Authors: John Dean
‘That does not sound very definite,’ said the inspector.
‘Well it is.’ This time, the reply sounded defensive.
‘What about injuries like this then?’ asked Butterfield, picking up on the change in mood and gesturing to Robbie. ‘Are you sure you haven’t seen anything like this since you came here?’
‘I only took over the practice four months ago.’
‘That wasn’t the constable’s question,’ said Harris.
Thornycroft looked at the detectives for a moment or two, anxiety flitting across his face before he regained his composure.
‘No,’ he said, his voice firmer. ‘No, I have not seen injuries like this since I came here.’
Butterfield was about to say something when a look from Harris silenced her.
‘OK, James,’ he said briskly, heading for the door, ‘not sure there is much else we can do here so we’ll leave you to it. Thanks for all your help. It is much appreciated.’
‘No problem,’ murmured the vet.
Darkness had begun to fall and the wind had started to build again, driving rain into the detectives’ faces as they stepped out of the front door of the surgery on to the glistening pavement. As they began to walk, Butterfield waited respectfully for the inspector to explain their sudden departure.
‘The weathermen said it would have a second blast,’ said Harris instead, glancing up at the heavy clouds. ‘Something tells me it is going to be one of those nights.’
‘Guv?’
‘This kind of weather does funny things to people, Constable. Funny things.’
‘Jack Harris!’ came a shrill cry from behind them. ‘I want a word with you!’
‘See what I mean,’ murmured Harris, turning and staring without enthusiasm at the rapidly approaching figure. ‘When’s the election again?’
Butterfield chuckled. Striding down the street towards them was the slightly balding figure of Barry Ramsden, who in addition to running an optician’s shop in the town centre, was the parish council chairman. He and Jack Harris had known each other since schooldays: it had not always been an easy relationship.
‘How can I help, Barry?’ asked the inspector, trying to sound courteous as the councillor reached them.
‘There’s rumours of a crazed dog on the hills. I’m getting phone calls.’
‘Now there’s a surprise.’
‘What can I tell them, Jack?’ Ramsden sounded genuinely concerned. ‘I mean, folks are frightened. They’ve heard what happened up there.’
‘Tell them not to worry. I am pretty sure that the animal is well away from here by now.’
‘I assume it has got something to do with the death of Trevor Meredith?’
‘No comment,’ said Harris and started walking again. He had only gone a few paces when a thought struck him and he turned round. ‘Oh, while I remember. Am I right in thinking that you are one of the directors of the dog sanctuary?’
‘Chairman actually,’ said Ramsden. ‘My father was one of the founders of the place.’
‘Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to kill Trevor?’
‘No. The man was a saint as far as I was concerned. Loved dogs, really loved them. The idea that a dog owner could be the one who ki—’
‘This talk of you closing down a few months ago,’ said Harris, cutting across him. ‘Was there anything in that?’
‘Gossip, Jack,’ said Ramsden, with a shake of the head. ‘All pub talk. You know what people are like up here. God knows where these rumours begin.’
Harris nodded and, without another word, walked away, leaving the councillor standing in the street. It was not long before the detectives emerged into the market place where they headed towards the inspector’s white Land Rover parked close to the town cross. Harris glanced across to the far side of the square, where two drunks in their late twenties were arguing outside the darkened Co-op store.
‘What’s the betting they’ve been at the King’s Head?’ he said.
‘Been like this all day apparently,’ said Butterfield, following his gaze. ‘Uniform have been called there three times. Every time they get things calmed down, it flares up again.’
She glanced at the inspector. Although desperate to ask about the encounter with James Thornycroft, the constable nevertheless resisted the temptation to raise the subject: you never knew where you were with Jack Harris and she realized that, having irked him earlier, she had to choose her words carefully. Her short experience of working with the DCI had taught her that only when he was ready would Jack Harris talk.
‘So what do you think about James Thornycroft?’ asked Harris, as they reached the vehicle and he fished in his jacket pocket for his keys.
Butterfield looked at him with relief: it was so often the way with Harris, his moods blew over so quickly, and to be excluded from the murder inquiry would be a major disappointment for the ambitious young officer. Nevertheless, she resolved to proceed with care.
‘Look,’ she said, trying to sound respectful, ‘I know that you are friends with the guy and all that….’
‘What on earth gave you that idea?’
‘Well, he called you Hawk for a start.’
‘Yeah,’ said Harris darkly, ‘and if he does it again, I may be forced to rip his oily little head off his oily little shoulders.’
‘So you’re not friends then?’
‘Of course we’re not,’ said Harris. ‘I mean, give me some credit, Constable. The man’s a deeply unpleasant individual. I would like to think that I display a little more judgement when selecting my friends.’
‘In which case,’ said Butterfield, realizing not for the first time that she did not really know who the inspector’s friends were, ‘I would say that James Thornycroft is lying through his teeth.’
‘I agree,’ said the inspector. He stopped walking and looked hard at her. ‘And I would hope that even if he was my best friend you would still tell me if he was a wrong’un.’
‘Of course I would.’
‘Good. And you are right, he was certainly acting strangely,’ said Harris, starting to walk again and nodding across at the drunks who were now squaring up to each other. ‘He’s not the only one, though, mind. Isn’t that Len Radley and Charlie Myles? I thought they were good friends?’
‘Thick as thieves, guv.’
‘Like I said, this weather does funny things to people,’ said the inspector, unlocking the vehicle’s door and gesturing for Scoot to jump into the passenger seat. ‘I’m going to see Matty, he’s over at Meredith’s cottage. Can you go back to the station and do some discreet checking on James Thornycroft?’
‘Be a pleasure.’
‘Discreet, remember.’
‘You know me, guv.’
‘Exactly,’ he said, pausing halfway into the vehicle. ‘Look, I’m serious, don’t talk to anyone up here, you know how fast word gets round. That’s why I didn’t pursue it back there – let’s keep this nice and quiet. Let’s just see if there’s any intelligence on him first. I seem to recall someone saying that his last practice was in Bolton so you might ring the local cops, see if they can dig up anything.’
‘What are we looking for?’
‘Not sure,’ said the inspector, clambering into the vehicle. ‘Anything that links Thornycroft to Meredith or dog fighting, I suppose.’
‘But Thornycroft is a vet.’
‘And Harold Shipman was a doctor,’ said Harris, reaching down to start the engine.
‘Good point,’ said Butterfield, looking over at the drunks. ‘Do you want me to sort them out first?’
‘No, leave them to it. They’re too pissed to do any serious harm.’
One of the drunks gave a cry of pain and staggered backwards, clutching his bloodied nose.
‘On the other hand,’ grinned the inspector, jumping out of the Land Rover. ‘You see how Charlie is, I’ll stop Len doing something he’ll regret in the morning. Assuming he can remember it.’
The officers moved swiftly across the market square as Len Radley lurched forward again, his fist still bunched. He was about to deliver a second blow when Jack Harris intervened, knocking his arm to one side. Radley gave him a stupid, drunken look.
‘Go home, Len,’ said Harris calmly, ‘or else I’ll have to nick you – and you know how I hate paperwork.’
Len Radley considered the comment for a few moments then nodded and started to weave his way along the pavement.
‘Good boy,’ said Harris and turned to look at the injured man, who was sitting on the ground, clutching his nose and being tended to by the constable.
The inspector sensed a presence behind him and, without turning round, casually flicked his bunched fist backwards. He gave a smile of satisfaction as he heard Len’s pained grunt. The inspector turned to see the drunk sway for a few seconds before sinking to his knees and clutching his face. Butterfield gave a little shake of the head: how had Harris known what Radley was about to do, she thought?
‘I should do you for police brutality,’ slurred Radley, glaring up at him. ‘You could have broken my nose.’
‘Believe me, Len, if I had wanted to break your nose I would have done so. Now get out of here or you can spend a night in the cells, paperwork or not.’
The drunk hauled himself to his feet and appeared about to challenge the instruction but a single, menacing step forward from the inspector was all it took and with a final glare, Len Radley lurched his way out of the market place, staggering several times as the rain lashed down ever harder and the wind started a low moan. Harris watched him disappear round the corner then gave a shake of the head and returned his attention to the man on the ground.
‘So what’s this about, Charlie?’ he asked. ‘Not like you two to fall out.’
‘We’d had a skinful, Mr Harris.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ said the inspector, helping him to his feet. ‘I assume you were in the King’s Head?’
Myles nodded.
‘What’s kicking things off?’ asked the inspector.
Charlie Myles did not reply.
‘All right,’ said Harris, ‘if that’s the way you want to play it. Go on, get yourself home. Might I suggest you take the long way, though. Just in case Len fancies another go.’
‘Thanks,’ said Myles, producing from his trouser pocket a grubby handkerchief with which he dabbed his nose. ‘You saved me from a right pasting, I reckon, Mr Harris.’
‘Yeah, I’m all heart. Go on, get out of here.’
Myles hesitated.
‘Something you want to tell me?’ asked Harris.
‘Look, I ain’t going to tell what me and Len were fighting about – that were personal – but maybe I can still help you.’
‘Not sure quite how in your state,’ said Harris and winked at the grinning Butterfield. ‘Unless you are going to buy me a drink then I would have to decline your kind offer because I’ve got a particularly pleasant single malt waiting for me – assuming I ever get home, that is.’
‘I heard that fellow from the dog place were found dead on the hills today.’
‘You knew him?’ said Harris sharply.
‘Yeah,’ and Charlie Myles glanced nervously around the deserted market-place as if fearful that someone was watching their conversation. ‘I mean, just to look at, like. Folks in the pub were saying that his dog were kilt as well. Folks reckon it were another dog as did it.’
‘It was.’
‘Is it still up there?’
‘You said you had something to tell me,’ said Harris, ignoring the question.
He looked round but Len Radley had vanished and the only movement in the deserted square was a cat skulking in the shadows in front of the darkened Co-op. The inspector glanced back to the Land Rover where Scoot was sitting up in the passenger seat, his ears pricked as he watched the cat make its way past the store. The dog noticed his master’s expression and lay down with a disappointed expression on his face.
‘Go on, Charlie,’ said Harris. ‘There’s no one can hear you. Tell me what you know about Trevor Meredith.’
‘You got to promise me that it won’t go no further, Mr Harris. I don’t want people thinking I’m a snitch.’
‘You know me, Charlie.’
‘Aye, Mr Harris, I imagine I do. It were six or seven weeks ago – about midnight. I were up by Jenner’s Farm—’
‘And what, pray, were you doing there?’ asked the inspector, glancing across at Butterfield with a slight smile.
‘Out for a walk,’ said Charlie evasively. ‘It were a nice night.’
‘Nice night for conies, more like. Look, I’ve warned you before about poaching,’ said Harris sternly. ‘Anyway, I’ll let you off this time. I take it you saw something?’
‘Aye. There’s an old barn up there – George Jenner used to keep his silage in it but the roof started leaking. He ain’t used it since last winter.’
‘I know it,’ nodded Harris: he and Scoot had passed it many times in recent weeks on their walks, the inspector having selected the route as a covert way of checking out the dog-fighting rumours. ‘But I have never seen Trevor Meredith up there if that’s what you are trying to tell me.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, Mr Harris – he were snooping round like he were looking for something.’
‘Any idea what?’
‘All I know is what when he saw me, he walked off quick like in the other direction. It were right suspicious.’
‘Is there any chance that—?’ began Harris, but Charlie shook his head quickly.
‘I aint saying nowt else, Mr Harris. I’ve probably said too much. You know what folks are like round here.’
‘Sometimes,’ murmured Harris as, without a further word, Charlie Myles headed unsteadily across the market-place and disappeared from view, ‘I wonder if I do.’
‘There’s definitely something weird going off tonight,’ nodded Butterfield.
‘Well, hopefully tomorrow we can make sense of it all,’ said Harris walking back to his vehicle and climbing back into the Land Rover, ‘And who knows, I might even remember to attend Trevor Meredith’s post-mortem.’
Butterfield could see him laughing as he edged the vehicle past her and out on to the main road through the town centre. She grinned ruefully: like everyone always said, you just never knew where you were with Jack Harris.
Tidying up the examination room as he prepared to head for home, James Thornycroft tensed as he heard a sound from the reception area.
‘That you, Hawk?’ he called.
There was no answer. Trying to stay calm, he walked out of the room and into the reception area to be confronted by a large shaven-headed man.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ asked Thornycroft nervously, glancing past the man. ‘And where’s the dog?’
‘Don’t worry about the dog. What have you been telling Jack Harris and his little bimbo friend?’
‘I did as I was told,’ said Thornycroft, trying to stop his voice trembling. ‘I told them nothing.’
‘That had better be the truth.’
Thornycroft saw the flash of steel as a knife appeared in the man’s hand.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ he exclaimed. ‘I told them nothing!’
The man walked up to him, leaning so close that Thornycroft could smell his fetid breath and feel the chill of the knife’s blade against his neck.
‘Keep it that way,’ said the man and walked out into the night.