Broken Fall: A D.I. Harland novella

by Fergus McNeill

  ‘What did Richard say about it all?’ he asked.

  ‘He refused to discuss it. Nobody wants to talk about anything important in this family.’

  She glanced down at her wristwatch, subtly, but Harland noticed.

  ‘What time is your husband back?’ he asked.

  ‘Half past six.’ Jenny’s face brightened. ‘I’m picking him up from the station.’

  Harland felt a momentary stab of jealousy, followed by the dull ache of guilt. His thumb moved involuntarily to touch his wedding ring.

  ‘Well, I won’t delay you any longer,’ he told her, getting stiffly to his feet. ‘Thanks for giving me your time.’

  ‘No, no it’s fine.’ She got up too, smiling bravely through her loss. ‘It’s odd, but it feels right to be talking about him, important somehow …’

  Harland nodded, his own thoughts slipping back to the past. He understood what she meant only too well.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he murmured.

  He believed her. At least, he wanted to believe her. She seemed to be such a kind and genuine person, and as he said his goodbyes the warmth of her smile touched him.

  But it was an awful lot of money.

  Back in the car, he started the engine and drove to the end of Wetlands Lane, then pulled over and took out his phone. He closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb as he listened to the ringtone. After a moment, there was a click.

  ‘DS Linwood speaking.’

  ‘Hello, Jack.’

  ‘Oh hello, sir. How did you get on with the daughter?’

  Harland sighed.

  ‘She’s either very genuine or very devious,’ he replied. ‘Listen, are you almost done with Albie’s accounts?’

  ‘I’ve gone through what’s here,’ Linwood replied. ‘Most of it, anyway.’

  ‘Any surprises?’

  ‘Nothing significant, no.’

  ‘In that case, box everything up and get back over to CID. I want you to do some digging on Richard – finances, business, that sort of thing.’

  ‘But he didn’t stand to inherit,’ Linwood pointed out.

  ‘I know.’ Harland rubbed his eyes, wearily. ‘It’d be so much simpler if he did.’

  ‘All right. Well, I’ll see what I can turn up then. Are you coming back in?’

  Harland glanced at the dashboard clock.

  ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll carry on down to Weston, take a look through the restaurant CCTV footage.’

  ‘You think Jenny’s alibi might have a few holes in it?’

  Harland shook his head, even though Linwood couldn’t see him.

  ‘I think she had an awful lot to gain,’ he said.

  THURSDAY

  Chapter 9

  Harland put the phone down and leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. Another dead end. He stared at the image on the screen in front of him, then swivelled in his chair, gazing blankly across the desks in the open-plan office. Bristol CID was quiet just now. He got up and walked across to the window to stare out at the trains crawling in and out of Temple Meads station.

  There was a noise behind him and he turned to see the corridor door swinging open. Linwood appeared, walking briskly towards their cluster of desks.

  ‘Hi Jack,’ Harland greeted him. ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘Well, you were right about Richard.’ Linwood took his jacket off and draped it over the back of a chair. ‘He’s not nearly as flush as he makes out.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s gonna take time to work up a full financial profile, but the numbers paint a pretty grim picture.’ Linwood sat down and leaned back, hands behind his head. ‘I dug out the accounts for his company and it looks like things have been bad for the last few years.’

  ‘The staff agency is in trouble?’

  ‘He seems to be keeping it afloat, but only just.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Harland mused. ‘What about that posh waterfront apartment?’

  ‘Rented,’ Linwood replied. ‘And that must be a pretty hefty outgoing every month.’

  ‘Definitely.’ He’d seen similar properties being advertised in the paper and wondered how anyone could ever afford them. ‘So when things got bad, Richard sold his place in Clifton, used some of the proceeds to prop up the business, and now he’s living on the rest … but he can’t do that forever.’

  ‘What about the wife?’ Linwood suggested. ‘Maybe her income helps balance things out a bit?’

  Harland shook his head as he settled down to perch on the edge of his desk.

  ‘No, she does voluntary work, remember?’

  ‘Oh yeah, you said. Opera society or something?’

  ‘Choral society,’ Harland corrected him, then paused. ‘They’re not bad, actually. There was a young composer there yesterday and his stuff was really stunning.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Linwood shrugged. ‘So she’s a music lover.’

  Harland smiled to himself.

  ‘I think her interest in him may not be entirely musical,’ he murmured.

  ‘What?’ Linwood looked up, then grinned. ‘Ah, you think they’re doing the old Durex duet?’

  ‘Something like that.’ He thought back to the man’s scruffy clothing. ‘He certainly didn’t seem like a member of her social circle.’

  ‘Maybe she doesn’t want to share him.’ Linwood winked, lecherously.

  ‘You’re disgusting.’ Harland smiled.

  ‘The heart wants what the heart wants,’ the little man chuckled.

  Harland paused and looked at him. It was a good point. What did everyone want?

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘unpaid work wouldn’t bail the Erringtons out of their financial hole.’

  Linwood nodded. ‘So. Richard could use some money, but he wasn’t going to inherit much.’

  ‘Yes, Jenny was quite open about it,’ Harland explained. ‘Albie’s decision must have caused a fair bit of family tension.’

  ‘I’ll bet it did!’ Linwood grinned. ‘So we’re back to Jenny then?’

  ‘She’s the one with the financial motive,’ Harland conceded, toying with the notepad and pen on his desk. ‘But I just don’t see how she could have done it …’

  He honestly couldn’t believe that she would have done it. She wasn’t the type – too kind, too caring … or was that wishful thinking on his part?

  ‘You went through the CCTV at the restaurant?’ Linwood asked.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Harland nodded towards the image on his screen, a grainy video grab showing a group of people sat around a large table. He pointed at one of the figures. ‘That’s her in Weston-Super-Mare, out with her colleagues, just as she said.’

  ‘She was there until late?’

  ‘She was.’ Harland rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘I’ve spent the morning tracking down her friends, including the woman who gave her a lift back to Portishead. She was never alone, the whole bloody evening.’ He tapped his pen angrily on the notepad, then tossed it down on the desk in frustration. ‘We’re missing something, Jack. But I don’t know what the hell it is.’

  Linwood turned his face towards the light of the windows, then shrugged.

  ‘Tracey?’ he asked. ‘She’s the only one without an alibi.’

  ‘Where’s her motive?’

  ‘True.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, until Harland sighed and got to his feet. Picking up his jacket, he checked that his cigarettes were in the pocket, then he paused.

  ‘Have we heard back from the door-to-door yet?’ he asked.

  ‘I can find out.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He pulled the jacket on. ‘Want anything from the canteen?’

  Linwood shook his head. ‘I’m okay.’

  Harland nodded and made his way towards the stairs.

  A light wind squalled across the car park, whipping around the corner of the building where he stopped to light up. Exhaling a breath of smoke, Harland propped himself up – knee bent, one foot fla
t against the wall behind him – so he could lean back without getting his jacket dirty.

  What were they missing?

  He could feel the initiative slipping away from him, like sand draining from the hourglass, the gnawing doubt that he might have got it wrong. He’d been so sure that Albie’s murder was financially motivated, but the only person to benefit – really benefit – had a solid alibi. Jenny couldn’t have done it … and her husband had been out of the country – they’d checked.

  He sighed, listening to the endless rumble of traffic from the nearby flyover.

  It wasn’t Jenny. His gut told him she was a good person, and he didn’t want to believe he was wrong, not about her. Was he just blinded by his own loneliness? No. He was a good judge of character … for the most part, anyway. True, things hadn’t worked out with his last relationship, but that had been inevitable, the wrong person at the wrong time. He’d rushed into things with Kim, the first woman since his wife had died, and deep down he’d known it couldn’t last. There was no surprise when he’d come home and found her gone.

  No surprise …

  He considered each of the main suspects in turn – Richard, Jenny, Tracey – trying to imagine each of them as the killer. Who would surprise him if they turned out to be guilty? And who wouldn’t?

  Frowning, he stubbed out his cigarette and went back inside.

  Upstairs, he pushed through the door and made his way across the open-plan office.

  ‘Sir?’ Linwood was waving, beckoning him over.

  ‘What is it?’ Harland asked, walking around the cluster of desks.

  ‘I’ve just been on to the team doing the door-to-door.’ The little man’s eyes were bright, excited. ‘Uniform spoke to someone who reckons they saw a woman walking down Granby Hill, close to midnight, the night Albert was killed.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘According to the witness, this woman was wearing a blue carer’s tunic.’

  ‘Really?’ Harland hesitated. Down the hill, away from the city centre but towards the water … and the bridge that led to Little Cross House. ‘We lifted the CCTV from the bridges didn’t we?’

  ‘Yes,’ Linwood answered. ‘Why?’

  Harland frowned. Why hadn’t they seen her? Then again, they hadn’t known what they were looking for. Maybe if they went through it a second time …

  He shook his head unhappily.

  ‘No reason.’ He turned towards the door. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  Once again, the landscape was shifting beneath his feet, taking him by surprise. He really hadn’t expected it to be Tracey.

  Chapter 10

  Harland flung the car around the Bedminster Bridge Roundabout, accelerating from the inside to cut across the other lanes and swerve on to Coronation Road. A chorus of horns blared out angrily behind him.

  ‘No answer from her phone,’ Linwood said, holding the grab handle above the door as he pressed the handset to his ear. His eyes were locked on the road, limbs taut as he swayed in his seat.

  ‘Keep trying,’ Harland told him.

  The little man nodded, ending the call and dialling again.

  ‘Any guesses as to why she did it?’ he asked, as the traffic thinned out again.

  ‘No.’

  That was the problem. As far as he knew, there was no reason for Tracey to have killed Albie. And yet, they now had a witness statement that implicated her.

  ‘Who’s the witness?’ he asked, powering through the traffic lights near Asda, just as they were going red.

  ‘One of the neighbours,’ Linwood replied, swallowing as he stared out at the oncoming cars. ‘Well, I say neighbour; they’re not on Granby Hill itself, which is why it’s taken a while to get round to—’

  ‘What are you on about?’ Harland interrupted him.

  ‘Sorry. It’s a guy from Freeland Place, one of those terraces on the right as you go down? Anyway, the houses overlook Granby Hill, and this guy’s out on his balcony, smoking a cigarette. He says he saw a woman in a blue tunic, “like the kind nurses wear”, some time around midnight.’

  Harland shook his head unhappily.

  ‘Any answer yet?’ he demanded.

  ‘Nothing. Just keeps going straight to voicemail.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter now.’ He indicated left and braked hard, slowing to turn off on to a narrow side road. ‘We’re here.’

  Little Cross House rose up before them, a dark edifice against the pale sky. Parking near the road, Harland got out and strode quickly along the line of residents’ spaces.

  ‘Does Tracey have a car?’ he asked. Working with different care clients, she probably did. But unless he had the make or registration, he wouldn’t know what to look for.

  Walking beside him, Linwood shrugged.

  ‘Not sure, sir,’ he replied. ‘Want me to check?’

  ‘In a minute,’ Harland scowled. ‘We might as well try the bell first.’

  They made their way down the concrete steps to the main entrance and stood under the broad porch. Harland squinted at the metal panel and pressed the 73 button several times but there was no answer.

  ‘Damn it!’ He turned on his heel. ‘Where the hell is she?’

  Linwood glanced at his watch.

  ‘What time did the agency say her last appointment finished?’ he asked.

  ‘An hour ago,’ Harland snapped. ‘Call her again, will you?’

  Linwood dialled the number once more, and stood, listening to the phone. Harland paced back and forth for a moment, wandering out from under the porch so that he could gaze up at the building, noting an England shirt fluttering among the washing left out to dry on one of the small upper balconies. A static CCTV camera gazed down at him, the metal housing pockmarked and spattered with paint.

  ‘Still got doubts, sir?’

  He turned to Linwood and nodded slightly.

  ‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘I have.’

  ‘No alibi,’ the little man reminded him.

  ‘No motive,’ Harland countered. ‘Any joy?’

  ‘Sorry, still going to voicemail.’

  ‘Never mind. Look.’ He pointed up at the camera. ‘I want to see the footage from that. If Tracey is our killer, we might get lucky and see the moment when she came home after the main event.’

  ‘Okay.’ Linwood nodded eagerly. ‘I think the council runs this place. You want me to contact them? Maybe I can track down someone who deals with maintenance and security.’

  Harland glanced at his watch, then shook his head.

  ‘We’re already here,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if we can find a building supervisor.’

  The supervisor was a heavy-set man, with thinning black hair and a stubbled face. Wearing grey jeans and a faded red sweatshirt, he appeared from the back of the foyer and approached the main door with an unhurried pace.

  ‘You the ones who buzzed me?’ His voice was muffled through the glass.

  Harland nodded. ‘Police,’ he explained, holding up his ID.

  The man peered at it for a moment, then grudgingly pulled the door open.

  ‘Gotta be careful,’ he muttered. ‘Get all sorts coming round here.’

  ‘Very sensible,’ Harland told him. ‘We’d like to take a look at your CCTV set-up if you don’t mind?’

  The supervisor shrugged at them.

  ‘Why should I mind?’ Reaching behind Linwood, he rattled the front door to make sure it was closed then turned towards the back of the foyer. ‘Follow me.’

  Leading them past the lifts, he stopped by a plain doorway near the fire exit, drew out a large bunch of keys, and unlocked it. ‘Through there,’ he said, indicating that they should go ahead of him. Linwood went first, then Harland, followed by the supervisor, who methodically locked the door behind them.

  ‘Can’t have kids in here,’ he explained. ‘Little bastards would nick everything.’

  He led them down a narrow corridor that smelled of damp and into a small room with breeze-block walls, lit by a bare bulb. E
xposed pipes ran from floor to ceiling and thick cable trunking connected a line of sturdy metal fuse boxes. In the far corner of the room was a battered old desk with a pair of small monitor screens.

  ‘Right then …’ The supervisor eased himself down on to the single office chair and wheeled himself closer to the desk. He retrieved the mouse and keyboard from where they’d been tucked away between the screens, positioning them neatly before turning around again. ‘So what did you want to see?’

  ‘I want to look at the CCTV footage for Monday night,’ Harland told him. ‘Ten p.m. onwards.’

  The supervisor nodded. Turning back to the desk, he began accessing the system.

  ‘If we could start with the camera above the main entrance?’ Linwood suggested.

  The man paused, then swivelled his chair round to face them.

  ‘That camera isn’t working,’ he growled. ‘Bastard kids, always messing with things … been broken for a month now.’

  Harland clenched his fists, but managed to keep his voice calm.

  ‘What footage do you have then?’ he asked. ‘Entrance foyer? Lifts? Seventh floor corridor?’

  The supervisor shook his head.

  ‘Nothing much inside the building,’ he grumbled. ‘Got the fire exits, rear doorway, and a couple of views of the car park.’

  ‘Let’s take a look at the car park,’ Harland sighed. He turned to Linwood. ‘You never know … she might walk through it on her way back to the entrance.’

  Linwood did his best to look optimistic.

  ‘Here you go …’ The supervisor clicked the mouse and nodded towards an image that appeared on the screen. ‘Car park.’

  The picture quality was poor – grainy, washed-out black and white – but they leaned in closer to see. There were several cars visible, and a swathe of open concrete. A couple of youths wandered through the frame but it was difficult to make out any detail until they passed very close to the camera.

  ‘Want me to speed it up a bit?’ the man asked them.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Harland frowned.

  Crowded round the screen, they studied the footage for a while, watching the time code racing forward, waiting for individual figures to come scurrying into the frame. Every now and then they’d slow the playback, peering closely – Was that her? No. – then speed things up again and carry on.