the constable excitedly when she got to the table.

‘It’s a big question, Constable,’ said Harris. ‘You will have to give me some kind of a clue.’

‘Jasmine Riley has turned up!’

‘Now that,’ said Harris happily, ‘is my kind of a clue.’