Broken Fall: A D.I. Harland novella (5 page)

‘Albert was a lovely man,’ Amanda said, leaning forward to pick up her wine glass.

‘He helped to make the city what it is today,’ Richard nodded.

‘Did he have many friends?’ Harland asked. ‘I imagine he was quite a character?’

Amanda glanced at Richard.
They weren’t sure.
Clearly, Tracey hadn’t been exaggerating when she said they weren’t close.

‘There’s that woman, one of the neighbours, I think …’ Richard frowned.

‘And he has his carer, doesn’t he?’ Amanda added.

‘That’s right,’ Richard agreed. ‘So he has company every day.’

Harland sat back in his chair and looked at them.

‘But there’s nobody else you can think of,’ he mused. ‘Nobody who might visit him late in the evening?’

Richard shook his head, then his face darkened.

‘What are you driving at?’ he asked. ‘What are these questions all about?’

‘I’m just trying to establish whether anyone called round there last night.’

‘But why?’

Harland reached up and rubbed the back of his neck.

‘Well, it might help to explain why he was coming back downstairs,
after
he’d gone up to bed.’

Richard stared at him.

‘Probably just forgot something,’ he muttered, irritably. ‘Or … maybe he wanted a glass of water.’

‘There’s a sink in his bedroom,’ Amanda reminded him.

‘Well, whatever, it could have been one of a hundred reasons,’ Richard grumbled. ‘He could have fallen on his way
up
to bed, getting off the stairlift, did you think of that?’

Harland nodded patiently. Everything had been switched off downstairs, Albie was wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown, and his bed had been turned back. But Richard wouldn’t be aware of that. Or at least, he
shouldn’t
be aware of that.

They spoke for another twenty minutes. Harland, satisfied that they had told him everything they were likely to, made his excuses to leave. As they all stood, and shuffled round the coffee table towards the door, Richard cleared his throat.

‘So is that it now?’ he asked.

‘I’m sorry …’ Harland paused, feigning ignorance. ‘Is that what?’

Richard scowled.

‘Is that everything … you know,
finalised
?’ He broke off. ‘We’ve got funeral arrangements to think of, and the damned undertaker will want to know about getting the body released.’

Harland gave him a long, steady look.

‘I understand,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘You’ll be hearing from me very soon.’

He didn’t look back as he reached the end of the path and turned on to the pavement. Richard was definitely more subdued today, perhaps a little more circumspect too. Maybe the death
had
hit him hard, as Amanda had said.

He got into his car and started the engine.

Or maybe he’d thought of some questions he didn’t want to be asked.

Frowning to himself, Harland reversed out of the parking bay, then indicated right at the end of the street, making for the junction with the main road. There, right in front of him, was the rickety old footbridge that spanned the river, connecting Spike Island with Southville. He could see Little Cross House, the tower block where Tracey lived, standing tall above the trees on the other side of the water.

Really not that far away at all.

Frowning to himself, he put the car in gear, and drove home in silence.

Morning sunlight streamed in through the long windows of the canteen, glaring up off the polished floor and tabletops. Sitting opposite him, Linwood lifted another forkful of scrambled eggs towards his mouth, then paused.

‘You were right about the key-safe,’ he said, brightly. ‘The only prints on it were Brian’s. Same for the door key; not even a smudge from Tracey, or anyone else.’

Harland gave him a faint smile.

‘Meaning
someone
was careful enough to wipe everything clean,’ he mused. ‘Well, I suppose that removes any lingering doubts about what we’re dealing with here.’

‘Mm-hmm.’ Linwood chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. ‘So, we’ve got Richard and Amanda at home, Jenny out with friends in Weston-Super-Mare …’

‘… and Tracey the carer,’ Harland finished. ‘No obvious motive, but no alibi either.’

He frowned and took a sip of his coffee.

‘Did you check up on her for me?’ he asked.

‘There’s nothing on the computer,’ Linwood replied. ‘I spoke with her agency and she’s been with them for six years now. The manager says you’re welcome to look over their records if you want to.’

‘Where are they based?’

‘Long Ashton, I think.’

Harland considered this for a moment.

‘I’ll drop in on my way to Weston,’ he decided. With no alibi, he had to treat Tracey as a potential suspect, even if he couldn’t see why she might have done it. Currently, the only motive he could see was money. ‘You go over to Granby Hill and check through Albie’s things. I want you to track his solicitor down, so we can take a look at his will.’

‘No problem.’

‘Oh, and see if there’s any CCTV footage we can get covering the roads around his house,’ he added. ‘You never know, we might get lucky. Phone me if you find anything.’

The offices of the Western Gold Care Agency were situated above a hair and nail salon in a terraced house on the Long Ashton Road. With no obvious street entrance, Harland was forced to enquire in the salon, where a woman with a dramatically coloured perm directed him down a side alley. There, he found a plain white door with an intercom buzzer labelled WGCA. Pushing the button, he was answered by a friendly sounding female voice with a Scottish accent.

‘Hang on, I’ll be right down.’

There was a crackle and the intercom box fell silent.

When the door opened a moment later, he found himself facing a bright-faced woman in her fifties, with short brown hair and spectacles. She wore a grey tracksuit top over her blue tunic.

‘Fiona McLean?’ he asked.

‘That’s right,’ she smiled. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Harland,’ he told her. ‘I believe you spoke to my colleague, Sergeant Linwood?’

‘Oh yes, the man who phoned about Tracey.’ She opened the door wider. ‘You’d better come up.’

He followed her up a long straight stairway to the first floor, where she turned left into a large room lined with filing cabinets. The phone started ringing.

‘Sorry, just take a seat,’ she said, moving swiftly round the desk and snatching up the receiver. ‘Western Gold Care, how can I help you?’

As she sat down to stare at her computer screen, Harland lowered himself on to a black office chair, and swivelled slowly left and right, glancing around the room while Fiona was talking.

The floor was crowded with cardboard boxes, some stacked up in piles, some open and displaying their contents – pump-bottles of hand sanitizer, packets of disposable gloves, and smart blue tunics, still wrapped in their cellophane. Behind the desk, a large whiteboard wall-planner displayed a complex grid of people and times. Idly, he sought out Tracey’s schedule, noting the two sad lines of empty boxes on the rota where Albie’s name had already been rubbed out.

‘Well, speak to him and make sure,’ Fiona was saying. ‘I mean it, you check with him first and make sure he’s happy to cover for you.’

Harland watched her thoughtfully. Reaching for a pen and scribbling something down on a post-it note, she appeared untroubled by the air of chaos around her. He’d never quite understood people who could deal with a hundred things at once, taking everything in their stride. It wasn’t a matter of pressure – his own job had plenty of that – but he needed the freedom to focus his thoughts, to see the whole picture rather than dotting about from one thing to another.

‘All right. Yes.’ Fiona sounded as though she was wrapping up her conversation, cradling the receiver against her shoulder as she tapped something into her computer. ‘I’ve left a note on the system, but you tell him I want him to confirm it before the end of the day, fair enough?’

She glanced up at him, rolling her eyes apologetically as she peeled off the post-it note, then turned to stick it on to the wall-planner. Harland smiled to himself. Fiona’s job clearly required the ability to multi-task.

‘Okay. Yes, you too … bye.’ She replaced the receiver, and looked up at him with a wry smile. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘It’s not a problem.’ Harland glanced at the chaos surrounding them. ‘You must be busy.’

Fiona gave him a weary smile.

‘Just a little busy, yes. I’ve got not one but
two
people off today, so my supervisors are having to fill in with clients, leaving me with the phones.’ She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. ‘But we’ll muddle through. Anyway, what was it you wanted?’

‘Just some background checking,’ he told her. ‘Formalities, really, but I wondered if you could tell me a bit about Tracey Miller?’

Fiona nodded, her expression growing sombre.

‘The poor girl was dreadfully upset when I broke the news to her this morning. I told her to take the day off.’ She sighed, then glanced up thoughtfully. ‘You’re investigating Albert Errington’s death?’

Harland tried to play down any ideas she might be having with an apologetic shrug.

‘I just want to satisfy myself that I’ve not missed anything,’ he explained.

‘Oh, of course.’ She seemed to approve of this, settling back into her seat and nodding agreeably. ‘It’s important to be thorough.’

‘I’m glad you understand,’ Harland made himself relax, mirroring her body language. ‘There are so many questions, I suppose it’s no wonder that some people get on edge …’ He sighed, drawing his notebook out, doing his best to appear disinterested. ‘So. How long has Tracey been with you?’

‘Six years.’ Fiona got to her feet and walked around the desk to one of the large filing cabinets. ‘Let me just dig out her file again, then you can have the exact dates.’

‘Great, thanks.’ He watched as she pulled out one of the drawers. ‘Tracey must be good, for you to have kept her on that long.’

‘Ah, you clearly don’t know how hard it is to get staff.’ Fiona sighed. ‘But yes, Tracey
is
good …’ She lifted a file out of the drawer, leafing through the pages as she returned to her desk and sat down. ‘Yes, here we are. She joined us on May the fifth, six years ago.’

‘May the fifth …’ Harland nodded as he scribbled the date down. ‘And do you know where she was employed before that?’

‘I think she was doing short-term contracts.’ Fiona peered down, turning a page. ‘Yes, some NHS relief posts, that sort of thing … working through a private agency.’

‘And had anyone else looked after Albert? Before her, I mean?’

‘I don’t think so …’ Fiona pursed her lips as she consulted a second sheaf of papers at the back of the file. ‘No, she joined us just before he became a client. And she’s looked after him right the way through, except when she’s been off sick or on holiday.’

‘Anyone who regularly fills in for her when she’s away?’

Fiona looked up at him in surprise, then shook her head, laughing.

‘We don’t have the staff for that!’ she replied. ‘When somebody’s away, we just schedule whoever we can.’

‘Of course,’ Harland smiled. ‘I imagine it’s difficult enough to have the same person as a regular carer under
normal
circumstances …’

‘It really is,’ Fiona told him. ‘But we try hard to arrange it where we can. Continuity of care makes a huge difference.’

‘I suppose it builds understanding … and trust,’ Harland mused. Then he glanced up at her. ‘But that must make it rough on the carer when someone they know so well finally dies.’

‘It’s hard,’ she nodded sadly. ‘But that’s the job. Some people can detach themselves, but many who do it long term do it because they care. That makes it especially painful when they lose someone.’

‘Very difficult,’ Harland sighed. ‘And I understand this isn’t the first time it’s happened to Tracey?’

‘No, she’s lost two others …’ Fiona hesitated, her expression hardening as she made the connection. ‘And before you ask,
no
. She’s not an angel of death.’

It had been clumsy, but there was no easy way to ask.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t suggesting …’

Fiona folded her arms and stared at him. ‘Weren’t you?’

‘No, I really wasn’t.’ He met her gaze, waiting for her to thaw a little, then he added, ‘But you understand why I have to check … why it matters?’

She scowled at him for a moment, then looked away, shaking her head.

‘I suppose so,’ she conceded. ‘But I can assure you, Tracey’s a good person, very dedicated …’

Harland felt a buzzing in his jacket pocket. Drawing out his phone, he saw a number he didn’t recognise on the screen, and quickly busied the call.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Dedicated?’

‘Oh yes,’ Fiona reflected. ‘I know for certain that she’s had better offers – more pay, easier hours – but she’s always turned them down.’

‘She must really care about her clients,’ Harland said, thoughtfully.

‘She really does,’ Fiona smiled to herself. ‘And they care about her. Poor old Albert was ever so fond of her, and his family made it very clear that they didn’t want anyone else looking after him.’

Harland paused for a moment, considering this.

‘Did they engage you, or was it Albert?’

Fiona hesitated, then leafed through the pages of the file for a moment.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘It’s usually one of the children who sets the ball rolling in things like this, but I can’t remember who it was. Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Harland told her. ‘I’ll find out.’

Harland slotted the key into the ignition but didn’t start the engine. Sitting back in his seat, he gazed out through the windscreen. An elderly lady was walking towards the salon, one hand holding her headscarf against the rising wind. Peering up at the sky, he noted the gathering clouds – it looked like rain soon.

Frowning, he fumbled in his jacket pocket and drew out his phone, wondering who the missed call had been from. 01934 … that was the dialling code for Weston-Super-Mare, and there was a new voicemail message from the same number. Perhaps it was the restaurant?