Authors: John Dean
‘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 inspector 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.’
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.’
‘And James Thornycroft, was he a good guy?’ asked Gallagher.
‘He was then,’ nodded Garratt. ‘He was the charity’s vet when I first came across him. All very idealistic, kept talking about paying his debt to society.’
‘And you weren’t?’ asked Harris.
‘I suspect my debt to society is rather bigger than anyone could pay for,’ said Garratt. ‘In fact, if you allow me to continue, you will see just how big the price will be when we get to it.’
Harris glanced at Gallagher, who shrugged.
‘Anyway,’ continued Garratt, ‘it did not take long to turn Meredith and Thoryncroft so that they saw things my way. See, they have always had the same weakness as the rest of us.’
Garratt rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.
‘You can have as many ideals as you want but money talks louder than all of them,’ he said.
‘I am afraid you may be right,’ said Harris darkly. ‘What happened then?’
‘Well, as I said, I had never been into all this noble saving the animals shite. There were plenty of rich people with more money than sense who fancied an exotic animal in their back garden and that’s what interested me. I hooked up with a couple of dodgy characters, an Aussie and an American, who reckoned they could get them out of Africa: they had good contacts with a bent port manager. Turned a blind eye to what we were doing in exchange for a few readies. However, I still needed someone to source the animals in the first place. When I approached Meredith, he was horrified at what I was suggesting, but it did not take him long to come round to our way of thinking. Blame his little weakness, if you like.’
‘His gambling?’
‘Yeah, his gambling. He used to play with a bunch of ex-pats, sharks the lot of them, and had got himself deeper and deeper into debt. After a few days’ thinking it over, he asked if he could come in with us. I knew he would.’
‘And Thornycroft?’
‘He was just a greedy bastard. Once Meredith showed him what kind of figures we were talking about, he fell in line. It was not difficult, mind: old man Rylance paid them both a pittance. I was delighted when he agreed to join us: we needed someone who could anaesthetize the animals before shipping them out.’
Harris shook his head, fighting down the rising tide of nausea and anger that he was feeling.
‘Anyway,’ said Garratt, ‘old man Rylance was a bit of a fool so it was easy to hoodwink him. Meredith still found monkeys for him but for every one he handed over to Rylance, we exported another six. It was good money and in time we moved on to other animals as well. Developed a network of people and expanded into East Africa, which was very good for us, recruited a couple of crooked wildlife rangers to help us. Cheetahs and other big cats were big earners for us. We must have shipped a good dozen out.’
‘But how the hell do you smuggle one of those out?’ exclaimed Gallagher.
‘You take the cubs. The sheiks love them, let them roam around the house. They see them as a status symbol. Nice house, big motor, cheetah sitting on the drinks cabinet.’
Harris shook his head in disgust.
‘You may look like that, Inspector,’ said Garratt. ‘I know you like spouting off about your beloved animals, but to us, it was about cash and nothing else. Everything has its price. Always has had and always will. That’s the kind of world we live in. Simple as. And if it had continued, we would all have been very rich men, indeed.’
‘But it didn’t?’ asked Gallagher.
‘No, someone tipped off the Zairean police and they raided our homes one night. Didn’t find anything, we were always very careful, and we paid them off, of course, but Thornycroft got scared. Next thing I know, he’s done a runner and left the country. Always was a weak-willed man was our James.’
‘And Meredith?’
‘Oh, he was all for continuing.’
‘But surely he came home at around that time as well?’ said Harris. ‘He turned up in Levton Bridge around then.’
‘Yeah, he did. See, a few weeks later, we got this approach from a guy working for a group of Saudis. Starts talking about gorillas, did we know where to find a breeding pair? Says his client, some oil-rich Arab, wanted them for his private zoo. Show them off to his friends. Well, Meredith knew better than most where to find them in Zaire.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ exclaimed Harris, ‘do you know how endangered those things are?’
‘Too right I do – why do you think the price was so high?’
Harris resisted the temptation to jump across the table and strike him.
‘Anyhow,’ said Garratt, ‘Meredith sorts everything out and delivers the animals to the middle man. Trouble is, the guy botches up the shipping side of things and one of the bloody things died on the way over.’