Authors: John Dean
‘He’s only been here three or four months, I think?’
‘That would be right.’
‘Did he tell you what he did for a living?’
‘I’m sorry, dearie. I didn’t really know much about him.’
‘Well,’ said Butterfield, taking the house key and turning back to the front door of the cottage, ‘maybe it’s time that he let us into some of his secrets then.’
‘Where exactly are we going?’ asked Gallagher as he and Harris left the Land Rover, having locked Scoot back in the vehicle.
‘You’ll see.’
‘Right man of mystery you are.’
‘Yeah,’ said Harris, ‘it’s why the women love me.’
Five minutes later, they were walking briskly through Roxham town centre, ignored by the few shoppers who were scurrying past, laden down with bags.
‘You need to know about Gerry Radford,’ said Harris, eventually breaking his silence as they turned off into a deserted side street and were away from other people. ‘You need to be under no illusions about who we are dealing with. He’s major league. When I was a DI in Manchester, his fingers were all over everything. Drugs, firearms, armed robbery. You name it, Gerry Radford was involved.’
‘That does not worry me. When I was in the Met—’
‘Now how did I know you were going to say that?’ said the inspector with a slight smile, as they walked past neatly kept terraced houses and an off-licence. ‘I imagine that when you were with the Met, you had some dealings with the Ferris brothers and the Cavanaghs?’
Gallagher stopped walking and gazed at the inspector in astonishment.
‘How do you know about…?’
‘Like I’ve told you before,’ said Harris, turning to face him, ‘don’t underestimate me.’
‘Sorry,’ nodded Gallagher: it was not the first time he had made the mistake.
‘Thought mention of some old names would pique your interest,’ said Harris as they started walking again. ‘See Gerry Radford counts the Ferris brothers among his closest associates and there is plenty of evidence to suggest that he has met the Cavanaghs on more than one occasion.’
‘In which case, I’m impressed,’ said the sergeant, falling into step with his boss: his voice exhibited the most enthusiasm that Harris had heard from his sergeant for weeks.
‘Thought you would be.’
‘The Ferris boys were the bane of our life down in the Met. So were the Cavanaghs, for that matter. Good old fashioned villains. We got close a couple of times but….’ Gallagher stopped and made a gesture with his hands. ‘
Poof
, witnesses seemed to disappear into thin air. It was like investigating David Copperfield.’
Harris gave a low laugh as they turned into another side street.
‘The last time I saw any of them,’ continued Gallagher, ‘was when there was a raid on a security box place. Got away with a million. We were sure that the Ferris brothers were behind it. Interesting case actually, turned out the place was run by a somewhat shady company from Nigeria. Thought for one moment the DI would send me out there, which would have been good, the furthest he had sent me before was Walthamst— What’s wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?’
Harris had stopped walking again and was staring thoughtfully at the sergeant.
‘Not sure. Something you said just then.’ Harris started walking towards the end of the side street. ‘It’ll come to me.’
‘So, where exactly are we going?’ asked Gallagher, following him.
‘Here,’ said the inspector, pushing his way into a small pub on the corner. ‘We’re going here. See, I really do think that we’ll need a bit of help before we tackle Gerry Radford and his mates.’
It took Gallagher a few moments for his eyes to acclimatize themselves to the gloom, but when they did, he saw that the dingy little pub was empty save for two people sitting in the corner.
‘That’s Leckie, isn’t it?’ he asked, recognizing the tall, lean man with thinning black hair and a pronounced five o’clock shadow and wearing a sharp black suit.
‘Sure is,’ beamed Harris.
‘Who’s the bit of skirt?’ asked the sergeant as, he surveyed the slim brunette sitting next to Leckie approvingly.
Aged, he reckoned, no more than mid-forties, she looked hopelessly out of place in the pub. Immaculately dressed in a pale blue matching jacket and skirt, she exuded class, her clothes expensive, her brown hair beautifully coiffeured, her make-up perfectly applied.
‘Surely,’ continued the sergeant, ‘they haven’t given Leckie a secretary?’
‘That secretary, my dear boy,’ said Harris with a smile, ‘is Detective Chief Superintendent Annie Gorman, head of Greater Manchester’s Organized Crime Unit, and if she heard you calling her a bit of a skirt she would personally rip off your head and shit down the hole.’
‘Really? She doesn’t exactly look the type.’
‘I’ll let you tell her that,’ said Harris, grinning as the detectives approached the table and Leckie stood up. The men shook hands. ‘Graham, my boy, how the hell are you?’
‘Fine, matey,’ said Leckie, gesturing to Annie Gorman, who had remained seated and was eying the inspector with a knowing smile. ‘I think you know the super?’
‘Oh, aye,’ said Harris and returned her smile. ‘We know each other. Hello, Annie.’
‘Hello, Hawk,’ she said: the tone of voice was affectionate as she reached out a beautifully manicured hand, which the inspector gently kissed. The fingernails were painted black. ‘Long time no see.’
The comment was loaded with meaning and, as he watched the encounter, Matty Gallagher found himself fascinated and wondering. Wondering if they … wondering if in a previous life, Harris had … wondering whether or not… I mean, the sergeant mused, everyone had heard the stories about Jack Harris, but someone this classy? The sergeant shook his head to banish the thought.
‘Drink?’ he said instead.
Several minutes later, drinks started, pleasantries dispensed with, Annie Gorman looked at Gallagher.
‘So, Sergeant,’ she said, taking a sip of her glass of white wine, ‘what’s it like working with Jack Harris?’
The question caught Gallagher off guard.
‘Oh, it’s you know,’ he said. ‘It’s OK.’
‘I imagine it’s a bit boring after the Met, though,’ she said. ‘In fact, a little bird tells me that you might fancy a change of scenery.’
‘Now, now, Annie,’ said Harris quickly, holding up a hand. ‘No poaching.’
Gorman inclined her head slightly.
‘Always worth a try, Jack, always worth a try,’ she said. ‘OK, so you want to go after Gerry Radford?’
‘Yeah, I do.’
‘I hope this is not because of what—’
‘No,’ said Harris, with a vigorous shake of the head. ‘No, it’s nothing to do with that. This is purely kosher, Annie. We think he may be linked to a murder in our patch.’
‘Leckie tells me it’s the guy on the hills?’
‘Not just him,’ said Harris. ‘We had another guy damn near killed this morning. Radford is linked to that one as well.’
‘Evidence?’
‘Take it from me, Annie, this has got his mits all over it.’
‘But have you got anything firm?’ she asked.
‘Well, nothing a hundred per cent nailed on yet, but I am pretty confident that we will be—’
‘Same old Jack Harris,’ said Gorman, with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘Sure your man wasn’t mauled to death by a flock of sheep? Hey, if you catch whoever did it, it would give a whole new meaning to sheepdog trials.’
Gallagher looked sharply at his inspector – he had seen people receive fearsome dressing downs for lesser slights, including himself when he first arrived – you never made that mistake twice – but on this occasion Harris did not sound offended.
‘Now, now, Annie,’ he said, ‘no need to be like that. Besides, we’re not some yokel police force in Levton Bridge, you know. We’ve already eliminated all the sheep from our inquiry. You should have seen the identity parade. People say they all look the same, but they don’t know what they are talking about.’
Gorman laughed.
‘OK,’ she said, suddenly serious, ‘if we do help you, and I am not saying we will – this is all very political, as I am sure you can imagine – then I take it you realize what you will be starting? Radford will turn up the heat and he will start by targeting you with the best lawyers he can find. He’ll drag everything up again. All that bad history.’
‘I know all that, Annie, but I really do need to eliminate him from our inquiry.’
‘I appreciate that, but do you not have any other angles to work first? I mean, I really will have to do some hard talking to get anyone to even think about your lot going after Radford. Particularly when I mention your name.’
‘No,’ said Harris with a shake of the head, ‘this really is our only lead on this one. Honest.’
Gallagher looked at his boss but said nothing. Gorman thought for a few moments then nodded.
‘OK, Hawk,’ she said, glancing towards the bar to make sure the barman could not hear, then leaning forward in conspiratorial fashion. Both Levton Bridge detectives got a whiff of expensive perfume. ‘Maybe we
can
work together on this one. As it happens, we’ve got an op planned for the weekend. Can you wait that long?’
‘I have been waiting years for Gerry Radford,’ said Harris. ‘I guess a few more days won’t harm. What’s the job?’
‘The word is that Radford is bringing in something big – our informant says he is into drugs. He’s into high quality cocaine at the moment. He plans to pick up the shipment at a service station on the M6 on Saturday night. If I can get clearance from the woodentops, would you like to tag along?’
‘Too bloody right, I would,’ said Harris, eyes gleaming.
‘You might like to bring your sergeant,’ said Gorman, with a slight smile. ‘You never know, Hawk, it might change his mind about joining us.’
Harris said nothing.
‘All right, I’ll be in touch,’ said Gorman, downing the rest of her glass of wine and standing up. She gave the detectives a hard look. ‘Oh, and I don’t want anyone else to know about this. It never fails to amaze me where Gerry Radford has friends. If I find out that word got out from your end, I will personally come back up here and kebab your testicles.’
Then she and Leckie were gone, Gorman’s heels clicking on the pub’s wooden floor.
‘Jesus,’ said Gallagher with a shake of the head. ‘That is one tough cookie. Mind, the idea of her kebabbing my knackers is not an entirely unpleasant one.’
There was silence for a moment.
‘Go on,’ said Harris, ‘you are dying to ask me.’
‘Yeah, I am. Did you and she … you know, get up to some kebabbing of your own?’
‘You know better than to ask that,’ grinned Harris. He rubbed his hands together delightedly. ‘Excellent, this really is excellent. I wasn’t sure she would go for it.’
‘Yeah, but the lovely lady only agreed because you told her a porkie pie.’
‘Really?’ said the inspector with an innocent expression on his face. ‘What was that then?’
‘That we hadn’t got any other leads. What about the gambling ring? I mean, what if we are wrong about Radford and it’s all down to a few farmhands falling out over bad debts? Things have to be bad if Len Radley and Charlie Myles come to blows.’
‘Do you know,’ said Harris, downing his pint and standing up, ‘I clean forgot about that, Matty lad. Thank you for reminding me.’
Gallagher gave a slight smile: having been given the chance to get his teeth into something like this he was not about to argue too much with the inspector over his methods.
‘Come on,’ said Harris, heading for the door and giving a wave of thanks to the barman, ‘we’ve got plenty to do. Oh, and you heard the lady, I don’t want Curtis to know about this, not until I’ve got everything topped and tailed anyway. He’d only worry. Well, he’d worry me, anyway.’
‘Understood,’ said the sergeant, following him out into the bright summer sunshine where the inspector was already walking purposefully along the street. ‘There was something else I wanted to ask.’
Something in the sergeant’s voice made Harris stop walking and turn to look at him.
‘And what would that be?’ he asked.
‘Something the DCS said,’ said the sergeant, hesitating slightly as he worked out how best to phrase his next words: good mood or not, you still never quite knew how the inspector would react to some things. ‘When she asked why you were after Radford, I kind of got the impression that there was something else to it. Something that you are not telling me.’
‘Matty lad,’ said Harris, turning and starting to walk along the street again, ‘you should know by now that there are always things I am not telling you.’
Later that afternoon, and for the second time in a matter of hours, Matty Gallagher found himself on the fourth floor corridor at the general hospital. He paused in mid-stride and looked out of the window once more. No train this time.
‘Penny for your thoughts,’ said a voice behind him.
‘You’re the second person who has said that to me today,’ said the sergeant, turning and smiling at his wife as she walked along the corridor. He looked at her nurse’s uniform. ‘You’re in early.’
‘I rang the police station and they said you were down here. Got to grab these opportunities when they arise.’ Julie joined him in staring out of the window, leaning her arms on the windowsill and looking out across the roofs. ‘You here for anything exciting?’
‘This vet fellow who has been attacked.’
‘I had a quick word with one of the nurses,’ nodded Julie. ‘She reckons he’s in a bad way. They’re keeping him in a coma. Be a while before you can talk to him.’
Gallagher nodded morosely. There was a few moments of silence then she looked across at him with an apologetic look on her face.
‘Matty, you know we were going to look at the sofa on Saturday.’
‘Haven’t been able to think about anything else.’
‘Cheeky basket,’ said Julie. ‘Anyway, you will be pleased to learn that we might have to take a rain check. I’ve taken a bit of overtime – if we’re going to buy the blue one, we’ll need the money so I’ve said I will do days on Saturday and Sunday. One of the nurses has fallen downstairs and broken her leg.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘I’ll tell her. It should speed her recovery. Miles better than a card.’
‘You know I didn’t mean it like that,’ grinned Gallagher. ‘It’s just that I reckon I’m going to end up working a lot of the weekend as well – I’ll be away Saturday night. Maybe Sunday as well.’
‘But I’ve invited Mum and Dad down for Sunday lunch,’ she protested.
‘I know,’ said Gallagher, straight-faced. ‘What with missing out on an afternoon in DFS then missing your dad endlessly banging on about darts, it’s a pretty grim weekend all round.’
Julie looked at him, noticed his lips twitch slightly, and punched his arm affectionately.
‘Sometimes, Matty Gallagher,’ she said as he rubbed his arm and gave her a pained look, ‘you are insufferable. Tell you what, I’ll forgive you but only if you buy me a coffee down in the canteen.’
‘Sorry, pet. The guvn’r’s got the wife in there.’ He nodded to a nearby office. The door was closed. ‘Your lot have let us use it to interview her so she’s close to her husband. She doesn’t want to leave the hospital.’
‘I bet she’s in a right state.’
‘That’s the odd thing, she’s not. I only saw her for a few moments but she looked cool as a cucumber, like she didn’t care what had happened to her husband.’ Gallagher leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
‘What was that for?’
‘You know,’ said Gallagher, ‘just because.’
‘You’ve seen the train again, haven’t you?’
‘No, it’s something else. Julie?’
‘Matthew.’ Her reply sounded guarded: she knew that tone of voice.
‘If I got a job offer from Manchester, what would you think?’
‘And have you had a job offer from Manchester?’ she said, unable to disguise her consternation.
‘Not yet, but if I did….’ His voice tailed off.
‘It’s a long way to travel,’ said Julie. ‘You’d have to live down there, presumably.’
‘Unless we moved.’
‘I’m not sure I would like that,’ she said, looking at him unhappily. ‘You know how much I disliked London.’
‘So maybe I could get a flat and come home at weekends. It wouldn’t be so b….’ He stopped as he saw her expression. ‘Yeah, you’re right, who wants to live in Manchester, eh? Dirty old place. Look, forget I ever said anything.’
‘We can talk about it later,’ said Julie. ‘If you want to.’
‘No, no need,’ said the sergeant, trying to banish her sombre mood and kissing her lightly on the cheek. ‘Look, I gotta go, Harris will be waiting for me. See you when you I see you, yeah? Maybe grab breakfast together tomorrow?’
‘Are you really serious about this Manchester thing?’ she asked.
‘No, no, of course not.’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘Just an idle thought.’
‘In which case,’ she said, ‘breakfast it is.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
Julie started to walk down the corridor, gave a coquettish look over her shoulder and blew him a kiss.
‘Just think what you’d be missing if you moved to Manchester,’ she said.
‘You’re just a temptress,’ grinned Gallagher and walked the other way down the corridor towards the office: it was to be a long time before he could get the image out of his head. Even if it had been her way of taking his mind off the Manchester thing, he wasn’t objecting. Uniforms, he guessed as he reached for the door handle, always something about uniforms.
‘I know this is difficult for you, Mrs Thornycroft,’ said Jack Harris, trying to sound sympathetic and glancing up as Gallagher entered the room, ‘but we really have to get to the bottom of what happened to your husband.’
Gallagher sat down next to the inspector and looked across the table at Gaynor Thornycroft, who presented a picture of control. Her jacket was perfectly pressed, her trousers beautifully ironed: not a crease in sight. Her black hair was well presented and her make-up was immaculate. Something in her calm demeanour reminded the sergeant of Annie Gorman.
Gaynor sat with her hands resting on her lap and looked silently at the detectives over the top of her dark-rimmed spectacles, almost as if challenging them, as if determined not to give an inch.
‘Have you had time to think about what I said earlier?’ said Harris, when no response was forthcoming. ‘Had anything unusual happened recently which might lead us to whoever attacked your husband this morning?’
‘Now let me think,’ she said in a voice laced with sarcasm. ‘Was there anything unusual? Oh, yes, now I come to think of it, my husband faked a break-in at his surgery in Bolton. I suppose you could say that was unusual. What do you think, Inspector?’
She did not give Harris chance to reply.
‘Then it turns out that he was treating dogs that had been injured in illegal fights organized by a bunch of gangsters,’ she said. ‘I suppose you might also say that that was unusual. Certainly was where we lived. Nice middle class area like that, What do
you
reckon, Chief Inspector?’
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.