by John Dean
‘What you looking at me like that for?’ said Gallagher. ‘Surely, they wouldn’t be daft enough to go out on their own, not when we’ve had a murder up on the h….’ His voice tailed off as he saw the inspector’s expression. ‘Jesus, don’t tell me they would.’
‘You haven’t met Harry Galbraith,’ said Harris, allowing himself a slight smile despite his concerns, ‘It’s like Last of the Summer Wine meets The Sweeney.’
Gallagher roared with laughter but the sound died in his throat when the inspector’s mobile phone rang.
‘Somehow,’ said the sergeant gloomily, ‘that does not sound good.’
The inspector listened for a few moments before muttering a ‘thank you’ and ending the conversation. Placing the phone in his coat pocket, he looked at them.
‘I am afraid the curry will have to wait,’ he said grimly. ‘That was control. Someone’s just tried to kill Harry Galbraith and his mate.’
‘Jesus,’ said the sergeant quietly. ‘They’ll have my nuts for this.’
‘And mine,’ said Jack Harris darkly. ‘And mine, Matty lad.’
CHAPTER NINE
‘Pleased with you!’ exclaimed Harris, glaring at the two farmers sitting in front of him. ‘Why the hell would I be pleased with you? I mean, don’t you listen to a sodding word I say?’
Startled by the vehemence of the inspector’s onslaught, Harry Galbraith and Dennis Soames stared at the floor and said nothing as he paced the room. It was just after midnight and the farmers were at one of the tables in the dimly lit and deserted first floor canteen at Levton Bridge Police Station, cradling mugs of steaming tea in their hands.
‘I mean,’ continued the furious inspector, ‘I have come across some acts of crass stupidity in my time – mostly from my superintendent – but this takes the biscuit, it really does. You’re morons. Effing morons.’
‘Now hang on, Jack—’ began Galbraith.
‘Hang on nothing, Harry. You could have got yourselves killed tonight. This isn’t a game. Surely, you heard that we have already had one man found dead up on the hills?’
The farmers said nothing.
‘Well?’ said the inspector, glaring at them as if he were a schoolmaster and they his naughty pupils. ‘What do you have to say for yourselves?’
‘We thought you would be pleased that we remembered the car’s registration number,’ said Soames plaintively.
Harris glanced down at the scrap of paper that Soames had proudly handed him when the farmers arrived at the police station. The inspector looked at the hopeful expression on the young man’s face and gave a sigh.
‘It’s a fake,’ he said, his tone of voice softening as he saw Soames’s crestfallen expression. ‘We ran it through the PNC and it doesn’t exist. They probably had the plate made up in some back-street chop shop.’
Soames looked confused.
‘A chop shop?’ he asked.
‘Never mind. Suffice to say that the number will not lead us to the men who tried to kill you.’
Soames sank deeper into his seat and Harris drew up a chair and sat down at the table with them.
‘Look,’ he said in a much gentler tone, ‘that is why I am so angry. These guys tonight were professionals. That’s what we are up against. The gangs coming into our area and screwing your farms are highly organized and perfectly capable of turning nasty. I accept that these two were beyond the norm, but if you want to be part of Farmwatch, you have to play by the rules. My rules.’
‘We’re sorry, Jack,’ said Galbraith quietly, ‘we really are. We didn’t think. Have we got you in trouble?’
‘I’ll survive,’ said Harris, his anger now spent. ‘What worries me more is the trouble you got yourself into. Just promise me that you won’t do anything daft again, eh, lads?’
The farmers nodded.
‘We promise,’ said Galbraith. He hesitated for a moment or two before adding anxiously. ‘Does this mean we have to give our walkie talkie back?’
Harris chuckled.
‘No,’ he said, ‘you can keep your walkie talkie.’
Galbraith looked relieved. The inspector gestured to the caked blood down the side of the old man’s face.
‘That looks nasty,’ he said. ‘Has anyone had a look at it?’
‘It’s only a scratch.’
‘Yeah, well, don’t wash it before you leave here. I’ve got a forensics officer on his way in and she’ll take a swab – see if we can get anything from it.’
Galbraith looked confused.
‘Just don’t touch it,’ said Harris.
A slim, dark-haired uniformed inspector walked into the room and headed for the kitchen.
‘Any luck with the roadblocks, Alec?’ asked Harris, walking over to join him.
‘Sorry,’ said Alec Hulme, reaching into a cupboard and taking down the tea caddy. ‘Want a brew?’
‘Aye, go on.’
‘Top up, lads?’ asked Hulme, looking across the counter and nodding at the farmers’ mugs.
‘No, we’re alreet,’ said Galabraith. ‘But thank you.’
Hulme surveyed them for a moment as they sat in the table in their flat caps and scruffy overcoats.
‘Are Batman and Robin OK?’ he asked Harris in a voice so low that the farmers could not hear.
‘I think the enormity of what happened tonight is just starting to sink in. I’ve been trying to impress the danger they put themselves in.’
‘Yeah,’ said Hulme with a smile, ‘I heard your attempt at community engagement. Curtis would be proud of you. In fact, I understand he wants to include the phrase ‘effing morons’ in his next report to the police committee.’
‘Well, what do you expect me to say?’
‘Aye, maybe. Listen, talking of Curtis, he’s been after you again. Probably wants to congratulate you on your services to neighbourhood watch. Who knows, perhaps he will recommend you for the QPM.’
Harris chuckled: he liked the inspector.
‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up about the roadblocks, mind,’ said Hulme, removing a couple of mugs from another cupboard and turning his attention to the water heater mounted on the wall. ‘I reckon whoever those psychos were, they’re long gone. We had a call from a motorist a few minutes after the shooting and she said their car must have been doing seventy-five when it passed her. Damn near rammed her off the road. It’ll not have taken them long to get out of the valley at that rate.’
‘You alerted other forces?’
‘Yeah, but what chance that they are still in the car?’ said the inspector, stirring the mugs of tea. ‘They’ll probably torch the thing first chance they get.’
‘I guess.’
Hulme looked across at the farmers.
‘We’re towing their vehicle in now,’ he said, handing the inspector his tea in return for murmured thanks. ‘We had a message from the vehicle examiner, though – he can’t take a look until tomorrow. He’s over at that double fatal RTA down past Roxham. Having said that, it won’t take a genius to tell us that there is a bloody great big bullet hole in one of the rear panels.’
Hulme raised his voice so the farmers could hear.
‘You got lucky tonight, lads,’ he said, looking across at them. ‘A couple of centimetres to the left and the bullet could easily have ruptured your petrol tank.’
‘See,’ said Harris as he returned to his seat, ‘this isn’t a game.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Hulme, walking over to stand by the table, ‘don’t go out without us. I mean, surely you knew how busy we were tonight?’
‘Talking of which,’ said Harris. ‘I heard it was all fun and games at the King’s Head?’
‘It was like the Wild West in there. I half expected to see a load of horses tied up outside. I even toyed with the idea of closing the place down. Hey, talking of the King’s Head, I understand you saved Charlie Myles from a beating.’
‘Yeah, but it was all a bit handbags.’
‘Not sure about that,’ said Hulme, looking
at Harris. ‘When I nipped out for a fag, I saw Len Radley staggering past the police station, clutching his nose. I don’t suppose that was anything to do with you?’
‘Who, me?’ said Harris, giving him an innocent look. ‘Anything else I need to know about?’
‘Not really but I really would ring Curtis. He has been on the phone several times. He sounded quite agitated, said he has been trying for ages. Reckons your mobile must be switched off or something.’
Harris fished it out of his pocket.
‘Ooh, look,’ he said. ‘Six missed calls.’
The inspector raised his eyes to the ceiling.
‘One day, Jack Harris,’ he said, as he walked out of the canteen and into the corridor, carrying his mug of tea. ‘One day….’
Harris grinned, replaced the phone in his pocket and took a sip of his drink. Glancing across the table, he noticed Dennis Soames whispering conspiratorially to Harry Galbraith.
‘Something I should know about, lads?’ asked the inspector.
Soames hesitated.
‘Come on, Dennis, spit it out.’
‘I may be able to help you, Mr Harris.’
‘You’re the second person who has said that tonight and I still haven’t got back to my bottle of whisky,’ said the inspector. ‘At least you’re sober. Go on, then what do you know?’
‘I don’t want to get in no trouble,’ said Soames, glancing over at Harry Galbraith.
‘I’ll keep your name out of it.’
Soames still looked unsure.
‘Go on,’ urged Galbraith, ‘you can trust him, you know that. Besides, I reckons we owes him summat after what happened tonight.’
‘Aye, OK,’ nodded Soames. ‘It’s about Trevor Meredith. See I knows something about him. Not sure if it is important, mind.’
‘Given what I know about Meredith,’ said Harris, taking a sip of tea, ‘even his shoe size would be of interest. You don’t happen to know his shoe size, do you?’
‘Why would that be of interest?’ asked Soames, looking bemused.
‘Never mind. Go on, Dennis, what do you know about Trevor Meredith?’
‘He likes his gambling.’
Harris sat down at the table.
‘And how might you know that?’ he asked.
‘There’s a few lads been meeting up at the King’s Head for a game of poker.’
‘Really?’ Harris looked surprised. ‘Not sure we know about that.’
Soames hesitated.
‘It happens after hours,’ he said eventually, prompted to reveal more information by a reassuring look from Harry Galbraith. ‘It were the landlord’s idea. He puts all the lights out in the bar to make it look like the pub is closed and we play in his back room. You can’t see that from the street.’
‘We?’ said Harris. ‘Does that mean you have been part of it, Dennis?’
Soames nodded.
‘But you struggle with Snap!’ exclaimed Harris. ‘What the Hell were you doing getting mixed up in something like that?’
‘I didn’t reckon it could do no harm.’
‘It can if you don’t know what you’re doing.’
‘I know that now,’ nodded Soames. ‘That’s why I stopped playing.’
‘A wise decision, Dennis,’ said the inspector as he took a sip of his tea. ‘Mind, something tells me that there would not have been much money involved.’
‘I lost fifty quid one night.’
‘Fifty quid! Jesus, Dennis, you can’t afford that!’
Soames nodded gloomily. Silence settled on the room for a moment or two then a thought struck the inspector.
‘Was the poker, by any chance, what the trouble was about at the pub tonight?’ he asked. ‘We saw Len Radley and Charlie Myles going at it hammer and tongs in the market-square.’
‘Charlie owes him a hundred quid,’ nodded Soames. ‘They’ve been arguing about it for the best part of a week.’
‘And Meredith?’ asked Harris. ‘He was a regular player?’
Soames nodded.
‘And he lost, did he?’ said the inspector.
‘Oh, aye. I reckons he owed various folks more than five hundred pound.’
Harris gave a low whistle.
‘Mind, he weren’t the worst,’ said Soames, ‘I reckon James Thornycroft lost more than him.’
‘The vet?’ asked Harris with a gleam in his eye. ‘OK, I’ll need the names of everyone involved. Oh, and you can take it from me, the poker game is closed from now on.’
Soames nodded gloomily.
Ten minutes later, Jack Harris was sitting in his office, staring out into the darkness of the night and trying to make sense of the day’s events. Suddenly, he felt very weary, stood up and reached for his coat.
‘Come on, feller,’ he said and headed for the door, glancing down to where Scoot was lying. ‘I reckon it’s been a long enough day.’
Scoot stood up and wagged his tail. The inspector was just about to switch the light off when his mobile phone rang. Harris glanced up at the clock on the wall: 12.30 a.m. He sighed then looked at the name on the phone’s screen and smiled: Leckie. A uniformed constable with Greater Manchester Police, Graham Leckie was one of the inspector’s closest friends in the service. They had first met at an RSPB conference, sitting next to each other during a seminar on birds. They had instinctively connected through their passion for the subject and discovering that they both worked for Greater Manchester Police – Harris had just taken up his first posting as a copper after leaving the army – they met regularly after that to swap information about wildlife crime. Even when Harris moved north, they talked regularly on the phone and, Manchester being little over an hour and a half down the motorway from Levton Bridge, still met for a drink several times a year. Leckie’s main job was in intelligence so he had proved a useful contact for Jack Harris on more than one occasion. And given that Leckie’s speciality was gangland crime….
‘Morning, Graham,’ said Harris, sitting down again, tipping back in his chair and placing his boots on the desk. ‘Working late.’
‘You must be joking, pal – one of the lads has had his leaving down the snooker club. I think it is fair to say that drink has been taken.’
‘All right for some, matey. I still haven’t got home to my bottle of whisky.’
‘Not that nice one I gave you – the Dalmore?’
‘Na, that went ages ago.’
‘Old soak,’ said Leckie. ‘Anyway, sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. I take it you want me to solve another crime for you. Someone knicked a sheep?’
‘Actually, it’s a murder. Guy found on the hills.’
‘Got a name?’
‘Trevor Meredith,’ said Harris, shifting his legs on the table. ‘Ring a bell?’
‘Sorry.’
‘It was a long shot. I really wanted to talk to you about Gerry Radford.’
There was a silence at the other end of the phone.
‘You still there, Graham?’
‘Yeah, I’m still here, Hawk. What the hell do you want with Gerry Radford? He linked to your dead guy?’
‘Could be. I want to know what he’s up to these days.’
‘Same old, same old – still trafficking, drugs, cigs, in fact, you name it, Gerry Radford has got his mitts all over it.’
‘What if I want to lift him?’
Another silence.
‘Graham?’
‘Yeah, I heard you, Hawk. Give me an easy one, why don’t you? I mean, you know the score with Gerry Radford. And let’s be honest, after what happ—’
‘Forgot that,’ said Harris, returning his chair legs to the floor, standing up and walking over to stare out of his office window. ‘That’s history and I really do need to interview him.’
‘You’ll need to persuade our Organized Crime Squad that there’s something tasty in it for them as well.’
‘Will you put some calls in for me?’ asked Harris. ‘Or maybe fix up to meet your Organized Crime guy? W
ho is he these days?’
‘She, mate.’ There was a pause. ‘Annie Gorman. You remember Annie, don’t you?’
‘Jeez, she was only a sergeant when I—’
‘Careful how you phrase it, Hawk.’
‘I was going to say when I left GMP.’
‘I’ve heard it called many things,’ chuckled Leckie. ‘She’s on a fast-track is our Annie.’
‘So it would seem. What do you reckon then, will you be able to set something up?’
‘Leave it with me.’
The inspector hit the cancel button, slipped the phone into his pocket and walked over to the door. He looked around the office for a moment or two, gave a chuckle, muttered ‘Annie Gorman’, switched off the light and walked slowly down the deserted corridor.
CHAPTER TEN
Dawn was only just streaking the sky the next morning when Jack Harris emerged from his home and surveyed the dim shapes of the hills. Home was a tumbledown cottage on a narrow track halfway up one of the best known local landmarks, referred to locally as the Dead Hill. Harris had purchased the house, which was obscured from the winding valley road below by a fold in the hillside, after stumbling across it while out on a walk with Scoot. The former shepherd’s cottage had been dilapidated and it had taken the inspector the best part of a year to restore it to habitable condition, doing most of the tasks himself and calling in favours for the rest. Now, it was his bolthole, close enough to Levton Bridge if he needed to get there quickly, but far enough to escape the world: the nearest habitation was a farm well out of sight on the other side of the hill and Jack Harris liked the fact that he could not see anyone from his front window.
However, as his mother had always told him when he was a young man, he could escape the world but he could not escape himself and that had proved the case yet again when he had reached the cottage just a few hours previously. Having completed his conversation with Leckie, the inspector had headed out of Levton Bridge, deep in thought as he guided his Land Rover along the valley road until he took a right turn and edged the vehicle up the rocky little path leading to the cottage. On arrival, he had taken Scoot for a ten-minute walk across the hillside, the inspector turning up his collar as the wind gathered pace once more and drove the rain hard into their faces. Halfway down the track, man and dog had abandoned the effort and run for the welcome warmth of home and hearth and malt whisky.
