Authors: John Dean
‘In which case, learn from the lesson she taught you,’ said Harris, producing his car keys and opening the door to let Scoot into the back.
‘Lesson?’
‘The lesson, Constable Butterfield,’ said the inspector, climbing into the driver’s seat, ‘that you should never listen to what people are saying. Always listen to what they are thinking. People can’t lie that way. We need to check her out.’
‘Surely you don’t think she is…?’
‘There’s too many people keeping secrets, and I don’t like secrets.’ He started the engine then gave the constable a half smile. ‘Apart from mine, of course.’
*
Shortly after 11.30 a.m., Jasmine Riley emerged tentatively into the street, clutching her overnight bag. Having stayed in her room as long as possible, knowing that her train was not due until noon, she realized that she finally had no option but to move and expose herself to the dangers of Roxham’s streets. Eyes flitting left and right, she stood outside the guest house and nervously scanned the pavements for signs of danger.
Such behaviour had become a way of life in her final days with Trevor Meredith: he had constantly reminded her that someone could be watching. It had become his mantra, but, if she was honest, Jasmine’s concerns at the time were more for Trevor’s state of mind than any reputed threat to their well-being. She had never been convinced that someone was after them. The incidents that had preceded their flight could, she had argued, simply been coincidences, events on to which Trevor had placed undue significance. The ringing of the doorbell when no one was there that one time, the dog faeces left on the doorstep a couple of days later, these things were the type of pranks played by children, and the local kids knew that he worked at the dog sanctuary, she had said. And, she had added, there had been one or two complaints of youths misbehaving in the area over recent weeks. As for the phone call late one night that rang off before they could answer, that could have been something innocent, she had told him. A wrong number, or one of those automated machines with the funny American voice trying to sell holidays on a cruise ship.
However, Trevor had refused to listen and had seemed increasingly on edge. There had been rows. Irrational rows. Their first rows in ten years together. Imagined slights. Wild fantasies. Was she, Jasmine had started to ask herself, witnessing a man experiencing some kind of breakdown? However, so convinced had he seemed to be that she had agreed that they should leave the area, if only for a few days. If only to appease him. Well, Jasmine had said a few days, a short break to recharge the batteries, but she was not sure Trevor had seen it that way. His preparations had suggested an air of finality. He had even said that he doubted he would ever see the cottage again.
Trevor’s disappearance and his subsequent failure to answer her phone call the night before had changed everything. Now, Trevor’s fears seemed only too real, now Jasmine Riley was as frightened as she could recall ever having felt, now she knew what her fiancé had been going through. Seeing few people on the street, she gave a sigh of relief, took a deep breath to regain her composure and started walking briskly in the direction of Roxham’s railway station, mind made up. She would not head over to Newcastle, as agreed. No, she decided, it was time to go home, to explain to her mother what had been happening, why she had not been in touch, why she had not returned her calls. To seek reassurance from someone she knew she could trust and could ask for help. Even the thought of home made Jasmine feel better as she walked along the street, enjoying the freshness of the air after the oppressive atmosphere of the storm.
She passed a television shop and stopped to stare in the window. On one of the sets there was an image of the hills above Levton Bridge and, heart pounding, she walked into the store and over to the TV, leaning over to hear the commentary. ‘Police have not yet named the man found in the copse,’ said the reporter’s voice, ‘but have confirmed that his dog died in the same incident. Superintendent Philip Curtis said that it was still early days in the inquiry.’ Jasmine clapped a hand to her mouth and gave a slight exclamation as the divisional commander appeared on the screen, standing in front of Levton Bridge Police Station.
‘Are you all right, madam?’ asked a young male shop assistant, walking across to her.
Jasmine did not reply but ran from the store and down the street, her view obscured by the tears welling in her eyes. As she ran, she did not notice the man standing in the nearby shop doorway, watching her intently.
After leaving the sanctuary, the inspector guided his Land Rover out of Levton Bridge, the detectives speaking little as they left the houses behind and the landscape broke into moorland, the bright morning sunshine and the tatters of cloud casting darting shadows across the slopes. A mile and a half out of town, the inspector noticed a quad bike parked on the roadside with the key still in the ignition. He brought the Land Rover to a sudden halt.
‘What’ve you seen?’ asked Butterfield.
‘Apart from a quad bike asking to be nicked?’ said the inspector, getting out of the vehicle with Scoot and pointing across the moor. ‘Someone with a lot of explaining to do.’
They walked for several hundred metres to where a man in a fustian jacket and with a flat cap jammed on to his weatherbeaten head was leaning on a shepherd’s crook, watching his dog round up a flock of sheep. The man started when he noticed the detectives striding towards him and made as if to walk away.
‘Stay where you are, Len Radley!’ shouted Harris.
Radley sighed and waited for the detectives to arrive, eying them with trepidation. Scoot disappeared into the bracken.
‘I were drunk,’ said Radley before Harris could speak. ‘I never meant to try to lamp you. I am really sorry, it were stupid, but I were in me cups.’
‘I don’t want to talk about that.’
Radley, whose nose was swollen, looked relieved then his expression clouded over.
‘Then what do you want to talk about, Mr Harris?’ he asked.
‘First off, why the hell is your quad bike sitting there with the keys in it? Do you know, we had three of them nicked last month and all because the damn fool owners left the keys in? Didn’t Harry Galbraith give you that crime prevention sheet?’
‘I were going to read it, Mr Harris. Just ain’t not got round to it.’
‘Not got round to it! He handed them out six months ago!’
‘Aye, well, you know how it is.’
‘I am afraid I do, Len, I am afraid I do,’ sighed the inspector. ‘Anyway, that’s not what I want to talk to you about either. Why were you and Charlie Myles scrapping in the market-place last night?’
‘What did Charlie say?’
‘He didn’t say anything.’
‘Then neither will I,’ said the farmer firmly.
‘Then allow me – was it about your little gambling ring at the King’s Head?’
‘How do you know about that?’ Radley looked surprised.
‘Because I’m omnipotent, Len.’
Radley looked confused.
‘Never mind,’ said Harris. ‘Tell me, what has been happening at the King’s Head.’
‘Like I said, I ain’t going to say nowt about it.’
Harris glanced at Butterfield.
‘I wonder, Constable,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘if, having reconsidered the events of last night, we could perhaps charge Len here with assault after all? I mean, the magistrates have already said they will treat any such cases of drunken disorder as very serious. A crackdown, I think the papers called it.’
‘I think we might well be able to do that, sir. And I could act as the witness. I mean, I did see Len try to attack you. Oh, and maybe Charlie would press charges. It did look nasty, the more I think of it.’
Radley looked at the officers in alarm.
‘And,’ said Harris, ‘did I not hear tell that Len’s boss put him on a final warning the last time he got involved in something like this? Said he did not want his shepherd plastered all over the papers again.’
Len Radley had heard enough.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right, I’ll tell you – but it were only a little fun among friends.’
‘It didn’t look like you and Charlie were having much fun last night,’ said the inspector.
Radley said nothing.
‘In fact,’ said Harris, ‘from what I hear, there’s not been much fun for anyone. There’s a lot of money been lost, I think. Charlie owe you cash?’
Radley nodded.
‘I heard a hundred quid,’ said Harris.
Radley looked at him in astonishment.
‘How the…?’
‘That what you and Charlie were scrapping about last night?’
‘Aye,’ sighed Radley: he could see little point in denying what the inspector seemed already to know. ‘He said he would bring it yesterday, but he didn’t have it on him when he turned up. We had a few arguments about it then when we left that’s when we got to fighting. We’d had a few, mind. I know it were wrong, Mr Harris.’
‘Your sense of social awareness is commendable,’ said Harris, winking at Butterfield as the shepherd looked bewildered again. ‘So who else takes part in these poker games?’
‘Some of the regulars – and that new chap, the veterinary.’
‘James Thornycroft?’ said Harris. ‘He a friend of yours?’
‘No he ain’t! I wouldn’t trust him. The man’s a crook, Mr Harris. Do you know, he tried to tell me that Roy needed an injection which would have cost thirty pound.’ The shepherd gestured to his sheepdog, which had just rounded up the last of the flock. ‘I mean, Mr Harris, do he look like he needs an injection?’
‘Who else takes part?’
‘That man as got hisself killed on the hills yesterday.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘That posh bloke.’
‘Posh bloke?’
Radley nodded.
‘Aye, talked right proper,’ he said. ‘He’s called David Bowes. He’s not from these parts, mind. He said he were renting a cottage out down in Stonecliffe.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Normal like. Short brown hair.’
‘Age?’
‘I weren’t never any good at guessing people’s ages, Mr Harris.’
‘Try.’
‘Forty summat, I would say.’
‘Anything unusual about him?
‘He had a scar, Mr Harris.’ Radley ran finger down the right side of his neck. ‘Looked like he’d been in a bit of trouble in his time.’
‘Did he now?’ said Harris softly. ‘Did he really?’
It was shortly before 10.30 a.m. when Harris and Butterfield arrived at the RSPCA’s Roxham offices, which were housed in an Edwardian terraced house close to the town centre. On arrival, the detectives were ushered into a large first floor meeting room, given cups of tea and asked to wait. They had been sitting at the large conference table for the best part of fifteen minutes – with the inspector growing increasingly irritated at what he saw as discourtesy and displaying his annoyance by pacing up and down the room – when the door opened and in walked a grey-haired woman in her early fifties and a balding man in his mid-forties. Both wore uniform.
‘Ged Maynard, as I live and breathe,’ said Harris, standing up and smiling broadly at the man, his irritation banished by the sight of his old friend. ‘Long time no see.’
‘Been a while,’ nodded Maynard. ‘Just before you decided to move to Hicksville, wasn’t it?’
‘Our super likes to call it a rural policing area,’ said Harris, winking at Butterfield as the men shook hands, the inspector noting that his friend’s grip was firm but that the palm was cold and clammy.
‘This is Helen Jackson,’ said Maynard, gesturing to the woman, who had been watching their greetings with a frown at the way the two men were ignoring her. ‘Helen is my line manager and has travelled up with me this morning.’
‘Mr Harris,’ said Jackson, in a voice that lacked warmth.
Her handshake lacked warmth as well, the DCI noting that it was cold and limp. He disliked her immediately.
‘This is Detective Constable Butterfield,’ said the inspector, concluding the introductions as everyone took their seats, detectives on one side of the large table, RSPCA officers on the other. ‘She is very keen to learn more about the work of your organization.’
Butterfield tried not to laugh, Ged Maynard gave a slight smile and Helen Jackson frowned again.
‘Can we please get down to business,’ she said, in a businesslike tone of voice, reaching into her black briefcase and producing several brown files. ‘I would like things resolved as quickly as possible.’
‘Well,’ said Harris, his delight at seeing Maynard again dissipating, ‘let’s start with the fact that, even though we are all supposed to be on the same side, someone has been keeping secrets.’
‘It’s not what you think,’ said Jackson.
‘It is from where I’m sitting, Mrs Jackson.’
‘Miss,’ she said starchly, ‘I’m a miss.’
‘Of course you are,’ said Harris. ‘However, your marital status matters somewhat less than what the hell has been happening behind my back.’
The RSPCA officers shifted uncomfortably in their seats. The slight pause gave Harris the chance to properly peruse his friend for the first time since the RSPCA officers had walked into the room. Ged Maynard seemed so much older than the last time they had met, not just because the waist was a little thicker and the hair greyer, but because a lot of his old energy seemed to have gone. Ged Maynard, Harris concluded, looked like a man who felt himself backed into a corner and not just by the presence of the detectives. There were clearly tensions between him and his superior officer, Harris decided. The inspector gave a slight smile: he loved situations when those on the other side of the table were at a disadvantage. Still irritated by the way Curtis had retained control of their meeting earlier that morning, Harris resolved not to let Helen Jackson do the same this time.
‘I mean,’ said the inspector, ‘the last time we worked together, Ged, I seem to recall that you were only too keen to ask for my help. Call me an old romantic but I had rather hoped that such a situation might be reciprocated. Seemingly not.’
‘Your help
was
much appreciated, Hawk,’ said Maynard earnestly. ‘It really was. We made a good team.’
‘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.