Blood Sport: A Yorkshire Murder Mystery (DCI Harry Grimm Crime Thrillers 7)

by David J Gatward

  Harry rubbed tiredness from his eyes and lifted his phone, making the call to the owner of the dog found at Snaizeholme. Above him, the weather itself was clearly aware of what he was doing, as grey clouds gathered and a cold gust of wind rushed at him, sending an icy shiver through to his bones.

  The call connected.

  Harry spoke.

  Chapter Eight

  An hour or so later that morning, Harry was sitting in the kitchen of a small cottage down the dale in the pretty little village of Redmire, a place he had never actually had reason to visit before, until now. And as reasons went, it wasn’t one he’d have asked for. Reporting a death of any kind was always traumatic for the ones receiving the news.

  With a choice of two routes, one heading along the main road that cut through Wensleydale, from Hawes to Leyburn and following the River Ure, the other taking a left in Bainbridge and then on through Askrigg and Carperby, Harry had gone with the latter. It was a road he didn’t know quite so well, so he took the opportunity to have another look, half wondering if he was, by now, used enough to the dales not to be wowed by it.

  He could not have been more wrong.

  Leaving Askrigg behind, though perhaps not the memories of a previous case involving the sad and rather grisly murder of singer Gareth Jones, Harry rolled on down the road, not exactly in a rush to reach his destination. The brief conversation he’d had on the phone with the dog’s owner had leached sadness into his already bone-cold day, and he had no doubt at all that when he arrived he would be dealing with an owner in mourning. Though Harry had never had a pet, he’d known plenty of people in his life who had. And the loss of a pet was, to many, like losing one of the family.

  The grey clouds which had sat over Hawes stayed there and as he drove along Harry enjoyed a clear sky and an empty road. This route was certainly quieter than the other, and to Harry, it was as though he’d stepped back in time a few decades, to those distant days when there weren’t so many cars on the road and perhaps people were in less of a rush.

  Then again, even on a busy day, the traffic in the dales had nothing on what he’d ended up becoming almost blind to down south in Bristol. Getting from one side of that small city to the other was nothing less than an exercise in not going batshit crazy, the traffic moving at a snail’s pace from one junction to the next, traffic lights and crossroads and roundabouts funnelling the masses through roads designed for horse and cart, not cars and trucks and suicidal moped riders. True, a huge amount of work had been done to improve the roads, but Harry wasn’t convinced any of it had been all that successful, particularly the run in along the A37 and through to Temple Meads Station. It never ceased to amaze him just how slow that road could be, how so many people could all be going in the same direction.

  In his time, he’d been on the receiving end of more than enough examples of road rage, drivers frustrated by the stop-start-stop of their journey to the point that they just snapped and needed someone or something to blame. Breaking up a fight between a man in an expensive suit armed with a car jack he’d grabbed out of the boot of his car, and a van driver wielding a hefty length of wood had certainly been a highlight. Though, perhaps the most bizarre of all was the woman in her eighties with hair so pink it looked more like candyfloss than anything grown from a human skull.

  On that day, a hot one in the middle of summer, the traffic had been particularly bad. But when everything came to a dead stop, it didn’t take long for things to start getting out of hand. Horns were beeped, windows wound down to allow creative swearing to be aired, and as Harry had pulled himself out of his vehicle to go and see what exactly the problem was, he’d found himself faced with a sight he would probably never forget.

  The woman, a Mrs Mary Hall, was eighty-three, an ex-school teacher, and an enthusiastic member of her bowls club. Widowed a decade before, she lived alone, attended church every Sunday, and took her role as a grandmother very seriously indeed, often baking so many cakes and biscuits that she had to share them with neighbours. All of this was information she had been happy to share down at the station.

  On the day in question, Harry had found Mrs Mary Hall, who stood barely a hair’s breadth under five feet, going at it with everything she had as she repeatedly whipped the front end of a very expensive white BMW with her walking cane. Dents were appearing all over the bonnet like welts on the palest of skin, a headlight had been smashed, its glass scattered across the road, and ignoring the pleading screams of the BMW’s owner, Mrs Mary Hall had then moved away from the car to take her attack to the driver himself, a smartly dressed forty-something man with a receding hairline and a double chin that would have made a walrus jealous.

  Breaking the fight up had given Harry a black eye courtesy of Mrs Mary Hall’s cane. When interviewed later, Mary had been as surprised as anyone by her own reaction, blaming not just the heat and the traffic, but also the driver of the other car. When asked why she had reacted so violently, her answer had been simple, to the point, and said with the conviction of someone who absolutely believed that in this case, they were in the right.

  ‘He was a very rude man!’ she’d said, her eyes wide and firm. ‘Rude!’

  And that was that.

  Harry couldn’t remember what had then happened to either party, but it certainly bought a smile to his battered face as he drove through Carperby, a village blessed with a small green, a stone cross, and a pub, the Wheatsheaves. Even this early in the day, it looked like an inviting place to pop into, not that it was open.

  Beyond Carperby, and closing in on Redmire, the fields and meadows stretched out on either side of the road, and far off on his right rose the steep slopes of Penhill, shadows clutching to its sides like weary children.

  A few miles on, Harry spotted out to his left the towers of Bolton Castle, a tourist hotspot and one he’d not got around to visiting yet. His younger brother, Ben, had been though, thanks to his blossoming romance with Liz, who’d taken him there on the back of her motorbike. Harry had loved hearing just how much fun his brother had had, though couldn’t quite see the attraction himself of feeding wild boars or listening to someone talk about how the longbow shaped the history of Medieval England.

  At last, Harry arrived in Redmire, and after following the road around a bend into the village, he hung a left, past a small green on the right, then taken another left just after another pub, the Bolton Arms, which had looked even cosier and inviting than the Wheatsheaves in Carperby.

  Parking up, Harry walked over to the front door of a small cottage and gave a sharp knock. The door opened barely a heartbeat later.

  ‘Thought I recognised your voice on the phone,’ said the man standing in the doorway. He was smaller than Harry, at least twenty years his senior, and had skin tanned by time, wind, and rain. ‘That’s that soldier police officer, I said to myself, and right enough, here you are, right enough.’

  It took a moment for Harry to register who he was talking to.

  ‘Mr Black, isn’t it? The gamekeeper?’ Harry said. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Harry Grimm.’

  ‘Call me Arthur,’ said Mr Black. ‘Can’t say I expected to be talking to you again so soon, or at all, if I’m honest, like.’

  It had been a good few months since Harry had last talked to Mr Black when the man had found an abandoned car while out feeding pheasants. That particular car had been owned by best-selling thriller writer, Charlie Baker, whose body had then been found by Arthur’s dog in some nearby woods.

  ‘You coming in, then?’ Arthur asked.

  ‘Yes, if that’s okay,’ Harry said.

  ‘Can’t see that it matters either way,’ Arthur said. ‘But personally, I’d prefer to chat inside in front of the fire, rather than out here waiting for the weather to come in. And it will, sure as I’m standing here talking to you.’

  Harry hesitated, not sure then if Arthur was inviting him in or not.

  ‘Well, get yourself inside, lad!’ Arthur said. ‘I’ll get the kettle on.
’

  Harry stepped inside the house as Arthur moved to one side.

  ‘Through that door there,’ Arthur said with a nod of his head to a room just off the small entrance hall. ‘How do you take it?’

  ‘Just a splash of milk,’ Harry said.

  ‘Right enough,’ Arthur said, then pushed on through another door into a small kitchen, leaving Harry on his own.

  Harry stood for a moment in the hall. On the wall to his right was a coat rack loaded with numerous waxed jackets and a few empty gun slips. Above the kitchen door was the stuffed head of a fox, staring at the front door as though keeping watch.

  Harry moved through to the room where Arthur had directed him and found himself in a small, cosy lounge made even cosier by the fire burning in the grate. A two-seater sofa and an armchair faced the fire as though desperate to pull themselves closer towards it. To the left of the fire, shoved in a corner stood a small television, nothing fancy, and to the right a bookcase. The walls, which were painted a plain white, were mostly hidden behind numerous photographs, all of which were either of various dogs, Arthur and one of said dogs, or a girl, who Harry assumed to be Arthur’s daughter, caught in freeze-frame at various stages of her life.

  Harry followed the photos around the room, time-travelling through someone else’s life.

  ‘That’s my daughter, Grace,’ Arthur said, coming into the room and handing Harry a chipped mug of strong tea. ‘Doesn’t half look like her mother.’

  Harry realised then, that other than the ones of Grace all grown up, she was the only woman to feature in any of the photos on display.

  ‘Died when Grace was a baby,’ Arthur said, answering Harry’s unspoken question.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Harry said. ‘Must’ve been tough.’

  ‘It was,’ Arthur said. ‘Still is, at times, you know? But Grace, she’s done alright, all things considered. Followed me into the business, you know, gamekeeping, like. Loves it. Always has. There’s no money in it, but she’s happy, and that’s what’s important, isn’t it; happiness?’

  ‘Lives locally, then?’ Harry asked.

  ‘She does,’ Arthur said. ‘And you’d be asking that why?’

  Harry saw Arthur’s eyes narrow as he stared up at him. There were questions hiding in them, and not just about Harry, either.

  Harry gestured to the sofa.

  ‘Perhaps we should sit down,’ he said, changing the subject from whatever direction old Arthur’s eyes were suggesting their discussion was heading in.

  Arthur held Harry’s gaze for a moment longer, clearly making a point, though what exactly, Harry wasn’t sure, then took the armchair.

  Harry lowered himself into the sofa. The cushions were soft and for a moment it felt as though the sofa was trying to swallow him. Then a furry head rose from the floor and rested on his knee and Harry found himself eye-to-eye with an old Springer Spaniel, her white and brown fur mottled with age.

  ‘Get yourself down, Molly!’ Arthur said, but Molly’s only response was to lean into Harry’s leg.

  Harry reached over and patted the dog on her head. He heard her tail tap happily on the carpeted floor.

  ‘Molly!’ Arthur said again. ‘Leave him be, will you, you daft dog!’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Harry said, scratching Molly’s chin. ‘She’s a soft one, then.’

  ‘She’s old, she’s deaf, and she’s a complete tart is what she is!’ Arthur said. ‘Molly! Just … will you … Honestly, that dog!’

  Harry couldn’t help but smile as the dog continued to stubbornly ignore her owner. Then, as though deciding at long last to do as she was told, Molly left Harry and mooched on over to the fire, where she slumped down onto her stomach and within moments was snoring.

  ‘Used to be a proper gun dog, that one,’ Arthur said. ‘She’d work a hedge like you wouldn’t believe, flushing birds out all over the place. And she could sniff out a downed bird like no other dog I’ve ever had. Soft mouthed, too; could carry a raw egg for miles in her mouth and hand it back to you uncracked.’

  Harry had no idea at all what Arthur was describing, or why a dog would ever need to be ‘soft-mouthed,’ so he just nodded agreeably.

  ‘She’s certainly got a lovely temperament,’ he said.

  ‘That she has,’ Arthur said, and Harry heard an echo of sorrow in his voice. ‘But it’s not Molly you’re here to talk about is it?’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Harry said.

  ‘So,’ Arthur said, sitting back in his chair, ‘best you get on and tell me what happened to young Jack, then, wouldn’t you say?’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘He was found in a barn,’ Harry explained, ‘over in Snaizeholme, if you know it.’

  ‘Know it?’ Arthur said. ‘I’ve lived in the dales all my life, lad! So I know the place like the back of Grace’s head! Every beck and lane and field and stile! Bit of a bleak place is Snaizeholme, like, and I’ve not been up there in years. Nature reserve now, isn’t it? Need more of that up here, that’s for sure. Protect the place, you know? Stop it getting ruined by whatever the world’s got going on.’

  ‘Currently, we’re unable to say what exactly happened,’ Harry said, ‘but there is reason to believe that he, that Jack, was not killed by accident.’

  Harry was expecting a bit of a pause then from Arthur, as he took in what he’d just said, but the old gamekeeper clearly had other ideas, as he heaved himself up and out of his chair again, face red with rage.

  ‘And just what the hell’s that supposed to mean, then, not killed by accident? What are you saying? What happened to Jack? I mean, he could be a right wee sod, that’s for sure, and that’s why Grace insisted I had him, but it sounds to me like you’re saying he was killed on purpose, and that just doesn’t sit right at all!’

  ‘Right now, all I can say is what I’ve already said,’ Harry replied, staying seated, knowing that he was dealing with a man who wouldn’t accept such an answer. ‘The death doesn’t look accidental.’

  ‘Was he shot, then, for bothering sheep? Is that it?’ Arthur asked, his voice growing louder, a fire bursting to life behind his eyes. ‘Young Jack shot, just like that?’

  Arthur clicked his fingers in front of Harry’s nose, the wind from the action gusting across his face.

  ‘We don’t think he was shot, no,’ Harry said, ‘and Jack’s body is currently being—’

  But Arthur wasn’t listening.

  ‘Because I tell you right now, lad, that’s bollocks, that is! Jack was a Springer-cross, as soft and gentle as they come! Well, not as soft as Molly here, obviously, and like I said, he was a bit of a nightmare, so maybe not soft as such, like, but don’t get me wrong, he was a properly lovely dog! Bothering sheep, though? No, that’s not young Jack, not at all, and I’m telling you that for nowt! He was protective, of me, and that was it!’

  Harry saw an anger in the man that, despite his age, was on the edge of deeply unnerving.

  ‘Jack was one of the best dogs I’ve ever had! Not as a gun dog, though, just so we’re clear, because he was next to bloody useless at that.’

  ‘Really?’ Harry said.

  Arthur gave a nod.

  ‘I mean, he had Springer in him for sure, but that part of his brain was clearly nowt but porridge. Whatever else was in him, though—I always reckoned on it being a bit of Alsatian, but we never knew for sure—well, that was all loyal guard dog. Trained him myself, from a pup. He wouldn’t bother sheep, not in a month of Sundays, and that’s a fact! And if some farmer’s gone and shot him, I’ll…’

  Arthur’s voice broke as he seethed.

  ‘He wasn’t shot,’ Harry said, but Arthur was lost to himself now and momentarily deaf to Harry.

  ‘I tell you now, lad, I’ll be round there to give whoever it is a couple of barrels up the arse myself, that’s for bloody sure, you hear? I’ll have them! I may be old, but I’m no pushover! And while I’m thinking on it, I bet it wasn’t a farmer, was it? No, it wouldn’t be. I bet it�
�s that bastard, Eric Haygarth!’

  ‘Arthur…’ Harry said, trying to get him back on track.

  ‘Worst bloody gamekeeper around, he is! Doesn’t care about animals, doesn’t care about anything, just the money going into his bloody pockets. And they are bloody, that’s for sure! Take the number of birds of prey he’s killed, well that’s criminal for a start, isn’t it?’

  Harry went to answer, but Arthur didn’t give him a chance.

  ‘I mean, who the hell thinks it’s right to do that? Who? Birds of prey, they’re rare for a start, but it’s not just that, you know, it’s the ethics. That man has no love of the countryside, no love of nature! And he’s a jealous old bastard. Always has been. Fancied Grace’s mum, you see. Never liked that she married me and never once threw an eye his way.’

  ‘Arthur…’

  ‘There’s plenty he should be locked up for, you mark my words! Whether he’s involved in what happened to Jack or not, he needs putting away, that’s for sure! He’s an embarrassment to all of us gamekeepers who do the job properly, caring for the animals, for the land, working with both.’ Arthur was on his feet. ‘Come on! Let’s go arrest him now!’

  ‘Arthur!’ Harry said, his voice a little louder than he’d expected it to be, but at least it had the desired effect and grabbed the old gamekeeper’s attention, stopping him from rambling on and on. ‘I’m telling you, if you’ll just listen for a moment, that Jack wasn’t shot! That much was been confirmed by the pathologist. And we’ll know more when I’ve spoken to the vet. Also, I can’t just go around arresting people because they’re not liked.’

  ‘Wasn’t shot?’ Arthur said, still on his feet. ‘Then, what happened to him? And what do you mean, exactly, by Jack not being killed by accident? If he wasn’t shot, how else could he have been killed, then? Run over on purpose? I wouldn’t put it past Eric to do that, either. Hates me, he does. Feeling’s mutual, that’s for sure.’

  ‘He wasn’t run over either,’ Harry said.