To Die Alone

by John Dean

  ‘So what do you think about James Thornycroft?’ asked Harris, as they reached the vehicle and he fished in his jacket pocket for his keys.

  Butterfield looked at him with relief: it was so often the way with Harris, his moods blew over so quickly, and to be excluded from the murder inquiry would be a major disappointment for the ambitious young officer. Nevertheless, she resolved to proceed with care.

  ‘Look,’ she said, trying to sound respectful, ‘I know that you are friends with the guy and all that….’

  ‘What on earth gave you that idea?’

  ‘Well, he called you Hawk for a start.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Harris darkly, ‘and if he does it again, I may be forced to rip his oily little head off his oily little shoulders.’

  ‘So you’re not friends then?’

  ‘Of course we’re not,’ said Harris. ‘I mean, give me some credit, Constable. The man’s a deeply unpleasant individual. I would like to think that I display a little more judgement when selecting my friends.’

  ‘In which case,’ said Butterfield, realizing not for the first time that she did not really know who the inspector’s friends were, ‘I would say that James Thornycroft is lying through his teeth.’

  ‘I agree,’ said the inspector. He stopped walking and looked hard at her. ‘And I would hope that even if he was my best friend you would still tell me if he was a wrong’un.’

  ‘Of course I would.’

  ‘Good. And you are right, he was certainly acting strangely,’ said Harris, starting to walk again and nodding across at the drunks who were now squaring up to each other. ‘He’s not the only one, though, mind. Isn’t that Len Radley and Charlie Myles? I thought they were good friends?’

  ‘Thick as thieves, guv.’

  ‘Like I said, this weather does funny things to people,’ said the inspector, unlocking the vehicle’s door and gesturing for Scoot to jump into the passenger seat. ‘I’m going to see Matty, he’s over at Meredith’s cottage. Can you go back to the station and do some discreet checking on James Thornycroft?’

  ‘Be a pleasure.’

  ‘Discreet, remember.’

  ‘You know me, guv.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said, pausing halfway into the vehicle. ‘Look, I’m serious, don’t talk to anyone up here, you know how fast word gets round. That’s why I didn’t pursue it back there – let’s keep this nice and quiet. Let’s just see if there’s any intelligence on him first. I seem to recall someone saying that his last practice was in Bolton so you might ring the local cops, see if they can dig up anything.’

  ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘Not sure,’ said the inspector, clambering into the vehicle. ‘Anything that links Thornycroft to Meredith or dog fighting, I suppose.’

  ‘But Thornycroft is a vet.’

  ‘And Harold Shipman was a doctor,’ said Harris, reaching down to start the engine.

  ‘Good point,’ said Butterfield, looking over at the drunks. ‘Do you want me to sort them out first?’

  ‘No, leave them to it. They’re too pissed to do any serious harm.’

  One of the drunks gave a cry of pain and staggered backwards, clutching his bloodied nose.

  ‘On the other hand,’ grinned the inspector, jumping out of the Land Rover. ‘You see how Charlie is, I’ll stop Len doing something he’ll regret in the morning. Assuming he can remember it.’

  The officers moved swiftly across the market square as Len Radley lurched forward again, his fist still bunched. He was about to deliver a second blow when Jack Harris intervened, knocking his arm to one side. Radley gave him a stupid, drunken look.

  ‘Go home, Len,’ said Harris calmly, ‘or else I’ll have to nick you – and you know how I hate paperwork.’

  Len Radley considered the comment for a few moments then nodded and started to weave his way along the pavement.

  ‘Good boy,’ said Harris and turned to look at the injured man, who was sitting on the ground, clutching his nose and being tended to by the constable.

  The inspector sensed a presence behind him and, without turning round, casually flicked his bunched fist backwards. He gave a smile of satisfaction as he heard Len’s pained grunt. The inspector turned to see the drunk sway for a few seconds before sinking to his knees and clutching his face. Butterfield gave a little shake of the head: how had Harris known what Radley was about to do, she thought?

  ‘I should do you for police brutality,’ slurred Radley, glaring up at him. ‘You could have broken my nose.’

  ‘Believe me, Len, if I had wanted to break your nose I would have done so. Now get out of here or you can spend a night in the cells, paperwork or not.’

  The drunk hauled himself to his feet and appeared about to challenge the instruction but a single, menacing step forward from the inspector was all it took and with a final glare, Len Radley lurched his way out of the market place, staggering several times as the rain lashed down ever harder and the wind started a low moan. Harris watched him disappear round the corner then gave a shake of the head and returned his attention to the man on the ground.

  ‘So what’s this about, Charlie?’ he asked. ‘Not like you two to fall out.’

  ‘We’d had a skinful, Mr Harris.’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ said the inspector, helping him to his feet. ‘I assume you were in the King’s Head?’

  Myles nodded.

  ‘What’s kicking things off?’ asked the inspector.

  Charlie Myles did not reply.

  ‘All right,’ said Harris, ‘if that’s the way you want to play it. Go on, get yourself home. Might I suggest you take the long way, though. Just in case Len fancies another go.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Myles, producing from his trouser pocket a grubby handkerchief with which he dabbed his nose. ‘You saved me from a right pasting, I reckon, Mr Harris.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m all heart. Go on, get out of here.’

  Myles hesitated.

  ‘Something you want to tell me?’ asked Harris.

  ‘Look, I ain’t going to tell what me and Len were fighting about – that were personal – but maybe I can still help you.’

  ‘Not sure quite how in your state,’ said Harris and winked at the grinning Butterfield. ‘Unless you are going to buy me a drink then I would have to decline your kind offer because I’ve got a particularly pleasant single malt waiting for me – assuming I ever get home, that is.’

  ‘I heard that fellow from the dog place were found dead on the hills today.’

  ‘You knew him?’ said Harris sharply.

  ‘Yeah,’ and Charlie Myles glanced nervously around the deserted market-place as if fearful that someone was watching their conversation. ‘I mean, just to look at, like. Folks in the pub were saying that his dog were kilt as well. Folks reckon it were another dog as did it.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Is it still up there?’

  ‘You said you had something to tell me,’ said Harris, ignoring the question.

  He looked round but Len Radley had vanished and the only movement in the deserted square was a cat skulking in the shadows in front of the darkened Co-op. The inspector glanced back to the Land Rover where Scoot was sitting up in the passenger seat, his ears pricked as he watched the cat make its way past the store. The dog noticed his master’s expression and lay down with a disappointed expression on his face.

  ‘Go on, Charlie,’ said Harris. ‘There’s no one can hear you. Tell me what you know about Trevor Meredith.’

  ‘You got to promise me that it won’t go no further, Mr Harris. I don’t want people thinking I’m a snitch.’

  ‘You know me, Charlie.’

  ‘Aye, Mr Harris, I imagine I do. It were six or seven weeks ago – about midnight. I were up by Jenner’s Farm—’

  ‘And what, pray, were you doing there?’ asked the inspector, glancing across at Butterfield with a slight smile.

  ‘Out for a walk,’ said Charlie evasively. ‘It were
a nice night.’

  ‘Nice night for conies, more like. Look, I’ve warned you before about poaching,’ said Harris sternly. ‘Anyway, I’ll let you off this time. I take it you saw something?’

  ‘Aye. There’s an old barn up there – George Jenner used to keep his silage in it but the roof started leaking. He ain’t used it since last winter.’

  ‘I know it,’ nodded Harris: he and Scoot had passed it many times in recent weeks on their walks, the inspector having selected the route as a covert way of checking out the dog-fighting rumours. ‘But I have never seen Trevor Meredith up there if that’s what you are trying to tell me.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, Mr Harris – he were snooping round like he were looking for something.’

  ‘Any idea what?’

  ‘All I know is what when he saw me, he walked off quick like in the other direction. It were right suspicious.’

  ‘Is there any chance that—?’ began Harris, but Charlie shook his head quickly.

  ‘I aint saying nowt else, Mr Harris. I’ve probably said too much. You know what folks are like round here.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ murmured Harris as, without a further word, Charlie Myles headed unsteadily across the market-place and disappeared from view, ‘I wonder if I do.’

  ‘There’s definitely something weird going off tonight,’ nodded Butterfield.

  ‘Well, hopefully tomorrow we can make sense of it all,’ said Harris walking back to his vehicle and climbing back into the Land Rover, ‘And who knows, I might even remember to attend Trevor Meredith’s post-mortem.’

  Butterfield could see him laughing as he edged the vehicle past her and out on to the main road through the town centre. She grinned ruefully: like everyone always said, you just never knew where you were with Jack Harris.

  Tidying up the examination room as he prepared to head for home, James Thornycroft tensed as he heard a sound from the reception area.

  ‘That you, Hawk?’ he called.

  There was no answer. Trying to stay calm, he walked out of the room and into the reception area to be confronted by a large shaven-headed man.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ asked Thornycroft nervously, glancing past the man. ‘And where’s the dog?’

  ‘Don’t worry about the dog. What have you been telling Jack Harris and his little bimbo friend?’

  ‘I did as I was told,’ said Thornycroft, trying to stop his voice trembling. ‘I told them nothing.’

  ‘That had better be the truth.’

  Thornycroft saw the flash of steel as a knife appeared in the man’s hand.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he exclaimed. ‘I told them nothing!’

  The man walked up to him, leaning so close that Thornycroft could smell his fetid breath and feel the chill of the knife’s blade against his neck.

  ‘Keep it that way,’ said the man and walked out into the night.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jasmine Riley sat on the bed in her toom at the Roxham guest-house and stared down at the mobile phone in her hand. Why did Trevor not ring? He had said he would ring. Promised he would ring. Promised that they would arrange where to meet up again once they were both safely out of the valley. Said he would give her the name of the pub in Newcastle. Trevor had impressed upon her the importance of not ringing him: if anything happened to him, he had said, the last thing he wanted was his phone falling into the wrong hands. GPS, he had said for the umpteenth time, these people could do wonders with GPS. You had to be careful when dealing with these people, he had said, had to keep one step ahead of the game, make sure you gave them no way of tracking you down. She had often wondered how he knew these things, where he had learned to speak in such a way. Don’t worry, he had said, with a reassuring smile just before leaving the cottage that morning, he would ring.

  But he hadn’t.

  Jasmine Riley looked down at the phone for a few more moments then up at the clock. 10 p.m. it said. She sighed.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ she said and dialled Trevor Meredith’s number.

  High up in the dark northern hills, lying among bracken in a valley swept with rain, Trevor Meredith’s mobile phone rang and rang and rang.

  Ten miles north of Levton Bridge, a battered old red pick-up drove slowly along the road as it wound its way like a ribbon through the bottom of the valley. The vehicle’s headlights, one much dimmer than the other, were the only illumination in the darkness and showed up flecks of driving rain. The vehicle slowed next to the entrance to one of the small fields that patchworked the hillside and the passenger, a man with a flat cap jammed over his shock of white hair, got out and walked, bow-legged and stooped, to open the gate. The job done, Harry Galbraith walked back to the vehicle where the driver, Dennis Soames, a stocky tousled-haired farmer in his thirties, wound down the window.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘Should be alreet,’ said Galbraith.

  The pick-up reversed slowly into the entrance and drew to a halt, its nose hardly noticeable from the road. Soames cut the lights then waited for Galbraith to rejoin him. Sitting there with their windows down, the two men listened to the sounds of the night – the patter of rain on the vehicle’s windscreen, the whining of the wind across the rock escarpment far above them and, occasionally, the plaintive sound of a sheep bleating as it sheltered from the storm behind one of the drystone walls.

  ‘Old man Jenner all right with us parking here?’ asked Soames.

  ‘Aye, as long as he don’t have to do no work, he’ll be fine.’

  Both men laughed and Harry Galbraith rooted around in his canvas bag before producing two tin-foil packages and handing one of them to Soames.

  ‘Ham,’ he said.

  ‘Grand.’

  Galbraith rummaged around a bit more and produced a flask and two plastic cups.

  ‘Tea,’ he announced.

  ‘E’en better.’

  Galbraith reached into the bag again and produced a small Tupperware box.

  ‘Cake,’ he said. ‘Home-made.’

  ‘Your Elsie knows how to look after us, Harry.’

  For a few moments, the only sound in the vehicle was the munching of sandwiches then Soames looked at his friend.

  ‘Are you going to try the police again, Harry?’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ Soames looked anxious. ‘I mean, we’re out here on our own. Jack Harris did say that we should only do it with the police around and we’ve heard nowt from them since you talked to that Gallagher chap.’

  ‘Relax,’ said Galbraith, reaching into a glove compartment and producing a radio. ‘We’ve got this if we need them. Which reminds me, we better have a codename for tonight. How about something—?’

  ‘I’d still feel better if—’

  ‘Don’t fret,’ said Galbraith, noticing his friend’s increasingly anxious expression. He unscrewed the lid from the flask. ‘Tea?’

  Three miles further down the road, back towards Levton Bridge, the lights of a black saloon car cut through the darkness.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ‘Nothing!’ exclaimed Matty Gallagher, glancing across the living room from the bureau he had been searching. ‘We’ve been through this place with a fine-tooth comb and there is absolutely nothing to suggest why anyone would want to kill Trevor Meredith.’

  Jack Harris, crouching by a bookcase in the corner of the room, did not reply. It was shortly before 10 p.m. and the detectives were in the small cottage on the edge of Levton Bridge which had been Meredith’s home for a decade. The house was like the man, tidy and unremarkable, and the officers had been searching it for the best part of an hour, speaking little as they went through drawers and files, seeking something which would cast light on Trevor Meredith’s death. As their labours continued to prove fruitless, the sergeant had grown increasingly frustrated.

  ‘I mean,’ he said, holding up a sheet of paper in disgust, ‘he’s not even behind with his gas bill. It’d be easier to see w
hy someone would want to murder Mother Teresa.’

  ‘She local then?’ asked Harris, not looking up.

  ‘You know the new Indian on the corner of Wesley Street? She works in the kitchens. Cooks a mean rogan josh, I can tell you.’

  Gallagher grinned with delight at his quip then sighed as Jack Harris gave no sign that he had heard.

  ‘Wasted,’ said the sergeant gloomily, ‘that’s what I am.’

  Harris said nothing but, looking down so that Gallagher could not see his face in the shadows behind the sofa, he allowed himself a smile.

  ‘Talking of the Indian,’ said the sergeant, looking up at the clock above the fireplace. ‘if we get finished here in time, I quite fancy a curry and they open late on a Monday night. You on for that?’

  Again Harris did not reply. Gallagher sighed – he knew the answer anyway. The sergeant returned to his inspection of the bureau but could not concentrate: kept thinking about his favourite curry house back in London. A little back street job. Nothing to look at from the outside but chapatis to die for. Matty Gallagher sighed: God, he’d tried, he thought, he really had tried to settle in the North, but in recent weeks he had found himself thinking more and more about the old places. With an effort, he dragged his mind back to the task in hand.

  ‘I tell you something weird,’ he said, looking round the room. ‘It’s been bugging me ever since we got here. There is nothing of the man.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, think of a normal house. There’d be pictures for a start – parents’ golden wedding anniversary, grandkids, being presented with the golf trophy, that sort of thing. I bet even you’ve got pictures around your gaff, the day you and Scoot got married, that kind of thing.’

  The inspector chuckled and glanced across at Scoot, who was sitting in a corner watching the two men work. Then the inspector looked at the pictures on the wall: two nondescript prints of landscapes which could hang in any house in the country. He wondered why he had not noticed the absence of the personal touch himself and looked approvingly at his sergeant.