Blood Sport: A Yorkshire Murder Mystery (DCI Harry Grimm Crime Thrillers 7)

by David J Gatward

  Looking up at the house, Jim’s eyes drifting to an upstairs window on the left, which had been Neil’s old bedroom. Over the years, it had been many things, from the inside of a spaceship or a cave, to a lonely cell at the top of a castle tower from which they’d had to escape. And escape they had done, thanks to a length of tow rope they’d pinched from the garage and tied to the radiator, the end thrown out of the window for them to climb down to the ground.

  Jim was recalling the bollocking they’d both received for doing something so stupid and dangerous, when the front door opened, releasing into the day the smell of freshly baked bread and the faint sound of a radio playing somewhere in the house.

  The face he saw, however, was not the one he’d expected.

  ‘PCSO Metcalf!’ said the man now standing in front of Jim. It was Mr Richard Adams, a businessman who’d moved to the area and done a fairly good job at not getting on the right side of people while supposedly trying to do exactly that. Jim wasn’t exactly sure what business Mr Adams was involved in, but it clearly paid well. It was the little things that gave his income away—his shiny shoes, the watch on his wrist, those too-straight and far-too-white teeth now gleaming at him with shark-like enthusiasm.

  ‘Mr Adams,’ Jim said, as the man stepped out of the house, a woman close behind him. ‘Oh, hi, Mrs Hogg. Look, if you’re busy, I can come back?’

  ‘James!’ the woman said, and her eyes warming. ‘No, you come right in, now. Richard was just going.’ Mrs Hogg looked at Richard Adams. ‘Thank you so much for popping in. It really is hugely appreciated.’

  ‘It’s the least I can do,’ Adams said. ‘Neil’s death was a shock to the whole community. I know that I hardly knew him, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help. And remember what I said, if you need anything—anything at all—you just let me know. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ Mrs Hogg said.

  ‘And we’ll see you both Thursday evening, for dinner, yes?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mrs Hogg said. ‘It’s lovely of you to ask. We haven’t actually been out since Neil was…’

  Jim saw Mrs Hogg’s smile fracture just a little, as her voice crumbled on the words she was saying. But she quickly forced a smile and then with goodbyes said, Richard Adams turned and headed up the path.

  ‘So, are you going to just stand there all day, or are you going to get yourself inside?’

  Jim made to step up into the house, but the woman held out a hand to stop him, a frown creasing her brow. ‘And enough of the “Mrs Hogg,” James, you hear?’

  ‘Sorry, yes,’ Jim said. ‘I mean Helen.’

  ‘You’re not twelve anymore now, are you?’ Helen said. ‘Alan’s upstairs in his office. Can’t say I know what he’s doing up there, but that’s probably for the best, isn’t it?’

  Helen then stepped to one side.

  ‘Well, get yourself in, then! Come on!’

  Jim smiled then stepped up into the house, Helen closing the door behind them and following him inside.

  ‘Go on through,’ Helen said. ‘You know where you’re going anyway, don’t you? Used to be like a second home for you, didn’t it? Still is though, I hope you know that. How are your parents? I’ve not seen them in a while, not since the…’

  Helen’s voice faded then, crushed by the word she had been about to say.

  ‘They’re good,’ Jim said. ‘You should give them a call sometime. See if you can get them to think and talk about something that isn’t to do with farming!’

  Jim then made his way on through the house, eventually reaching the kitchen, Helen’s voice chasing on from behind. As he opened the door, he paused, looking up. Staring down at him from above the door and sitting on a branch attached to the wall by a wooden plinth, was an owl.

  ‘Nice,’ said Jim, nodding at the owl, trying his best to sound like he meant it.

  ‘Oh, God, that thing gives me the shivers!’ Helen said. ‘Horrible thing it is. Horrible!’

  ‘Yeah, can’t say I’m a fan, if I’m honest,’ Jim smiled. ‘Never been entirely sure why anyone would want a stuffed animal in their house.’

  ‘Alan says it adds class to the hallway,’ said Helen, shaking her head. ‘I think it’s gruesome and creepy and should be thrown away. But will he let me? Not a chance of it.’

  ‘It’s all of those things,’ Jim agreed. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘A Christmas raffle, would you believe!’ Helen explained. ‘The vets get donated all kinds of things to auction off. You know, one year, someone even donated a collection of naughty postcards from the Twenties! They weren’t too rude, really, but still! Unsurprisingly, it was an anonymous donation.’

  ‘And someone won them?’ Jim asked.

  ‘No idea who,’ Helen said. ‘Anyway, we managed to win that feathered monstrosity. I don’t like the way it stares like it knows something! The money went to a good cause, a fund to help farming families with everything from financial support and housing to stress and whatnot. But why we had to keep it, I don’t know. I said to give it back, let it raise even more money, but Alan wouldn’t have it!’ Helen shooed Jim on into the kitchen, then turned to look up the stairs. ‘Alan? Alan! James is here! Alan! Get yourself down here, now! Alan!’

  From upstairs, a quieter reply came back.

  ‘Who’s that, now, Pet? More visitors? Or has that rich windbag decided to stay even longer to talk even more bollocks and eat the rest of my biscuits?’

  ‘They’re not your biscuits,’ Helen replied. ‘They don’t have your name on, do they?’

  ‘I’m just saying, the only reason he was round here at all was so that other people would hear about it. The visit, just like all the others, had bugger-all to do with us or what happened!’

  ‘You could’ve talked to him for a little longer, instead of going back upstairs after five minutes and leaving me with him!’

  ‘I’m busy. Things to do. People like that to ignore.’

  ‘Well, whatever you think, he’s gone and we’ve someone else now. And yes, I’m going to give this someone else more of my biscuits, so you’d better hurry up hadn’t you, or they’ll all be gone!’

  Jim heard a scuffling sound from upstairs, footsteps, a door opening.

  ‘Right, who is it, then? Who else have you let in to scoff their way through our cupboards?’

  By now, Helen was in the kitchen with Jim, but still holding her conversation with the disembodied voice of her husband.

  ‘It’s James Metcalf, Alan! You know, Jim! He’s here. So, are you coming down or will I never see you again, hmm?’

  ‘Tim? Who the hell is Tim? We don’t know anyone called Tim! And if it’s another of those folk trying to sell me even more Internet, I’ll sling him out on his ear! We’ve got more than enough of it already, and what we have doesn’t really work, does it? Unless of course, they’re here to give us more of it, though where we’ll keep it I’ve no idea.’

  Jim smiled as Helen shook her head and rolled her eyes.

  ‘I’m putting the kettle on!’

  Jim took a seat at an old, worn dining table at the far end of the room. He recognised the scratches on its surface like old friends.

  ‘He does know that’s not how the Internet works, doesn’t he?’ Jim asked.

  Helen laughed.

  ‘I’ve got a nice tin of biscuits,’ she said, the kettle now on. ‘Would you mind getting them?’

  Jim stood up and made his way over to a cupboard he’d opened more times than he could remember. From the darkness inside he removed a battered old tin, the pattern on its surface faded and worn, but still visible enough to give him a fairly good idea of what a tin of Christmas biscuits in the early Seventies had looked like.

  ‘Helping yourself I see. Somethings just don’t change, do they?’

  Jim turned to see Alan Hogg walk into the kitchen, a small, slim man who’d spent a good many years working at the Wensleydale Creamery. He still worked there, as far as Jim knew.

  ‘Just doi
ng as I’m told,’ Jim said.

  ‘If you expect me to believe that, then—’

  ‘Sit yourself down, Love,’ Helen said, and placed in front them two large mugs of tea.

  Jim opened the tin and took out a biscuit.

  ‘Shortbread,’ he said. ‘Neil’s favourite.’

  The words, that name, they were out of his mouth before he could even think.

  ‘I think of him every time I make a batch,’ Helen smiled, though Jim noticed how her eyes weren’t exactly joining in.

  Jim focused on the biscuit, then the mug of tea, turning it in his hands, before going back to the biscuit. He wanted to say something, anything, but what? His words weren’t so much caught in the back of his throat as drowning in his stomach. So much so, that he felt his guts twist.

  ‘So, Richard Adams was here, then,’ he said.

  Jim’s only real contact with the man was last year when he and the rest of the team had to keep the peace between him and a growing group of protesters camped out on some land he owned. Somehow, he’d managed to secure planning permission for the area, which included some rather lovely woodland. Eventually, and most likely because of the growing resentment from the whole of the local community for what he wanted to do, Adams had eventually backed down and shelved his plans, and the protesters had all headed home.

  ‘Nothing gets past you, does it?’ Alan said, waggling a biscuit at Jim. ‘That’ll be all that police training you’ve been doing.’

  Helen stared daggers at Alan.

  ‘He’s been around a few times actually,’ she said. ‘Since we lost Neil, that is. It’s very kind of him, really.’

  Jim saw Alan roll his eyes and shake his head.

  ‘Is it, now?’ Alan said.

  Helen sent a hard stare at Alan.

  ‘Well, he’s not doing it for us, is he?’ Alan continued, ignoring Helen’s very obvious irritation. ‘He’s doing it for himself. You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’ Jim asked. ‘What’s in it for him, exactly?’

  ‘He’s of a type,’ Alan said. ‘By which I mean, he’s a self-serving, money-obsessed, rightwing—’

  ‘Alan!’

  ‘I’m only saying what I see,’ he said, shrugging. ‘And I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could spit.’

  ‘Well, I hope you’ll be a little more polite when we’re round there tomorrow evening!’

  Jim saw Alan’s eyes widen in an instant like he’d just had an electric shock.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I accepted on both of our behalf,’ Helen said. ‘Seeing as you had already disappeared upstairs.’

  ‘I didn’t go upstairs and disappear! Why didn’t you come up and check?’

  ‘And what would your answer have been?’

  Alan went to answer but Helen didn’t give him chance.

  ‘I’ll tell you, shall I? It would’ve been no.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Yes but nothing!’ Helen said. ‘We’re going and that’s that. And when we’re round there I want you to be polite.’

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ Alan said.

  ‘Well, I think you had better try.’

  ‘Look, just because I’ve got the week off, doesn’t mean I have to spend my time being nice to people, does it? Particularly people like him!’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ Helen said.

  For a moment, no one said a word.

  ‘Jim,’ Helen said at last, popping the tense atmosphere with her bright voice, ‘it really is good to see you. Please, you must visit more often.’

  ‘Though I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than visit us old duffers,’ Alan said.

  Jim laughed.

  ‘It’s good to see you both,’ he said. ‘It really is. And I’m sorry I’ve not been around for a while. Busy at work and the farm, you know how it is.’

  ‘Then this must be important,’ Alan said. ‘So, let’s have it out of you then, lad!’

  Jim glanced over at Alan.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Whatever it is you’ve come round here to say,’ said Alan. ‘Unless of course, you’re only here because you want to head up into that old treehouse like you always used to. Though you’re a bit big for it now, no doubt.’

  ‘Just a little,’ Jim said.

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ Alan said. ‘But that didn’t stop Neil, you know. He’d still go up there, when he visited. I think he was even up there that morning, wasn’t he, Helen? When, well, you know…’

  Jim saw tears glistening in Helen’s eyes as she nodded.

  ‘Never did grow up, that lad,’ Alan said. ‘Anyway, back to you, Jim. So, come on, what’s brought you round here today, then? Out with it!’

  ‘That’s just the problem,’ Jim said.

  ‘What is?’ Helen asked.

  ‘Something to say,’ Jim replied. ‘No, what I mean is, I wish I had something to say, but I don’t. Nothing. At all. And I should, because I promised Neil. But I’ve got nowt! Not a bloody thing!’

  Jim took a sip from his mug and noticed that his hands were shaking.

  ‘I’m… sorry,’ he said, before either Helen or Alan had a chance to say anything. ‘I just thought I’d come round, that’s all, see how you are. Check in. Neil would want me to anyway, but also…’

  Jim’s voice stalled.

  ‘Also, what?’ Alan asked.

  ‘I just can’t shift the feeling that we’ve missed something,’ Jim said. ‘We must’ve done. I don’t know what or where, but something, you know?’

  ‘James…’

  Helen’s voice was firm, serious.

  ‘You know what I mean though, right?’ Jim said. ‘We must have, or I must have, anyway. It just doesn’t make sense that we don’t have anything. Nothing at all!’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Helen said. ‘What happened to Neil. You’re not to blame.’

  Jim opened his mouth, but no words came.

  ‘She’s right, lad,’ Alan said. ‘We’ve lost Neil, and it breaks our hearts every hour of every day. But we can’t have what happened, drive you to God knows what, either, if you know what I mean. You need to leave it alone, Jim.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Helen reached out and placed a hand on Jim’s.

  ‘Let it all out, lad,’ Alan said. ‘And then, that’s enough, you hear? Enough.’

  Then Jim’s voice cracked as he tried to speak, and whatever words he’d been searching for crumbled to dust. A sob broke through as tears fell, and the parents of one of the best friends he’d ever had sat beside him and held him close.

  A moment or so later and remembering what Harry had said to him as he’d been leaving the community centre, Jim sat back, pulling away from Alan and Helen.

  ‘No, you’re right,’ he said, suddenly embarrassed, pretty sure that if Harry could see him now his face would be all storm and thunder. He pushed himself up onto his feet and away from the table.

  ‘You’re leaving so soon?’ Helen asked, looking up at Jim. ‘But you’ve only just arrived!’

  ‘Don’t complain,’ Alan said. ‘More biscuits for me!’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Jim said, ‘but we’re all on with something up in Snaizeholme. I’d best get going, I think.’

  He gave neither of Neil’s parents a chance to respond as he turned and quickly walked from the kitchen and along to the front door.

  ‘Jim…’

  His hand on the doorknob, Jim twisted it and yanked the door open. Then a hand rested on his arm and he looked around to see Alan standing close by.

  ‘I’d best be going,’ Jim said, but Alan’s hand gripped his arm a little tighter, just enough to let him know that he wasn’t going to be leaving just yet.

  ‘First, you’ll be listening to me,’ Alan said, his eyes as keen as a hawk’s.

  Jim tried to pull away, to leave, but Alan him held fast, his grip firm. Then Jim felt himself guided outside by the man who pulled him to a stop just the oth
er side of the front door.

  ‘Now, Jim, I don’t expect you came round here today for a bollocking,’ Alan said, ‘but that’s what you’re going to get, whether you like it or not.’

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  ‘A bollocking, Jim!’ Alan repeated, his voice quiet, firm, and utterly serious. ‘Because right now, whatever this is, whatever it is you think you’re doing? Well, it’s self-indulgent, isn’t it? And it had better stop!’

  Jim went to protest but a look from Alan was enough to stop him from saying a word.

  ‘What happened to Neil was and is bloody awful,’ Alan said, his voice shaking with sadness, hurt, and more than a little anger. ‘But it’s not your place to go around with the weight of it all on your shoulders, is it? No, it bloody well isn’t!’

  Jim again tried to speak, to say that Harry had already made it very clear where his head needed to be in all this, but Alan wasn’t having any of it.

  ‘For a start, that’s for us, his parents, to bear, not you, you hear? Do you understand what I’m saying? Are you listening to me?’

  Alan shook Jim’s arm.

  ‘Yes,’ Jim nodded, though deep down all he felt right then was confusion.

  ‘I don’t think you are,’ Alan continued, ‘and you know why? It’s because it’s about time you grew up!’

  ‘I don’t understand…’

  ‘Moping around the dales isn’t going to help anyone, is it?’ Alan said, his voice calmer now but no less firm. ‘It’s certainly not helping Helen and me, and I doubt very much if it’s helping that team you work with, is it? And as for your parents, you must be driving them batty!’

  Jim decided it was best to say nothing and to just let Alan have his say.

  ‘Well, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Jim said, shaking his head, the whole saying-nothing thing clearly not what Alan was about right then.

  ‘I need you to pull your head out of your arse, Jim. Can you do that for me? Because you need to. If you leave it up there too long, all you’ll ever see or hear are your own problems, and that’s no bloody use now, is it? And that’s a rhetorical question, by the way.’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ Jim said.

  ‘I know I am!’ Alan snapped back. ‘If I know anything at all! Neil was and is our son. We’ll do the grieving. And you, lad,’ —Alan reached out and jabbed a pointed finger hard into Jim’s chest— ‘you will do your bloody job, understood? By which I mean, you will get on with living!’