by John Dean
Harris glanced at Gallagher, who shrugged.
‘Then we came up here to start a new life,’ she continued, warming to her theme. ‘and not only is Levton Bridge a shitty little town full of nosy people who want to know everything about your business, but it also turns out from what you say that, in addition to taking on a practice that was virtually bankrupt, my husband’s gambling problem has resurfaced.’
She looked at the detectives.
‘So, yes, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘I think you could say that some unusual things have happened. I mean, I don’t think we’d do very well on “Mr and Mrs”, do you? What on earth would Derek Batey say?’
‘So I take it things were strained between you?’ asked Harris: her look made him immediately regret the question.
‘Strained?’ she said, anger replacing sarcasm. ‘Strained? What kind of a question is that? I hate the bastard for what he has done to me. I wish I had never met James Thornycroft and I wish I had never come back to Levton Bridge. I mean, it’s not as if I did not know what the place was like.’
A sense of grief suddenly overwhelmed her and she started to cry. The detectives watched the transformation in amazement for a few moments, so rapid and surprising had it been. She reached into the handbag sitting on the chair next to her, producing a handkerchief with which she dabbed her eyes. The make-up had already started to smudge.
‘Look,’ said Harris when she had calmed down a little, ‘I know this is a difficult question, but I really do need to ask you if you hated James enough to attack him?’
‘No,’ she said as with an effort she stayed the tears, ‘no, Chief Inspector, I did not. Don’t get me wrong, if I never see him again it will be too soon.’
The detectives glanced at each other.
‘No, no,’ she said quickly, ‘I did not mean it like that. I mean, I don’t want him to die.’
‘I should hope not,’ said Harris.
‘However,’ she said with a sigh, ‘I might as well tell you that last night, when he did not come back, and didn’t even bother to ring me to say where he was, I decided to demand a divorce from him. I’ve had enough, I really have.’
‘Did James know about this?’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘No, he didn’t come back until I was asleep. If you ask me, he waited until he knew I had gone up to bed. He’s been drinking far too much. Late night. He thinks I don’t notice but I’m not stupid. He doesn’t exactly hide the bottles well. And this morning, he did not even try to hide it at all. He had a terrible hangover and there was an empty wine bottle in the kitchen. It did not seem the time to tell him about the divorce. I planned to do it tonight.’
She paused.
‘I suppose it will have to wait now,’ she said.
‘I imagine so,’ said Harris, not quite sure what to say but feeling that he ought to say something.
‘What a scene that will make,’ she said, giving a dry laugh. ‘There I’ll be, the loving wife by the bedside and when he comes round I can hold his hand, ask him how his head is, give him a loving kiss and ask for a divorce. Story of our life really.’
‘When did you meet him?’ asked Harris.
‘Ten years ago this month. I owned a flower shop in Bolton at the time. I have always owned flower shops. I have been looking for somewhere to open one in Levton Bridge. Bring some colour into the drab little place.’
Gallagher chuckled but tried to look serious when Harris glared at him.
‘So how exactly did you meet James?’ asked Harris.
‘At a party. He had just come back to the UK. Still had the sun tan.’ She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Of course, later on I discovered that, like the man himself, it was all fake. Out of a bottle. The original had long since faded. There’s symbolism for you.’
‘Where had he been?’ asked Gallagher.
‘Working for an animal charity in Africa. He wasn’t always a selfish bastard.’
Harris leaned forward.
‘Africa?’ he asked. ‘Where was he? And what exactly was he doing there?’
‘It was one of these charities that returns monkeys to the jungle. He said they were part of the bush meat trade and the charity rescued them. They ran a sanctuary or something. In Zaire, I think.’
‘Can you remember the charity’s name?’ asked the inspector.
‘He did tell me.’ She furrowed her brow. ‘Something about a chance. Another Chance, or something.’
‘Now that is interesting.’
‘I’m not sure how it can be, it was ten years ago. Surely it can’t have anything to do with what happened to him this morning?’
‘Did he keep in contact with anyone from those days?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ she said. ‘No, hang on, there was one man – I am trying to remember his name. Donald something.’ Again, she furrowed her brow. ‘Donald Rylance, that’s it. He was the man who founded it, I think. James quite liked him.’
‘Did he ever meet him back in the UK?’ asked Harris.
‘Not as far as I know, They wrote to each other for a while but that stopped a long time ago. When I asked James why, he said it was a chapter in his life that was closed.’
‘You know,’ said Jack Harris softly, ‘I would not be so sure of that.’
Shortly after six, Harris stood in David Bowes’s cottage and let his gaze roam slowly round the living room. Taking his lead, Gallagher and Butterfield did the same. There was nothing to excite their attention, though: an armchair, a sofa, a television, a little bureau, a bookcase with a few cheap hardback romances and a couple of Gerald Durrells, typical fare in a rented house, they thought. Initially, Jack Harris thought the same until he cast his mind back to his early days in CID in Manchester. Not long out of the army, and thinking he knew it all, he had been mentored by a DCI who was close to retirement. He was the one who told Harris to always read what people were thinking, not what they were saying. He was also the one who taught him to stand back from investigations and let his mind have the space to consider the possibilities. The DCI’s words came back to the inspector now. ‘Always look for the unusual,’ his mentor had also said. The inspector gave a slight smile as he remembered the detective now. Decided that he must ring him when all this was over. See how retirement was treating his old friend.
Perusal of the furniture completed, the inspector turned his attention to the walls. Nothing unusual there, either – a watercolour of a horse in a field, a painting of a little cottage, the cottage they were standing in, Harris assumed, the somewhat crude quality of the brushwork suggesting it was painted by a local artist. But nothing else. No pictures of David Bowes or his family. Nothing un— The inspector’s gaze settled on something hanging in an alcove in the corner of the room furthest away from the window, almost hidden from view unless you were standing in the right place and even then concealed by shadow. Something unusual. Jack Harris smiled.
‘Thanks, Gordon,’ he said quietly, his voice so low that the others could not make out what he had said.
The inspector walked over to the alcove, watched in bemusement by Butterfield and Gallagher. As he peered closer, Jack Harris knew what he had been missing, the thing he had seen the day before that had failed to register, the thing that should have triggered his instincts. Yes, he thought, now he knew what he had seen. And knew what it was trying to tell him. Now he knew where the links were.
Harris leaned in closer to examine the shrunken head with the tribal appearance and scraggy hair. It rather resembled a coconut, he thought. It was what he had also thought the first time he had seen one all those years ago. Watched in perplexed silence by the other detectives, he stared at the head, trying to place the memory exactly. Harris reached out a hand and let it rest on the head for a few moments, as if touching it would help. Suddenly, the inspector was a world away, sweltering in the fetid heat as, surrounded by hundreds of smiling black African faces, he walked along a busy shopping street, constantly being jostled, trying to battle through
the crowd, one eye greedily drinking in his surroundings, the other focused on his own security, unsure how the people would react to his British Army captain’s uniform. Encountering only friendliness and excitement – groups of children tugged at his sleeve for attention – he had finally been able to break free of the crowd’s attentions and turn into a side street where a small stall caught his attention. Among the many tourist mementoes, Jack Harris found himself staring into a shrunken face and thinking it rather resembled a coconut. Now back in the cottage, Jack Harris remembered the moment and stared deep into the head’s dark eyes.
‘Kinshasha,’ he murmured.
‘Guv?’ said Gallagher.
‘Kinshasa,’ repeated the inspector, turning to face the others. ‘It’s in the Republic of Congo. Mind, they called it Zaire when I was there.’
‘Zaire?’ said Gallagher. ‘Isn’t that where Gaynor said her husband worked for that charity?’
‘Certainly is.’
‘What were you doing in Zaire?’ asked Butterfield.
‘I was with the army. Some kind of crappy goodwill visit.’ Harris looked back at the head. ‘I saw these for sale then. They’re made of plaster but the hair is real – well, allegedly. They are supposed to represent a throwback to the early days of Man. I nearly bought one, actually.’
‘God knows why,’ said Butterfield. ‘It’s an ugly thing. I wouldn’t have it in my house, I can tell you that. It’d give me nightmares.’
‘I don’t suppose DFS sells many of them either,’ said Gallagher bleakly. ‘What you thinking, guv, that James Thornycroft knew this David Bowes character?’
‘Hell of a coincidence if he didn’t,’ said Harris.
‘Yeah, but are we sure it’s his?’ asked Butterfield. ‘It is a rented house, after all.’
‘Have you got that inventory from the letting agency?’ asked the inspector, glancing at Gallagher.
The sergeant reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and produced a typed sheet.
‘Not here,’ he said, scanning it quickly. ‘No, I reckon you’re right and that it was brought here by David Bowes. Presumably, he forgot it in his haste to leave.’
‘Yeah, but so what?’ asked Butterfield. ‘I mean, I can’t see what some crappy head has got to do with what has been happening in Levton Bridge.’
‘Then it is time that you did some thinking, Constable,’ said Harris, ‘because this is the only thing, apart from their love of poker, that links David Bowes with James Thornycroft and Trevor Meredith.’
‘Bowes and Thornycroft I get,’ said Gallagher, with a puzzled expression, ‘but Meredith as well? Sorry, guv, maybe I am being thick but you’ve lost me there.’
‘Think back to last night,’ said Harris, walking back into the centre of the room. ‘In Meredith’s cottage. Remember, you said there was nothing there of the man. But there was something and we missed it. We all missed it. It didn’t seem important at the time, but it’s been nagging away at me ever since.’
‘The shield!’ exclaimed Gallagher excitedly. ‘That little shield hanging on the wall in the back bedroom.’
‘Precisely. If I am right, it came from Tanzania. I saw them when we were out there the year after we went to Zaire.’ Harris looked back at the head thoughtfully. ‘I think, guys and gals, that we have been looking in the wrong place.’
Shortly after 6 p.m., a weary Jasmine Riley got out of the taxi and walked up the driveway to the semi-detached house on the outskirts of Chester. The door was opened before she even had chance to ring on the bell.
‘Jasmine!’ exclaimed her mother.
‘Oh, Mum!’ she said, collapsing into her mother’s arms. ‘Oh, Mum!’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
On leaving the cottage, a pensive Jack Harris, with Alison Butterfield in the passenger seat of the Land Rover, started the drive through the hills to Levton Bridge, with Matty Gallagher following a short distance behind in his own car. Not long into the journey, the inspector’s mobile rang and he leaned over to read the message on the screen.
‘Curtis,’ he grunted. ‘I’d better take it. I’ve ignored him all day and we need all the friends we can get at the moment.’
He reached over to activate the hands-free speaker.
‘Sir, how are you?’
‘Wanting to know what’s happening,’ said the superintendent’s voice, the irritation clear in his tone. ‘I mean, shouldn’t you be back here?’
‘On our way. Made a lot of progress already, mind. Has anyone said anything about the attack on the farmers?’
‘There’s a few questions being asked at headquarters but I think I’ve made it go away,’ said Curtis. ‘However, it could easily come back if we don’t get a fast resolution on this Meredith thing. It is attracting a lot of media attention – they are trying to whip up a panic about this mad dog. Sky Television has been in town most of the day and that damned fool chairman of the parish council even mentioned the Hound of the Baskervilles.’
‘I did tell Barry that it’s not on the loose. Besides, the forensics team have been up there all day and they’ve not seen anything.’
‘Have they found anything useful at all?’ asked Curtis hopefully.
‘Not much. The rain last night washed everything away. They turfed up Meredith’s phone but it was so wet that it’s proving difficult to get anything off it.’
‘Well make sure we do come up with something,’ said Curtis and the line went dead.
‘Ah, so supportive,’ murmured Harris and he looked at Butterfield. ‘Makes you realize what a lovely, fluffy boss I am, eh?’
The constable did not reply. She would not have known what to say anyway. Twenty minutes later, as the two vehicles approached Levton Bridge, the inspector’s radio crackled.
‘Control,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Can you proceed to the car-park at Haley’s Bank and meet the firearms team there?’
‘For why?’
‘There’s been a report of two armed men walking along the valley.’
‘That’s all we need,’ said Harris, slamming his foot on to the accelerator, the Land Rover’s sudden burst of speed startling Gallagher. ‘That’s not far from where Trevor Meredith was found.’
It took the Land Rover less than fifteen minutes to reach the car-park, the inspector sending the vehicle careering round tight corners on little back roads, the sergeant trying desperately to keep up behind him and more than once coming close to putting his car into a ditch. On arrival, the detectives were confronted by several marked police vehicles, a number of uniforms and half a dozen officers, dressed in black overalls and armoured vests, and holding firearms. Harris brought the Land Rover to a halt and leapt out, ordering Scoot to remain in the vehicle as he did so. Butterfield jumped out of the other side and glanced back along the valley road to see Gallagher’s car approaching.
‘What we got, Andy?’ asked Harris, walking briskly up to the firearms inspector.
‘The last report we have is that they are within a quarter of a mile west of here.’ The inspector turned and pointed to a blue 4x4 on the far side of the car-park. ‘We think that’s their vehicle.’
‘Who saw them?’
‘The forensic team on its way back from the scene. They were crossing the stream when these two guys emerged from some trees. They’ve got one of our lads with them in case the dog turns up, but he did not fancy taking them on his own.’
‘Very wise,’ nodded Harris. ‘There’s a chance they’re the ones who fired at our farmers last night. Do we know anything about them?’
‘How about a name?’
‘Always a nice start.’
‘The car,’ said the firearms inspector, producing a notebook from his pocket then flipping over the pages, ‘belongs to a bloke called Lane, Joe Lane. London address.’
‘It’s a good job we’ve got Matty with us then,’ said the inspector, turning as the sergeant walked over. ‘He can translate from the vernacular. Do you know him?’
‘O
h, aye,’ nodded Gallagher, ‘London is just like Levton Bridge really, one big village. Everyone knows everyone. Of course I don’t bloody know him!’
‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Harris, smiling at the sergeant’s comment and turning to the firearms inspector.
‘Cut them off on the path. Don’t want to spook them with all these vehicles. A couple of the lads went on ahead and reckon they’ve spotted somewhere just down the path. A bit of woodland.’
‘I know it,’ nodded Harris. ‘It’s ideal.’
It was not long before everything was set, the armed officers having concealed themselves within the woodland, their hiding place giving them a good view of anyone approaching along the dirt track. Harris and his officers stood further back, crouching behind a drystone wall, just able to view the scene if they peered over the top. It was not a long wait and within a few minutes, they saw two figures emerging from a corner in the path. Both wore green army-style camouflage jackets and green combat trousers and had green caps jammed on to their heads. Each had a rifle, fitted with a telescopic sight, slung over his shoulder.
‘Jesus,’ murmured Harris, ‘it’s a coup.’
He heard Gallagher give a low laugh behind him.
The firearms team did not stand on ceremony: within moments the air was filled with their shouts and the two men were lying face down in the mud, still not quite sure what had happened, their guns having been snatched from them and the police firearms trained on their quarry. Harris and the others sprinted out from behind the wall as the firearms team hauled the men to their feet and turned them to face the inspector.
‘Which one of you is Joe Lane?’ asked the inspector curtly.
The older of the two men nodded. A wiry individual with a weatherbeaten and lined face, he looked to the inspector like an outdoor man, one who knew the hills. Instinctively, and he did not know why, the inspector sensed that these were not the men they were looking for in connection with the death of Meredith.
