Broken Fall: A D.I. Harland novella

by Fergus McNeill

  ‘Well,’ Pearce continued, ‘you interviewed the bloke.’

  Harland stared at him.

  ‘The boyfriend?’

  ‘That’s right. Does the name Matt Garrick ring any bells? There was some kind of break-in at his flat, and as far as he’s concerned, you were the friendly face of Avon and Somerset.’

  Harland frowned, thinking back.

  ‘In Cotham?’ he asked. ‘Up by the Arches at the top of Stokes Croft?’

  ‘That’s him,’ Pearce said, nodding.

  Harland settled back into his chair, trying to recall the man he’d met, but it had been a while now.

  ‘What makes you think he’ll tell me anything?’ he asked.

  Pearce shrugged. ‘Because he asked for you.’

  They made their way along the corridor, towards the main office, Harland carrying his coffee.

  ‘So what happens about the Arnaud murder?’ he asked. They’d been making progress on that one but there was still a long way to go.

  ‘You had Linwood working it with you, right?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, and Pope.’

  ‘They make a lovely couple,’ Pearce grimaced. He pushed the door and held it open. ‘Let ’em run with it for a bit. We’re short on bodies just now, and I’m up to my eyes with that shooting over in Easton. I need you on this.’

  Harland nodded. Resources were stretched at the moment.

  ‘Of course, I just …’ He shook his head and smiled. Time to stop talking. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Pearce clapped his hands together with an air of finality. ‘Now, I want to introduce you to someone.’

  They walked out into the open-plan area. As they approached his own group of desks, Harland saw an unfamiliar woman in a dark tailored jacket unpacking a cardboard box.

  ‘Settling in all right?’ Pearce asked her brightly.

  Turning to face them, the woman straightened up, and nodded with a slight smile.

  ‘I’m fine thanks, sir.’ She was almost as tall as Harland, with straight brown hair that swung just above the shoulder, piercing dark eyes and a low voice.

  ‘’Course you are.’ Pearce turned to him. ‘Graham, this is DS Imogen Gower. Imogen, meet DI Graham Harland.’

  ‘Imogen,’ Harland repeated, committing the name to memory. Not unattractive, but not his type – probably a good thing. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Glad to meet you too, sir.’ She inclined her head very slightly, then gave a polite smile as he extended a hand. Her movements seemed careful, controlled, as though she were constantly reining herself in – maybe she was self-conscious about her height.

  Pearce gave them an approving look.

  ‘Imogen was helping out on some of the cold cases, but obviously this takes priority.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll let you two get acquainted, then Fuller can bring you up to speed – he’s coordinating for me. I want the pair of you to go and speak to Garrick this morning, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ Harland replied.

  Pearce gave him a long look, then his expression softened slightly.

  ‘Chin up, Graham. Everything’ll get done.’ He shot a meaningful glance at Linwood and Pope’s desks, then turned back to Harland. ‘And we’ll keep an eye on the dynamic duo for you, all right?’

  Harland gave him a wry smile.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  6

  Imogen drove quickly but smoothly. Leaning back in his seat, Harland glanced across, studying her as they made their way through the city. There was a quiet confidence about his new colleague, shifting down to overtake a bus that was pulling over, then sweeping back on to their own side of the road to avoid an oncoming car, her expression calm and impassive throughout.

  Circling the Bearpit roundabout and sweeping beneath the grey edifice of the old Avon House complex, they emerged on to Stokes Croft – a long drag of crumbling brick buildings, reclaimed by eclectic shops and tiny cafés, and all wreathed in murals. As they passed the turning that led down to the nightclub, he found himself staring out through the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the old converted warehouse. It niggled him, leaving an investigation like that, just as they’d been starting to make some progress …

  … but he had other things to think about now. A young woman had disappeared and it was down to him to find out what had happened to her.

  Harland rubbed his eyes, picturing the photograph that Fuller had shown them in the briefing – a sunlit snapshot of Laura that looked as though it was taken on a walking holiday – long, blond hair framing an honest, youthful face, with blue-green eyes and an easy, laughing smile. She looked so alive in the photo, but nobody had seen or heard from Laura all weekend, and that was out of character for her. By all accounts she was a sociable person, definitely not the type to suddenly go quiet. A planned meeting with a friend had been missed without any explanation and then, much more worrying, Saturday had seen her sister’s birthday pass with no phone call, no text, no nothing …

  He wondered what she’d look like when they found her.

  ‘It’s just off Zetland Road, isn’t it?’

  Imogen’s voice snapped him back from his reverie and he turned to face her again.

  ‘Yeah, a little way up the hill,’ he said, nodding. ‘There’s quite a few little garages and workshops round here … I’ll tell you where to turn.’

  They passed under the Arches – a towering brick viaduct with its central iron span that carried the railway high above the traffic – and swung left at the junction.

  ‘Up here somewhere …’ Harland peered ahead, searching for the entrance. ‘Yes, there it is.’

  Imogen slowed, then turned on to a narrow access road that ran down the side of a kitchen showroom. They emerged into a small yard, paved in uneven concrete and surrounded by low, whitewashed buildings. Ahead of them, two sets of broad blue doors stood open, revealing a pair of old garage workshops. In one, a silver Renault sat with its bonnet up, while the other housed a blue Ford lifted up on a yellow hydraulic platform.

  Switching off the ignition, Imogen undid her seat belt and glanced across at him.

  ‘So … how do you want to work this?’

  Harland leaned back against the headrest and drew a hand across his chin.

  ‘Nothing too dramatic. Not yet anyway,’ he mused. They didn’t have anything definite on Matt Garrick at the moment, and to go blundering in with accusations might be dangerous if he was involved. But it would be good to get a sense of the man, see how he responded to some questions. ‘For now, I think we just nudge him gently, see if he wobbles.’

  ‘OK.’

  As they got out, a young man in blue overalls emerged from the shadows beneath the jacked-up Ford and started towards them, pushing an untidy mop of black hair away from his eyes. He straightened up as he walked, unfolding into a tall figure – lean but muscular, judging by the way the overalls moved. Harland recognised the familiar jawline, the slightly prominent teeth, and nodded to him.

  ‘Hello, Matt. Long time, no see.’

  ‘All right, Mr Harland.’ He seemed edgy, pale blue eyes flickering occasionally towards Imogen, but that was normal enough when the police came calling unannounced. He rubbed his palms on the front of his overalls, as though expecting to shake hands, but then seemed to think better of it and fixed Harland with a steady gaze. ‘They sent some bloke round asking questions about Laura, but the way he was talking … it was like he was accusing me of something …’

  ‘So you asked to speak to me?’ Harland said.

  ‘Well, at least you know me,’ Matt replied. ‘You came to my flat when I had that break-in.’

  ‘I remember, yes.’ He became aware of Imogen standing beside him, and glanced across at her, feeling relief as he managed to recall her surname. ‘This is DS Gower, by the way.’

  ‘All right,’ Matt acknowledged her, then regarded them both warily. ‘So is there any word on Laura yet?’

  Harland looked past him to where a couple of workmen were le
aning against a wall, watching them.

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ he asked.

  Matt hesitated, then took a languid step backwards, pivoting slowly on one heel.

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ he replied. ‘Come on through.’

  They followed him as he led them into the gloom of the garage, where the air tasted of petrol, and the thin echo of music crackled from an old radio. Picking their way between the engine parts and tools that littered the oily floor, they edged around behind the silver car, where he unbolted a small door in the rear wall. Daylight and fresh air flooded in as it opened, and they emerged on to a narrow alley that ran along the back of the buildings, enclosed by a high wooden fence topped with barbed wire. Stacks of old tyres rose in lopsided piles, shoulder high on either side of the doorway, and Harland glanced up at the sheets of corrugated plastic that extended out from the roof to form a primitive lean-to – once transparent but now muddy green, choked with leaves and moss.

  ‘So …’ Matt had stopped beside an old metal bucket, filled with cigarette ends. For a moment, Harland thought he was going to light up, and involuntarily started to reach for his own packet, but the young mechanic leaned back to slouch against the whitewashed wall, jamming his hands into his pockets. ‘What’s going on with Laura? Hasn’t anyone heard from her?’

  It was the right sort of thing to say. An innocent person would probably assume she was still alive. They’d be anxious – or at least curious – for news from the police. They’d want to ask questions, rather than answer them, be more demanding than defensive because they had nothing to hide …

  So it was the right sort of thing to say.

  Unless Matt was smart. Harland considered him, weighing up whether he was genuine, or whether he’d just figured out what sort of things they’d be expecting to hear.

  ‘We’re still looking for her,’ he replied. ‘Part of that involves building up a picture of where she went, who she saw …’

  He left it hanging, an awkward pause that stretched out between them, inviting Matt to volunteer something, to start talking.

  The young mechanic shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  ‘Well, I haven’t seen her since the week before last,’ he frowned. ‘I told that other copper, we’d kind of finished.’

  ‘Kind of?’

  ‘We’d had …’ Matt’s brows came down and he took a deep breath. ‘We had a couple of rows. And I just didn’t want the hassle, you know?’

  The young man’s eyes flickered up, searching their faces, but Harland kept his expression blank.

  ‘What did you row about?’ He asked the question casually, but it was always going to provoke some sort of reaction.

  ‘Just … stuff, nothing important.’ Matt was frowning now, suddenly wary. ‘Why, what are you getting at?’

  Again, the right sort of response, if he was innocent.

  ‘I just want to get a sense of how things were,’ Harland explained. He kept his own voice quiet, slow, trying to prevent the tone of the conversation from escalating too quickly. Matt looked as though he was about to clam up and that would be no good to anyone.

  Imogen took a step forward, her shoe crunching on the gravel.

  ‘So you finished with her the week before last?’ She said it well – no clumsy attempt to placate him, just calm and matter-of-fact, but with a subtle nod to his ego: he’d finished with her.

  ‘That’s right.’ Matt’s expression eased just a little as he turned to address Imogen. ‘And Laura seemed OK about it, you know? I mean, we had a laugh together, but I don’t reckon she thought it was any more serious than I did. Not really.’

  ‘Were you still talking, calling her, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Nah, what’s the point of all that? If something’s not going anywhere, no sense dragging it out.’

  Imogen nodded, as though she agreed with him.

  ‘So she gave you back her keys and that was that?’

  Matt shook his head.

  ‘She didn’t have keys,’ he corrected her. ‘We never got that far.’

  Harland suppressed a smile. Imogen was going to be a breath of fresh air after the artless approach that Linwood sometimes employed to question people. And anything was an improvement on working with Pope.

  ‘Have you still got any of her stuff at your flat?’ she asked him. ‘Or has she taken it all?’

  Matt shook his head and looked down.

  ‘She only stayed over a few times so there wasn’t much, and I don’t think she left anything.’ He lifted his head, suspicion dawning. ‘Why?’

  Imogen shrugged.

  ‘Just wondering if she might come back to collect anything.’

  Matt pushed himself up off the wall to stand up straight, scowling at them now.

  ‘I mean, why are you asking me all these questions?’ he demanded. ‘We’re not together any more. You should be speaking to her housemates, or whoever saw her last, not wasting your time with me …’

  ‘What were you doing on Friday evening?’ Harland interrupted him. ‘This Friday just gone by?’

  ‘Eh?’ Matt stared at him, caught off guard by the question.

  ‘Friday evening. What were you doing?’

  ‘I … I stayed home. Why?’

  ‘All night?’ Imogen asked. ‘You didn’t go out at all?’

  ‘I think I was tired … fell asleep or something …’

  ‘Anyone with you?’ she pressed.

  ‘No, I …’ He stopped, a flicker of panic in his eyes. ‘What are you not telling me? What’s this really about?’

  Harland stared at him, holding his gaze, letting him get uncomfortable. He leaned forward, opening his mouth as if he was about to say something, then drawing back slightly, letting Matt know there was something, but not revealing what it was.

  An older man, with a tangle of salt-and-pepper curls, appeared at the doorway. He wore an ancient set of overalls, open at the front to reveal a crumpled check shirt – pretty elderly to be a mechanic, but maybe he was the garage owner. He looked at Harland and Imogen, assessing them, then turned to Matt.

  ‘Everything all right here?’ he rasped.

  Matt took a deep breath.

  ‘Yeah, it’s fine,’ he said, waving his colleague away. ‘On you go, I’ll be there in a minute.’

  The older man stared at them for a moment longer, then turned around and shuffled back inside.

  Matt swore under his breath, clearly agitated now.

  Harland waited for him to look up, then allowed his own face to relax into a neutral expression.

  ‘So you’ve had no contact with her since the week before last …’ He said it lightly, as if drawing a line under it. ‘Well, I suppose that’s that.’

  He shot Imogen a quick glance then turned back to smile at Matt, who looked confused.

  ‘Anyway, sorry to have bothered you at work.’

  Matt, realising that they were leaving, seemed to relax a little.

  ‘That’s OK,’ he muttered, his shoulders dropping. ‘I wanna help out. For Laura, you know?’

  ‘Of course.’ Harland turned as if to go, then looked back at him. ‘What time do you finish here? Just in case we have anything else we need to ask you …’

  Matt hesitated, just a fraction, then shrugged.

  ‘We’re open from eight till five.’

  Harland looked at him for a moment longer, then smiled again.

  ‘Then I think we’re done for now.’ He looked at Imogen, expectant.

  ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Garrick,’ she said.

  They turned and made their way back through the garage. Harland could feel Matt’s eyes following him as he walked across the concrete to the car, and he raised one hand in a backwards wave without looking round.

  Imogen slid into the driving seat and started the engine, as he climbed in and shut his door.

  ‘Well?’ she asked him.

  Harland glanced back towards the garages thoughtfully.

&n
bsp; ‘I don’t know about you,’ he mused, ‘but I need something to eat.’

  7

  The café interior seemed almost dark after the bright sunlight of the street. Harland picked up a bottle of iced tea from the chiller cabinet and placed it on the counter, next to Imogen’s Diet Coke.

  ‘And this, please.’

  The man behind the till was young – late teens or early twenties – with a thin beard and carefully styled hair. He wore a skinny blue T-shirt with the café logo on it, and had some kind of porcelain spike jammed through one of his earlobes.

  ‘Paying together?’ he asked.

  Imogen had her purse in her hand and was pulling out some money, but Harland waved her away.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said, taking a twenty from his wallet. ‘Let me get this one.’

  She looked at him, then gave a slight shrug.

  ‘Thank you, sir. My turn next time.’

  The man with the spike handed Harland his change, and placed their drinks on a small tray, along with a metal table marker labelled ‘12’.

  ‘Where will you be sitting?’ He gave them an expectant look. ‘You know, for the food?’

  Harland glanced around. A flight of narrow wooden steps led upstairs but there was a garden area at the back, with ashtrays on the tables …

  He looked at Imogen, who seemed content to follow his lead.

  ‘It’s a nice day,’ he said. ‘We’ll be outside.’

  They made their way out through the back of the building, emerging into a walled garden area, under a square of brilliant blue sky. The space was crowded with metal tables beneath the shade of large square parasols, and little patches of glaring white burned on the old paving, where sunlight shafted down between the dark canopies. Two women were sitting in the far corner, talking quietly, and a serious-looking man was tapping away at his laptop, but otherwise they had the place to themselves.

  Harland chose a table by the wall, putting the tray down and dropping into a chair.

  ‘Well,’ he sighed, raising his drink. ‘Cheers.’

  Imogen pulled her chair around, scraping it across the stone slabs, then lifted her own drink.