Broken Fall: A D.I. Harland novella (2 page)

‘So everything’s just as you found it?’

‘Far as I know, yeah.’

Harland turned to the medic.

‘Same with you?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ she said quietly. ‘There was nothing more to be done.’

They stood there in awkward silence for a moment. Brian seemed genuinely gloomy as he exhaled a breath of smoke into the night air. Harland frowned, remembering he’d left his own cigarettes in the car.

‘Did you know him well?’ he asked gently.

‘No, first time I’ve been up here.’ Brian raised his eyes briefly, then managed a wry smile. ‘Shitty way to meet someone, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, it is.’

The two men looked at each other for a moment, then Brian dropped the butt of his cigarette and slowly ground it out underfoot.

‘I cover the late shift,’ he explained. ‘Graveyard shift, we sometimes call it, but that don’t seem right just now. Anyhow, old Albert wasn’t down for night visits – just morning and evening calls, helping out with the housework, cooking a meal, that sort of thing.’

‘Did he have a regular carer?’ Harland asked.

‘Yeah, Tracey Miller, I think.’ Brian paused, then shook his head. ‘Poor thing, she’ll be well upset when she hears. It’s rough when you lose a regular.’

The medic finished with her paperwork and reached up to open the cab door.

‘Well, at least he didn’t suffer,’ she observed.

‘You think he lost consciousness quickly?’ Harland asked.

‘Well, no …’ She placed her paperwork on the dashboard, then looked at them. ‘His neck’s broken; he’d have died instantly.’

Harland stared at her.

‘Are you sure?’ he frowned.

‘You can check with the doctor when she gets here,’ she bristled. ‘But she’ll tell you the same thing.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that …’ He held up a hand in apology, but his mind was already racing ahead. Something had been troubling him but he hadn’t grasped what it was until now. He turned back to Brian.

‘How did you get in? Did you have a key?’

‘No, there’s a key-safe box by the front door, with a combination.’ Brian gestured towards the house. ‘The agency phoned me with the code, I took out the key, let meself in.’

‘And where’s the key now?’ Harland pressed him.

‘In the key-safe.’ Brian shrugged. ‘I put it straight back once I’d unlocked the door. We always do that, to make sure we don’t take the keys away by mistake.’

‘Thank you.’ Harland patted the puzzled-looking carer on the shoulder and strode back towards the house. ‘Wait there, I’ll be back in a bit.’

‘All done, sir?’ Linwood glanced up at him as he walked into the front room.

‘Not quite,’ Harland replied, moving across to stand by the mantelpiece. ‘You know Errington’s neck was broken?’

‘Yes,’ the younger man shrugged. ‘That would be consistent with the fall …’

‘And death would have been instantaneous?’

‘Okay … so what?’

Harland gave him a cold look.

‘So he couldn’t have pressed his alarm
after
the fall,’ he replied. ‘And certainly not
during
the fall …’

‘What are you saying?’ Linwood frowned.

‘That he must have pressed it sometime
before
he had his fatal accident … but people don’t usually have advanced warning that they’re going to trip and fall down the stairs.’

Linwood’s expression changed.

‘He knew that something was about to happen to him …’

‘Yeah,’ Harland nodded grimly. ‘This isn’t an accident. This is a crime scene.’

Harland drifted through the rooms in silence, his eyes sweeping the space, trying to catch a sense of the man who’d lived here, rather than the broken body at the bottom of the stairs. Clean smells lingered in the air – furniture polish, Imperial Leather soap, traditional bay rum aftershave – and the whole house was scrupulously neat, suggesting someone who always took the time to put things away. Despite the order, there were personal touches everywhere – an ornate model sailing ship on the sideboard, the barometer in the hallway, and the framed parchment map of the West Indies in the dining room … but there were also echoes of someone else. A delicate vase on the hallstand, lacy covers on the heavy wooden furniture, a crystal rose bowl by the window. Albert hadn't always been alone. There was one old photograph – an athletic-looking man with rolled-up shirtsleeves and Brylcreemed hair, holding hands with a smiling woman in a sundress, and two children – a boy and a girl – playing at their feet. It sat on a small table beside the single reclining easy chair, an age-faded enlargement in a silver frame. Tiny memories, too precious to let go, all that remained of a former life.

Harland swallowed, recognising the hallmarks of a lonely man living with ghosts. His father’s house … his
own
house … it was all too familiar.

A camera flash from upstairs roused him from his thoughts, and he turned his back on the hallway to pace through to the kitchen.

Linwood seemed to sense his mood, giving him a moment before asking, ‘So, where do you want to begin?’

Harland rubbed his eyes and took a breath.

‘Let’s start with the basics,’ he said, frowning to himself. ‘Who was the last person to see Albert alive?’

Linwood considered this. ‘Someone from the care agency?’ he suggested.

‘Could be, yes.’ Harland glanced back down the hallway towards the front door. ‘Tracey Miller was his regular carer. She came in to help with meals, and housework …’

‘Do we know what time she was last here?’

‘No. We need to talk to her.’

‘I’ll track her down,’ Linwood promised.

‘If you would.’ Harland frowned. He glanced past his colleague towards the back door. ‘Any signs of forced entry?’

‘No, nothing. Front and back doors were both locked. And all the windows have those screw-in security bolt things.’

‘So we’re looking for someone with a key of their own, or access to the key-safe.’

They stood in thought for a moment.

‘Is the key still in there?’ Linwood asked.

‘Yes.’ Harland brightened. ‘Yes, let’s check it for prints; the key-safe too. We
ought
to find Brian’s and Tracey’s …’

‘And if we don’t …?’

‘Exactly.’

They both turned to look down the hall, hearing raised voices from outside.

‘Back in a minute.’ Harland scowled, stalking towards the front door.

There was a couple at the gate, with several onlookers behind them. The man was in his forties, jowly, with a wave of fair hair, and some sort of blazer flapping around his bulky frame as he gestured and blustered.
Well dressed and well fed
, Harland thought. The slender woman beside him – his wife, perhaps? – was pale and drawn, her straight blond hair shining under the light of the street lamp.

‘… but I still need you to stand back.’ Lawson’s voice rose above the clamour, his arms spread wide, as he positioned himself to block the gateway. ‘Please, sir! Stand back!’

‘What d’you think you’re playing at?’ the stocky man protested. ‘Who the hell’s in charge here?’

Harland stepped directly into his path, his face impassive as he calmly folded his arms.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Harland.’ He spoke softly and stood his ground, forcing the other man to quieten down and back away. ‘Can I ask who
you
are?’

The man looked at him, slightly deflated.

‘I’m Richard Errington, and this is my wife Amanda.’ He jabbed out a thick finger to point towards the house. ‘Now you listen, this is my father’s property, and I want to know …’

The woman, who had been staring intently at Harland, seemed to read something in his face.

‘Richard,’ she tugged at her husband’s arm. ‘Let him speak.’

‘… what the bloody hell is—’

‘Richard!’

The steel in her voice quietened everyone for a moment.

Richard blinked at his wife, then lapsed into silence.

Harland put a hand on Lawson’s shoulder, nodding for him to stand aside and let the couple through. There was no privacy on the street, so he led them a short way into the garden, halting on the cobbled drive, and turning to face them. Delivering a death message was always grim, but you could learn a lot from people’s reactions.

‘I’m sorry about this …’ He took a breath, looked the stout man in the eye. ‘It’s bad news, sir.’

‘Oh God, no …’ Amanda gripped her husband with one hand and raised the other to her mouth.

‘I’m afraid that Albert Errington …’ Harland paused, then changed his mind.
Too impersonal.
‘… that your father died earlier this evening.’

‘Eh?’ Richard gave him an incredulous look, before his jowly face twisted in distress. He turned towards the house. ‘Let me see him …’

‘Sir.’ Harland moved quickly, taking hold of the big man’s arm. ‘SIR!’

‘Get your bloody hands off me!’ Richard yanked himself free and stared at him, outraged. ‘He’s my father!’

‘And I’m very sorry,’ Harland spoke calmly, ‘but you can’t go in there just now.’

‘Why not?’ There was confusion on Richard’s face now, and it seemed genuine. ‘What’s happened?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to establish.’

‘But … how did he die?’

Harland gave him a long steady look.

‘Your father was found at the foot of the stairs.’ He sighed. ‘We’ll know more soon.’

Richard faltered, seeming to shrink slightly. ‘So … he fell downstairs?’

‘As I said, we’ll know more soon.’

Amanda stepped forward to put her arm around her husband. He hunched over, indignation crumbling to sorrow as he raised a hand to rub his eyes.

‘No … no …’

‘I’m so sorry, Richard. But there’s nothing anyone could have done.’ Amanda placed her hands on either side of his face, gently lifting, forcing him to look into her eyes. ‘
Really
nothing.’

Richard nodded slowly, then suddenly threw his arms around her with a strangled cry. She accepted his embrace somewhat stiffly, her eyes flickering across to Harland.

‘I know,’ she murmured to her husband. ‘But it’ll be all right.’

Harland shuffled awkwardly as she stared at him, as though he was somehow trespassing on a private moment. He looked down and frowned, dismissing his discomfort by thinking of other things.
If they hadn’t known Albert was dead, what had brought them here so late?
He decided to approach the issue indirectly, with an oblique question.

‘Have you come far?’

‘No,’ Richard replied, straightening up and sniffing. ‘We live down on Spike Island.’

There was no hesitation in his answer. Spike Island was just a couple of minutes away …
but what were they doing here now?

Amanda extricated herself from her husband’s arms and drew herself up to address Harland.

‘The people from Help Line left us a message about the alarm being activated,’ she explained, then turned back to Richard. ‘But we were watching a DVD together; we didn’t hear the phone.’

Richard stared at her, his expression stricken, then he bowed his head with a muffled sob.

‘It’s all right,’ Amanda soothed, as she patted his shoulder.

Harland watched them thoughtfully. Was he seeing remorse? Regret, for words not said? Or was there something else?

‘Look,’ he sighed. ‘I appreciate this must have been a terrible shock for you both, but there’s really nothing more that you can do tonight …’

Richard’s head snapped up.

‘I want to know what happened,’ he demanded. ‘I
have
to know …’

‘I understand.’ Harland nodded slowly. ‘Listen, I’ll try and pop round to see you tomorrow – or today, rather – and we can talk more then. Lawson will take down your address. Is that all right with you?’

‘Of course,’ Amanda replied. ‘And thank you.’

Putting an arm around her husband, she gave him a gentle squeeze and began turning towards the gate. But Richard froze.

‘Oh
shit
, what about Jenny?’ He looked at his wife with new anguish.

‘Who’s Jenny?’ Harland asked.

‘Richard’s sister,’ Amanda replied. ‘Poor thing, has she been told?’

Harland remembered the photograph, the boy and the girl – Richard and Jenny.

‘We haven’t contacted her yet. Would you like me to …?’ He left the question hanging.

Richard glanced across at him with a flicker of hope, then sagged and shook his head.

‘No, better she hears it from family,’ he managed, then faltered and turned to his wife. ‘Dammit all, should we drive over there now? Or phone her? What are you meant to
do
in these situations?’

Amanda took her husband’s arm and steered him towards the gate.

‘Call her from the car, Richard. I can drive …’ She glanced back over her shoulder. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

‘I’ll be in touch,’ Harland replied. He watched them as they made their way back across the cobbled driveway, and gave the nod to Lawson, who stood aside to let them pass into the street. Then, allowing himself the yawn he’d been stifling, he turned to look at the house. It was a nice-looking property; the last sort of place you’d expect to discover a murder. But he was certain that Albert Errington’s death wasn’t an accident. And he was going to find out who was responsible.

Harland switched off the engine and peered out through the windscreen. Little Cross House was anything but little – a grey, sixteen-storey tower block, jutting up to loom over the cramped terraced houses of Southville. An open swathe of rough grass and concrete encircled it – like a huge impact crater, as though the enormous structure had been dropped from the sky.

He put a hand over his mouth and yawned deeply. Last night had run late, but he’d woken early this morning, eager to advance the investigation. And this was a good place to begin. Getting out, he locked the car and started across the residents’ car park, counting the succession of ‘No Ball Games’ signs lining the way. He shook his head. In his experience it wasn’t ball games you had to worry about; it was what the kids got up to
instead
that became a problem.

The main entrance was sheltered by a broad porch, and he paused for a moment, leaning forward to study the stainless steel panel with its array of tiny metal buttons, an engraved number beside each one. He traced his finger across until he located 73, then pushed it and waited. After a short delay, there was a crackle from a hidden speaker grille and a woman’s voice said, ‘Yes?’