It was already three in the afternoon and so far not one single person had either called or popped in to ask Harry, or any of the others, to help tow a tractor out of a field, find a lost sheep, give a stern talking-to to wayward teenagers skipping school, or even attend a traffic incident or a break-in. It was, in every sense of the word, rather wonderful, and Harry was loving it.
Something tickled against Harry’s legs and he looked down to see two bright, keen eyes staring up at him from a face of fur.
‘And what do you want?’ Harry asked, reaching down to scratch the scalp of Fly, a Border Collie pup that his PCSO, James Metcalf, was supposedly training as a sheepdog, but which seemed considerably more interested in lying around on the floor and hoovering up cake crumbs.
‘You’re a soft little bugger, aren’t you?’ Harry said, Fly’s tail thumping the ground hard. A second or two later the momentum of the tail became too much for the rest of the body it was attached to, and Fly flipped onto his back, tummy up, fully expecting a rub.
‘Aye, you are that,’ a voice said from across the room, its Highland lilt almost singing each word. ‘That wee dog has you wrapped around its paws.’
Harry looked up to see Detective Inspector Gordanian ‘Gordy’ Haig standing in the doorway.
‘It does not.’
‘You keep telling yourself that,’ Gordy said, coming over to crouch down next to the dog and tickle its tummy. ‘But we know the truth, don’t we, Fly? Yes we do!’
Harry laughed. Gordy had a point, but he wasn’t about to admit to it. Well, not out loud, anyway.
‘Where’s Jim, then?’ Gordy asked. ‘And why’s this daft creature with you and not with him?’
‘Up at the school,’ Harry said. ‘Doing one of those class chats with the kids. You know, tell them all about how great the police force is, that kind of thing.’
‘Short talk then,’ Gordy said. ‘Thought he would’ve taken Fly with him, though. The kids would love him.’
‘Too much of a distraction,’ Harry explained. ‘At least that’s what I told him.’ He scratched the dog’s head again.
Gordy laughed, the sound jumping around the room, joyous and free.
‘So, what’s brought you over this way, then?’ Harry asked, pushing himself up onto his feet to make his way over to the kettle. He didn’t actually need another mug of tea, it just felt odd to have an empty mug in his hand. And this was a feeling which had grown over his short time in the dales. Tea had become very, very important. ‘Things quiet, down dale? Fancy a brew?’
‘A brew? Good grief, Harry, you’re going native.’
‘When in Rome, right?’
‘This isn’t Rome.’
‘Yes, but there’s a Roman road nearby,’ Harry countered, waving a knowing finger. ‘Quite a nice one, too, actually. Worth a walk. I actually went for a run along it a couple of weeks back.’
‘Not sure that really counts.’
‘I suppose,’ Harry said, then held up his mug. ‘So, do you want one, or not?’
Gordy shook her head.
‘No, I’m good, thanks. Just popped in, that’s all, double-checking on the arrangements for this weekend.’
Harry raised an eyebrow.
‘Arrangements?’ he said. ‘For this weekend?’
‘Yes,’ Gordy replied. ‘Those arrangements.’
‘Ah, yes, well, that’s good,’ Harry said.
Gordy stared at Harry.
‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’
‘Forgotten what?’
‘This weekend, what’s happening.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ Harry lied and dropped his eyes to Fly in the hope that staring at the dog would somehow jog his memory. It didn’t and the dog just wagged his tail, which was no help at all.
‘Matt’s anniversary?’ Gordy said. ‘They’ve been married twenty years, him and Joan. So, we’re all heading out for a meal and a few drinks. Should be nice.’
‘Oh, that!’ Harry exclaimed a little too enthusiastically, and thus ruined any chance at sounding at all convincing.
‘I’m also wondering,’ Gordy said, ‘if you’ve forgotten to get them a little something as well?’
‘What? A present? Of course I have! All in hand, actually.’
Harry focused hard on pouring his next mug of tea. At least that way he didn’t have to look directly into the accusing face of the DI.
‘Is Matt around, at all?’ Gordy asked. ‘At least I know there’s no chance of him having forgotten.’
‘Popped out about five minutes ago,’ Harry said. ‘Won’t be long, I’m sure.’
As if on cue, Detective Sergeant Matt Dinsdale pushed through the door and into the room.
‘Here we go, Boss!’ he said, pulling something from his pocket. ‘A nice bit of cake for the afternoon!’ Then he spotted Gordy. ‘There’s enough for you, too,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘I won’t,’ Gordy said. ‘I’m not staying. Just checking that everything’s still good for the weekend? No change of plan or anything?’
‘No, none at all!’ Matt replied, his face breaking out the king of smiles. ‘Arrangements are the same.’ He gave a nod over at Harry. ‘I’m taking old Harry here down Crackpot Cave in the morning because that’s where I actually proposed to Joan.’
‘Wait, what?’ Harry said, looking up and over at the DS. ‘You’re taking me where?’
‘You’re going to film me proposing again,’ Matt said. ‘Like we said, remember?’
Harry had a vague recollection of Matt asking if he’d help him sort something out for his wedding anniversary.
‘I know it’s stupidly romantic and all, but I thought it might be a nice thing to do. I’ve arranged for Joan to have the morning out with some friends, bit of pampering, like. She doesn’t know anything about it, our trip that is. It’ll be a surprise.’
Harry forced his face to smile. ‘I can well imagine that it will.’
‘Whatever it is you’re doing, stop,’ Gordy said staring at Harry, a look of barely disguised horror on her face.
‘I’m smiling,’ Harry said.
‘Oh, right, so that’s what it is,’ Gordy said. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’
Harry laughed, then with a fresh mug of tea, took a seat again. ‘So, this caving trip . . .’ he said, glancing over at Matt. ‘Remind me about it.’
‘We’re doing it properly,’ Matt said. ‘I’ll pick you up first thing—’
‘First thing? What does that mean?’
‘Early,’ Matt replied. ‘Eight sound good?’ He didn’t give Harry the chance to reply. ‘Then we’ll head on over, get ourselves down the cave, have a nice little explore and a bite to eat while we’re down there filming me being all romantic, then back out and into town for a full English! And nothing tastes better after a few hours underground, that I promise you.’
Harry couldn’t fault the DS’s unbridled enthusiasm for scrabbling around in small, muddy holes, deep underground, or for the promise of an enormous breakfast.
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Harry said, only now remembering agreeing to accompany Matt when he’d asked him a couple of weeks ago.
Gordy was at the door again. ‘Right then, I’ll see you both on Saturday evening. I’ve got tomorrow afternoon off, by the way, so try not to stumble on any major crimes.’
‘What you up to?’ Harry asked.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Gordy said. ‘Not your kind of thing I’m sure.’
‘What isn’t?’ Matt asked.
‘There’s an author I like doing an event at a bookshop down in Leyburn,’ Gordy said.
‘An author?’ Harry asked. ‘Anyone we’ve heard of?’
‘Charlie Baker,’ said Gordy.
Matt’s eyes widened. ‘Really? You’re having us on! Charlie Baker? The Charlie Baker?’
‘You’ve got absolutely no idea who it is, have you?’ Gordy sighed.
Matt shook his head. ‘No, not really.’
‘What kind of books do
es he write?’ Harry asked. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d read a book. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy reading, just that he wasn’t in the habit of buying books. Or looking for books. Or thinking about them.
‘It’s not romance, is it?’ Matt said.
‘Would it matter if it was?’ Gordy asked. Then she said, ‘He’s a thriller writer. He’s doing his launch event up here because he’s set some of the novel in the dales.’
‘Really?’ Harry said. ‘Does it mention how everyone around here drinks gallons of tea and eats cheese with cake?’
‘Funny you should mention that,’ Matt said, and went to pull something else from his pocket.
‘That’s cheese, isn’t it?’ Harry said.
‘Could be,’ Matt replied, his hand still in his pocket.
‘Look, I’m still not sure about. . .’
Matt revealed the contents of his pocket—some Wensleydale cheese wrapped in pale greaseproof paper.
‘Yes, but you’re at least giving it a go now, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘And that’s progress, isn’t it? Small steps, Boss, small steps.’
‘What did I say about you going native?’ Gordy said, an eyebrow raised.
‘So, this book,’ Harry said, changing the subject from the seemingly ever-present one of the eating of cheese with cake. ‘What’s it called?’
‘The Hunt,’ Gordy replied. ‘Basically, it’s like James Bond, just with more tweed and Wellington boots. If you want, I can lend you the first in the series? He’s written a dozen or so.’
‘Great, do that,’ Harry said, pretty sure that even if she did, he wouldn’t have time to read it.
‘I will,’ Gordy said and was then gone.
‘A famous author, eh?’ Matt said.
‘Indeed,’ said Harry, not really sure where Matt’s conversation was going.
‘Cake?’ Matt asked.
Ah, so that was where. Harry smiled and accepted a freshly cut slice of Cockett’s best fruit cake. The cheese he left to sort of just sit on the side of his plate. He’d been doing his best to try it, to eat it with the cake, and he had to admit that it was starting to move from something which horrified him, to a taste he could just about describe as being okay. Mainly because, eaten together, he could almost forget that he was eating cheese at all. But he was still having problems getting past his own almost pathological hatred of cheese itself. And why anyone would just eat it on its own or on a cracker, he simply couldn’t fathom. Because, to Harry, cheese was wrong. Why anyone would ever want to push into their mouths a substance which, by its very nature, was little more than something which had gone off, gone mouldy even, he just couldn’t understand.
‘So, about Saturday, then,’ Harry said between bites of cake.
‘It’ll be grand!’ Matt said. ‘I promise you, you’ll love it. It’s a nice little cave, and you won’t get stuck, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘I will if I keep eating all this cake,’ Harry said.
‘Don’t leave that cheese, now.’ Matt smiled, then his face slipped a little, and a seriousness crept into the corner of his eyes. ‘Twenty years,’ he said. ‘I can hardly believe it. And Joan would so love to be going down the cave, you know? It’s just . . . well, she can’t.’
Harry let Matt speak. He didn’t know all the details about Joan and why she was in a wheelchair, and he’d only actually met her a couple of times, but it had been pretty clear that Matt’s devotion to the love of his life was something quite extraordinary.
‘We used to go caving together a lot, you know,’ Matt explained. ‘Joan loved it, but then she’s got such an adventurous spirit. I think that’s probably why I fell for her in the first place. Being with her just made me feel alive.’
‘Hard to see what she sees in you though,’ Harry said.
Matt laughed hard.
‘You’re not wrong! Anyway, I can’t be sitting round here for the rest of the day, I’ve got things to do, you know.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ Harry said, his mind flipping back for a moment to what he’d spent the previous evening doing. ‘See you tomorrow.’
And with that, Matt was gone.
Alone now, except for the company of Fly, Harry wrapped up what was left of the cake Matt had provided and placed it in the fridge, followed by the cheese, taking the bit from his plate and putting it with the rest, before washing his hands pretty thoroughly to get the stink off. Then he pulled out his phone and made a call.
A few minutes later, when the call was over, and suddenly needing to clear his head, Harry left the office with Fly nuzzled up in his arms, and took a stroll out into the afternoon air. Hawes itself was quiet, but in the distance, Harry heard a soft, deep thrum, which took him back to his days when he wore another uniform and carried a weapon considerably more lethal than the power to carry out an arrest. Then, like some giant mutated insect, a Chinook helicopter swept overhead, its tandem rotors pulling it through the air with ease, cutting the sky into ribbons of pastel blue and grey. He watched it as it flew out and across the fells beyond Hawes, taking with it his memories of being in the back of just such a machine far too many times to mention. He’d been to war and he carried the scars still. But deep down, with the previous evening done and the phone call just made, he hoped that soon another war, one that he’d been fighting for decades now, would be brought to an end.
Chapter Four
After a delicious meal and a relaxing evening at the lodge the night before, Adam Sharp was now standing in the middle of a bookshop and, eyes closed, breathing in deeply through his nose. The air was rich with the nectar of books and ink on paper, the scent of stories mingling invisibly with each other. It was intoxicating and Adam knew that right here, in this place, he was happiest.
‘You alright there, Adam?’
Adam opened his eyes to see Charlie Baker staring at him, eyes cast in shadow, from under the peak of that ridiculous hat he insisted on always wearing, his look not so much one of concern, as irritation. At what, Adam had no idea, but he was pretty sure he would soon find out. It could have been any number of things, considering his various complaints the previous night.
These had included the track to the lodge not being exactly appropriate for his car, and that any damage from the gravel and stones would have to be paid for, but by whom, no one could really say. Then there was the fact that his room was furthest from the stairs, and how deeply unfair that was because he would have to walk the furthest if, for example, he fancied a late-night snack from the kitchen. There had been other things, too, such as the worn nature of the sofas, the smell of the enormous open fire, and the rather quaint display of taxidermy which was featured throughout the building.
To Adam, staying at the lodge was a bit like travelling back in time, but for Charlie, it was just annoying and old-fashioned. But they were there for the week and he was just going to have to put up with it. And with other friends arriving later, as a surprise and also as a distraction, he was pretty sure that Charlie’s mind would soon be otherwise occupied.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ Adam said, pulling himself from his thoughts and turning to face his long-time supposed-friend and boss. God, those university days seemed so long ago now. Probably because they were, though sometimes the memories were so rich he felt as though, if he tried hard enough, he could reach out and touch them. ‘I just love bookshops, as you know. Always have.’
‘Yes, me too,’ Charlie agreed, though Adam was unable to detect one single note of sincerity in the man’s voice. ‘But why do they always have to be so, well, you know, dusty and dull?’
Adam shook his head, sighed. The years had changed them both.
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ Adam said.
‘No, you shook your head,’ said Charlie. ‘Why? Was there something wrong with what I said? Did you disagree with it? Do you have a point to make?’
‘I’m just not really sure what you’re expecting,’ Adam said with a shrug.
&nbs
p; ‘A little more pizzazz, for a start,’ Charlie said. ‘Where’s the excitement? What about some music? That would be good, wouldn’t it?’
Adam wanted to argue but knew better, and bit his tongue, something he’d been doing for years, though his patience had worn very thin. ‘So, are you good for this afternoon, then?’ he asked. ‘All set to meet your adoring fans? There’s a lot of social media buzz about it, you know. Chris has been posting stuff out on Twitter and Facebook and Instagram like you wouldn’t believe.’
Charlie turned his gaze from Adam to the shop in which they were both stood, clearly not listening.
As independent bookshops went, it was, to Adam at least, a wonder. This was a shop where the first room was merely an introduction to what lay beyond, through little doors and passageways, up thin flights of stairs, behind curtains. Whatever you wanted to read, Adam was pretty sure that you would find it here. This was a shop curated and loved with a passion. All genres were covered, and there was even a little room of second-hand books. One room was given over to books for children and teenagers, the floor covered in beanbags, the walls pasted over with posters of best sellers. Further on, another room was crammed full of science fiction, fantasy and horror, the walls painted by visiting artists, with dragons and demons and spaceships, and a sweeping vista of galaxies and stars. How Charlie could look at any of this and think it was dusty and dull, Adam had no idea. But then, Charlie wasn’t like other authors, was he? Not like them at all, in fact.
‘It’s rather a small event, though, isn’t it?’ Charlie said, walking away from Adam to brush a hand across the backs of the thirty or so chairs the owners had somehow managed to squeeze into the main part of the shop. ‘I was expecting something bigger. It’s not like I’m a little local author, is it? I’m a New York Times Best Seller. And yet, look where we are!’
‘It’s not small, it’s exclusive,’ Adam said, doing his best to control his exasperation. ‘Very different. These are die-hard fans. They had to answer a series of questions to even have a chance of being here! We had over two thousand entries, from which these lucky few were drawn at random.’
Shooting Season: A DCI Harry Grimm Novel Page 3
