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

by David J Gatward

  Jim went to speak, but Alan gave him a sharp nod, a grunt, then turned and headed back into the house, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Jim stood alone in front of the house, wind hooking at his clothes, his emotions confused and messy, Alan’s words ringing in his ears. Self-indulgent? That had stung. And it had meant to as well. Alan had never been one for saying anything other than what he believed and the truth in his words had really hit home. Sometimes, Jim realised then, you just needed someone to point out the obvious, no matter how painful it was to hear.

  Walking back down the path, and reeling somewhat from Alan’s words, Jim found himself glancing up again at Neil’s treehouse. He was tempted to dash up into the branches, to hide out in that secret den of leaf and twig, but all that remained up there were memories. And wallowing in them, existing in his yesterdays, wasn’t life, was it?

  Alan was right, Jim realised, and he admired the man for what he’d just done, what he’d said, and how he’d said it.

  Jim pulled his phone from a pocket and punched in a number.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the portacabin the vets have at the auction mart,’ Jadyn said. ‘Turns out I need to head through to the main surgery in Leyburn, because that’s where the necro-whatever will have been done.’

  ‘Necropsy,’ Jim said.

  ‘Sounds like a horror movie,’ said Jadyn. ‘Or the name of a death metal band.’

  ‘We’ll head over together,’ Jim said. ‘I’ll be there in ten.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Harry was standing on the doorstep of a small farmhouse, the yard behind him neat and tidy. In front of him was stood a small man with rosy cheeks, no hair, and an unlit pipe clenched in his teeth. And sitting on the man’s hands was an enormous pork pie.

  ‘Well, are you going to take it, or not?’

  Not, Harry thought to himself, remembering Arthur Black’s advice, but at the same time reaching out to take the offered gift from Phil Thwaite, Arthur’s old farming mate.

  The weight of the pie shocked him. Yes, it was a large pie, far too large, in fact, for him to reach around it with both of his larger than average hands. But still, to weigh as much as it did, Harry had to wonder what exactly it contained. But that only led to even more confusion.

  ‘It’s a family size pie,’ Phil said with a smile. ‘Can’t see the point of making them any other size. Don’t last long enough, do they, small pies? Size is everything!’

  ‘No, I suppose they don’t,’ Harry said, wondering what to do with it now that it was resting in his hands, and not really convinced that a pie made by someone who thought it was all about the size was ever going to taste great. He’d have to put it down somewhere soon, though, because holding it for too long would surely have him end up straining a muscle or two. ‘Anyway, Mr Thwaite,’ Harry said, trying to move on to the reason as to why he’d visited in the first place.

  ‘Phil,’ said Phil. ‘I don’t go in for all that formality rubbish. I tell you, if I met the Queen, I’d call her Liz. Not Your Majesty, not even Elizabeth. Liz. Nice and friendly, like. Best way to be, I reckon. And you are?’

  ‘Grimm,’ said Harry. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Harry Grimm.’

  ‘Harry? Really?’

  ‘Yes, really,’ Harry said. ‘Why? Is that a surprise?’

  He was used to people doing a double-take when he said his name, thanks to the state of his scarred face, but Harry? That was a first.

  ‘A surprise? No, not in the slightest,’ Phil said. ‘It’s just that… No, it doesn’t matter. It’s nothing. Irrelevant, actually. Forget I said anything.’

  ‘But you didn’t actually say anything,’ said Harry.

  ‘Well, that’s good then, isn’t it?’ Phil replied. ‘So, you coming in, or stopping outside?’

  ‘Have you got something I can put this in?’ Harry said, offering back to Phil the pie.

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t need to go in anything,’ Phil said. ‘That’s the point of the pastry, you see. Protects the insides from what’s outside. That’s why it’s so hard.’

  Phil reached out and tapped the top of the pie with his knuckle. The sound was that of a mallet striking a log.

  ‘See? Solid!’ Phil announced proudly. ‘Nowt bad’s getting through that, is it? Bombproof!’

  ‘I’d still rather have something to put it in,’ Harry said. ‘I’m not sure leaving it on my car seat is a good idea.’

  Phil reached out and took the pie.

  ‘I’ll wrap it up for you,’ he said. ‘Just don’t go forgetting it when you leave.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t,’ Harry said, already planning to do exactly that.

  Inside the house, Harry followed Phil along a short hall with a flagstone floor, the walls white, the skirting board a pale green, and through to the kitchen.

  ‘It’s just me on my own, like, ’ Phil said. ‘Never married, you see. No time for it.’

  Harry sat down at a small dining table. The room was, like the yard, tidy, albeit in an early 1970s way.

  ‘Tea!’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ Harry said, seeing as it was barely an hour since he’d had a drink with Arthur.

  ‘It wasn’t a question,’ Phil said. ‘Milk, sugar?’

  ‘Er, just milk, please,’ Harry said.

  When Phil came over with two steaming mugs, he sat down opposite Harry and leaned back in a chair that creaked a little too loudly.

  ‘So, Arthur sent you over to see me, then.’

  ‘He did,’ Harry said. ‘I’m just here to check up on a few details. As you know, know he lost his dog, Jack, a while back.’

  ‘Dog? Is that what he called it, now?’ Phil said, rolling his eyes.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said Harry.

  Phil took a gulp of the still-boiling hot tea, then leaned forward and said, ‘That daft creature was more like a bear than a dog,’ he said.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It was huge! Enormous! Bloody terrifying thing, if it hadn’t been such a soft bugger to boot.’

  Harry thought back to the corpse of the dog he’d found in the barn in Snaizeholme. It had seemed large, yes, but not huge. But then there had been plenty else to look at, with all the blood and damage to the poor creature. Size hadn’t really been at the front of his mind at the time.

  ‘Wasn’t it a Spaniel?’ Harry said. ‘Well, a Spaniel-cross, anyway.’

  ‘If that dog was a Spaniel then I’m the Pope!’ Phil said. ‘Oh, yes, you’re right, there was a little bit of Spaniel in it, you could see that in the dog’s eyes, in its colouring. But that was about it. The rest was an enormous bloody monster.’

  ‘Arthur said something about Alsatian?’

  Phil gave a nod.

  ‘And the rest,’ he said. ‘By which I mean that dog must’ve had a wolf as a very close relative. Oh, don’t get me wrong, Jack was a lovely dog.’ He held his hands up. ‘Paws on him like you wouldn’t believe! And proper soft, too, if he knew you. But if he didn’t? If you were a stranger and you crossed a line, then more fool you, because he’d have you as sure as eggs go with bacon.’

  ‘What do you mean by crossed a line?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Arthur’s doorstep uninvited, for one,’ Phil said. ‘Not a good idea if young Jack was around. No, not a good idea at all, that, unless you actually wanted to be eaten alive.’

  ‘What about Arthur’s vehicle?’ Harry asked.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Arthur mentioned that on the day Jack disappeared, he’d left him in his Land Rover.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s right, when he was up sorting out those blasted squirrels for me. The damage they cause, you wouldn’t believe! Stripping trees, making a right mess! Good meat, though, squirrel.’

  That last comment had Harry worrying again about the pie and its contents, but in an entirely new and unexpected way.

  ‘So, Arthur left Jack in his Land Rover,’ Harry prompted.

  ‘And he must�
�ve got out somehow,’ Phil said. ‘Jack, I mean. No way else he could’ve gone, is there? Because that dog was better than any car alarm, that’s for sure. Arthur would’ve heard barking first, then screaming no doubt. Jack had jaws on him like, well, like Jaws. Terrifying!’

  Phil opened his arms and then clapped them against each other.

  ‘Snap, just like that! Bite you in half, he could, I’m sure of it.’

  The more Harry heard about Jack, the more he found himself thinking that whoever had taken him had known exactly what kind of dog he was: big and clearly rather terrifying when he wanted to be.

  ‘Can you tell me anything about an Eric Haygarth?’ Harry asked.

  ‘I can tell you that the man is a bastard, that’s what!’ Phil said, spitting his words. ‘He a suspect, then?’

  ‘Just someone else I need to talk to, that’s all. Was he around that day?’

  ‘Eric? Eric Haygarth? Around? As in on my land and knowing what I’m doing and what’s going on, on my farm?’

  Harry said nothing, just waited for Phil to answer his own question.

  ‘No bloody chance! That man is a liability! He’s what my old mum would’ve called a bad egg. Rotten he is, from the inside. So, no, he wasn’t around that day, not that I knew of anyway, because if I had known? Let’s just say that he’d have been picking pellets out of his arse for days!’

  Phil then mimed holding a gun in his hands.

  ‘Boom!’

  ‘Just so you know,’ Harry said, ‘shooting people is something that the police frown upon generally.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t kill him,’ Phil said, as though that was fine then. ‘Just put some buckshot in those flabby arsed buttocks of his, know what I mean? Salt’s good, you know. Just empty the pellets out and replace them with some nice big chunks of rock salt. Stings like you’ve sat on a wasp’s nest!’

  ‘You speaking from experience?’

  ‘That would be telling, wouldn’t it?’

  Hoping to move Phil on from talking about shooting Eric, Harry asked, ‘Was there anything you noticed that day at all?’

  ‘Noticed how?’ Phil asked.

  ‘Anything out of the ordinary,’ Harry explained. ‘By which I mean, something that wasn’t there that should’ve been, or something that should’ve been, but wasn’t.’

  Phil screwed up his face.

  ‘Wasn’t that should’ve and should’ve that wasn’t?’ Eric said. ‘And what kind of sense does any of what you just said make?’

  ‘More than enough,’ Harry said.

  Phil sat back and rested his chin in his hand, tapping it thoughtfully with a finger.

  ‘Well, thinking back? No, I didn’t. Which is no surprise really, seeing as I had the vet over that day checking over old Harry.’

  Harry wasn’t sure he’d heard Phil correctly.

  ‘Harry?’ he said. ‘I think you’ve got me mixed up with—’

  Phil’s laugh cut Harry off before he had a chance to finish.

  He stood up.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll introduce you.’

  Harry wasn’t given a chance to ask to whom, as Phil hopped off out of the kitchen leaving him with no option but to follow.

  Outside, Harry heard Phil’s voice call from a barn on the other side of the yard.

  ‘Over here! Come on!’

  Harry made his way over and into the barn.

  Inside, the air was thick with the sweet smell of straw and hay. The barn was gloomy, but Harry’s eyes adjusted quickly and he soon spotted Phil standing over by a tall gate leading into another part of the barn, his back turned to him.

  ‘Well, this has been very useful,’ Harry said, keen to get on, ‘but I think I’d best get going.’

  Phil stepped back from the gate in front of him. From the darkness above the gate a huge head appeared, long and sleek and black, with a white line running from between its ears, down between its eyes, and all the way long to its nose.

  ‘That’s—’

  ‘My Shire horse,’ Phil said. ‘Harry, meet Harry!’

  Back in his Rav4, and now driving back up the dale and away from the largest horse he’d ever seen in his entire life, never mind stroked, Harry thought back over what he’d learned so far.

  Arthur’s dog, Jack, had been taken, not by chance, but because he was the kind of dog that, judging by his reputation, would be good in a fight. And not only that, to have even stood a chance of taking the dog in the first place, those responsible for the theft would have had to have been known by the dog, well enough for him to make no fuss at all when taken.

  There was mention of this Eric Haygarth chap, and Harry would be following that up, but he had a sense that was more about a deep-seated personal dislike of the man than anything else. With the day getting on now, he’d perhaps leave visiting Eric till the following day. Relevant or not, it was still something that had to be checked out.

  Jack had been a large dog and fiercely loyal to his owner. A stranger, it seemed, or someone that the dog just didn’t like, such as Eric Haygarth, wouldn’t have stood much of a chance of getting close to him without Jack kicking off loudly and with a lot of teeth. And that told Harry something very important: whoever had taken Jack hadn’t simply grabbed him by chance. No. This was planned and executed by said person or persons, who not only wanted a dog they could put in a fight, but one they could take easily and quietly. And that lead Harry to an even more chilling thought: whoever he was dealing with, they weren’t just local, they knew Arthur. And they knew Jack well enough to take him and for no one to know until it was too late.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jadyn was standing outside the portacabin at Hawes Auction Mart, wondering if the day was soon going to turn to rain. The forecast hadn’t said that it would, but he’d come to realise that Wensleydale didn’t always do what the meteorologists said. So even on the sunniest of days, rain could sneak down the valley and cause a surprise soaking.

  The trip up Bishopsdale had been a little more eventful than he’d been expecting. What he’d thought was going to be just a gentle chat with Mr and Mrs Sewell, about how perhaps the issue of the public footpath was one to just accept as part of their new life in Wensleydale, had been anything but.

  On arrival, Mr Sewell had presented Jadyn with a copy of a letter he had had his London solicitor draw up which he was then going to send to every member of the parish council. The general gist of this had been that no one was going to tell Mr and Mrs Sewell what to do, that they were going to go ahead with applying for planning permission to change the route of the public footpath regardless, and also that should any sheep stray onto their land, this would be regarded as trespassing and legal action would be taken.

  Jadyn had done his best to warn them that this probably wasn’t a sensible course of action, had even offered to help arrange a meeting with the parish council and local farmers, but they hadn’t taken any notice. This was a pity really, because as Jadyn had left, the Sewell’s driveway and front garden had suddenly become full with sheep, as one of the farmers moved a flock from one area of his farm to another.

  A lot of shouting had ensued, and Mr and Mrs Sewell had endeavoured to shoo the sheep back out onto the road. Unfortunately, all this had served to do was panic the animals and send them scarpering across the garden, trampling flowers, leaping over fences and bushes, and generally causing havoc. Most notably, though, was how one of the sheep had somehow found its way not only inside the house, but upstairs and into the bathroom to drink from the toilet.

  With Bishopsdale and the chaos that the Sewells seemed to be intent on fermenting at any cost, Jadyn had headed back up the dale to Hawes to crack on with the job Harry had assigned him. He’d had a quick chat with the veterinary nurse, Ellie Brown, who had been between appointments, but he’d learned nothing about what DCI Grimm had discovered early that morning, other than the location of the deceased dog.

  His stomach was starting to grumble. Somehow, the day had raced ahead w
ith itself, lunch had come around a little too quickly, and now here he was, waiting for Jim, without enough time to nip into town to grab a bite. That would have to be rectified en route, he decided, otherwise he’d have to eat one of his arms. Maybe. And when Jim finally arrived, having stopped off to pick up the police Land Rover from the marketplace, his empty stomach was rumbling a little too loudly.

  ‘Come on, then,’ Jim said, pulling up alongside, his arm leaning out of the open driver’s window.

  ‘We’ll need to stop for food on the way,’ Jadyn said, walking round to climb into the passenger seat.

  Opening the door, he was greeted by Fly, who was curled up in the passenger footwell. He climbed in, placing a folder on top of the cubby box between the two front seats.

  ‘You’re worse than Matt,’ Jim said, as they set off, Fly having rested his head on Jadyn’s lap, his tail gently tapping against the floor.

  ‘I’m still growing,’ Jadyn said.

  ‘Into what?’

  ‘That’s the mystery.’

  Jim glanced down at the file Jadyn had brought with him.

  ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘Yours,’ Jadyn said. ‘You were going to check on any reports of pet theft or whatever, weren’t you? So, I brought it along.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ve not looked yet.’

  ‘Look now, then.’

  ‘Food first,’ Jadyn said.

  In Bainbridge, and thanks to Jadyn’s stomach rumbling loud enough to be heard over the Land Rover’s engine, Jim stopped at the village shop.

  ‘So, what’ve you got, then?’ Jim asked as Jadyn climbed back in.

  ‘Two scotch pies,’ Jadyn said. ‘Fresh and hot. And a couple of bottles of water.’

  The smell of the pies had Fly’s attention immediately.

  ‘Don’t be feeding him,’ Jim instructed, as Jadyn handed over one of the pies. ‘He’s already had his breakfast.’