To Die Alone (8 page)

‘She, mate.’ There was a pause. ‘Annie Gorman. You remember Annie, don’t you?’

‘Jeez, she was only a sergeant when I—’

‘Careful how you phrase it, Hawk.’

‘I was going to say when I left GMP.’

‘I’ve heard it called many things,’ chuckled Leckie. ‘She’s on a fast-track is our Annie.’

‘So it would seem. What do you reckon then, will you be able to set something up?’

‘Leave it with me.’

The inspector hit the cancel button, slipped the phone into his pocket and walked over to the door. He looked around the office for a moment or two, gave a chuckle, muttered ‘Annie Gorman’, switched off the light and walked slowly down the deserted corridor.

Dawn was only just streaking the sky the next morning when Jack Harris emerged from his home and surveyed the dim shapes of the hills. Home was a tumbledown cottage on a narrow track halfway up one of the best known local landmarks, referred to locally as the Dead Hill. Harris had purchased the house, which was obscured from the winding valley road below by a fold in the hillside, after stumbling across it while out on a walk with Scoot. The former shepherd’s cottage had been dilapidated and it had taken the inspector the best part of a year to restore it to habitable condition, doing most of the tasks himself and calling in favours for the rest. Now, it was his bolthole, close enough to Levton Bridge if he needed to get there quickly, but far enough to escape the world: the nearest habitation was a farm well out of sight on the other side of the hill and Jack Harris liked the fact that he could not see anyone from his front window.

However, as his mother had always told him when he was a young man, he could escape the world but he could not escape himself and that had proved the case yet again when he had reached the cottage just a few hours previously. Having completed his conversation with Leckie, the inspector had headed out of Levton Bridge, deep in thought as he guided his Land Rover along the valley road until he took a right turn and edged the vehicle up the rocky little path leading to the cottage. On arrival, he had taken Scoot for a ten-minute walk across the hillside, the inspector turning up his collar as the wind gathered pace once more and drove the rain hard into their faces. Halfway down the track, man and dog had abandoned the effort and run for the welcome warmth of home and hearth and malt whisky.

Once back in the cottage, Scoot had wolfed down some dog biscuits and curled up in front of the crackling log fire in the living room and Harris had sat in the worn armchair, sipping his drink and trying to read a wildlife book to clear his mind. Harris usually turned to wildlife books for relaxation – the antique bookcase in the corner of the room was piled high with them, many on the brink of toppling off the shelves – but, time and time again, the breeding cycle of pelagic cormorants failed to hold his attention and he found himself dragged back to the events of the day. Eventually, he had given a sigh and let the book fall to the floor, the inspector instead sitting and staring gloomily into the flickering flames of the fire.

The revelation that a gangland figure like Gerry Radford might be involved in his investigation – Harris was convinced the gunmen were his associates – had given the inquiry an added frisson for the detective, bringing back some old memories. As he sat there, he was honest enough to admit that it was a revelation that was not completely unwelcome: Gerry Radford was unfinished business. Harris and Radford went back a long way and the inspector’s mind ranged across events that he had hoped to forget yet secretly wanted to remember. Sitting and staring out into the darkness, oblivious to the rain spattering against the window, Harris could see once again the mocking smile on Gerry Radford’s face. He clenched his fist and quickly stopped, realizing that he was still holding the whisky glass.

When the momentary anger had passed, Harris acknowledged to himself that there was another reason why the involvement of a man such as Gerry Radford had excited his interest. The inspector knew that part of him missed the murky world of organized crime. He had returned to work in his home town of Levton Bridge because in Manchester’s urban sprawl, he had desperately missed the North Pennine hills and their solitude, had wanted to look out upon big northern skies, had craved the sound of the wind whistling across the escarpments and been desperate to stand and watch buzzards quartering the slopes in search of prey. However, Jack Harris knew that sometimes he also missed the big city, missed the challenge of gangland figures like Gerry Radford. Missed? Was missed the right word, he asked himself as he sipped his whisky? It was the word he always used but, if he was honest,
needed
was a much more apt word. Even though Harris already knew this, it still surprised him each time he thought it.

After considering the involvement of Gerry Radford, Jack Harris had gone on to think about other things. Having allowed himself some pleasant recollections of Annie Gorman’s charms, he focused his mind on the events that had occurred since Trevor Meredith’s disappearance the previous morning. As he did so, he found himself thinking that he was missing something. At the back of his mind was the nagging conviction that he had seen something that should have triggered his instincts but had failed to do so. Something that would have unlocked one of the investigation’s many secrets.

Shortly after three, after fruitlessly racking his brains for the best part of an hour and half, the inspector had given a low curse and emptied his third glass of whisky – he knew he should have stopped at two with an early start ahead of him but it was good stuff – and climbed wearily up to bed. His sleep had been short and fitful, disturbed by the noise of the storm raging outside. As he had lain there in the darkness, Scoot sprawled across the bottom of the bed, Harris had listened to the conifers swaying and creaking in the nearby copse as the gale screached its crescendo before blowing itself out. With each sound, the inspector’s mind went back to Trevor Meredith and his poor dog lying amongst the bracken. More than once, Jack Harris reached out to the bottom of the bed and stroked the slumbering Scoot.

Morning brought a calmer, different feeling. With that thick-headed feeling that only lack of sleep and a couple of drinks too many can engender, Jack Harris stood for a few moments outside the cottage and let his gaze roam slowly around the hills as they stretched away into the distance, the green of the slopes in the early morning mist fading to blackness up at the summit, the only sounds the bleating of sheep and the chuckling of the stream as it weaved its way past the rear of the cottage. As he gathered his wits, breathed in the fresh morning air and started to feel himself come alive, Jack Harris smiled at the ever-strengthening streaks of light which heralded the dawn of a new day. As ever, it was a view that brought calm to his mind: the view that had been with him during his army days, wherever he had been in the world, the view that had brought him back to the valley after so many years away; the view which never failed to work its magic.

Feeling better already and light of step, he set off, followed by Scoot, for their early morning walk, over to the copse and round a couple of the fields, the inspector pausing repeatedly, as he always did, to gaze out over the valley stretching away below them, its details gradually revealed in the emerging daylight. Constitutional completed, Harris grabbed a quick bacon sandwich, then man and dog climbed into the Land Rover and the inspector made the twenty-five minute drive along the valley to Levton Bridge, allowing his mind to make the gradual transition from solitude to police station hubbub. As he approached the town, his radio crackled.

‘Control here,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Just to let you know that the media circus has turned up. They’re camped on the front step.’

‘Just what we need,’ said Harris. ‘Is Coco the Clown in?’

‘In his office.’

‘Even better,’ sighed the inspector.

Ten minutes later he was driving into the town, navigating the vehicle through narrow streets, past houses with lights out and curtains still drawn. He brought the vehicle to a halt at the bottom of the hill leading to the market place, a hundred metres from the Victorian house that had acted as Levton Bridge Police Station for as long as anyone could remember. The inspector leaned his elbows on his steering wheel for a few moments and silently surveyed the scene. Gathered in front of the station was a group of journalists and Harris could see at least one television camera. He was not surprised to see them: the suspicious death of a man and his dog on the high hills had the media sensing a story. Besides, everyone knew that Jack Harris made for good copy.

Spotting the inspector’s familiar white Land Rover, the journalists turned and headed down the street towards him. Harris started edging the vehicle forwards, ignoring their shouted pleas as he manoeuvred through the throng and parked it in front of the police station: ever since Curtis had issued an edict that all police vehicles be parked in the yard at the rear of the building, Jack Harris had made a point of parking at the front. Getting out of the vehicle, Scoot behind him, the inspector picked his way through the crowd and walked up the front steps of the building, conscious of the clicking cameras behind him.

‘DCI Harris?’ said a man’s voice. ‘Can you tell us the name of the dead man found on the hills yesterday yet?’

‘No comment.’

‘Come on, Jack,’ said a young woman, ‘you never do no comment.’

The inspector turned and looked at her: she was an attractive young blonde reporter who worked for the local television station. Harris had noticed her before and, perusal concluded, he gave the slightest of smiles, turned and headed back up the steps. The look was not lost on the young woman and she blushed and fell silent.

‘Come on, Harris, give us a break,’ said a man’s voice. ‘Is it still rated as suspicious, or are you saying it’s a murder now?’

‘All in good time,’ said Harris, pushing his way into the building.

‘And what about this mad dog roaming the hills?’ asked another reporter.

‘All in good time,’ repeated the inspector as the door started to close behind him.

‘But my news editor says we can’t really wait until your press conference.’

‘What press conference?’ asked the inspector, walking back outside and looking down at the young man from the top of the steps.

‘Your superintendent says there’ll be one at nine,’ said the reporter, handing the inspector a fax. ‘Reckons he’ll give us all the details we need.’

‘Does he indeed?’

‘Yeah,’ said another of the reporters, ‘we assume you’ll be putting something out about the other incident as well. We heard there might have been a firearm involved. Can you tell us anything about what happened? Is it true that a shot was—?’

‘No comment,’ said the inspector and disappeared into the station without a further word.

Once in, he walked purposefully up to the first floor and along the main corridor to the office occupied by Philip Curtis. Without knocking, the inspector entered and stood for a moment, surveying the man behind the desk with his customary distaste. Always someone who had respected rank during his Military days, Harris had found that mindset challenged by the arrival of Philip Curtis. More used to senior officers who stood up for their troops, the inspector had quickly come to suspect that the superintendent’s main – and probably only – priority was his own career-advancement. Everyone at Levton Bridge knew that was not the way Jack Harris approached things and it had long been apparent to everyone else in the station that their viewpoints were irreconcilable. Indeed, a scathing Harris had often used the phrase ‘stuffed shirt’ about the divisional commander. Curtis, for his part, confided to his few close allies within the station that he resented the lack of respect afforded to him by his head of CID.

A tall thin man, with sharply angular features and thinning dark hair, Curtis was flicking through some paperwork and glanced up with irritation when the inspector entered the room.

‘How many times do I have to tell you, you should knock before…?’ he began but the look on the inspector’s face caused him to leave the sentence unfinished. ‘Ah, it’s you.’

Harris gave him a dark look and the superintendent shuffled his papers into a neat pile and placed them carefully in one of the trays on his desk, all moves designed to buy himself time as he pondered how best to play the conversation. Encounters with Jack Harris were rarely easy affairs.

‘A busy night then,’ observed the superintendent after a few moments. ‘I tried to ring you but, for some reason, I could not get an answer.’

‘Bad reception.’

‘Ah, indeed.’ It was always the same answer. ‘So what progress are you making?’

‘I was rather hoping that you would tell me,’ said the inspector, ignoring the commander’s gesture to take a seat.

‘I’m sorry?’

Harris held up the fax.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Curtis. ‘Yes, I was going to talk to you about that. You see—’

‘I don’t recall sanctioning a press conference.’

‘No, I did that.’

‘Without asking me?’

‘I felt we needed to issue something, Jack. You know how fast word gets round in this place. The control room received a number of calls last night and the duty press officer suggested that we had to do something. That’s why I was ringing you – or trying to ring you anyway. Since people already seemed to know about the shooting up on the hills, I took the decision in my capacity as ….’

His voice tailed off as Harris glowered at him. Loath to spark yet another row, Curtis made an effort to look more conciliatory, gesturing once again to the chair.

‘Sit down, Jack.’

Harris hesitated.

‘Please.’

The inspector sighed and sat down, and, arms folded across his chest, eyed the superintendent balefully.

‘Perhaps we should start this conversation again,’ said Curtis, encouraged that the inspector did not disagree with the suggestion. ‘So, might I ask what you would like me to say at the press conference?’

‘You?’ There was an edge in the inspector’s voice.

‘Yes. I rather assumed that with everything that has been happening, you would be too busy to talk—’

‘And you wouldn’t be?’ asked the inspector, nodding at the in-tray. ‘Surely, there are bits of paper need signing?’

Curtis looked for a moment as if was about to remonstrate, but instead he gave the thinnest of smiles.

‘Yes, I am sure there are,’ he said. ‘You do the press conference if you want to.’

‘No,’ replied Harris, satisfied that his point had been made but also acutely aware that the superintendent was right: there was a lot of work to do, ‘no, you do it.’

‘So what do I tell them? Are we assuming that the murder is linked to the attack on these farmers last night?’