Restless Dead (Harry Grimm Book 5)

by David J Gatward

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Harry was sitting in the public bar of The Fountain Hotel in Hawes. The first time he’d been there had been with Liz and Matt a few weeks ago to discuss a case, play darts, and drink beer. This time, darts was definitely not on the menu, of that he was certain.

  ‘You didn’t need to drive all this way just to speak to me,’ Harry said, staring across the table over the top of his pint. ‘A phone call would’ve been fine, I’m sure.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Detective Superintendent Alice Firbank, taking a sip from her gin and tonic. ‘And I needed an excuse to get away for the weekend, so here I am!’

  ‘But I’m fine,’ Harry said.

  ‘Yes, but are you, though?’ Firbank said. ‘You’ve had rather a lot on of late, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘I would, yes,’ Harry said, ‘but that’s just life, isn’t it? I’m not saying I don’t appreciate the visit, I do, it’s just that I’m not one for fuss, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘I do,’ Firbank said, ‘but this isn’t a fuss, it’s a professional courtesy that I’ve taken full advantage of.’

  Harry knew there was no arguing with Firbank so he took a deep gulp of his beer, a pint of Butter Tubs, the same as the last time he’d been there, and said, ‘Well, thank you, Ma’am. It’s appreciated.’

  ‘Good,’ Firbank said. ‘It’s never easy when an investigation ends up as messy as the one you and your team have just had to deal with.’

  ‘No, you’re not wrong,’ Harry agreed.

  ‘And there’s nothing you could have done. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I do,’ Harry said.

  ‘You don’t sound very convincing.’

  Harry slumped back a little on his stool. ‘If I’d checked that other room first, then Patricia, she would be alive, wouldn’t she? That’s a tough one to swallow, that’s all.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Firbank said. ‘Patricia made her own choices.’

  ‘And I made mine and now she’s dead,’ Harry said.

  ‘But her sister isn’t,’ Firbank pointed out. ‘If you’d gone into that other room first, for all you know Ruth might not have made it.’

  Harry’s response was a low, rumbling grumble.

  ‘How is she, by the way? And the rest of the family?’

  ‘She’s back home,’ Harry said, ‘with Anthony.’

  ‘And Patricia’s husband?’

  ‘He’s staying around for a while, I think,’ Harry said. ‘The poor bloke, having to deal with all of that.’

  ‘And he had no idea at all?’

  ‘Apparently not,’ Harry said. ‘They didn’t really share anything it seems, you know, like a normal couple. He had no idea just how badly her last business had gone south. And it had taken a load of her investments with it.’

  ‘Desperate times, desperate measures,’ Firbank said.

  ‘I don’t think she was close to her dad,’ Harry said. ‘And I’m guessing she couldn’t see another way out. She knew they were heading out on his birthday, Dan was away, so she drove up and waited for them to head home.’

  ‘Inheritance does funny things to people,’ sighed Firbank. ‘And she was on the phone to her dad when the crash happened?’

  Harry gave a shallow nod. ‘That was the one thing I couldn’t work out, how she’d know exactly where they’d be and when. Amazing what you can find when you check someone’s phone records, isn’t it? And she didn’t mention it when we interviewed her, which is hardly a surprise, is it?’

  ‘Not really, no,’ Firbank said.

  ‘I’m not even sure that she was actually trying to kill them,’ Harry said. ‘Maybe she was just trying to cause an accident, force their hand into selling up and sharing out the money. But that torch really did a number on her mum and instead of a small crash, well, the worst happened, didn’t it?’

  ‘Then, it sounds like it just became a case of in for a penny, in for a pound,’ said Firbank.

  ‘She saw an opportunity and took it, I guess,’ Harry said. ‘Drugged her husband with the same stuff she’d used on her dad, Dan’s own sleeping tablets, so that she could sneak out, I’m assuming to ply her dad with even more whisky, before setting the place on fire. As evil plans go, it wasn’t a bad one. Ruth was lucky to survive her supposed suicide.’

  ‘I understand that it doesn’t feel right though,’ Firbank said. ‘Sort of unfinished, because there’s no arrest, no trial, nothing. Just a broken family.’

  Harry nodded, had nothing to say, took another mouthful of his beer. ‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.

  ‘At The Herriot,’ Firbank said. ‘You spoke so highly of it, so I thought, why not?’

  ‘Watch the breakfasts though,’ Harry said. ‘They’re terrifying.’

  Firbank pulled something from a bag she had resting to one side on the floor.

  ‘Here,’ she said, sliding a plain brown envelope across the table towards Harry. ‘Various bits and bobs to sign, to make it all official. Assuming you’re still decided, that is?’

  ‘I am,’ Harry said, reaching out for the envelope.

  ‘And Ben?’

  ‘He’s fine about it,’ Harry said. ‘Happier, I think, now that the decision is made. Bit of stability, you know?’

  ‘Everyone needs it,’ Firbank said, then she reached for her gin and tonic and finished what was left, before getting to her feet.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ she said, looking down at Harry, ‘I think this is possibly one of the best decisions you’ve ever made.’

  ‘You’re only saying that because you’ll miss me.’

  ‘I will, Harry,’ Firbank said, ‘but not necessarily for all the right reasons.’

  Harry wasn’t exactly sure what the DSup meant by that.

  ‘Any plans for the weekend?’ Firbank asked, picking up her bag.

  ‘Matt’s taking Ben caving,’ Harry said. ‘So, I’ll be waiting for them in the car with a good book and a flask of something hot and sweet.’

  Firbank laughed. ‘A book? What has happened to you, Grimm?’

  ‘Wensleydale,’ Harry said with a smile.

  Then Firbank was gone and Harry was alone with his beer.

  For the next few minutes, as he finished his drink, Harry did his best to avoid thinking about everything that had happened over at Black Moss House, but it wasn’t easy. It had all ended up just too messy, really, but then it had been a strange one from the off, hadn’t it? And he was fairly sure that from this point forward, if there was any hint of an investigation involving anything supernatural, he’d be doing his best to convince Detective Superintendent Swift to take it on instead.

  Standing up, Harry finished his pint and made his way over to the door, pushing his way out into the Friday evening air. The day was finishing off cold, with ice in the wind, and Harry turned into it to head home. As he did so, his phone buzzed in his pocket, as he’d put it on silent while chatting to his soon to be ex Detective Superintendent. He answered it without looking at the number.

  ‘Grimm?’

  ‘Harry, it’s Jim.’

  ‘It’s Friday evening,’ Harry said. ‘You do know that, don’t you? You’re not even on duty!’

  ‘I know,’ Jim said, ‘but I didn’t know who else to call.’

  Harry heard then the worry in the PCSO’s voice. ‘Jim?’ he said. ‘What’s up? What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Neil,’ Jim said.

  ‘Neil?’ Harry said. ‘What about him? What’s happened?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  And Harry’s Friday night swirled about him as, at the end of the line, he heard Jim start to cry.

  DCI HARRY GRIMM RETURNS IN …

  Death’s Requiem

  Author’s Note

  The dales are hauntingly beautiful and will stay with you long after you leave. Even now, over thirty years later, I can still walk the same paths and lanes in my mind, and the fresh, crisp air of an April morning will easily send me back to the foot
path that leads through the fields from Hawes to Gayle, which I would tread every Sunday afternoon with my brother, as we walked to Sunday School.

  So, why a ghost story? Well, I saw my first ghost when I was fifteen. I was doing my Saturday job of mowing the lawn at The Old Rectory in Epworth, a house famous for its own haunting in the 1700s. The day was bright and warm and I was plugged into my headphones listening to the KISS album, Crazy Nights. As I mowed long strips into the huge lawn I looked up to see, standing under an enormous tree, a figure in a black suit and black hat, hands crossed in front of his body, looking at me. I looked up again, the figure was gone. I turned the mower off, leaving it in the middle of the lawn, and went home, returning later that day to finish it. But I was always wary of the place afterwards. I saw my second ghost when I worked at Marrick Priory, over in Swaledale. I was 18, living in a static caravan on site. I woke up one night to find the caravan lit with light and standing inside was a woman in a corseted dress, hair pulled up behind her head. I’ve had other similar experiences, too, but as to an explanation? That I cannot provide.

  The story here is from one I remembered from living in the dales (and I even checked up on it with an old friend to make sure!) I didn’t want it to be just a ghost story, but more an exploration of what grief and stress can do to the mind and how we react to it. Whether I’ve achieved that is for you to decide, but I certainly had a lot of fun writing it.

  The house exists, under a different name, and once again I wanted the dales to be as much a character in the story as the people you get to meet in these pages. Cotter Force is a sight to behold, and well worth the walk, and when you happen upon it, it is hard to believe that such a place can exist and is not so famous as to have a ticket booth and a car park! But then, that’s the beauty of it, I think, that it is a hidden gem and requires a modicum of effort to go and find.

  The small village of Burtersett is a beautiful little place, and Jim’s family farm is one a friend of mine lived in when we were children (I dedicated book one, Grimm Up North, to him and another old school friend). I remember visiting it, wandering around the fields, the farm. And the auction mart, which I’m sure will feature again, was a mainstay of my own father’s life when we lived there. It really is worth a visit. You may feel a little out of place, wandering around the pens, surrounded by animals and farmers, but you will be walking through the very essence of the dales, I promise you. And when you leave, I have no doubt that a little piece of the dales will go with you, and those memories, like ghosts, will haunt you, and you will sure to want to go back.

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  About David J. Gatward

  David had his first book published when he was 18 and has written extensively for children and young adults. Restless Dead is his fifth crime novel.

  For more information:

  www.davidjgatward.com

  dciharrygrimm@hotmail.com

  Also by David J. Gatward

  THE DCI HARRY GRIMM SERIES

  Grimm Up North

  Best Served Cold

  Corpse Road

  Shooting Season

  Death’s Requiem

  THE PADRE SERIES

  Padre: Mission Creep

  Padre: Raised From Death

  Padre: Jaws of Hell

  SHORT STORIES / NOVELLAS

  Padre: Damascus Road