Restless Dead (Harry Grimm Book 5)

by David J Gatward

  Then Ruth burst into tears and fell into her arms and Patricia, despite everything Dan and she had talked about on the journey over, immediately wished that she was anywhere else but here. But home was where she had to be, for now.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘So, sheep rustling is actually a thing, then?’

  Ben’s question sat in front of Harry as he reached over to take a good helping of the tomato pasta he’d made for dinner. It was now a couple of days since he had been out on Jim’s farm and forensics hadn’t turned up much of use other than to confirm that yes, indeed, sheep had been stollen, most likely by a well-organised gang, the members of which parked up on the road below the farm, drove up through the fields, did the deed, then shoved off before anyone was the wiser. If the sheep were, as he suspected, intended for the meat black market, then he just couldn’t see that there was much that could be done to recover them. It was not an outcome that he was happy with at all. And he knew that the impact on Jim’s parents would be dramatic. Jim himself was also beating himself up about it, sure that if he hadn’t been out, then he’d have been back home and would have heard something. Harry had pointed out that with an organised gang, Jim and his mum and dad were very lucky that they hadn’t heard anything and gone to investigate. Because likely as not, the gang would have dealt with them swiftly and violently.

  ‘Harry?’

  Ben’s voice stabbed at Harry’s thoughts.

  ‘Yes? What?’

  ‘Sheep rustling?’ Ben said.

  ‘What about it?’ Harry answered, staring down at his plate which was piled perhaps a little too high, but he was hungry, so he wasn’t about to put any back.

  ‘You okay?’ Ben asked. ‘You drifted off there for a moment.’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ Harry said, forcing himself to look alert.

  ‘Then what do they do with the sheep?’ Ben asked. ‘Once they’ve nicked them, I mean. They can’t be worth that much, can they? I mean, a sheep is just a sheep. It’s not like a car or jewellery or money, is it?’

  Harry took a gulp from a glass of water at his side. ‘Nick fifty of them and sell their meat on the black market? Yeah, they’re worth a fair bit,’ Harry said. ‘Happens all over the country.’

  ‘Don’t they have to be killed in a proper place, though?’ Ben asked. ‘You know, an abattoir or something?’

  ‘Can’t see the kinds of people who think it’s fine to steal sheep being too fussed about the ins and outs of killing them,’ Harry said. ‘Which is half the problem with illegal meat. No traceability. Could’ve been killed in some rotten old shed for all anyone who ends up eating it knows.’

  ‘But fifty sheep, though,’ said Ben. ‘Surely that’s not easy to do?’

  ‘You’d be surprised just how easy it is to do and to get away with a lot of things,’ Harry said. ‘How’s the pasta?’

  ‘Fine,’ Ben said. ‘But you do know it’s possible to cook things other than pasta, don’t you?’

  ‘I do,’ Harry said.

  ‘And I don’t mean a pie in the oven or whatever. I mean proper cooking.’

  Harry rested his fork on his plate and stared over at his brother. ‘So, let’s get this right then,’ he said. ‘My younger brother, who’s currently on probation after a stretch in prison, and has thus not exactly been munching on restaurant-quality food, is now deciding to tell me to vary the menu a little?’

  Ben leant back in his chair. ‘I’m just saying that I think we could mix it up a bit. And I like cooking. Love it, actually.’

  ‘Do you now?’

  ‘I do.’ Ben nodded. ‘It won’t be anything too fancy, but how about tomorrow evening I cook something?’

  ‘Like what, exactly?’ Harry asked, then watched as Ben paraded before him a face of deep thought and consideration, as he shuffled through the obviously extensive collection of recipes he held in his head.

  ‘How does spaghetti bolognese sound?’ Ben said.

  Harry laughed. ‘And that’s your idea of mixing it up, is it? Mince and pasta, instead of what we’re eating right now?’

  ‘I worked in the kitchens, inside I mean,’ Ben said. ‘I know the recipe. It’s easy.’

  ‘But that would be a recipe for a few hundred blokes,’ Harry said. ‘There’s only two of us.’

  ‘I’ll adjust the amounts. What do you say?’

  Harry shrugged. ‘Sounds good to me. So long as you promise that there’ll be none of that grated cheese nonsense on top.’

  ‘Still don’t like it, then?’

  Harry paused at this, because here was another way that the dales had changed him. He hadn’t exactly fallen in love with cheese, and he wasn’t about to start investing in a weekly cheese board. But the whole cheese and cake thing? Well, that was something that he’d moved on from reacting to with abject horror, through just about being able to stomach it, to almost appreciating the bizarre combination.

  Harry was about to try and vocalise his ongoing love-hate relationship with cheese, when his phone rang.

  ‘Grimm,’ he answered.

  ‘Boss, it’s Dinsdale,’ came Matt’s voice from the other end of the line. ‘Busy?’

  ‘Depends,’ Harry said.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether what you’re about to ask me to do involves me getting no sleep and then spending tomorrow drinking so much coffee that I end up being able to literally hear time.’

  ‘We’ve had a call in from over at Black Moss House,’ Matt said.

  ‘That supposed to mean something to me?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Belongs to James Fletcher,’ Matt said.

  The name jogged Harry’s memory.

  ‘The accident?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ Matt said. ‘I don’t think he’s doing so well, if I’m honest.’

  ‘So, why the call?’

  There was a pause at the end of the line.

  ‘Matt?’ Harry said.

  ‘He’s called in, saying that there’s someone in the garden,’ Matt said.

  ‘An intruder?’ Harry said. ‘So, why do you need me? Isn’t Liz available?’

  ‘She’s over Aysgarth way,’ Matt said. ‘Some idiots messing around down at the falls or something. And Jim’s with his mum and dad still.’

  ‘You’re still not telling me everything, are you?’ Harry pressed, putting his cutlery down.

  ‘It’s the intruder, you see,’ said Matt. ‘James thinks . . .’

  ‘Thinks what?’

  Harry heard Matt suck in a deep breath.

  ‘He thinks he saw his wife, or someone who looked like her, anyway.’

  ‘But she’s dead!’ Harry said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Half an hour later, Harry was driving up the track to the back of Black Moss House. He’d been looking forward to an evening of doing very little indeed, perhaps a game of cards with Ben, some TV, then an early night. Life, it was clear, had other plans, as it always seemed to. He also had that other thing to think on as well, the whole moving-up-north-for-good thing, and time was running short on that, and he really needed to discuss it with Detective Superintendent Firbank, and Swift as well, but there was still time. Not much, but enough. The job application didn’t have to be in for a couple of days, and that was plenty long enough.

  ‘Sorry about this, Boss,’ Matt said, greeting Harry as he climbed out of his car.

  ‘Not your fault,’ Harry said. ‘Can’t see us being out here too long anyway, can you?’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Matt agreed. ‘I just thought it best we come out, if only to reassure James, see how he is, like.’

  ‘How many days is it now since the accident?’ Harry asked as they walked over to the main door, hearing the concern in Matt’s voice.

  ‘That was Monday evening,’ Matt said and knocked at the door. ‘Three nights, then.’

  ‘And he, this Mr Fletcher, I mean, he thinks that he saw his wife in the garden?’

  Matt said, ‘Well, someone who looked like h
is wife at any rate, like I said. Which is why I thought it best we both come over. I know we would, anyway, seeing as it’s an intruder he’s reported, but if he’s thinking it’s his wife, then it’ll give us a chance to check he’s okay, that kind of thing. Dealing with what happened to his wife, well, I’ve seen what it can do to folk.’

  Harry glanced over at Matt, a quizzical look on his face. ‘Isn’t that going a bit further than what the police are supposed to do?’ he asked.

  ‘My view,’ Matt said, ‘is that there’s quite the difference between what we’re supposed to do and what we should do. Don’t think there’s ever anything wrong in us going that little bit further now and again.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Harry agreed as the door opened and a striking face, all angles and narrow eyes, stared back, hair black as oil hanging down onto her shoulders.

  ‘So, he called you then, did he? I tried to dissuade him, but he really wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Dinsdale,’ Matt said, introducing himself to the woman in front of them. ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Grimm. Usually, one of our PCSOs would be out to see you, but you know how it is in the dales; everyone mucks in!’

  The woman was obviously listening to Matt but was staring at Harry.

  ‘Can we come in, please?’ Harry asked, keen to avoid a conversation about the scarring on his face. It didn’t bother him, it was just a little tedious having to explain it every time someone asked about it.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ the woman said, then held out a hand. ‘I’m Patricia Hurst, James’ daughter. I’m sorry, but I’m sure this is a complete waste of your time.’

  ‘No such thing,’ Harry said, attempting a smile. ‘Well, there is, but I doubt this is it.’

  Patricia stepped back into the house, gesturing to Harry for him and Matt to follow her inside.

  ‘As I said, I tried to persuade him not to call you,’ Patricia said. ‘He’s really not been himself at all since the accident. Which I know is hardly a surprise, is it? But still, calling the police? It’s just not necessary, is it? You have other things to be dealing with, not the hallucinations of a grieving old man who’s probably had rather too much to drink.’

  ‘I heard that, Pat,’ said another voice, as an older man now approached them from down the hall, stepping through patches of light splashed across the walls and floor from various lamps, as though using them as stepping stones. He was leaning on a stick, too, Harry noticed.

  ‘Mr Fletcher?’ Harry said.

  The man reached out a hand and Harry reciprocated, shaking it firmly. ‘James, please,’ he said. ‘It’s kind of you to come out. And I’m not drunk, and I know what I saw. I’m not making it up.’

  Harry said, ‘First of all, I, and Detective Sergeant Dinsdale here, would like to offer you our deepest condolences. What happened, well, it was really terrible. And if there’s anything we can do to help, you let us know.’

  ‘Thank you,’ James said. ‘Yes, it’s been an awful week so far, I must say. I should have been the one driving, you know. It’s terrible, really.’

  ‘Well, perhaps it’s best if we can sit down and have a chat somewhere?’ Harry said. ‘Detective Sergeant Dinsdale here will go for a walk around the property while we do, just in case whoever it is that you saw is still out there.’

  ‘Well, that’s not likely, is it?’ Patricia said, her voice barely audible.

  ‘Right, I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ Matt said and headed back out into the night.

  ‘A chat then,’ James said. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ‘No, I’ll do that, Dad,’ Patricia said. ‘Why don’t you go through to the lounge? It’s much more comfortable through there.’

  ‘If you insist,’ James said.

  ‘I do,’ Patricia replied, then turned on her heels.

  ‘She means well,’ said James, leading Harry deeper into the house. ‘But she can be a little spiky, if you know what I mean.’

  In the lounge, Harry waited for James to sit before he did so himself, then gave the man some time to gather himself. It didn’t strike him as entirely sensitive to start questioning straight away, not after what had happened earlier in the week. However, as the silence in the room grew, Harry decided it was probably best to at least break the ice and get some form of conversation going. And from that, hopefully, Mr Fletcher would tell him what he had seen that had caused him to call the police.

  Harry said, ‘I understand you’re a retired colonel.’

  ‘Army through and through,’ James said. ‘Saw a lot of changes, out in theatre a few times, ended up running the whole training of new recruits thing. Yourself?’

  ‘Paras,’ Harry said. ‘Good times.’

  ‘They were that.’ James smiled.

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ Harry said, gazing at the room they were now sitting in. In many ways, it was much like any other lounge, with sofas and a fireplace and cupboards, with photos and paintings decorating the walls, but it was the windows that drew Harry’s attention. It was the largest he’d ever seen outside of a stately home. It was split into three clear sections, and the glazing stretched up to the high ceiling, providing, he was sure, a quite spectacular view of the countryside beyond on a clear day.

  ‘We were very lucky to be able to afford it,’ James said. ‘Helen, she loved it here. The garden was hers, really. I didn’t have much to do with it. Though I’ve got into growing vegetables now that I’m retired, which is rather fun. Flowers, though? All that pretty stuff? I haven’t a clue.’

  ‘I grow a bit of my own, too,’ Matt said, coming into the room to join them.

  ‘Find anything?’ Harry asked, knowing what Matt’s answer was going to be.

  ‘Well, if there was someone out there, then they’ve shoved off,’ Matt said. ‘I had a good look around, like, and I noticed that there’s a footpath runs out back, am I right? Not on your land, but across the fields?’

  ‘That’s true,’ James said. ‘And the Pennine Way is out there, too.’

  ‘Could’ve been a hiker,’ Matt suggested. ‘Out on a night walk or something.’

  Harry looked at James and saw that there was no response to what Matt had said.

  Matt sat down next to Harry. ‘The garden’s wonderful, Mr Fletcher. Would love to see it during the day. Always struck me as a waste of a garden to not use it to grow something you could eat.’

  At this, Harry saw James sparkle just a little.

  ‘Gives you a great excuse to have a shed as well, doesn’t it?’ James said. ‘I never really saw the attraction, probably because I was always too busy, but when I got one, I sort of fell in love with it.’

  ‘It’s the smells I love,’ Matt said. ‘That mix of compost and fresh air and oil for the mower, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I’ve a little stove in mine,’ James said.

  ‘A stove? I’m jealous!’ Matt said.

  Harry could see that Matt very much was. He was beginning to wonder if the only reason they had been called out at all was so that Mr Fletcher could talk to Matt about gardening and sheds.

  ‘Gets really cosy,’ James said. ‘Lovely place for a nap! Helen loved it in there, too, you know. Had her own chair. I think her book is still there, the one she was reading before . . .’

  ‘So, this intruder, then,’ Harry said, keen to keep James focussed.

  James was about to answer when the door to the lounge opened and Patricia walked in carrying a tray with a teapot, cups, and a plate of biscuits. Placing it down on a coffee table, she proceeded to pour.

  ‘I’ll let you add your own milk and sugar,’ she said. ‘People can be so particular about how they take it, can’t they?’

  As Harry leaned over to add milk to his tea, a little nervous about handling the dainty and clearly very fragile and expensive tea set, he became aware of another presence behind him. He turned round to see another man standing in the doorway. He was probably around five foot ten, Harry guessed, and had the nar
row bearing of a man with either a ferocious metabolism or a stressful life. Perhaps both.

  ‘Daniel Hurst,’ the man said, introducing himself with a broad smile. ‘Patricia’s husband. Call me Dan, though. Kind of you to come out. Though, like Patricia, I don’t think it was really necessary.’

  ‘Not kind at all,’ Harry said. ‘A report of an intruder has to be taken seriously.’

  ‘Even an imaginary one?’ Patricia said, standing up.

  Harry didn’t need any of his detective experience to sense the unease in the room.

  ‘I didn’t imagine it,’ James said. ‘I saw her, out there on the lawn! Why won’t anyone believe me?’

  ‘Because it sounds crazy, that’s why!’ Patricia said. ‘And to phone the police . . . What were you thinking?’

  Harry stood up, if only to draw attention to something else other than the argument that was clearly brewing.

  ‘So, Mr Fletcher,’ he said, ‘James . . . Perhaps you could tell us what it was, exactly, that you saw?’

  At this, James stared hard at Patricia, then eased back into his seat.

  ‘It was my wife, Detective,’ James said, turning his attention back to Harry. ‘I’m sure of it. And there’s nothing anyone one can do or say to convince me otherwise.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Probably best if you start from the beginning,’ Harry said.

  ‘You’re not seriously going to listen to this, are you?’ Patricia huffed. ‘He’s tired, he’s upset, we all are, but this, what he said he saw, it’s not real, is it? And we shouldn’t be encouraging it either.’

  ‘Your dad says he saw something,’ Dan said, stepping round to his wife, and Harry heard just the faintest of tension in the man’s voice. ‘Whatever it was, we have to give him a chance to explain, don’t we?’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to stand around and listen to it!’ Patricia said, then with a sharp turn, whipped away from her husband’s side and strode out of the room.’

  ‘Apologies about that,’ Dan said.