Best Served Cold: A DCI Harry Grimm Novel

by David J Gatward

‘He’s dead,’ Harry said.

  ‘My oath isn’t,’ the doctor replied.

  Harry looked at the doctor and saw that behind the warm smile was a harder edge. Professional.

  ‘When did you last see him?’ Harry asked.

  The doctor glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I need to head off. Got a full day of appointments. It’s always busy on a Monday. People seem to save up their aches and pains over the weekend!’

  ‘I’d like to have a chat later,’ Harry said. ‘If that’s okay?’

  ‘Stop by the surgery,’ the doctor said, turning to head off back down the field towards Matt and Jim.

  ‘Before you go,’ Harry said, ‘I need you to keep what you’ve seen to yourself for now.’

  ‘Of course,’ the doctor said, pausing mid-stride.

  ‘This is, as you can see, a crime scene,’ Harry explained. ‘You shouldn’t even be here. And right now the last thing I need is for anything to get out about what’s happened. Not until we actually know what happened, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘It’s not me you should be concerned about,’ the doctor said.

  Harry realised immediately what the doctor was referring to. Or, to be more exact, to whom. ‘Nick? He’s a problem?’

  The doctor gave a nod. ‘Loves a rumour. And if he can spread it nice and thin, he will.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Harry said.

  ‘Very much so,’ said the doctor. ‘Perhaps see you later, then?’

  Harry waved the doctor off, calling for him to speak with Matt and Jim before leaving, and get signed off the site, then swung around again to look at John Capstick.

  The body wasn’t exactly improving any, and the flies and wasps were thick, the sound of them a constant buzzing murmur in the air of life feasting on death. He saw no sign of a phone, either by the body, or anywhere nearby. And with the pathologist, the CSI team, and the rest, all on their way, he didn’t want to go around disturbing the crime scene any more than it already was. But a text sent to someone from a very clearly dead body? It was going to bother him, that was for sure. And he knew he needed to speak to this Little Nick.

  Harry looked up from the body and around the field, at the tree just away from where he now stood, its branches home to fat pigeons cooing at the day, then to the barn in the far righthand corner. It all looked so normal and so picturesque and yet there was a mystery here, wasn’t there, he thought? And it wasn’t just the fact that there was someone dead in the middle of it all either.

  ‘So, John,’ Harry muttered to the corpse, ‘just how the hell did you send a text to someone when you’re dead?’ And then he added, just in case, ‘And if it’s all the same with you, I’d prefer it if you didn’t sit up and tell me right now . . .’

  Chapter Eight

  The circus, as Harry had referred to it, all turned up at once. Which wasn’t exactly helpful. Harry was already massively aware that as crime scenes went, this one was pretty awful. What with a body left out to the elements and more than a little nibbled at by nature, the area around it disturbed not just by weather but numerous animals with the midnight munchies, finding any evidence at all was going to be difficult if not impossible. The one plus was that it hadn’t rained, so if there was anything of use, it wouldn’t have been washed away. But as positives went, it was a pretty poor on and leaned dangerously close to being a negative.

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ Matt said, racing up ahead of the seemingly large crowd of people now crawling into the field. The only thing pausing them on their way was Jim who was at the gate doing his best to give some sense of order to the proceedings as the Scene Guard.

  ‘Not your fault,’ Harry said, then gazing past, spotted someone right at the front of the crowd, making their way up towards them with the kind of frighteningly relentless power of an out of control steam train. ‘And who’s this?’

  As the person drew closer, Harry could see now that it was a woman. She was wearing, of all things, a plain blue cassock, which billowed around her wellington-boot clad feet, which only served to remind Harry that he really had to get some for himself. She already had PPE covering her boots, gloves on her hands, and was still struggling with a facemask when she arrived.

  ‘Well?’ the woman said when finally came to stand in front of Harry. ‘Where is it, then?’

  ‘And you are?’ Harry asked, stepping back a little from the woman, who was red in the face from the walk up to them from the road, and carrying a ragged looking rucksack over her back.

  ‘Divisional Surgeon,’ the woman said, finally managing to get the mask over her face. ‘Margaret Shaw. And you’re probably wondering why I’m dressed like this.’

  ‘No, not at all,’ Harry said, shaking his head unconvincingly.

  ‘I’m a lay reader at the local parish church in Askrigg,’ Margaret said. ‘This turned up this morning and it’s the third I’ve had delivered in a month, and none of them fit properly!’

  She pulled at the blue material which Harry could now see was more than a little tight in all the places it shouldn’t be and none of the places it should.

  ‘See? This one doesn’t fit either! Blasted thing! Call came in to come over here and I couldn’t get it off, could I? And I wasn’t about to set to it with a pair of scissors. I want a refund! I ask you, how difficult can it be to make what is little more than a sack with sleeves attached, fit the average human body?’

  Harry didn’t quite know what to say or indeed where to look. The woman was of average height, but a little on the larger size, and the cassock wasn’t doing anything to help, looking as it did like it had been put together with no reference to the human anatomy whatsoever.

  ‘We’ve not met before?’ Harry said, phrasing the statement as a question.

  ‘Not exactly, no,’ the woman said, still pulling at the cassock and wriggling uncomfortably. ‘I was at Semerwater a few weeks ago, can’t remember how many, there was a body found on the shore. You were off busy with something I’m sure. I just sort of turn up, point at the body and say, Yep, they’re dead, then bugger off.’ She stretched, and this time everyone heard a ripping sound. ‘Well, that didn’t sound good, did it?’

  ‘It’s probably nothing,’ Matt said, but glanced at Harry and mouthed it really isn’t.

  ‘I’m not usually this busy,’ said the surgeon. ‘Not exactly a place rife with murder and intrigue, the dales. But, here we are, once again! Now, where is it?’

  Harry nodded just up and away from them, over the police cordon tape, and towards the body.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Margaret. ‘The flies are a bit of a giveaway, aren’t they? Come on then, let’s get this done.’

  Harry lifted the tape up to allow the surgeon through, and followed behind, telling Matt to hang back, if only to delay the rest of the entourage now coming up behind them.

  At the body, Margaret let out a long, slow whistle. ‘Enough to put you off your lunch, isn’t it?’

  Harry let her do her job in checking the body, which took all of thirty seconds. ‘Dead then?’ he asked.

  ‘I bloody well hope so,’ Margaret replied. ‘Don’t think I’d survive seeing him get up and ask me the way to the nearest chemist for a band aid, do you?’

  Harry found himself warming to the surgeon. She was clearly someone who spoke first and thought later, but probably without much of the thinking, because she had the air about her of someone who had done so much thinking in her time that when she spoke, she absolutely expected everyone to listen.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off, then,’ Margaret said, making her way back to the tape. ‘Need to get this blasted thing off somehow, fix whatever seam my fat arse just split, and get it sent back. I’m pretty sure God doesn’t care whether I wear this or not, but the church is a stickler for protocols and silly uniforms.’

  ‘I hope you get your money back,’ Harry said.

  ‘Oh, I will,’ the woman said, then having seen who was approaching, she turned and leaned in close to Harry and added, ‘good luck with the patholo
gist.’

  Harry’s heart sank as he looked past the surgeon to see Rebecca Sowerby striding towards them. She was, just like the rest of the CSI team now approaching, fully dressed up in PPE, the white paper suits making them look like ghosts. ‘You know her, then?’

  ‘She’s my daughter,’ Margaret said, and gave the wickedest wink Harry had ever received in his life.

  Harry took a moment, then said, ‘Sowerby’s her married name, then?’

  ‘Oh, good god no!’ Margaret said, the works barking out of her like the cry of a startled wolf. ‘Can you imagine? I’m the one who got married! Three times, actually! Seems I can’t get enough of it. Anyway, have fun, inspector!’

  And with that, she was gone.

  Harry watched as Margaret Shaw tacked her way down the field towards the entrance, and he was put in mind of a galleon sailing off into battle. She paused briefly to chat with her daughter, reached over with an enormous hug, which judging by the reaction it received clearly made Rebecca feel very awkward, then was on her way again.

  Harry stepped outside the cordon tape just as Rebecca arrived.

  ‘If this is as much of a shit show as last time . . .’ the pathologist said.

  ‘Oh, it’s worse,’ said Harry. ‘Your mother seems nice, by the way. Apple fell far from the tree, did it?’

  The face Rebecca then presented to Harry was one of a mix of emotions all fighting for dominance and none of them quite winning. Which made Harry feel a little warm inside.

  When they’d first met a few weeks ago, on the shore of Lake Semerwater, following the discovery of the body of local woman, Martha Hodgson, the pathologist had put Harry’s back up immediately. And it was pretty clear now to Harry that that wasn’t a one-off.

  ‘Where’s the body?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure you can see where for yourself,’ Harry said, and held up the tape to let Rebecca through, who pulled her mask over her mouth and made her way over to the body.

  Harry followed as a call came out from behind.

  ‘Hold up!’

  Harry and Rebecca turned to watch someone else dressed all in white duck under the tape and jog over.

  ‘He’s the photographer,’ Matt called over, though that was more than obvious from the equipment the person was carrying.

  The photographer came to stand with Harry and Rebecca. ‘How long have I got?’

  ‘How long do you need?’ Harry asked.

  The photographer glanced over Harry’s shoulder. ‘I’ll be taking photos and a video, so maybe ten minutes here, then I can move on down and cover the rest.’

  ‘Right you are,’ Harry said, then turned to Rebecca. ‘While he’s doing that, I can brief you on what we found so far if you want? Might give you a bit of context.’

  Rebecca gave a sharp nod and Harry led her back to where Matt was standing. As he did so, something caught his eye, the sparkle of sunshine glinting in the distance, from down among the few houses of Oughtershaw. Harry stared at it.

  ‘What’s up?’ Matt asked, turning to look where Harry was gazing.

  ‘You see that?’ Harry asked.

  ‘See what?’

  Harry used his whole hand, held flat and vertical, instead of just a finger, to point, a habit he’d picked up in the paras and never been able to quite drop. A finger in the middle of a firefight wasn’t really very noticeable, but a whole hand was considerably clearer.

  The glint came again.

  ‘That,’ Harry said.

  ‘It’s just the sun reflecting off something,’ Rebecca said.

  Harry wasn’t so sure and called behind them for the photographer. ‘You got a zoom lens?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have a look at that glint over there if you can. Tell me what you see.’

  The photographer quickly changed lens on his camera.

  ‘See anything?’

  ‘Not sure,’ the photographer said, then, ‘Yep. Got it.’

  ‘Well?’ Harry asked. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Someone definitely has eyes on us,’ the photographer said.

  Harry folded his arms and stared down towards the village, giving the okay for the photographer to get back onto the job in hand.

  ‘Matt?’

  The detective constable glanced at Harry.

  ‘I want you to keep Ms Sowerby company for a while, if that’s okay. And keep an eye out for a phone, okay?’

  ‘No problem. Where are you off to?’

  ‘I’m going to catch me a spy,’ Harry said.

  Chapter Nine

  Harry walked out of the field, just in time to hear the musical lilt of a female Scottish accent call over to him with the words, ‘Aye, that’s right, you may as well bugger off home, now that we’re here to get on with the real work.’

  Harry looked to where the voice had come from to see two women approaching him: Detective Inspector Gordanian ‘Gordy’ Haig, and Detective Constable Jenny Blades.

  Harry gave a wave as they approached.

  ‘Busy here, isn’t it?’ Gordy said, coming to stand in front of Harry, and gazing around to take in the scenery. ‘And it’s not like there’s much to see. Oughtershaw isn’t exactly a tourist attraction, now, is it?’

  ‘Not even a pub,’ Harry said with a smile, remembering Matt’s observation.

  Jenny said, ‘The DSI is on his way. Can’t say he sounded too happy about it either.’

  Harry’s mind was suddenly filled with the face of his new temporary boss, Detective Superintendent Graham Swift, and he quickly pulled Gordy and Jenny to one side. The man was already somehow convinced that Harry had brought with him an air of bad luck, seeing as there had been a murder within days of him arriving in Hawes. Another in less than a month would, Harry figured, have the man convinced he was the devil himself.

  ‘Liz, as you already know, is at the house. Jim’s on the gate working as Scene Guard, and Matt’s up where the body is, keeping an eye on things and hopefully out of the way.’

  ‘So what do you want us to do?’ Gordy asked. ‘Not that I’ve got long as I’m expected over in Harrogate on another case later on.’

  ‘We’ve probably got time to go grab some coffee if you want?’ Jenny added. ‘It’ll be cold by the time we get back, like, but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re on door-to-door,’ Harry said. ‘I can’t be arsed with waiting for any uniform to turn up. It’s not like the dales is over run with available police staff, is it? And I’m not going to have us standing around for when Swift turns up to get in the way. It won’t take long. It’s not exactly a big place, but someone might have seen or heard something.’

  ‘What’ve we actually got?’ Gordy asked.

  Harry gave them a quick run through of what was up in the field. Their expressions were enough to tell Harry that he’d laid it on just thick enough with his description to give them a fair idea of what had happened.

  ‘Hell of a way to go,’ Jenny said.

  ‘You could say that,’ said Harry. ‘What do you know of the deceased?’

  Gordy said, ‘Not much, but then I’ve not been around here as long as everyone else. All I know is that he had a bit of a rum reputation. Wasn’t liked, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Jenny?’ Harry asked, knowing that, like Jim, she’d lived in the area her whole life, so perhaps had a little more to offer.

  ‘Let’s just put it this way,’ Jenny said. ‘The problem we’re going to have is finding someone who didn’t have a motive.’

  ‘You what?’ Harry asked, a little shocked to hear such a response. ‘There’s a big difference between being not liked and everyone wanting you dead!’

  Jenny gave a shrug. ‘Look, I’m not saying that people actually wanted him dead.’

  ‘Well, you kind of just did,’ Gordy said. ‘Even used the word motive, if I’m recalling it right, which I am, seeing as it was, ooh, ten seconds ago at best?’

  ‘So what are you saying?’ Harry asked. ‘Be a bit more spe
cific. People really had it in for him?’

  Jenny was quiet for a moment, then looked over at Harry and said, ‘Let’s just say that come the funeral, the church will be pretty bloody empty, that’s for sure.’

  ‘That’s not exactly being specific, is it?’ Harry said. ‘And there’s an ocean of difference between not showing up to wave him off to whatever fate awaits him on the other side and crushing him with a tractor and trailer!’

  ‘Perhaps I spoke out of turn,’ Jenny said.

  ‘Aye, perhaps,’ Gordy said, an eyebrow raised just enough.

  With nothing else to say, Harry quickly sent Jenny and Gordy off to go knocking on doors. It was the simplest of all police work, so he was rather pleased to see that Gordy was happy to head off and get cracking, but then she probably knew as well as he did that it usually brought something in. Not always evidence as such, but it often added colour to the setting of the crime, a local flavour. And getting that first hand was always an advantage.

  The glinting which Harry had noticed from the field had gone by the time he got to where he had seen it come from, which was a large house set back from the road a little, behind a verge of grass. It was obviously a farm, judging by the stack of black-plastic covered bales in front of it on the grass.

  Harry went up to the front door and gave a hard, sharp knock, then waited.

  Nothing.

  Harry looked around the door for sign of a bell, couldn’t see one, so knocked again.

  Still nothing.

  Harry, working to keep his frustration under control, not just from being spied on, but from now being ignored, raised his fist to knock again, when a voice called out from a driveway leading around to the right of the house. It was quickly followed by a deep, threatening growl, which had an almost prehistoric, flesh-eating monster echo to it.

  Turning towards the sound, Harry was met with the sight of a man who seemed to be built entirely of rage, his face a thing of thunder. He was wearing the uniform of the dales farmer: wellington boots, scruffy denim trousers, and a shirt rolled up to just above the elbows. But what Harry’s eyes were drawn to more was the huge hound on the end of a thick leash clasped in the man’s meaty hands.