To Die Alone (7 page)

The two farmers in the pick-up saw the black car’s lights cutting through the night long before the vehicle came into view. Still sitting in the passenger seat, Harry Galbraith reached for his notebook in the glove compartment.

‘About ruddy time,’ he said. ‘Thought we weren’t going to see owt tonight. Have a look at its registration number as it goes past, lad.’

As the car finally appeared round the corner, its headlights illuminated the pick-up truck, dazzling the farmers for a few seconds. The vehicle came to a halt thirty metres away.

‘Do you think they saw us?’ asked Soames anxiously.

The car’s headlights went out.

‘I reckon that answers yer question,’ said Harry.

‘I told you we shouldn’t have done this without the polis.’

Harry Galbraith did not reply but his look betrayed his own anxiety. Two men got out of the car and started to walk towards the pick-up. Their shapes in the gloom suggested to the farmers that both were heavily built. The strangers took up stations either side of the vehicle and the one on the passenger side, a shaven-headed man, put his head down to the window as Harry Galbraith struggled frantically to wind it up.

‘And what might you be doing here?’ asked the man in a quiet voice as he placed a hand on the window to prevent it being wound any further.

‘We’re from Levton Bridge Farmwatch,’ replied Harry, trying to sound calm. ‘We’re working with the polis.’

‘Are you now?’ The man gave a thin smile. ‘And what exactly do you do for the police?’

‘We take the registration numbers of vehicles passing through the valley and pass them on,’ said Harry.

‘And why would you do that?’

‘We’re trying to stop rural crime.’

‘Well there’s a thing,’ said the man, glancing across the roof at his friend with a grin that revealed yellowing teeth. ‘Ain’t that public spirited?’

The other man made no reply.

‘Well now,’ said the shaven-headed man, looking back into the car, his voice suddenly hard-edged. ‘It seems that we have a problem because myself and my business associate here would rather that you did not report our registration number to the police.’

‘All cars get reported,’ said Harry pompously, gaining in confidence a little and ignoring his friend’s gestures to say nothing. ‘You ain’t got nothing to worry about if you ain’t up to no bother.’

‘Which is unfortunate,’ said the man, ‘because we are.’

Harry stared at him, unsure as to what to say. The shaven-headed man took advantage of his confusion, reached into the car and grabbed the farmer’s notebook.

‘ ’Ere,’ said Harry, ‘give that back!’

The man’s reply was to snap out a fist which caught the old man on the side of the face. As Harry reeled in shock, Soames glanced out of his window and saw a flash of metal as a knife appeared in the accomplice’s hand.

‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed, turned on the pick-up’s engine and slammed the vehicle into gear.

The pick-up lurched forward, sending the two assailants staggering backwards, the wing mirror clipping the shaven-headed man’s elbow as the vehicle shot out of the field entrance. Soames glanced in his rear-view mirror to see the man give an enraged bellow and, clutching his arm, start running back to his car followed by his accomplice.

‘Are they after us?’ asked Harry anxiously, rubbing the side of his head and glancing down at his hand to see flecks of blood.

‘I told you this were a daft idea,’ said Soames, ramming his foot on to the accelerator, sending the vehicle careering down the road.

‘Won’t this thing go any faster?’ shouted Harry as the vehicle rocked and swayed on reaching 45 m.p.h. He glanced through the side mirror and saw the other car’s headlights flashing repeatedly as the vehicle set off in pursuit. ‘They’re after us.’

‘I’m doing my best,’ exclaimed Soames, hurling the vehicle round a corner, the wheels screeching as they slipped on the damp Tarmac.

Turning round, Harry Galbraith saw the black car appear round the bend, closing rapidly as it gathered speed.

‘Come on, come on!’ he exclaimed, fear in his voice as the headlights dazzled the farmers when the car drew close.

‘What were that?’ cried Soames in alarm as they heard a loud metallic sound when something struck the back of the vehicle.

‘Jesus! He’s firing at us! He’s got a gun!’

Soames threw the pick-up round a sharp left-hand bend, battling frantically with the steering wheel as the vehicle bounced off the grass verge. Glancing in the mirror again, he saw the black car fail to take the corner properly and skid, one of its headlights being extinguished amid a shower of glass as the front of the vehicle delivered a glancing blow to a drystone wall. The black car juddered to a halt and stood motionless for a few seconds. Seizing his opportunity, Soames rammed his foot even harder on to the pick-up’s accelerator and sent the vehicle rocking and rolling into the night.

‘It’s never gone this fast!’ he cried, as the speedometer climbed above 65 m.p.h. and he battled to control the shaking vehicle.

Harry suddenly pointed to his left, to a gap in the wall just before the road crossed a small humpbacked bridge.

‘Theer!’ he shouted. ‘Put the lights out and go theer!’

Plunged into darkness, the pick-up shot through an opening in a wall and on to a bumpy side track. For a few moments, Soames wrestled with the steering wheel as the pick-up entered a small sparsely wooded copse and he tried to steer it between the trees, struggling to see in the darkness. The vehicle lurched violently as it cannoned off one of the trees, a rending sound indicating that the bumper had been torn off. Galbraith looked across his friend and saw, back on the road running parallel, the single headlight of the black car pass by and continue along the main road. Soames gritted his teeth and kept the pick-up careering through the woodland, grimacing as it clipped another tree, the impact threatening to wrench the steering wheel from his shaking hands. With a sudden glistening of water, a stream appeared in front of them and Dennis Soames hit the brakes.

‘No, go o’er it!’ cried Harry Galbraith. ‘Go o’er! They’ll not be able to follow us!’

Soames nodded and gunned the engine again. For a second or two, it seemed as if the juddering vehicle would stall in the stream then it somehow found grip, its tyres spinning on the wet rocks before the vehicle emerged on the far side. Soames hit the brakes and the pick-up slewed to a halt, its wheel sinking into muddy grass. For a few moments, neither man spoke then Harry Galbraith clapped his friend on the shoulder.

‘Well done, lad!’ he said. ‘You should be one of them theer Grand Prix drivers.’

‘I reckon I should be more than that, Harry,’ beamed Soames. ‘See, I remembered his registration number!’

‘Bye, Jack Harris will be pleased with you, Dennis lad.’

And together they sat and listened to the pounding of their hearts in the silence of the night.

‘Come on,’ said Harris wearily, glancing at his watch and walking out of Meredith’s living room into the narrow hallway. ‘Not sure we can do much more tonight and I’ve got a nice bottle of Scotch waiting for me back home.’

‘And I might just make that late curry,’ said Gallagher, reaching over the back of the sofa for his overcoat and glancing at Butterfield. ‘Fancy it, Alison?

‘Don’t you want to get back to Roxham?’

‘No point. Julie’s on nights again. She’s still on A&E. Besides, I really could murder a curry.’

‘Yeah, so could I,’ said Butterfield. ‘Hey, if you want to have a couple of jars, you can kip on my floor again.’

‘See how I go.’ Gallagher looked at the inspector. ‘You coming, guv?’

He expected the usual bland refusal but, this time, Jack Harris hesitated.

‘I am sure Scoot would appreciate a bit of chicken,’ said the sergeant, seizing his chance. ‘I could ask Mother Teresa to sort it for you.’

Butterfield looked at him with a perplexed expression on her face and mouthed the words, ‘Mother Teresa?’

‘Tell you later,’ said a grinning Gallagher. ‘What about it then, guv?’

The inspector nodded.

‘Aye, go on then,’ he said, heading for the front door. ‘Why not?’ Bout time we did something like this. Curtis is always banging on about team spirit.’

Gallagher beamed.

‘Oh, while I remember,’ said the inspector, reaching for the front-door handle. ‘Did anyone get hold of the Farmwatch lads?’

‘Damn,’ exclaimed Gallagher, clapping a hand to his mouth. ‘Completely forgot to tell them that, what with the goings-on at the King’s Head and things here, uniform could not spare anyone for tonight.’

Harris stared at him.

‘What you looking at me like that for?’ said Gallagher. ‘Surely, they wouldn’t be daft enough to go out on their own, not when we’ve had a murder up on the h….’ His voice tailed off as he saw the inspector’s expression. ‘Jesus, don’t tell me they would.’

‘You haven’t met Harry Galbraith,’ said Harris, allowing himself a slight smile despite his concerns, ‘It’s like
Last of the Summer Wine
meets
The Sweeney
.’

Gallagher roared with laughter but the sound died in his throat when the inspector’s mobile phone rang.

‘Somehow,’ said the sergeant gloomily, ‘that does not sound good.’

The inspector listened for a few moments before muttering a ‘thank you’ and ending the conversation. Placing the phone in his coat pocket, he looked at them.

‘I am afraid the curry will have to wait,’ he said grimly. ‘That was control. Someone’s just tried to kill Harry Galbraith and his mate.’

‘Jesus,’ said the sergeant quietly. ‘They’ll have my nuts for this.’

‘And mine,’ said Jack Harris darkly. ‘And mine, Matty lad.’

‘Pleased with you!’ exclaimed Harris, glaring at the two farmers sitting in front of him. ‘Why the hell would I be pleased with you? I mean, don’t you listen to a sodding word I say?’

Startled by the vehemence of the inspector’s onslaught, Harry Galbraith and Dennis Soames stared at the floor and said nothing as he paced the room. It was just after midnight and the farmers were at one of the tables in the dimly lit and deserted first floor canteen at Levton Bridge Police Station, cradling mugs of steaming tea in their hands.

‘I mean,’ continued the furious inspector, ‘I have come across some acts of crass stupidity in my time – mostly from my superintendent – but this takes the biscuit, it really does. You’re morons. Effing morons.’

‘Now hang on, Jack—’ began Galbraith.

‘Hang on nothing, Harry. You could have got yourselves killed tonight. This isn’t a game. Surely, you heard that we have already had one man found dead up on the hills?’

The farmers said nothing.

‘Well?’ said the inspector, glaring at them as if he were a schoolmaster and they his naughty pupils. ‘What do you have to say for yourselves?’

‘We thought you would be pleased that we remembered the car’s registration number,’ said Soames plaintively.

Harris glanced down at the scrap of paper that Soames had proudly handed him when the farmers arrived at the police station. The inspector looked at the hopeful expression on the young man’s face and gave a sigh.

‘It’s a fake,’ he said, his tone of voice softening as he saw Soames’s crestfallen expression. ‘We ran it through the PNC and it doesn’t exist. They probably had the plate made up in some back-street chop shop.’

Soames looked confused.

‘A chop shop?’ he asked.

‘Never mind. Suffice to say that the number will not lead us to the men who tried to kill you.’

Soames sank deeper into his seat and Harris drew up a chair and sat down at the table with them.

‘Look,’ he said in a much gentler tone, ‘that is why I am so angry. These guys tonight were professionals. That’s what we are up against. The gangs coming into our area and screwing your farms are highly organized and perfectly capable of turning nasty. I accept that these two were beyond the norm, but if you want to be part of Farmwatch, you have to play by the rules. My rules.’

‘We’re sorry, Jack,’ said Galbraith quietly, ‘we really are. We didn’t think. Have we got you in trouble?’

‘I’ll survive,’ said Harris, his anger now spent. ‘What worries me more is the trouble you got yourself into. Just promise me that you won’t do anything daft again, eh, lads?’

The farmers nodded.

‘We promise,’ said Galbraith. He hesitated for a moment or two before adding anxiously. ‘Does this mean we have to give our walkie talkie back?’

Harris chuckled.

‘No,’ he said, ‘you can keep your walkie talkie.’

Galbraith looked relieved. The inspector gestured to the caked blood down the side of the old man’s face.

‘That looks nasty,’ he said. ‘Has anyone had a look at it?’

‘It’s only a scratch.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t wash it before you leave here. I’ve got a forensics officer on his way in and she’ll take a swab – see if we can get anything from it.’

Galbraith looked confused.

‘Just don’t touch it,’ said Harris.

A slim, dark-haired uniformed inspector walked into the room and headed for the kitchen.

‘Any luck with the roadblocks, Alec?’ asked Harris, walking over to join him.

‘Sorry,’ said Alec Hulme, reaching into a cupboard and taking down the tea caddy. ‘Want a brew?’

‘Aye, go on.’

‘Top up, lads?’ asked Hulme, looking across the counter and nodding at the farmers’ mugs.

‘No, we’re alreet,’ said Galabraith. ‘But thank you.’

Hulme surveyed them for a moment as they sat in the table in their flat caps and scruffy overcoats.

‘Are Batman and Robin OK?’ he asked Harris in a voice so low that the farmers could not hear.

‘I think the enormity of what happened tonight is just starting to sink in. I’ve been trying to impress the danger they put themselves in.’

‘Yeah,’ said Hulme with a smile, ‘I heard your attempt at community engagement. Curtis would be proud of you. In fact, I understand he wants to include the phrase ‘effing morons’ in his next report to the police committee.’

‘Well, what do you expect me to say?’

‘Aye, maybe. Listen, talking of Curtis, he’s been after you again. Probably wants to congratulate you on your services to neighbourhood watch. Who knows, perhaps he will recommend you for the QPM.’

Harris chuckled: he liked the inspector.

‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up about the roadblocks, mind,’ said Hulme, removing a couple of mugs from another cupboard and turning his attention to the water heater mounted on the wall. ‘I reckon whoever those psychos were, they’re long gone. We had a call from a motorist a few minutes after the shooting and she said their car must have been doing seventy-five when it passed her. Damn near rammed her off the road. It’ll not have taken them long to get out of the valley at that rate.’

‘You alerted other forces?’

‘Yeah, but what chance that they are still in the car?’ said the inspector, stirring the mugs of tea. ‘They’ll probably torch the thing first chance they get.’

‘I guess.’

Hulme looked across at the farmers.

‘We’re towing their vehicle in now,’ he said, handing the inspector his tea in return for murmured thanks. ‘We had a message from the vehicle examiner, though – he can’t take a look until tomorrow. He’s over at that double fatal RTA down past Roxham. Having said that, it won’t take a genius to tell us that there is a bloody great big bullet hole in one of the rear panels.’

Hulme raised his voice so the farmers could hear.

‘You got lucky tonight, lads,’ he said, looking across at them. ‘A couple of centimetres to the left and the bullet could easily have ruptured your petrol tank.’

‘See,’ said Harris as he returned to his seat, ‘this isn’t a game.’

‘Yeah,’ nodded Hulme, walking over to stand by the table, ‘don’t go out without us. I mean, surely you knew how busy we were tonight?’

‘Talking of which,’ said Harris. ‘I heard it was all fun and games at the King’s Head?’

‘It was like the Wild West in there. I half expected to see a load of horses tied up outside. I even toyed with the idea of closing the place down. Hey, talking of the King’s Head, I understand you saved Charlie Myles from a beating.’

‘Yeah, but it was all a bit handbags.’

‘Not sure about that,’ said Hulme, looking at Harris. ‘When I nipped out for a fag, I saw Len Radley staggering past the police station, clutching his nose. I don’t suppose that was anything to do with you?’

‘Who, me?’ said Harris, giving him an innocent look. ‘Anything else I need to know about?’

‘Not really but I really would ring Curtis. He has been on the phone several times. He sounded quite agitated, said he has been trying for ages. Reckons your mobile must be switched off or something.’

Harris fished it out of his pocket.

‘Ooh, look,’ he said. ‘Six missed calls.’

The inspector raised his eyes to the ceiling.

‘One day, Jack Harris,’ he said, as he walked out of the canteen and into the corridor, carrying his mug of tea. ‘One day….’

Harris grinned, replaced the phone in his pocket and took a sip of his drink. Glancing across the table, he noticed Dennis Soames whispering conspiratorially to Harry Galbraith.

‘Something I should know about, lads?’ asked the inspector.

Soames hesitated.

‘Come on, Dennis, spit it out.’

‘I may be able to help you, Mr Harris.’

‘You’re the second person who has said that tonight and I still haven’t got back to my bottle of whisky,’ said the inspector. ‘At least you’re sober. Go on, then what do you know?’

‘I don’t want to get in no trouble,’ said Soames, glancing over at Harry Galbraith.

‘I’ll keep your name out of it.’

Soames still looked unsure.

‘Go on,’ urged Galbraith, ‘you can trust him, you know that. Besides, I reckons we owes him summat after what happened tonight.’

‘Aye, OK,’ nodded Soames. ‘It’s about Trevor Meredith. See I knows something about him. Not sure if it is important, mind.’

‘Given what I know about Meredith,’ said Harris, taking a sip of tea, ‘even his shoe size would be of interest. You don’t happen to know his shoe size, do you?’

‘Why would that be of interest?’ asked Soames, looking bemused.

‘Never mind. Go on, Dennis, what do you know about Trevor Meredith?’

‘He likes his gambling.’

Harris sat down at the table.

‘And how might you know that?’ he asked.

‘There’s a few lads been meeting up at the King’s Head for a game of poker.’

‘Really?’ Harris looked surprised. ‘Not sure we know about that.’

Soames hesitated.

‘It happens after hours,’ he said eventually, prompted to reveal more information by a reassuring look from Harry Galbraith. ‘It were the landlord’s idea. He puts all the lights out in the bar to make it look like the pub is closed and we play in his back room. You can’t see that from the street.’

‘We?’ said Harris. ‘Does that mean you have been part of it, Dennis?’

Soames nodded.

‘But you struggle with Snap!’ exclaimed Harris. ‘What the Hell were you doing getting mixed up in something like that?’

‘I didn’t reckon it could do no harm.’

‘It can if you don’t know what you’re doing.’

‘I know that now,’ nodded Soames. ‘That’s why I stopped playing.’

‘A wise decision, Dennis,’ said the inspector as he took a sip of his tea. ‘Mind, something tells me that there would not have been much money involved.’

‘I lost fifty quid one night.’

‘Fifty quid! Jesus, Dennis, you can’t afford that!’

Soames nodded gloomily. Silence settled on the room for a moment or two then a thought struck the inspector.

‘Was the poker, by any chance, what the trouble was about at the pub tonight?’ he asked. ‘We saw Len Radley and Charlie Myles going at it hammer and tongs in the market-square.’

‘Charlie owes him a hundred quid,’ nodded Soames. ‘They’ve been arguing about it for the best part of a week.’

‘And Meredith?’ asked Harris. ‘He was a regular player?’

Soames nodded.

‘And he lost, did he?’ said the inspector.

‘Oh, aye. I reckons he owed various folks more than five hundred pound.’

Harris gave a low whistle.

‘Mind, he weren’t the worst,’ said Soames, ‘I reckon James Thornycroft lost more than him.’

‘The vet?’ asked Harris with a gleam in his eye. ‘OK, I’ll need the names of everyone involved. Oh, and you can take it from me, the poker game is closed from now on.’

Soames nodded gloomily.

Ten minutes later, Jack Harris was sitting in his office, staring out into the darkness of the night and trying to make sense of the day’s events. Suddenly, he felt very weary, stood up and reached for his coat.

‘Come on, feller,’ he said and headed for the door, glancing down to where Scoot was lying. ‘I reckon it’s been a long enough day.’

Scoot stood up and wagged his tail. The inspector was just about to switch the light off when his mobile phone rang. Harris glanced up at the clock on the wall: 12.30 a.m. He sighed then looked at the name on the phone’s screen and smiled: Leckie. A uniformed constable with Greater Manchester Police, Graham Leckie was one of the inspector’s closest friends in the service. They had first met at an RSPB conference, sitting next to each other during a seminar on birds. They had instinctively connected through their passion for the subject and discovering that they both worked for Greater Manchester Police – Harris had just taken up his first posting as a copper after leaving the army – they met regularly after that to swap information about wildlife crime. Even when Harris moved north, they talked regularly on the phone and, Manchester being little over an hour and a half down the motorway from Levton Bridge, still met for a drink several times a year. Leckie’s main job was in intelligence so he had proved a useful contact for Jack Harris on more than one occasion. And given that Leckie’s speciality was gangland crime….

‘Morning, Graham,’ said Harris, sitting down again, tipping back in his chair and placing his boots on the desk. ‘Working late.’

‘You must be joking, pal – one of the lads has had his leaving down the snooker club. I think it is fair to say that drink has been taken.’

‘All right for some, matey. I still haven’t got home to my bottle of whisky.’

‘Not that nice one I gave you – the Dalmore?’

‘Na, that went ages ago.’

‘Old soak,’ said Leckie. ‘Anyway, sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. I take it you want me to solve another crime for you. Someone knicked a sheep?’

‘Actually, it’s a murder. Guy found on the hills.’

‘Got a name?’

‘Trevor Meredith,’ said Harris, shifting his legs on the table. ‘Ring a bell?’

‘Sorry.’

‘It was a long shot. I really wanted to talk to you about Gerry Radford.’

There was a silence at the other end of the phone.

‘You still there, Graham?’

‘Yeah, I’m still here, Hawk. What the hell do you want with Gerry Radford? He linked to your dead guy?’

‘Could be. I want to know what he’s up to these days.’

‘Same old, same old – still trafficking, drugs, cigs, in fact, you name it, Gerry Radford has got his mitts all over it.’

‘What if I want to lift him?’

Another silence.

‘Graham?’

‘Yeah, I heard you, Hawk. Give me an easy one, why don’t you? I mean, you know the score with Gerry Radford. And let’s be honest, after what happ—’

‘Forgot that,’ said Harris, returning his chair legs to the floor, standing up and walking over to stare out of his office window. ‘That’s history and I really do need to interview him.’

‘You’ll need to persuade our Organized Crime Squad that there’s something tasty in it for them as well.’

‘Will you put some calls in for me?’ asked Harris. ‘Or maybe fix up to meet your Organized Crime guy? Who is he these days?’