Broken Fall: A D.I. Harland novella (13 page)

‘I don’t know,’ the big man replied. ‘But you’ll stop him.’

Harland looked at him and gave a non-committal shrug.

‘I suppose.’ He turned to gaze out of the window again, staring up at the sunlight on the windows of the big hotel across the road. ‘Seeing someone killed like that … it really got to me, know what I mean?’

‘Of course I do,’ Mendel said. ‘But dwelling on it won’t help. Just catch the bastard – that’s the only thing that’ll make you feel better.’

He raised his glass in grim salute.

‘Amen to that,’ Harland agreed, lifting his own glass. ‘Anyway, it’s not really the sort of thing I want to discuss while we’re eating. Let’s talk about something else.’

By the time the waiter appeared with their food, he was starting to feel better. As he watched the young man setting down the white plates and deftly replacing their cutlery, Harland wondered why steak knives weren’t provided by default – he couldn’t imagine anyone coming here and ordering anything else.

‘So,’ he said, once he’d swallowed the first mouthful, ‘you busy at the moment?’

‘Yes,’ Mendel said with a nod, then shot him a warning glance. ‘And
don’t
sound so surprised, thank you.’

Harland recalled how they used to joke about graffiti and missing cats – the perception of more provincial policing – but he knew from experience that very bad things could occur in out-of-the-way places.

‘You remember that container storage depot, up by the Oil Basin in Avonmouth?’ The big man leaned forward, speaking quietly now. ‘You know, behind the railway line?’

‘Yeah, I remember it.’

‘Well, last Sunday night, someone drove a JCB down there and made themselves a new door in the side of the main warehouse.’

Harland put his cutlery down.

‘Really?’

‘Really,’ Mendel said. ‘But that’s not the best bit. Whoever these jokers were, they definitely weren’t joyriders. They left the JCB and drove two articulated lorries out of there, two lorries that were fully loaded with machine parts worth … guess how much?’

‘I don’t know.’ Harland shrugged. ‘Hundred grand?’

Mendel sat back and smiled.

‘Three and a half million,’ he said softly.

Harland whistled.

‘All that in two trucks?’

‘Two big trucks, yes.’ Mendel cut a piece of steak, then looked up again. ‘A lot of very dull, very specialised,
very
expensive kit.’

‘Insurance job, maybe?’

‘Perhaps. Or an insurance ransom.’

Harland nodded as he savoured another mouthful. Sometimes the insurance companies would pay to get stolen property back, if they could do it cheaply and quietly enough. It was rare, but not as rare as it once was, and times were tough all over just now.

‘Any idea where they went with the trucks?’ he asked.

‘No sightings so far,’ the big man replied. ‘But just think how many quiet little industrial units there are between Avonmouth and the M4.’

‘A lot of door-to-door work for you to organise,’ Harland smiled.

‘I’ve got Firth on it,’ Mendel explained, taking a sip of his beer.

Harland’s smile faltered. He glanced at his friend but, mercifully, Mendel’s eyes were on the glass, not on him. PC Sue Firth was one his biggest regrets from his time at Portishead. After Alice died, he’d lurched back and forth between feelings of lust and guilt when it came to women. Then, when he finally started to level out, he’d told himself Sue couldn’t possibly be interested. By the time he got his head together enough to see that she really had been, she was dating someone else.

‘Firth’s more organised than the two of us put together,’ he managed.

She was a good police officer. It would have hurt both of their careers if they’d been caught seeing each other while working out of the same station. He didn’t much care about his own reputation, but he was glad he hadn’t messed things up for her. She deserved better than that.

He reached for his beer, taking a deep draught. It was a sunny evening, and more people were gathering at the tables outside. Looking at them through the windows, Harland felt a sudden urge to go out and smoke. He patted his pocket to make sure he’d brought his cigarettes from the car … yes, they were there. Maybe once they’d finished eating …

‘And how about you?’ Mendel was asking him. ‘Big city copper now, eh?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Is Pearce keeping you busy?’

‘Haven’t seen much of him lately,’ Harland replied. The chief had been focused on the recent shootings in Easton. ‘He’s been keeping
himself
busy.’

Eating the last of his chips, he sat back in his chair, munching silently.

Mendel waited until he had finished, then gave him an innocent smile.

‘And how’s life with dear brother Pope?’ he asked.

Harland grimaced.

‘Pope …’ He reached for his glass and drained it. ‘If we’re going to talk about him, I think I want another beer.’

‘You’re not driving?’

‘I’m parked round the back of the square,’ Harland said with a shrug. ‘I can walk home, pick up the car in the morning.’

‘OK, but I think we should sit outside.’

‘Sure. Why?’

Mendel pushed his chair back from the table and stood up.

‘Because you’ve been sitting there, fidgeting with that damned fag packet for the last twenty minutes,’ he growled.

Harland nodded and got slowly to his feet.

‘You Portishead boys don’t miss a thing, do you?’ he smiled.

Harland turned right and followed the access road until it emerged into the car park. The morning sun was already painfully bright, glaring through the windscreen as he manoeuvred into his space and killed the engine. He got out, yawning as he locked the car, then walked across the tarmac, squinting against the light until he reached the cooling shadow of the building. Even in silhouette, it was an ugly structure. The department had moved here a decade ago, abandoning the sturdy civic grandeur of the old Bridewell Station where his father had once worked. That was an arts and entertainment venue now, the fortress-thick walls slowly blossoming with graffiti, an overspill from the nearby Stokes Croft.

There was no graffiti here, though. Set a long way back from the road, fenced in and surrounded by a huge car park, CID headquarters was a lonely outpost, far from the heart of the city. Bristol had become too expensive for the police – his generation were out in the hinterland, with the builders’ merchants and the haulage depots. Sighing, he walked up the steps and pushed through the glass double doors.

Emerging from the canteen with a coffee, he climbed the stairs, being careful not to spill his drink, then made his way along the corridor. As he passed the glass-fronted offices, he saw the familiar figure of DCI Raymond Pearce waving to him from behind a desk, beckoning him in. Curious, he opened the door and leaned inside.

‘Sir?’

‘Morning, Graham,’ Pearce greeted him. He was a solid-looking man in his late forties, with dark grey hair and an East End accent that sounded tough amid the voices of his West Country colleagues. His eyes often had a mischievous twinkle, but not today, and there was an old scar that ran down his left cheek, hinting at the serious streak beneath his easy-going nature. ‘How’s things with you?’

‘Fine thanks.’

‘Good. Look, I need a word.’ He inclined his head towards an empty chair in front of his desk. ‘Come in and close the door.’

Harland stepped into the office and sat down, leaning forward to put his cup on the desk.

‘What are you up to at the moment?’ Pearce asked.

‘We’re working on that nightclub murder in Stokes Croft,’ Harland replied. ‘Arnaud Durand?’

‘Oh yeah, the French Connection bloke?’

‘That’s him.’

Pearce sat back in his chair. There were framed photos of a police football team on top of the filing cabinet behind him, and a collection of small plastic trophies.

‘Well, I reckon the world can manage with one less drug dealer,’ he mused. ‘Think the others could struggle on without you for a bit?’

‘I suppose …’ Harland frowned. He was still finding his footing here in Bristol, but he didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. Why was he being taken off the investigation?

‘And before you start worrying, this has nothing to do with your work on that case.’ Pearce held up a warning finger, as if he’d read his thoughts. ‘It’s just that something else has come up, and I reckon we could do with having you in on it. Right?’

Harland lowered his eyes and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

Pearce had always been able to see straight through him.

‘Good man. Now, did you hear about Laura Hirsch?’

Harland looked up.

‘I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘Who is she?’

Pearce leaned forward, his face serious.

‘Twenty-four-year-old school teacher from Totterdown, last seen on Friday night. Hasn’t been home, hasn’t shown up for work …’ He shook his head. ‘Neighbourhood unit made the usual enquiries, risk assessment looked bad, so the case was escalated to us. We’ve checked for activity on her bank cards and her phone, but it’s like she suddenly fell off the map.’

‘I see.’ Harland looked at him, unsure what to say. People went missing all the time. Sometimes they showed up alive, sometimes dead, sometimes not at all. Missing persons were a concern, naturally, but certainly not unusual. Why was Pearce telling
him
all this?

‘There’s more,’ Pearce continued. ‘When she was last seen, Laura was on her way to visit her boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend, whatever the hell he is. Anyway,
he
says she never got there.’

Harland caught the emphasis.

‘But?’ he asked.

Pearce gave him a grim smile.

‘We pinged her phone,’ he explained. ‘No response, but the last place the network registered it was in his street, late on Friday night. So if something
has
happened to her …’

‘… then he’s a good bet for it,’ Harland said thoughtfully. ‘What do we know about him?’

Pearce folded his arms. ‘That’s where you come in.’

‘Sir?’

‘Remember when you first got here from Portishead, and you were filling in for Marley?’

Harland remembered. Burglaries … vandalism … all sorts of daft calls.
A chance to get to know your new patch
, Pope had said with a smirk.

‘Well,’ Pearce continued, ‘
you
interviewed the bloke.’

Harland stared at him.

‘The boyfriend?’

‘That’s right. Does the name Matt Garrick ring any bells? There was some kind of break-in at his flat, and as far as he’s concerned, you were the friendly face of Avon and Somerset.’

Harland frowned, thinking back.

‘In Cotham?’ he asked. ‘Up by the Arches at the top of Stokes Croft?’

‘That’s him,’ Pearce said, nodding.

Harland settled back into his chair, trying to recall the man he’d met, but it had been a while now.

‘What makes you think he’ll tell me anything?’ he asked.

Pearce shrugged. ‘Because he asked for you.’

They made their way along the corridor, towards the main office, Harland carrying his coffee.

‘So what happens about the Arnaud murder?’ he asked. They’d been making progress on that one but there was still a long way to go.

‘You had Linwood working it with you, right?’

‘Yes. Oh, and Pope.’

‘They make a lovely couple,’ Pearce grimaced. He pushed the door and held it open. ‘Let ’em run with it for a bit. We’re short on bodies just now, and I’m up to my eyes with that shooting over in Easton. I need you on this.’

Harland nodded. Resources
were
stretched at the moment.

‘Of course, I just …’ He shook his head and smiled.
Time to stop talking
. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Good.’ Pearce clapped his hands together with an air of finality. ‘Now, I want to introduce you to someone.’

They walked out into the open-plan area. As they approached his own group of desks, Harland saw an unfamiliar woman in a dark tailored jacket unpacking a cardboard box.

‘Settling in all right?’ Pearce asked her brightly.

Turning to face them, the woman straightened up, and nodded with a slight smile.

‘I’m fine thanks, sir.’ She was almost as tall as Harland, with straight brown hair that swung just above the shoulder, piercing dark eyes and a low voice.

‘’Course you are.’ Pearce turned to him. ‘Graham, this is DS Imogen Gower. Imogen, meet DI Graham Harland.’

‘Imogen,’ Harland repeated, committing the name to memory. Not unattractive, but not his type – probably a good thing. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Glad to meet you too, sir.’ She inclined her head very slightly, then gave a polite smile as he extended a hand. Her movements seemed careful, controlled, as though she were constantly reining herself in – maybe she was self-conscious about her height.

Pearce gave them an approving look.

‘Imogen was helping out on some of the cold cases, but obviously this takes priority.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll let you two get acquainted, then Fuller can bring you up to speed – he’s coordinating for me. I want the pair of you to go and speak to Garrick this morning, OK?’

‘OK,’ Harland replied.

Pearce gave him a long look, then his expression softened slightly.

‘Chin up, Graham. Everything’ll get done.’ He shot a meaningful glance at Linwood and Pope’s desks, then turned back to Harland. ‘And we’ll keep an eye on the dynamic duo for you, all right?’

Harland gave him a wry smile.

‘Yes, sir.’

Imogen drove quickly but smoothly. Leaning back in his seat, Harland glanced across, studying her as they made their way through the city. There was a quiet confidence about his new colleague, shifting down to overtake a bus that was pulling over, then sweeping back on to their own side of the road to avoid an oncoming car, her expression calm and impassive throughout.

Circling the Bearpit roundabout and sweeping beneath the grey edifice of the old Avon House complex, they emerged on to Stokes Croft – a long drag of crumbling brick buildings, reclaimed by eclectic shops and tiny cafés, and all wreathed in murals. As they passed the turning that led down to the nightclub, he found himself staring out through the window, trying to catch a glimpse of the old converted warehouse. It niggled him, leaving an investigation like that, just as they’d been starting to make some progress …