by John Dean
‘Do we know if she is badly hurt?’
‘Your guess….’
‘So what do you know about our little friend?’ asked Norris, returning his attention to the road. ‘I am assuming that he is not your common-or-garden burglar?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Harris. ‘If we’re right about him, he is as dangerous as they come. He’s wanted for a murder in Africa and another one and an attempt murder up our way.’
‘Africa?’ said Norris. ‘What’s the story?’
‘Not sure yet,’ said Harris, looking out into the deserted road. ‘What we do know is that there may be links to a Manchester gang. Chap called Gerry Radford.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Norris with a low whistle, ‘he’s major league is Gerry Radford. Our drugs boys lifted a couple of his acolytes on the M6 last year. Found fifty grands’ worth of smack and a couple of shotguns in the boot. And to think that your chap Curtis said Levton Bridge was a crappy backwater where the people get excited if a cat goes missing. His words, not mine, of course.’
‘I am sure they were,’ murmured Harris.
‘And I hasten to add that I did not agree,’ said Norris: Harris could see his eyes twinkling in the half light. ‘Plenty of crime, I reckon. Me and the wife stayed in Levton Bridge last summer and went to that tea room in the market-place. All the woman needed was a balaclava, the prices she was asking. Daylight bloody robbery.’
Harris chuckled again: why, he thought, could Curtis not be like this?
‘So where does poor old Emily Riley fit into things?’ asked Warboys, glancing back to the house. ‘I mean, she’s hardly a villain.’
‘Her daughter is our dead man’s fiancée. We are thinking that Garratt tailed her down here for some reason.’
‘I dunno,’ said Norris with a shake of the head, ‘it’s always the same – rural areas exporting their armed crime down here.’
Harris smiled.
‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ he said.
‘So how you want to play it?’ asked Norris.
‘I’d like to talk to Garratt.’
Norris glanced at the negotiator, who nodded.
‘Can’t do any worse than I have,’ he said gloomily.
‘OK,’ said Norris and walked over to the doorway. ‘Can someone send your gaffer up!’
A minute later, the Cheshire Police firearms inspector walked into the bedroom, gun cradled in his arms.
‘What we doing then?’ he asked.
‘DCI here wants to try talking to meladdo,’ said Norris.
‘Have to be a loud-hailer job,’ said the firearms inspector. ‘I can’t risk you getting too close.’
‘I’m happy to take my chances,’ said Harris.
‘Look,’ said the firearms officer, ‘I do not want to be disrespectful, Sir, I’m sure you’re very good at your job and all that, but do you appreciate just how dangerous a situation this is? It’s a bit different to Levton wherever the bloody hell it is.’
‘I know,’ said Harris with a smile, ‘This aint the Wild West, sonny, you ain’t John Wayne and this is not Shoot Out at the OK Corral.’
The firearms inspector stared at him, not sure what to make of the comment.
‘I was in the army,’ said Harris. ‘Specialized in hostage recovery for a while.’
The others stared at him in amazement.
‘Then what are you doing in a backwater like Levton Bridge?’ exclaimed the firearms inspector.
‘Someone,’ replied Harris with a slight smile, ‘has to take the dog for a walk.’
His mind flashed back to happy days spent tramping the hills with Scoot. As ever, in situations such as this, he enjoyed the rush of adrenaline, felt suddenly more alive, but at the same time he realized that Levton Bridge was where he truly wanted to be. It was just that it took dangerous situations like this one to remind him of the fact. It was one of the contradictions with which the inspector had learned to live.
‘Thoughts?’ asked the firearms inspector, looking at Norris.
‘My concern is for the woman. We have no idea how badly injured she is. For all we know, she could be in need of urgent medical attention.’ Norris winked at Harris. ‘And if it’s a choice between losing an innocent punter and John Wayne here, it’ll have to be John Wayne.’
‘OK, I’ve heard enough,’ said the firearms inspector, nodding at Harris. ‘Come on then, sir, let’s get this done with.’
‘Thank you,’ said Harris.
The two men walked down the stairs and once in the hallway, the firearms inspector checked the DCI’s protective vest before giving him a reassuring smile.
‘You ready then?’ he said.
Harris nodded.
‘You be careful out there, yeah?’ said the firearms inspector.
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘No Shoot Out at the OK Corral, eh, sonny?’
Harris grinned and the firearms inspector went out into the street, keeping low as he walked up to his officers, who were crouched behind garden walls, their guns trained on the siege property. After a few moments’ hurried discussion, the firearms inspector turned back and gave the waiting Jack Harris a thumbs-up signal. Standing in the doorway, Harris gave himself a few moments then, with a sigh, he walked into the street.
‘Why do I do this job?’ he murmured.
As Harris passed the firearms inspector, the officer handed him a loud hailer and placed a briefly reassuring hand on his shoulder. Then Jack Harris was on his own. Watched by everyone, including his own officers and an anxious Jasmine Riley gathered behind the patrol cars at the end of the street, Jack Harris advanced slowly until he was standing a few doors down from the siege house, his eyes constantly seeking out movement in the darkened windows, his body tensed and ready to move should the man inside decide to shoot his way out. He experienced once more that feeling he had experienced as a soldier, that heightened sense of awareness, that feeling of having never been more alive. Jack Harris liked it. In a strange way, now, in this moment, in this place, it was where he was supposed to be, he thought. The detective raised the loud hailer to his mouth. Suddenly, he realized that he had not thought about what to say.
‘This is DCI Jack Harris!’ he shouted after a few seconds.
Clicking off the loud hailer, he grinned.
‘Now that’s bloody original,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Come on, Jack, get a grip.’
There was no sound from within and no movement.
‘Paul Garratt!’ he shouted after clicking the device back on again.
This time, an upstairs curtain twitched and Harris tensed as he watched for the appearance of the muzzle of a gun in the darkness. Nothing happened.
‘I want to talk to you!’ shouted Harris.
There was a few more moments of silence then Harris heard, everyone in the street heard, through the stillness of the night the click of a key turning in the front door. The firearms officers tightened their grip on their weapons, sights trained on the house as they awaited the emergence of their quarry. Slowly, ever so slowly, the door swung open and Paul Garratt emerged, the firearm dangling from his fingers.
‘Don’t shoot!’ he cried.
‘Drop it!’ shouted a voice and firearms officers emerged from their hiding places in the gardens, advancing across the road, guns trained on Garratt.
Garratt crouched down and carefully placed the gun on the ground in front of him then walked backwards several steps and put his hands in the air. Within seconds, firearms officers had bundled him to the ground and handcuffs were being applied. One of the team pulled Garratt to his feet as others ran into the house.
As Harris walked towards the detained man, Garratt watched him with interest.
‘So you’re Jack Harris, eh?’ he said calmly. ‘Heard a lot about you. How long have you known who I was?’
‘Not long enough.’
Garratt have a slight smile. Harris glanced to his right and watched as an ambulance crew jogged into the house. The firearms inspe
ctor emerged from the darkened property a few moments later.
‘How is she?’ asked Harris.
‘Not too bad. Nasty gash on the leg, that’s all.’
‘It was an accident,’ said Garratt. ‘Honest. I didn’t mean to hurt her.’
‘Maybe you didn’t,’ said Harris, ‘but the rest wasn’t accidental. Paul Garratt, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Trevor Meredith and the attempted murder of James Thornycroft.’
‘Which is odd,’ said Garratt, ‘because I didn’t do either of them.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Jack Harris arrived at Levton Bridge Police Station shortly after ten the next morning, still feeling weary but having at least grabbed some sleep on his return from Chester. As he parked the vehicle at the front of the station, the inspector’s head felt clearer than it had done for the best part of two days: on his arrival back at the cottage a few hours before, he had decided against the whisky, even though the half-empty bottle sitting on the side table had looked inviting, and had instead gone to bed. Now, as he jumped out of the Land Rover, followed by Scoot, the inspector was looking forward to the interview with Paul Garratt, who had spent the remainder of his night in a cell at Levton Bridge.
Garratt had spoken little on the journey back up from Chester in the patrol car, preferring instead to stare silently out of the window. Sitting beside him, and left alone to his own thoughts, the inspector had found himself troubled by what Garratt had said in the moments after he was arrested. Harris was well used to suspects denying their involvement in crimes – knew it was all part of the game – but the way Garratt had said it had given him the distinct impression that he was telling the truth. The idea had nagged away at the back of the inspector’s mind on the journey north and it troubled him now as he made his way up to his first-floor office.
‘Jack!’ came a harsh voice and, with a sigh, the DCI turned to see Curtis standing at the end of the corridor. ‘In my office, please.’
Harris walked with heavy step into the commander’s office and sat down in a chair at the desk, looking balefully at Curtis who, for his part, seemed to be struggling to control his emotions. Suddenly, Harris cheered up.
‘Met an acquaintance of yours last night,’ he said affably. ‘Chap from Chester Police. Chief Inspector called Norris. Said he was on a course with you.’
‘Who?’ Curtis seemed surprised by the inspector’s friendly approach, not his usual opening gambit in such situations.
‘Norris? Brown hair, greying slightly.’
‘I seem to vaguely remember him.’
‘He remembers you a little better. You made a huge impression on him, in fact.’
Curtis looked pleased.
‘Really?’ he said.
‘Aye, he asked if you were still a brain-dead fuckwit.’
Curtis looked at the DCI in amazement, mouth opening and shutting, unable to form the words.
‘Of course,’ said Harris, ‘I did not agree with him. It was a terrible thing to say.’
‘But did you disagree?’ asked Curtis tartly.
‘Not sure I remember.’
‘For God’s sake, Jack!’ The superintendent’s anger finally exploded. ‘Stop messing about! I have had Customs on three times already this morning wanting to interview a man in our cells and I don’t even know who he is! Nobody seems to have even the remotest idea about what is happening and when I ring your mobile, well we both know what happens there. It’s not good enough, I do my best to work with you and all you can do is—’
‘Paul Garratt is wanted by us on suspicion of involvement in the attacks on Trevor Meredith and James Thornycroft, who, incidentally, may be a Rotary Club member but is as crooked as they come; Cheshire want him for a chat about an armed siege in their patch; Customs fancy a talk about his global wildlife trafficking racket; oh, and the police in Congo would quite like him to pop over for a natter about the murder of one of his associates.’ Harris beamed. ‘All in all, I reckon that Paul Garratt is an excellent catch for a police force in what was it you called it again when you met Norris on that course? Ah, I remember – “a crappy little backwater”.’
Curtis looked at him in astonishment, acutely conscious that Jack Harris had outmanoeuvred him at every step of the conversation and unnerved by his calm delivery of the words.
‘Why was I not kept informed?’ he asked, but it sound a weak response and he knew it.
Harris beamed.
‘You know how it is,’ he said.
The superintendent’s desk phone rang and, the relief clear on his face, Curtis picked up the receiver and listened for a few moments, gave a grunt and put the receiver back down.
‘That was control,’ he said. ‘Another call about the blessed dog on the hills. Some old woman terrified about going to the shops.’
‘What?’ said Harris with a sly smile. ‘In case it jumps out and attacks her in the frozen vegetable aisle?’
‘This is no laughing matter,’ said Curtis, seizing on the opportunity to regain some authority. ‘We’ve had dozens of journalists ringing up as well. And there was a couple of big game hunters as well. Traipsing round the hills like it was bloody Africa.’
‘I know,’ chuckled Harris, ‘I saw them. Mind, I think you will find that they have gone home now. And if they can’t find the thing, perhaps it’s not there. I mean, they have hunted antelope in Africa. Sometimes in these situations you need professionals.’
Curtis looked at him gloomily.
‘No,’ said Harris, ‘the dog is no threat to anyone, I am pretty sure of that. You can tell your old dear that she is safe to go to the Co-op.’
‘So where do we go now?’ asked the superintendent feebly, his defeat final.
‘Well I’m off for a bacon sandwich, seems a long time since I last ate.’ The inspector stood up and glanced round as Scoot wandered into the room. ‘I am sure he would appreciate something as well.’
Curtis did not reply, still finding himself struggling to form the words.
‘Then I’ll interview Garratt,’ said Harris, walking over to the door. ‘Trouble is, although everything points to him having something to do with our attacks, he denies everything.’
‘Is he telling the truth?’
Harris shrugged.
‘Not sure,’ he said, heading out into corridor. ‘I’ll let you know.’
‘Now that,’ said Curtis bleakly, ‘would be a first.’
The comment had Jack Harris grinning all the way to the canteen. Half an hour later, the inspector walked down the corridor to the interview room, Matty Gallagher at his side – Jack Harris liked the feeling and gave a smile to the sergeant as they walked. Gallagher was not sure how to react and gave a half smile in return. When they entered the room, the two officers sat down at the table and Garratt stared calmly at them – his composure had remained unruffled from the moment he was arrested. Next to him sat the duty solicitor, the same man who had accompanied Jasmine Riley during her interview. He watched the detectives warily.
‘So, Paul,’ said Harris, looking at Garratt, ‘I think you have a lot of explaining to do. I take it you are David Bowes?’
‘Mea culpa, Chief Inspector. A man with my somewhat unfortunate record needs to be careful and it was a diverting little deception which none of the yokels up here thought to question.’
‘I think that a man in your position would be well advised to show a little more respect,’ said Harris icily.
‘And what position might that be?’
‘Well, let’s take your involvement in the attacks on Trevor Meredith and James Thornycroft for a start.’
‘I am innocent on that score, Chief Inspector, a point about which I informed you last night.’
‘You did indeed, but I will need a little more than that. Even we yokels require proof on these matters.’
‘In which case, let me tell you a little story.’ Garratt gave the officers another mocking smile. ‘Are you sitting comfortably, children?’
‘Just get on with it,’ said Harris.
‘OK. My little story begins twelve years ago when I was in Zaire and became aware of an animal welfare charity called Another Chance – it re-homed monkeys that had been used—’
‘We know all about that,’ said Harris.
‘Oh, very good.’
Harris scowled at the comment.
‘Anyway,’ said Garratt. ‘Your man Meredith was working for them as well – mind, he was not called Meredith then, he was called Robert Dunsmore.’
‘We know that as well.’
‘You have been a busy boy, Chief Inspector.’
‘You’re hardly in a position for joking.’
‘Au contraire,’ said Garratt calmly. ‘My position is considerably stronger than you seem to think. In fact, it’s just a question of when I get out of this backwater.’
‘Meaning?’
‘If you will allow, I will come to that later.’
‘Perhaps I need a further consultation with my client before that happens,’ said the solicitor quickly. ‘Mr Garratt, as your legal representative, I really do think that I should—’
‘This is way above your head, sunshine,’ said Garratt. ‘If I were you, I’d keep your trap shut before you end up looking stupid.’
The solicitor glowered at him and the detectives looked at Garratt with growing unease: there was no doubt about who was controlling the interview and neither of them liked the sensation. Before anyone could speak, Garratt had resumed his story, giving the impression of someone thoroughly enjoying the experience.
‘Meredith, let’s call him Meredith for convenience sake, was an investigator for the charity, used to find out where the monkeys were being kept, sheds, people’s houses, markets, that kind of thing, then take them back. Not always with the owner’s permission, I might add. Donald Rylance was not averse to bending the law himself and he had a group of hired henchmen to make sure the animals were rescued, operating under the command of your friend Meredith. Nevertheless, methods aside, Trevor Meredith was one of the good guys. Well, he was in those early days.’ Garratt gave another smile. ‘Oh, and before you ask, gentlemen, yes, I was one of the bad guys. As bad as they came.’
