To Die Alone

by John Dean

  Butterfield looked at him coldly but did not say anything – if she was honest, the same thought had occurred to her the moment she opened her mouth. She knew only too well how rapidly words travelled in the hill communities of the North Pennines and it would not have been the first time that her intemperate language had landed her in trouble.

  It was approaching nine o’clock and they were standing in the examination room of the vet’s practice in Levton Bridge, which was housed in a modern flat-roofed building in a side street off the market place. As she watched the vet continue with his work, Butterfield realized that she hardly knew him, an unusual phenomena in the town. James Thornycroft had only recently moved to Levton Bridge, having purchased the business when the previous owner took early retirement: local rumour suggested that the old man had drunk most of the profits and had no option but to sell up. She recalled that at the time the sale went through, there had been some talk of an urban vet taking over a rural practice, a few derogatory comments from the older farmers, her father included, about his lack of knowledge of the community, but she had not taken much notice. When you lived in a place like Levton Bridge, such talk was background noise. Butterfield wished she had listened harder now because she was not sure to whom, if anyone, James Thornycroft confided his thoughts, to whom her intemperate words would be conveyed. First rule of living in a tight-knit community, she thought bleakly, find out who talks to whom. Watching the vet working now, the detective constable wondered if her comments would get back to Harris.

  They were in the examination room because, earlier in the evening, the constable had received a call from Harris on his mobile, ordering her to meet him at the playing field near Levton Bridge’s primary school. When the helicopter arrived, he had instructed her to take the remains of Meredith’s dog to the surgery. The inspector said he would be with her in a few minutes. Irked by what she saw as a menial task, Butterfield had seethed on the journey back into the town centre. Now, she and Thornycroft had been at the surgery for twenty minutes.

  Silence settled on the room as he continued his examination and, for the first time, Butterfield turned her attention away from her own frustrations and looked at the body of the dog. The constable found herself watching with a growing, morbid fascination as the silence lengthened and the vet worked, the sweat glistening on his balding pate as he probed the remains of Robbie, occasionally tutting to himself at the extent of the wounds, seemingly oblivious to her presence. Butterfield found herself surprised to feel her irritation replaced by something deeper, something darker, something that had been buried for years, something that she had tried to push to the back of her mind, a dark childhood memory that stirred now. The constable gave the slightest shake of the head, as if the motion would banish it from her thoughts.

  ‘He looks pretty badly mauled,’ she said instinctively. The sound of her voice surprised her: she did not even realize that she had spoken.

  ‘How observant,’ said Thornycroft, giving her a sly look. ‘I can see why you became a detective.’

  Butterfield cursed herself silently: it was tough enough being a female police officer in Levton Bridge without making it worse with stupid pronouncements. Noticing her discomfort, Thornycroft allowed himself a slight smile and carried on with his work. Silence settled on the room again until, finally, he gave a grunt, straightened up and walked over to the sink.

  ‘Are you even remotely interested in my findings?’ he asked, turning on the tap and beginning to wash the blood off his hands. ‘Or would I be wasting your precious time?’

  ‘All I’m saying,’ said Butterfield, irritation returning at his sarcastic tone, ‘is that I don’t know why we’re wasting time on the dog when we’ve got a man in the morgue. He’s more important.’

  Thornycroft turned round and glanced towards the door, so briefly as for it to be hardly noticeable.

  ‘Meaning?’ he asked, walking back to the examination table.

  ‘Well, it’s a question of priorities and I think we have got them wrong this time.’

  ‘I shouldn’t let your chief inspector hear you talking like that. He loves his dogs, does Jack Harris.’

  ‘I don’t care if he does – this is a murder inquiry and if all we can do is worry about—’

  ‘All we can do is worry about what?’ asked Harris.

  Butterfield whirled round in horror as the inspector walked into the room.

  ‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ she gasped.

  ‘Clearly.’

  ‘I did,’ said Thornycroft.

  Butterfield glared at him.

  ‘Well?’ said Harris, fixing her with a stern look, ‘what were you saying about the inquiry, Constable? Another one of your illuminating insights into my policing methods, no doubt. I have half a mind to suggest that you become DCI in my place.’

  She hesitated.

  ‘I’m waiting, Constable.’ The voice was harder now.

  ‘I was just saying,’ mumbled Butterfield, ‘that what with Meredith’s body being taken down to Roxham, I thought we should be at the post-mortem.’

  ‘Oooh, I would not have thought to do that. Oh, no, hang on, perhaps I checked after all. And perhaps the pathologist can’t do the full examination until tomorrow morning. Maybe you would like to call him to discuss it? I’m sure he would appreciate your input. After all, Professor Michaels has only been in the job twenty-seven years.’

  Butterfield shook her head meekly – her impetuous comments had put her on the wrong side of the inspector’s sharp tongue too many times since her transfer to CID and she could not risk another confrontation. Could not risk being sent back into uniform. Butterfield tried not to meet the inspector’s gaze as he looked at her.

  ‘And as for poor old Robbie here,’ added the inspector, switching his attention to the remains of the dog, ‘you might not think he is important but find the dog that did this and the odds are we will find the man who murdered Trevor Meredith. Satisfied?’

  Butterfield nodded dumbly and watched in glum silence as Harris examined the corpse. As she looked closer at the body again, the childhood memory forced its way back to the front of her mind once more. A farmer’s daughter, she had been brought up not to regard dogs with any kind of sentimentality and yet … and yet….

  ‘So what have we got?’ asked the inspector, looking at Thornycroft expectantly.

  ‘One well-mangled dog, Hawk.’

  Butterfield sighed: so the men were friends. Only friends were allowed to call him Hawk.

  ‘It seems remarkable to me,’ continued the vet, ‘that a dog could be capable of something like this. I mean, I’ve never seen injuries quite like this.’

  ‘I have,’ said Butterfield suddenly, the memory finally forcing itself to the fore.

  ‘I very much doubt that, Constable,’ said Thornycroft, looking at her sceptically. ‘I’ve been working with animals for years and….’

  ‘But you’re in the country now, Mr Thornycroft. Things are different up here,’ said Butterfield.

  Thornycroft looked as if he was about to dispute the comment, and turned to Harris for support. He was to be disappointed.

  ‘Her dad runs the farm up past Leygill,’ said Harris. ‘He’s had his fair share of trouble with sheep worrying down the years. If Constable Butterfield says that she has seen injuries like this, then she has.’

  Butterfield looked at the inspector gratefully.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Thornycroft, inclining his head slightly, the realization that the farm could be a client prompting him to adopt a more respectful tone. ‘Still learning these things. Sorry, Constable, didn’t recognize the surname.’

  ‘No reason why you should have,’ replied Butterfield with a slight smile. ‘Dad doesn’t use you. Says you don’t know one end of a bullock from the other.’

  ‘Thank you for those few kind words,’ murmured Thornycroft, acutely conscious that Jack Harris had given a low laugh. ‘So when did you see injuries like this?’

  ‘I wa
s only a kid. We had a flock attacked by a Labrador.’ Butterfield nodded at Scoot, who had just wandered into the room and slumped heavily beneath one of the benches. ‘Like him.’

  Now it was the inspector’s time to be irritated but he said nothing, instead marvelling in silence at the constable’s ability to say the wrong thing time after time.

  ‘Its owners had let it off the lead,’ continued Butterfield. ‘When it came into our top field, it went berserk. Chased the sheep all over. Caught two of them and ripped their throats out.’

  The others watched in silence as she brushed a hand across her short-cropped blonde hair, as if trying to wipe away the memory.

  ‘One of the ewes was pregnant.’ Her voice dropped to little more than a whisper. ‘It was the only time I ever saw my father cry.’

  ‘And the dog?’ asked Thornycroft.

  ‘Dad put a bullet into it.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Like she said, James,’ commented Harris drily. ‘People do things differently up here.’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘Trouble is,’ said Harris, laying a hand gently on the dog’s head, ‘poor Robbie wasn’t a sheep, was he? And I can only think of one thing that would make a dog attack another one in such a savage way. I assume you know about dog fighting, James?’

  ‘Come on, Hawk, you’re surely not suggesting that something like that is happening here?’

  ‘There’ve been rumours,’ said Harris. ‘The local RSPCA lad reckons there was a plan for an empty barn on Jenner’s farm. I am wondering if Trevor Meredith had got himself involved in some way.’

  ‘He was certainly a somewhat naïve man at times,’ said Thornycroft and clapped a hand to his mouth. ‘Sorry, shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’

  ‘I take it you knew him fairly well then?’

  ‘Not really. That is, a bit. We weren’t close or anything like that, mind.’ The vet noticed both officers staring at him and sighed. ‘I guess you’ll find out anyway but I did not get on with Trevor Meredith – or rather, he did not get on with me.’

  The detectives exchanged glances.

  ‘It’s nothing sinister,’ said the vet quickly. ‘My predecessor had treated dogs from the sanctuary for free – even paid for some of the drugs, I understand. I think he saw it as some sort of social service. I am afraid I cannot afford to be such a philanthropic soul.’

  Harris raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, Hawk,’ said Thornycroft. ‘When I took the business over, my accountant said that there was no way such a state of affairs could continue – it was costing the business a lot of money. I had no alternative but to stop it.’

  ‘Community spirit indeed,’ murmured Butterfield.

  ‘Business is business, Constable. Trevor Meredith understood.’ The vet noticed their sceptical looks. ‘He did. Honest he did.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said the inspector. ‘After all, we can hardly ask him now, can we?’

  Thornycroft looked at him anxiously.

  ‘Look, I hope this does not get me involved in your inquiry,’ he said.

  ‘I am sure that it has no bearing on what happened,’ said Harris. ‘What does have a bearing, though, if is there’s a link between what happened to Meredith and dog fighting. What kind of dog did this to Robbie, do you think?’

  ‘I’d need to do casts of the bite marks and send them off for analysis to be a hundred per cent sure,’ said the vet, pursing his lips. ‘Somehow I don’t imagine that your Superintendent Curtis will stump up for that.’

  Harris nodded gloomily. He knew how Philip Curtis reacted to anything to do with animals. In addition to his work as a detective, Harris was a wildlife liaison officer, a role which had over the years turned him into a national figure much in demand to address conferences and to give television and radio interviews. Curtis, the recently-arrived superintendent at Levton Bridge had made it clear that he did not like the amount of time Harris lavished on such affairs, or the publicity it engendered. Not proper policing, was a phrase he had been heard to utter but never within earshot of the inspector.

  Not that the mutual dislike was all about wildlife: part of it was connected with one of the superintendent’s first decisions on arriving at Levton Bridge. Detesting the fact that Scoot accompanied the inspector wherever he went, Curtis saw an early opportunity to establish his superiority as divisional commander. He issued a memo banishing the dog from the divisional headquarters, a decision he was forced to reverse by the force of highly vocal protests from many of the staff, everyone from grizzled old constables to bright-faced young secretaries: they had all been feeding Scoot titbits for years. Philip Curtis had resented the humiliation ever since.

  ‘So,’ continued the inspector, ‘assuming that my beloved superintendent decides not to sanction the expenditure, would you care to hazard a guess?’

  ‘I dunno, some kind of terrier? Maybe a pit bull?’

  ‘I thought that was what you would say,’ murmured Harris, his mind going back to the reports earlier in the day of the man and his dog on the hills. ‘Mind, I haven’t heard of one like that in the area. Have you?’

  For the second time in a minute, James Thornycroft hesitated. Harris looked at him.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  The answer came a little too quickly and, looking at the vet, the inspector sensed a change in his demeanour, a caution that had not been there a few moments previously. Harris also noticed that Thornycroft had stared to sweat again.

  ‘That does not sound very definite,’ said the inspector.

  ‘Well it is.’ This time, the reply sounded defensive.

  ‘What about injuries like this then?’ asked Butterfield, picking up on the change in mood and gesturing to Robbie. ‘Are you sure you haven’t seen anything like this since you came here?’

  ‘I only took over the practice four months ago.’

  ‘That wasn’t the constable’s question,’ said Harris.

  Thornycroft looked at the detectives for a moment or two, anxiety flitting across his face before he regained his composure.

  ‘No,’ he said, his voice firmer. ‘No, I have not seen injuries like this since I came here.’

  Butterfield was about to say something when a look from Harris silenced her.

  ‘OK, James,’ he said briskly, heading for the door, ‘not sure there is much else we can do here so we’ll leave you to it. Thanks for all your help. It is much appreciated.’

  ‘No problem,’ murmured the vet.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Darkness had begun to fall and the wind had started to build again, driving rain into the detectives’ faces as they stepped out of the front door of the surgery on to the glistening pavement. As they began to walk, Butterfield waited respectfully for the inspector to explain their sudden departure.

  ‘The weathermen said it would have a second blast,’ said Harris instead, glancing up at the heavy clouds. ‘Something tells me it is going to be one of those nights.’

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘This kind of weather does funny things to people, Constable. Funny things.’

  ‘Jack Harris!’ came a shrill cry from behind them. ‘I want a word with you!’

  ‘See what I mean,’ murmured Harris, turning and staring without enthusiasm at the rapidly approaching figure. ‘When’s the election again?’

  Butterfield chuckled. Striding down the street towards them was the slightly balding figure of Barry Ramsden, who in addition to running an optician’s shop in the town centre, was the parish council chairman. He and Jack Harris had known each other since schooldays: it had not always been an easy relationship.

  ‘How can I help, Barry?’ asked the inspector, trying to sound courteous as the councillor reached them.

  ‘There’s rumours of a crazed dog on the hills. I’m getting phone calls.’

  ‘Now there’s a surprise.’

  ‘What can I tell them, Jack?’ Ram
sden sounded genuinely concerned. ‘I mean, folks are frightened. They’ve heard what happened up there.’

  ‘Tell them not to worry. I am pretty sure that the animal is well away from here by now.’

  ‘I assume it has got something to do with the death of Trevor Meredith?’

  ‘No comment,’ said Harris and started walking again. He had only gone a few paces when a thought struck him and he turned round. ‘Oh, while I remember. Am I right in thinking that you are one of the directors of the dog sanctuary?’

  ‘Chairman actually,’ said Ramsden. ‘My father was one of the founders of the place.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to kill Trevor?’

  ‘No. The man was a saint as far as I was concerned. Loved dogs, really loved them. The idea that a dog owner could be the one who ki—’

  ‘This talk of you closing down a few months ago,’ said Harris, cutting across him. ‘Was there anything in that?’

  ‘Gossip, Jack,’ said Ramsden, with a shake of the head. ‘All pub talk. You know what people are like up here. God knows where these rumours begin.’

  Harris nodded and, without another word, walked away, leaving the councillor standing in the street. It was not long before the detectives emerged into the market place where they headed towards the inspector’s white Land Rover parked close to the town cross. Harris glanced across to the far side of the square, where two drunks in their late twenties were arguing outside the darkened Co-op store.

  ‘What’s the betting they’ve been at the King’s Head?’ he said.

  ‘Been like this all day apparently,’ said Butterfield, following his gaze. ‘Uniform have been called there three times. Every time they get things calmed down, it flares up again.’

  She glanced at the inspector. Although desperate to ask about the encounter with James Thornycroft, the constable nevertheless resisted the temptation to raise the subject: you never knew where you were with Jack Harris and she realized that, having irked him earlier, she had to choose her words carefully. Her short experience of working with the DCI had taught her that only when he was ready would Jack Harris talk.