To Die Alone

by John Dean

  ‘Even,’ said Jackson, ‘if some of your methods were a little, how shall we say it in light of subsequent events, Inspector? Unorthodox? I seem to recall that there was—’

  ‘I am not sure that is relevant here,’ said Harris. He fished out of his pocket the fax sent to Curtis. ‘Besides, my methods are not as unorthodox as yours because, reading between the lines, it would seem that Trevor Meredith was working for you. An informant perhaps?’

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Jackson quickly.

  ‘But clearly he was involved with you in some way or else you would not have sent your fax, a touch late since the poor man is dead.’

  ‘The situation was such that we did not deem it your business before the unfortunate events of yesterday,’ said Jackson, meeting his gaze across the table.

  Harris surveyed Helen Jackson for a few moments. Although her appearance gave the impression of a somewhat matronly aunt, her clear blue eyes betrayed a sharper mind lurking behind the façade: Jack Harris decided that not only did he not like her but he did not trust her. Abandoning his diplomatic stance, the detective chief inspector was not in the mood to conceal the fact.

  ‘Not our business?’ he said, in a voice laced with disgust. ‘Not our bloody business? You have someone doing dangerous undercover work in my patch and it’s none of my business?’

  ‘He wasn’t doing undercover work, Mr Harris. We must be clear about that – at no point was Trevor M—’

  ‘Well, whatever he was doing, do you not think it would have been a good idea to let us know?’ snapped the inspector.

  ‘Look,’ said Jackson, ignoring the detective’s cold fury. ‘I know that you worked very closely with Ged but might I remind you that the lines of responsibility in these case are very clearly delineated. These kind of investigations are the responsibility of the RSPCA, not the police, as I am sure you are well aware.’

  ‘Well, it’s my responsibility now, Miss Jackson.’

  ‘Which is why we sent our fax. His death is indeed regrettable, Chief Inspector, but, this has been a very complicated inquiry and I am sure you understand—’

  ‘I am sick of this,’ said Harris, glaring across the table at her, his voice hard. ‘I want to know absolutely everything about Trevor Meredith. Do you hear me?’

  ‘I would not want you to go away from here with the impression that we do not want to help. However—’

  ‘If you try to conceal anything, so help me, I’ll charge the both of you with perverting the cause of justice,’ said the inspector.

  Butterfield watched in fascination at the effect that the inspector’s words had on the RSPCA officers: she loved watching Jack Harris play hardball. Helen Jackson looked shocked, she obviously had not been expecting such a turn of events. Ged Maynard, for his part, stared at his colleague – Butterfield would later describe the expression as beseeching when recounting the event to a fascinated Matty Gallagher – and for a few moments, no one spoke. Eventually, Jackson gave a shrug and stared out of the window.

  ‘Have it your way,’ she said, ‘but I have to say that I do not appreciate your methods, Inspector.’

  ‘Look,’ said Harris, softening his attitude, ‘I don’t want this to turn into a slanging match. I know what an important job you and your officers do.’

  Jackson looked at him, trying to assess if the inspector was just uttering platitudes, but, deciding within a few moments that he was genuine, her own attitude softened a little.

  ‘Thank you for that,’ she said. ‘I am sorry that we seem to have got off on the wrong foot. The death of Trevor Meredith has come as a terrible shock to all of us. If we’re honest, he was a big problem for us, a real loose cannon. This is exactly what we were frightened would happen.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Jackson glanced at Maynard.

  ‘He approached us several weeks ago,’ said Maynard. ‘Out of the blue. Said he had heard rumours of dog fights being planned for his area and would we investigate.’

  ‘And you said?’

  ‘We said yes, of course. We knew that things had become too hot in Manchester and that for some time the dog-fighters had been looking for somewhere else. I don’t know if you heard, but since you left Manchester there have been several other prosecutions in the city.’

  ‘I did hear,’ nodded Harris, ‘but you only landed the small fry, I think. Not Gerry Radford, for example.’

  ‘Why do you mention him of all people?’ asked Jackson sharply.

  ‘There are some things we like to keep confidential in situations like this,’ replied Harris, with the slightest of winks at Butterfield. ‘Suffice to say we believe that he and Meredith were in touch with each other.’

  ‘They should not have been,’ said Maynard unhappily. ‘We told Trevor it was a dangerous idea. You have to believe me, we really did tell him not to go ahead with it.’

  ‘Go ahead with what?’

  ‘Meredith said he was going to infiltrate Radford’s gang.’

  ‘Why on earth would he do that?’

  ‘Said he was disgusted at what was going on.’

  ‘And you said?’

  ‘Said to leave it with us. Things went quiet for a few days then he rang up again, said there was a planned dog fight at Jenner’s Farm. Said he was stringing Radford along, had even provided one of the dogs for him.’

  ‘And you let him get in that deep?’ exclaimed Harris, his tone of voice one of disbelief. ‘You let a civilian get tied up with a psycho like Gerry Radford?’

  ‘Like I said, we tried to persuade him not to.’

  Harris looked at him over the table.

  ‘How hard did you try, Ged?’ he asked softly. ‘How hard?’

  Maynard did not reply for a moment or two then he turned dark eyes on the detectives.

  ‘That day in court was one of the most dispiriting of my career,’ he said quietly. ‘To watch the bastard walk free with a smirk on his face….’

  It had been a sensational trial which had run in Manchester Crown Court for three weeks, the jury having heard many hours of evidence against five men charged with organizing the dog fight in the warehouse in the east of the city. Much of the evidence about the injuries to the dogs had been deeply upsetting and a number of the jurors had been in tears when shown some of the photographs. The trial had revealed evidence that the event was not an isolated incident, that there was reason to believe that a wide network of criminals from across the North had been regularly attending dog fights at which they wagered large sums of money on the winners. The media had revelled in it and news outlets both local and national had given the case a high prominence, not least because of the involvement of one of Manchester’s best known gangland figures.

  For his part, Gerry Radford had sat and listened to the evidence for day after day with an impassive look on his face, even when Jack Harris took the stand. Radford’s lawyer had done everything possible to blacken the inspector’s name and there had been a number of heated confrontations during the three hours that Harris gave testimony. Many onlookers felt that the inspector had come off second best: Jack Harris had lost his temper on more than one occasion. Ged Maynard had been subjected to similar treatment by the defence barrister and had come over as anxious and unsure of his testimony. Both men emerged from the experience with their hatred of Gerry Radford intensified.

  So, as the final day began, and the jury filed back in after deliberating overnight, everyone in court knew that Gerry Radford would be walking free. Harris and Maynard, sitting next to each other, feared the worst: they knew that the RSPCA had presented enough evidence to secure a conviction against four of the men but the outcome for the big prize, Radford, was more uncertain. The prosecution case against him had been further weakened when a number of key witnesses, men within Radford’s circle, had failed to attend court to testify. Radford himself had said from the witness box that he did not realize the nature of the gathering and had been horrified when he discovered what was happening. Despite searches
by Harris and his team, it had proved impossible to track down the missing witnesses to contradict the story. The men had remained absent from their usual haunts and the rumour was that they had left the city until the trial had ended. Eventually, the prosecuting barrister had to admit to the judge that it was unlikely that they would attend.

  As the jury took their seats, not meeting the eyes of the men in the dock, Gerry Radford glanced to his right and saw Jack Harris and Ged Maynard in the gallery. Seeing their glum expressions, he winked at them.

  ‘Members of the jury,’ said the judge, ‘have you come to your verdicts?’

  ‘We have, Your Honour,’ said the foreman, a young man, as he stood up.

  ‘Very well, how do you find in the case against Gerald Alexander Radford?’

  Radford glanced up at the public gallery where many of his acolytes were crowded in, watching proceedings. He gave them the thumbs-up sign.

  ‘Not guilty, Your Honour.’

  The gallery erupted into raucous cheers and Ged Maynard closed his eyes and rested his head on the wall behind him. Jack Harris glared at the celebrating Radford as the court ushers tried to restore order.

  ‘After that happened,’ said Maynard quietly, ‘I determined to do everything within my powers to get a conviction against Gerry Radford. Someone has to bring the guy to book, Hawk, whatever it takes. And sometimes you have to cut corners, you of all people know that.’

  Glancing at her boss, Butterfield wondered, and not for the first time, what secrets her superior officer had to hide.

  ‘Granted,’ said Harris, ‘but that does not include allowing an innocent, and one has to say, a somewhat naïve man, to place his life in danger.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so quick in assuming he was innocent or naïve. Trevor Meredith clearly knew the risks.’ Maynard looked puzzled. ‘I don’t know why but I kind of got the impression that he had done something like this before. And he did come to us remember, it wasn’t as if we took some guy off the street.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘And what he said made perfect sense,’ continued Maynard. ‘We have disrupted several fights across the North in the past year – a couple in Cheshire, one in Liverpool and one in Bolton – and we suspected that the organizers had started looking for somewhere where the people were … how can I put it?’

  ‘Yokels?’ asked Harris acerbically.

  ‘No, no, I would not say that, although they clearly did feel that a remote rural setting might allow them to carry out their events unnoticed, that the law enforcement might be … less vigilant.’

  ‘They must be stupid then,’ snorted Harris. ‘You can’t fart in Levton Bridge without someone knowing about it.’

  ‘And yet you had no idea that Trevor Meredith had approached us,’ said Meredith with a slight smile on his face.

  Harris did not reply at first, acutely aware that news of the poker ring at the King’s Head had also been unknown to him. Inwardly, he cursed himself. What was it he always said to his officers? ‘This place breeds complacency,’ he would say. ‘Do not fall into its trap.’ The words sounded somewhat hollow now as he looked across the table at his friend. Noticing that everyone else was watching, and sensing that they were waiting for him to speak, he resolved to save what face he could in the circumstances.

  ‘Well, for what’s it worth,’ said Harris, conscious that, for the second time that day, a meeting was not going the way he had planned, ‘I already knew all about the plan for Jenner’s Farm.’

  ‘Only because our local chap told you,’ said Maynard, ‘and he only knew because Trevor Meredith told him.’

  Harris scowled.

  ‘And I hate to say it,’ said Maynard, ‘but we think that your presence in Levton Bridge might have been an added attraction for Gerry Radford. I think he rather liked the idea of staging a fight right under your nose. Your rather strident public comments on the subject down the years made such a prospect almost irresistible for him, I would suggest.’

  Harris lapsed into moody silence and Butterfield saw her opportunity to make a mark on proceedings.

  ‘What did you actually know about Meredith?’ she asked, glancing at Jackson, wondering if the female connection would ease the tension in the room.

  It didn’t.

  ‘Not much,’ said Jackson. ‘Trevor Meredith was less than forthcoming when it came to personal matters.’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe this,’ exclaimed Harris. ‘When we get a new informant, you can’t move for damned paperwork yet you knew nothing about your guy?’

  ‘Please get this clear in your mind,’ said Jackson quickly. ‘Trevor Meredith was not an informant, there was no official agreement, nothing at all. There is no paper trail.’

  ‘But you clearly did not object to him doing some freelance investigation on his own?’

  ‘OK,’ she sighed, ‘OK, we should have done more to dissuade him from getting involved. There will be an internal inquiry into what happened and I can assure you that we will take whatever action is required. Lessons will be learnt, of that you can be certain.’

  She glanced at Maynard, who returned the gaze uneasily. Jack Harris sat back and crossed his arms, a look of satisfaction on his face: even though he realized that Ged Maynard was in trouble, what really mattered to the detective was that the meeting was swinging his way.

  Which is when it swung back.

  ‘I imagine that the inquiry will be similar,’ said Jackson blandly, ‘to the internal police investigation into the two farmers who damn near got themselves killed in your area last night. I thought the police were supposed to keep such – what was your phrase, Chief Inspector, innocent and somewhat naïve? – men from getting into trouble.’

  The satisfied expression was wiped off the detective’s face.

  ‘We all have our loose cannons, Chief Inspector,’ said Jackson with a slight smile. ‘It’s just that yours got lucky.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Maynard, leaning forward, eager to avoid another ugly exchange of views, ‘what has happened has happened. We should have kept you in the loop and now we want to help your murder inquiry, share what we know.’

  ‘Does that include anything about David Bowes?’

  The RSPCA officers looked at him blankly.

  ‘What about James Thornycroft then?’

  ‘What do you know about him?’ asked Jackson sharply.

  ‘Ah, that kind of sharing,’ murmured the inspector. ‘Well, for your information, our colleagues in Bolton were called in to a break-in at his surgery at the end of last year. They suspect he faked the burglary to obtain the insurance money. The practice was not doing particularly well financially. They could not prove anything so he was never charged. They think that is why he moved to Levton Bridge. Bolton had his card marked. How come he is of interest to you?’

  ‘We had always known that there was a vet treating dogs injured in the fights,’ said Maynard. ‘There were reports of several being patched up and a couple being put down. Then, after we broke up the ring in Bolton, we heard that it might be someone from the town. We narrowed it down to James Thornycroft.’

  ‘Yes, but why on earth would he do that?’ asked Butterfield. ‘He’s not the most likeable of human beings but the man is a vet, for God’s sake.’

  ‘And Harold Shipman was a doctor,’ said Maynard.

  Butterfield looked across at Harris, who shrugged.

  ‘I didn’t say I was original,’ he said. ‘I take it you confronted him with what you knew, Ged?’

  ‘Yes. Told him that, if he co-operated with us, we would keep his name out of it, but he refused. If you ask me, he was more frightened of Gerry Radford.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t be? In fact….’ The inspector’s voice tailed off and he looked at the RSPCA officers with an appalled look. ‘Hang on, is there a chance that James Thornycroft could have worked out that Meredith was feeding you information?’

  ‘Why,’ said Helen Jackson with a wan look on her face, ‘do you think you ar
e here?’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It was just after 10 a.m. when, still wearing his pyjamas, James Thornycroft made his way slowly down the stairs to discover that he was alone in the house, his wife having long since left for work. He recalled vaguely that she had tried to rouse him before she left but he had grunted and rolled over in bed. Now, he paused on the landing and stared at his haggard reflection in the oval mirror, wincing as he did so, partly from what he saw and partly because of the jagged pain in his head. Moving in a laboured fashion, Thornycroft headed down the stairs. The couple had only recently moved into the semi-detached house on the new estate in Levton Bridge and had still not managed to unpack all the boxes and, as he walked down the hallway towards the kitchen, he stumbled over one of them, stubbing his toe and swearing loudly.

  Hopping into the kitchen, he sat down and examined his foot. As he leaned over, another sharp pain from his head reminded him of the previous night’s excesses. Thornycroft made for the sink and ran himself a large glass of water, which he downed in one go. He refilled it then reached into a cupboard for a packet of Aspirin, of which he swallowed two.

  ‘You’re a damned fool, James Thorncroft,’ he groaned. ‘Always have been.’

  He sat back down at the kitchen table and turned hooded eyes on the empty wine bottle standing on the draining board. Had his wife seen it? Surely, she must have. His mind went back to the events of the previous evening. After leaving the surgery shortly after 9.30, he had not felt the desire to go home and face another row with his wife, or have to answer her endless questions about the parlous state of their finances. With the wounds of their life in Bolton still raw, Gaynor Thornycroft had turned her anger on her husband on numerous occasions over recent weeks and there had been constant shouting matches. To avoid another one, Thornycroft had bought a bottle of wine from an off-licence near the surgery and had driven around for the best part of an hour and a half before going home.