Death on High (The Lakeland Murders)

by Salkeld, J J

  ‘So how do I meet these characters?’ asked Mann.

  ‘Spedding is easy enough. I’ve got a list of pubs he goes to, and his KAs as well. He’ll not be hard to track down. But Brockbank could be harder to find. He lives in a village in the Eden valley, has a wife and kid, and actually does paid work.’

  ‘Get away’ said Dixon. ‘Are you sure he’s a valid target?’

  ‘Only seasonal stuff, tractor driving, relief farm labouring, lambing, that sort of thing. Drinks in the pub in the village and one in Alston, but I’m not sure how you could arrange to just happen to be there.’

  ‘Can you look at this Brockbank some more for us Ray?’ asked Hall. ‘We need to give Ian something to work with here, and the file is pretty thin.’

  Hall’s phone rang. ‘Sorry, it’s the front desk. Just a sec.’ He listened for a few seconds. ‘Give me two minutes. Put him in an interview room, would you?’

  ‘Can we pick this up later guys? Jane, can you work with Ian on getting his back-story together and written up. Make sure there are no major holes. Ray, would you look at this Brockbank character, start with everything that’s on the national databases, anything we might be able to use. After that, just use your imagination, but find a hook for Ian to use if you possibly can, OK?’ Dixon nodded, and got up to leave. ‘And Jane, before you start on Ian’s stuff, can you look at something else for me, right now? A death last Sunday, the 3rd. Near Ambleside, a faller. Name is Anthony Harrison. Could you print out what we’ve got and come down and join me? Someone’s walked in, and wants to talk to a detective about it apparently.’

  Adrian Butterworth didn’t think he’d ever been in a Police station before. He drove 70,000 miles a year, selling truck finance to hauliers, and he’d never once had a speeding ticket, or even a parking fine come to that. But it was interesting to be sitting in a proper interview room. It was like one of the ones on telly, only smaller and more battered looking. The recording machine looked newer though, digital he thought. Butterworth wondered if they’d record what he had to say. He hoped they would.

  He’d sat there for nearly fifteen minutes before Andy Hall walked in. Butterworth was pleased that he was an inspector, but disappointed that he didn’t turn on the recorder. He wasn’t even making notes.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting Mr. Butterworth. I hear you’re here because you have information in connection with the death of Mr. Harrison up on the fells last Sunday. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not sure I’d call it information.’

  ‘Have you ever come forward as a witness in previous cases?’

  ‘No.’ Hall watched the realisation cross Butterworth’s face. ‘I’m not a nutter. I’m supposed to be in Edinburgh now you know.’

  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t implying anything.’ Hall was his usual calm self, and Butterworth looked mollified. ‘I just meant that you must have seen something that you think might be important, or you wouldn’t be here now. And if you think that, then I certainly want to hear about it. OK?’

  Butterworth nodded.

  ‘What is it that you do?’ asked Hall, killing time until Jane joined them. ‘You’re very smartly suited and booted I must say.’

  ‘Take a guess. Go on.’

  Hall smiled. ‘I’m only a humble Detective Inspector Mr. Butterworth, not Sherlock Holmes, but I’ll take a wild guess if you like.’ Hall leaned back in his chair. ‘I’d say that you’re in finance.’

  Butterworth looked genuinely surprised.

  ‘That’s uncanny. How did you do know? Is it on your system?’

  Hall laughed. ‘I think you rather over-estimate the extent of our knowledge. No, I just took a guess that the largest number of people who wear suits to work every day these days probably work for banks and insurance companies and things like that. And finance is a nice broad category. So I didn’t get it from a little bit of lint on your collar, or your distinctive limp.’

  ‘But I don’t have a limp.’

  Butterworth looked confused. Clearly he wasn’t a student of the master’s methods, although in fairness Hall wasn’t either. Fortunately Jane knocked on the door and joined them. She introduced herself to Butterworth, and passed a folder across to Hall.

  ‘Mr. Butterworth, I just need to have a look through this file. Would you like some tea or coffee while I do that? Then at least I’ll have some of the background when we talk.’

  Butterworth looked dubious. He said no to the coffee, and he and Jane chatted about life on the road while Hall skimmed the file.

  It didn’t take long. The dead man, Anthony Harrison, was 52, and had been walking with his wife Vicky. Background checks showed that neither had a record. He was an architect by profession, she was an accountant. They’d set off from the same car park as Butterworth and were also doing the Fairfield Round. According to the wife’s statement they were both keen walkers, and had done the route before. They’d walked along the edge of Hart Crag, with the steep drop into Deepdale to their right. Mrs. Harrison said that they walked close to the edge because they knew the way and were hoping to get the views as and when the clouds parted, so Hall guessed that they’d been specifically asked about this decision. But the notes didn’t say who’d made the decision. Sloppy, thought Hall. Harrison was walking ahead, ‘he liked to lead’ his wife had said, when suddenly he slipped on a rock, lost his balance and had fallen over the edge. Mrs. Harrison was too far behind to help. She went to the edge, couldn’t see him, and started to shout for help. Another walker arrived within a minute or two, Butterworth was noted as fifth or sixth on the scene, and it was Ambleside Mountain Rescue who recovered Harrison, unconscious, within twenty minutes. He’d fallen about 600 feet, and he’d died in the Ambulance on the way to hospital, at just before 3pm.

  The PM had taken place a couple of days later, and as far as Hall could make out from the report, without a medical dictionary or a tame pathologist to hand, the cause of death was a blow to the head, although there were a number of other injuries, including numerous broken bones, all completely consistent with a fall. An inquest had been opened and adjourned, but a misadventure verdict was a racing certainty.

  ‘Thanks for your patience, Mr. Butterworth’ said Hall, closing the file. ‘This must have been a really traumatic experience for you. Now, what is it that you’d like us to know?’

  ‘I saw them, and then I saw her. I keep going over it in my head and something just isn’t right.’

  ‘OK’ said Hall patiently. ‘Let’s just rewind a bit here. As I understand it you were walking the horseshoe behind the victim and his wife, and you were going the same way round. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, I must have been a few minutes behind when I first saw them. It wasn’t much of a day, I almost didn’t go up, and it had really clagged in by the time I was up on the tops. It was strange really. I was just walking along in the fog and suddenly the clouds sort of lifted, just for a few seconds, and I saw them on the far side of Rydal Head, just on Hart Crag I suppose. Where the drop is really steep anyway. I could see them both clearly against the sky.’

  ‘Who was walking in front?’

  ‘The man, the taller one anyway. He had a pack on, I remember that.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘The clouds rolled back over everything, and I carried on walking. But maybe a minute or two later the same thing happened, the fog sort of parted and I looked over to where I’d seen them before. Just to see how they were going on I suppose, I don’t know why really. Anyway, there was just one figure now, the one who’d been behind, the woman.’

  Hall nodded encouragingly, and waited. But Butterworth didn’t seem to have anything else to add. ‘That’s all consistent with the reports that we have, Mr. Butterworth, but thanks very much for coming in.’

  There was nothing in Hall’s tone that even suggested to Jane Francis, who took an increasingly keen interest in Andy Hall’s inner life, the irritation that he felt.

  ‘No, I’m not finished. You see it was od
d.’

  ‘What was odd, exactly?’

  ‘Two things. I wish you could see it, just to be sure, but I don’t think I’m imagining it. First, it was the way she was standing. It just seemed strange, almost like she was just thinking about something. It seemed a strange way to react, that’s all.’

  ‘And this was after her husband had fallen, yes?’

  ‘That’s right, she was on her own, just looking out, not down. Definitely not down.’

  ‘And the other thing that struck you as odd?’

  ‘It was the fact that she wasn’t screaming and shouting. That came a few seconds later, and as I got closer I could hear people calling ‘Tony’ and stuff. But when I first saw her, nothing. I’m sure of it.’

  Hall looked across the table at Butterworth. He didn’t really look the imaginative type.

  ‘The second time, when you just saw the person we know to be Mrs. Harrison, you didn’t see her looking down, or trying to look over the edge?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you’re also saying that she wasn’t shouting for help at that point?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Hall paused again. ‘Tell me about what happened when you reached Mrs. Harrison. What can you remember?’

  ‘It was chaos. There were a few walkers ahead of me, because it’s always busy up there, even in winter. One bloke was lying on his belly, trying to see over the edge, and I think someone else had his legs. Everyone was shouting ‘Tony’, like they’d lost a dog.’

  ‘And what was Mrs. Harrison doing?’

  ‘She was sitting down on a rock, off to one side. One of the walkers was with her, a woman it was. I don’t think she moved for ages.’

  ‘Did you get the impression that she knew anyone else, among the people you saw up there?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Did you think that Mrs. Harrison knew anyone else that you saw?’

  Butterworth thought about it. ‘No, I don’t think that she did. I’m almost certain.’

  ‘And when did you leave?’

  ‘After about ten minutes. When I got down I met one of your lot in the car park, and he took down my details.’ Butterworth looked concerned. ‘Do you think I should have stayed?’

  ‘Was there anything that you could have done to help if you had stayed?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then you did the right thing. All you would have done is put yourself at risk. Don’t worry about it, and thanks for coming in.’

  ‘So that’s it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. We appreciate you coming in, and we’ll be in touch if we need to ask you anything else. You drive safely now.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘On your way to Edinburgh.’

  ‘Oh yes, thanks. I always do. The M74 can be a cruel mistress at this time of year.’

  Jane Francis looked down, and made sure that she didn’t catch Andy Hall’s eye until after Butterworth had gone.

  ‘Impressions?’ asked Hall.

  ‘He wouldn’t know a cruel mistress if it bit him on the arse, which I suppose it probably would.’

  ‘That aside’ said Hall, smiling, ‘did you hear anything worth following up?’

  Jane thought for a moment. ‘No, not a single thing.’

  ‘Me neither. Nothing that sounded even remotely like evidence.’

  Jane Francis had a moment of insight. She always enjoyed them when they came.

  ‘But you’re going to take a look at it, aren’t you?’

  ‘You bet. And you’re going to help me. First job is to find any other wits, the folks who turned up before Butterworth, aka the road warrior. I think that lazy Sergeant from Ambleside got a few names when he hung about in the car park, judging from this.’ Hall tapped the folder and passed it to Jane. ‘But prioritise getting Ian prepped and ready please. Our first duty is to make sure he’s as safe as we can make him. Carlisle is a mean city you know.’

  ‘I thought that was Glasgow.’

  ‘You’ve never been on Botchergate on a Saturday night, have you? Our lot put up these big barriers at both ends, I kid you not. It’s either to keep them all in or all out, I forget which. But anyway, the beer flows like sick. Or maybe that’s the other way round too.’

  ‘It sounds as classy as Ray Dixon’s shoes. He’s wearing grey ones today.’

  ‘Really? I thought shoes only came in black or brown. Anyway, let’s make sure we keep Ian safe, even on Botchergate.’

  After work Hall drove to the supermarket. He’d meant to make a list that morning, but had forgotten. So he shopped from memory and from his knowledge of the kids’ preferences, combined with the things that he knew he could manage to cook. It didn’t help that Alice, his oldest and just a few months away from leaving for university, had recently gone vegetarian while Lizzie liked meat. He wasn’t fussy either way.

  Hall hated to think of the kids finding the cupboards bare when they came home from school, so he adopted a precautionary principle when he shopped. He’d noticed that the family food bill had actually gone up since his wife had left a couple of months previously, and that was a surprise given her wine consumption. He’d told a couple of people at work that he’d started buying wine boxes, but stopped when they started taking the piss. The happily married copper was a rare enough beast, but the few that Hall knew could be cruel.

  As he prepared his home-made Cumberland pies that evening, one with real mince, one with soya, he thought about what Adrian Butterworth had said. What was it that made him uneasy exactly? There was something, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Then he forgot about work as he ate with the kids and chatted about their days. Then he cleared up, and sat in the living room and listened to Frightened Rabbit for an hour or so. One of the kids had given him an album for Christmas, and to his surprise he actually liked it.

  Hall was finding it easier to sleep on his own as the weeks passed, but he was still thinking about Carol as he fell asleep, just as he did every night. No doubt he’d dream about her too.

  Friday, 15th February

  Andy Hall felt tense as he drove to work. He’d never run an undercover operation before, and as usual he was thinking about everything that could go wrong. He knew that he probably had an unusually active imagination for a copper, and that made him a good detective, but also a permanently slightly nervous one. Because no matter how hard Jane and Ian had worked that week, and knowing them they’d both have really grafted, there would inevitably be elements of Gary Benson’s invented past that hadn’t been thought through. So as he drove Hall decided to quiz Ian on it all before the end of the shift.

  When he reached the office he skimmed Robinson’s usual early-morning emails. Hall reckoned that he wrote them all the night before and then sent them the second that he woke up the next morning, because his daily dawn chorus of emails usually preceded his physical arrival by an hour or two at least. But in amongst the back-covering and the politicking Hall always got the sense that Robinson really cared about his people. And sure enough, one of that morning’s missives asked him about the precautions that Hall was taking to ensure Ian Mann’s safety whilst undercover. Hall and the team already had everything Robinson queried very well covered, and much more besides, but he had no issue with the question being raised.

  Hall was just about to send his reply when Ray Dixon knocked at the door. Out of habit Hall looked at his watch, because Dixon always arrived at work within a minute of his shift starting. But today Dixon was twenty minutes early, and that made Hall even more uncomfortable.

  ‘Do you know what time it is Ray?’

  ‘I live to serve, boss.’

  Hall smiled. Dixon was a clockwatcher and bit of a hypochondriac, but he was still a decent copper when he was at work. And Hall would settle for that. He had lost count of the number of times that Dixon had spotted something that Hall had missed, or made a connection that he hadn’t. And so what if the job wasn’t his life? Working too hard for twenty years had earned him
an executive grade waste paper basket and an impending divorce. He was very far from sure that it had been worth it.

  ‘Something you wanted to chat about Ray?’

  ‘I’ve been having a good look at this Ben Brockbank character like you asked. I’ve been through the databases, and yesterday I took a ride out to Morland, where he lives. He’s got a lovely looking little cottage, although I bet it’s parky this time of year.’

  ‘Did you find anything useful?’

  ‘Two things. Guess what kind of car young Brockbank drives? A Scooby; an Impreza like the one that Ian’s going to be driving. So I searched about on the Subaru chatrooms and I’m pretty sure that BB82 is our man, as Brockbank was born in ’82 and this BB82 makes a couple of references to the area. He tells that story about when those kids nicked that rally car from the RAC and taunted us with it for months, the little bastards. Years ago it was. Anyway, if Ian was to start posting too, maybe that would be a way of working an introduction to Brockbank?’