by John Dean
‘Yes, but we lost precious time,’ said Harris with a shake of the head. ‘I tell you, Bob, I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.’
It had been, he recalled, the opposite scenario earlier in the day. A detective chief inspector in the market town of Levton Bridge, Jack Harris had been in a rare cheerful mood as he passed the control room in the Victorian house that served as divisional headquarters. The previous Friday, he had been in Carlisle Crown Court to see three travelling criminals from Merseyside jailed for stealing £95,000 of quad bikes from farms in his area. One incident had seen a farmer threatened with a baseball bat, the man subsequently suffering a mild stroke and now unable to work, his farm still on the market the best part of a year later. Acutely aware that the raids had sent fear rippling through the area’s hill communities, Harris and his team had been after the gang for months and they had all received a judge’s commendation at the conclusion of the trial. Not that Jack Harris put much store by commendations but it was nice to be recognized.
Outside the court building when the trial ended, the inspector had given several media interviews, during which he went out of his way to warn other gangs considering coming into the area that Levton Bridge Police were waiting for them. He had even looked into the television camera, pointing a finger somewhat dramatically into the lens and revealing that he was already well advanced in the planning of the next operation. Given that he wasn’t planning anything of the sort, Harris had spent the weekend coming up with ways to thwart the gangs and by the Sunday evening, he was satisfied that he had enough in place to divert any awkward questions from the top brass when he returned to work the next morning.
But there hadn’t been any awkward questions and Harris had spent the first hour of the day going through all the weekend newspaper reports, delighting in headlines that made for good reading. Never a great politician, Jack Harris was nevertheless shrewd enough to know that things like this played well at headquarters down in Roxham. He knew the high-ups would be reading the same articles, basking in the reflected glory, and Harris had already pinned up the best of the cuttings on the CID room wall to encourage his small team of detectives. HR would like that, he reckoned. Staff motivation, that’s what they were always banging on about in their memos.
Now, staring over the valley and gloomily turning the events of the day over and over in his mind, the inspector realized that his good mood had coloured his reaction when the call came in about Trevor Meredith shortly before lunchtime. He knew that he should have immediately sensed that something was amiss. The call had come from one of Trevor Meredith’s concerned fellow workers at the town’s dog sanctuary, reporting that he had not turned up that morning, that there was no sign of him at his home and that he was not answering his mobile phone, that he was a conscientious man and that such behaviour was out of character.
The inspector, who happened to be passing the control room at the time, stepped in to listen in on the conversation, his initial instinct being to take no action. Jack Harris had long regarded it as a man’s inalienable right to be able to disappear for a few hours if he so wished. He had spent enough years concocting spurious inquiries as an excuse for heading out into the hills to think any different, and everyone at Levton Bridge Police Station knew it. A man was entitled, he had announced as he left the room, to walk his dog without having half the police force out looking for him. The control operators had smiled at the comment: they knew to take advantage of a good Jack Harris mood.
The inspector’s viewpoint changed when his desk phone rang some time later. His mouth full of ham sandwich, he had taken the call to be told by control that a traffic officer heading along the moorland road between Levton Bridge and Roxham had spotted Trevor Meredith’s estate car. There was no sign of the driver and no note on the windscreen indicating where he had gone. A quick check had revealed a broken fanbelt. A quick call to Jasmine Riley’s workplace revealed that she had taken the day off, citing a family emergency. On hearing the news, Harris instinctively sensed that something was wrong. He had cursed then telephoned his old friend Crowther. The inspector, who had been a member of the search and rescue team ever since his return to the area several years previously, knew how dangerous the hills could be, especially in brutal weather like the storm battering his office window. Within minutes, the volunteers were leaving their jobs and heading for the organization’s hut on the edge of a small patch of open grass behind the police station, Harris among them, struggling into his waterproofs as he went.
Once out on the hills, Crowther divided them into teams to cover as much distance as possible, meticulously retracing Meredith’s possible routes. The teams – Crowther’s working their way along the wooded valleys, a second one crossing the moor and the third moving their way steadily along the ridge – had been searching for more than three hours now but had produced little to suggest Meredith’s whereabouts. Few people were out on the hills and none of those the team had encountered, a shepherd and a couple on a hiking holiday, had seen him except for one vague report of a man with a dog, seen in the distance for a fleeting moment or two before they disappeared into the mist.
By the time late afternoon arrived, the winds had dropped slightly and Crowther had called a short halt as the searchers entered the copse. As the volunteers sat and talked in low tones over snacks and hot tea, their mood continued to darken: they were starting to suspect that they would not find Trevor Meredith. Everyone knew that the forecast was for the storm to renew its energies as the evening wore on. Several of the rescue team were already allowing their gaze to wander to the new batch of dark clouds gathering on the horizon.
‘I think we have to face facts,’ said Crowther, mindful of their mutterings, ‘either he’s dead or, instinct or not, he was never here. What if his girlfriend picked him up when the car broke down?’
‘Then why did he not leave a note?’
‘Maybe he forgot. And she still hasn’t turned up, has she?’
Before the DCI could reply, his mobile phone rang. Fishing it out of his pocket, he glanced at the name on the screen: Gallagher.
‘Perhaps our resident Cockney can shed some light on the proceedings,’ said the inspector: Matty Gallagher was the detective sergeant at Levton Bridge.
‘Hope so.’
‘Matty, lad,’ said the inspector, ‘I do hope you’re not going to tell me that we’ve got wet-through for nothing and that Meredith and his young lady have been enjoying a cream tea in Roxham?’
‘Now that,’ said Gallagher’s voice, ‘sounds nice. Better than the muck they served in the canteen at lunchtime. No, we have not found them. The name and address in Meredith’s diary for the appointment turns out to be fake.’
‘Jasmine Riley still missing?’
‘Yeah, but we’ve tracked down her old mum in Chester. The story Jasmine told her workmates on the phone this morning? Absolute cobblers. Fabrication from start to finish. Mum does not have cancer – in fact, she is really upset that her daughter would tell anyone she had – and she has not been rushed to hospital. What’s more, she hasn’t heard from her daughter for the best part of a week and was starting to get concerned.’
‘Intriguing.’
‘Well, if you think that’s intriguing, get this. You know I said no one at Levton Bridge railway station had seen Jasmine? Well, we tracked down a bloke who got off further down the line at Maltby – he was visiting his grandmother – and he remembers someone who looked like Jasmine sitting in the same carriage. Caught her staring at him a couple of times. Wondered if she fancied him, the arrogant git. According to Butterfield, he’s no oil painting.’
‘We can assume that Jasmine was on her way to Roxham then. It’s the next stop.’
‘And chummy’s car was found on the Roxham road, remember.’
‘Indeed it was,’ said Harris. ‘Look, are we a hundred per cent sure they weren’t travelling together?’
‘The witness did not see anyone else with her. The train got into Roxham just
as the Manchester service arrived, so the station was busy, but no one among the platform staff remembers seeing them either. I’ve got the Roxham plods checking things out but they’ve not turned up anything yet. Not sure they will now.’
There was a brief silence.
‘What you thinking?’ asked Gallagher.
‘I don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s not good. I take it there’s still no word from the chopper? We could do with some help.’
‘Control talked to them an hour ago – they reckon it’s still far too bad to fly.’
‘Try again, will you? Everything else quiet?’
‘Not the word I would use. Uniform have been called twice to punch-ups at The King’s Head. There’s a load of locals in for a sesh by the looks of it. Been there since opening time.’
‘Anyone hurt?’
‘Na, it’s all been a bit handbags.’
‘What are the fights about?’
‘Uniform are not sure. I’m keeping out of it, to be honest, we’ve got enough to do compiling those bloody burglary statistics that the super wants for his meeting. See you wheedled yourself out of that one.’
‘Sometimes it’s OK to pull rank.’
‘So it would seem. Oh, some old fellow called Harry Galbraith has been on for you three times. He’s getting all aeriated, says it’s urgent. Who is he?’
‘The Farmwatch guy. Lives up at Sneets Edge. I rang him over the weekend to suggest we do an op tonight.’
‘For why?’
‘Thought it would play well after my comments about travelling gangs after the case on Friday. We were going to put a press release out about it later in the week. Show that I was not talking hogwash.’
‘As if,’ said Gallagher. ‘What do you want me to tell him?’
‘Well there’s no way I can do it now. Ask uniform if they can spare a couple of bodies. All they need to do is park up somewhere in case the farmers need them. Shouldn’t happen, mind – they’re not supposed to get out of their cars. All they have to do is take registration numbers.’
‘I’ll ask but don’t hold your breath.’
‘In which case, make sure that Galbraith does not go out on his own if we haven’t got anyone available.’
‘Surely he knows that.’
‘Yeah, but he tends to get a bit over-enthusiastic. Give him a walkie-talkie and he thinks he’s Rambo. Daft bastard even asked me if we should be blacked up and did I have any spare camouflage trousers? It’s all rather Cockleshell Heroes.’
The inspector heard Gallagher’s low laugh at the other end. Noticing that Crowther was talking on his radio, the inspector finished the call, replaced his phone in his pocket and waited until his friend completed his conversation.
‘That was Mike Ganton up on the ridge,’ said Crowther. ‘They’ve just been talking to a shepherd who saw a man with a dog shortly after nine.’
‘That confirms the other report we had then. Meredith is up here.’
‘ ’Fraid not. Mike reckons this was some kind of bull terrier. Nasty looking thing, apparently. It had had half its ear ripped off at some point. The owner wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs either. Shaven-headed bloke. I’m starting to share your misgivings about this if characters like that are wandering across the moors.’
Crowther looked up at the leaden sky and scowled: it was past five and, whereas there would normally have been several more hours of summer daylight remaining, the storm had changed everything and it was already starting to grow dark beneath the heavy rain clouds.
‘If Meredith is up here,’ he said grimly, ‘he’s going to be in trouble soon because I reckon we’ll lose the light by half seven. Eight if we’re really lucky. And we both know the weather forecast for tonight. This is the lull before.’
‘So what do you want to do?’
‘Give it another hour or so then think again. Too early to consider calling it off.’
Harris nodded his approval.
‘But if he is up here,’ said Crowther, glancing back at his men, a couple of whom had already started to push on through the copse, ‘we have to find him p.d.q. Not sure Meredith can handle a night on the hills.’
‘He’s a fit lad, mind. Does a lot of fell running. Keen walker as well.’
‘So how come you know him so well?’ said Crowther, tossing the dregs of his tea on to the ground and replacing the flask in his bag. ‘He a friend?’
‘I meet him out walking the dog sometimes. And he was the one I dealt with when I went to get Scoot.’
Harris gestured to the black Labrador rooting around in the vegetation a little further down the valley side.
‘So what was he like?’
‘Very good. House-trained and the previous owner had been pretty good when it came to using a—’
‘Trevor Meredith, not the blessed dog!’ exclaimed Crowther, a broad grin spreading across his face. ‘Bloody typical.’
Harris chuckled: everyone knew that he had always preferred the company of animals to people.
‘Bob!’
The cry came from the far side of the copse and they sprinted to where, ten metres beyond a large up-ended tree, two of their orange-clad colleagues were staring down at the body of a man. Nobody spoke for a few moments – no one liked bringing down dead bodies from the hills. Police officer’s instincts taking over, Harris crouched down by the corpse and stared into the face.
‘Is it him?’ asked Crowther.
‘Yeah, it’s him.’
Harris bent down further to examine the ugly wound on the side of Meredith’s head, the blood having flowed across the right cheek and dribbled down to stain his blue waterproof jacket, before being washed away by the rain.
‘I take it he’s dead?’ asked Crowther, peering over the inspector’s shoulder.
‘As the proverbial.’
Cursory examination complete, the inspector straightened up and walked over to stare thoughtfully at the felled tree, the roots of which had been torn from the ground during the gale.
‘You thinking that did for him?’ asked Crowther.
‘Maybe.’
‘There’s certainly been plenty come down.’ Crowther glanced at the other rescuers and shook his head. ‘Bye, that’s bad luck, that is.’
‘Assuming he was hit by the tree,’ said the inspector, patting the trunk: to the others it seemed a strangely affectionate gesture. ‘What a waste.’
‘Yeah, he was a decent bloke by all account,’ said Crowther.
‘Actually, I was thinking of the tree. Must be a good forty years old.’
Crowther allowed himself a smile: after so many years he had grown used to the inspector’s idiosyncracies, was convinced that they were all deliberate, part of the act.
‘So how come you’re not sure it was the tree?’ asked one of the other volunteers.
‘I would have expected more extensive injuries.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said the man. ‘Remember that guy who took a header off Langton Crag three years ago? Not a bloody mark on him. I’ve had worse injuries shaving.’
‘Yeah,’ said Crowther, looking down at the corpse, ‘maybe the tree only struck him a glancing blow. Besides, look at his arm, Hawk, that doesn’t look too clever. And his right hand looks pretty badly smashed up.’
‘Then why’s he lying over by you? Why not here, next to the tree?’
As Harris spoke, he glanced to his left, stopped and stared for a few moments at a small area of flattened undergrowth and a patch of disturbed mud. Letting his eyes roam a few paces, Harris noted a large rock. He walked over and peered down at the side furthest away from him, the side concealed from view. The green moss was tinged with streaks of blood.
‘I think this is where they struggled,’ he said.
‘Who struggled?’ asked Crowther.
‘Meredith and the man who killed him.’
‘What, up here?’ said Crowther unable to conceal the scepticism in his voice.
‘Why not?’ said Harris, walking
back to stand next to Crowther. ‘Maybe his attacker left him for dead – perhaps he dragged himself over here before dying.’
‘Sorry, Hawk,’ said Crowther as he watched the inspector crouch down by the body once more, his face so low it almost touched the damp earth, ‘I still reckon he was hit by the tree.’
He glanced at the others for support: several of the men nodded.
‘In which case,’ said Harris, ‘I am sure one of you can explain how it came to be carrying a knife.’
He half-turned Meredith’s body and pointed to a bloodied mark in the side, initially concealed from view because he had been lying on his back.
‘Jesus,’ exclaimed Crowther, ‘is that a stab wound?’
‘Certainly is.’ Harris turned to look at the others. ‘Sorry, guys, but this has just turned into a crime scene. Can we all move back, please?’
The rescue team members shuffled away but Crowther did not move.
‘You OK, Bob?’ asked Harris, looking at his friend.
‘You know,’ said Crowther quietly, ‘it doesn’t matter how many times we find a dead one, I always think the same thing – what must it feel like to die alone up here?’
‘But he wasn’t alone, was he?’ said Harris with sudden energy, walking quickly over to the edge of the copse to scan the slopes. ‘His dog was with him, wasn’t he? So where is he?’
‘Maybe he got scared and ran off. I used to have a dog that got spooked when I turned the television on.’
‘No,’ said Harris, with a vigorous shake of the head, ‘Robbie would have stayed with his master.’
Thoughts turning to his own dog, the inspector stared to where he had last seen Scoot rooting through the bracken a little further down the slope. Harris tensed: body rigid, the Labrador was staring down at something hidden among the leaves. The inspector could see that the dog’s teeth were bared and that his hackles were up. Harris could hear his low growls.
‘What the…?’ exclaimed the inspector.
He sprinted to where Scoot was standing. After gently moving the trembling Labrador out of the way, the inspector knelt by the blood-soaked remains of a black and white dog. Looking closer, he could see that the animal’s throat had been ripped out, part of its muzzle had been torn off and one ear was smeared with blood. Harris felt the tears glistening in his eyes as he surveyed the injuries. Hearing the others approaching, he quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and took a deep breath to compose himself.
