Still in their caving gear, both men stood in front of the rest of the team, steaming just a little as they started to warm up.
‘And what’s that smell?’
The question was from Detective Constable Jenny Blades.
‘That’ll be Fly,’ Harry said, glaring for a second at the dog on Jim’s lap.
‘Can’t blame the dog for that.’
Harry turned his attention to Police Constable Jadyn Okri, who’d spoken up in defence of Fly.
‘And is that so, Constable?’ Harry said, narrowing his eyes just enough. ‘An expert on dog farts, are you?’
‘No,’ Jadyn said, a little flustered under Harry’s glare. ‘It’s just that, you know, I mean . . .’
Harry winked. ‘Right, so what do we know about this MISPER, then? Who called it in?’
‘Right now, not much,’ Jenny said. ‘White male, age forty-seven, name Charlie Baker. Last seen early morning, by which I mean one-ish. Someone called Eric Jones rang. He’s staying at the same place as Baker.’
‘So, it really was him, then,’ Matt said, looking over at Harry. ‘That author bloke Gordy went to see yesterday.’
‘Yep,’ said Jenny. ‘Gordy’s actually on her way over now.’
‘She’s coming here?’ Harry asked.
Jenny shook her head. ‘No, she’s heading over to have a chat with this Eric bloke, and the rest of the party. His literary agent, an Anna Jones, is there, plus his PA and a couple others.’
While everyone was talking, Harry started to notice the smell Jenny had pointed out earlier. It wasn’t exactly pleasant. Wensleydale, he considered, seemed to enjoy a wide range of pungent aromas, both above and below its wide, green surface.
‘Right, we’d best get changed,’ he said. ‘Jen, have you got the address of this literary agent, then, where he was staying? I’ll head over and meet Gordy there.’
Jenny handed Harry a Post-It Note with an address scrawled on it in blue biro.
‘What about the rest of us?’ Jim asked, Fly jumping off his lap to slink under a table for a nap.
‘The usual stuff with a missing person case,’ Harry said. ‘Jen, can you call this Anna James and let her know I’m on my way as well. Ask for any other contact details and then the rest of you can see what you can find out about Charlie Baker, friends, family, that kind of thing.’
‘We’ll all get on it,’ Matt said. ‘I’ll get Mr Baker on the National Crime Information Centre Missing Persons File. He’ll probably turn up in a few hours, but best to cover all the bases, see what we can find out, check if anyone knows of any reason why he might have gone walkabout, financial problems, health issues, anything.’
‘If we can have a nosy at his internet and social media usage, that might give us an idea or two,’ Jadyn said.
Jenny added, ‘I’ll let the Mountain Rescue Team know about it as well, just in case.’
‘Jim and I can follow on behind,’ Liz said. ‘Go knock on some doors. Someone might have seen or heard something.’
‘And I’ll go and have a chat with the owner of the bookshop,’ Jenny said.
Harry turned to Matt. ‘I want you to stay here, okay? Coordinate this for us, collate any data or whatever else comes in, and keep everyone up to date. Oh, and I suppose you had better let Detective Superintendent Swift know what we’re up to.’ Harry made his way over to the door. ‘I’ll see you all later. Any developments, everything goes through Matt. He can update me as and when necessary.’
Outside the community centre, Harry jumped up into his vehicle and drove over to park near his flat. After a quick wash and a change of clothes, he was back behind the wheel and heading down the dale. A quick glance at his watch confirmed what his stomach had already told him, that lunchtime was imminent, but he’d just have to put up with a rumbling stomach.
Driving out of Hawes, Harry didn’t exactly zip along in his Rav-4, but neither did he take it easy. Part of his mind was still down Crackpot Cave, the memory of the trip with Matt considerably more positive than he would have thought it could be before he’d headed feet first into the dark unknown. He’d seen yet another side to the dales, and once again been left a little speechless by its beauty. His thoughts turned to his brother Ben, then, wondering if a place like this could help him heal, after everything he’d been through.
Heading up the hill and into Aysgarth, the River Ure tumbled alongside the road as if trying to race anyone driving along it. Harry kept on going, through the village and on down the hill on the other side. He passed the turn off for the famous Aysgarth Falls, which he’d still not visited, and on till he came to a right turn in West Witton—a village of grey stone houses which lined either side of the main road, silently watching lives and years drift on past their windows.
The road soon became a single lane, the drystone walls which lined its progress soon giving way to open moorland. To Harry’s right, the hauntingly bleak flat top of Penhill rose above the valley, then the road tipped gradually downwards and for the first time since being up north, he found himself journeying into Coverdale. Harry smiled, thinking that the only Coverdale he knew about was David Coverdale, the blonde-haired frontman of the heavy rock band, Whitesnake, whose voice was, to his mind, the equivalent of a tuneful jet engine.
The open moorland ended with a cattle grid at the village of Melmerby, and after turning right in the village, and travelling for just a few more miles along a tree-lined road, he found himself in Carlton. The village was so perfect, with its stone houses half asleep behind lush front lawns with neat little flower beds, that Harry wondered if the people who lived here realised just how lucky they truly were.
It was just after the village that Harry found himself to be more than a little pleased that the vehicle he was driving was four-wheel drive, as his satnav took him right, off the main road, and onto a rough gravel lane, which threaded its way neatly between walled fields. Eventually, and after a few twists and turns, the track came to an end at a spinney, underneath which sat a building that was both grand and a little ramshackle all at once. It had the air of a structure built by someone who was pretty sure that people really didn’t care what a place looked like, just so long as it kept the weather out and the warmth in.
It looked somewhat like a cross between a village church, minus the tower, and a Victorian school. The entrance was very grand, jutting out from the house like a tiny, lost castle that had attached itself to the rest of the building for security. It was the kind of entrance and door which Harry thought would look very fine indeed on a stately home, a place with dozens of bedrooms, a few floors, massive gardens. This place was none of that, though it was clearly trying its hardest. Above the entrance and door, the windows of the upper floor stared down, each resting on the largest sills he had ever seen, as though they’d been meant for larger windows, but then during the build, money had run out, and something smaller had been put in instead.
Harry pulled into the parking area in front of the building between two other cars, trying to ignore the eerie feeling that it was watching him, and clambered out. The air was cool and damp, bringing with it the earthy fragrance of the trees, the scent of mushrooms and leaves, dirt and bark, almost as though the darkness hiding underneath the branches was itself breathing into the world.
As Harry made to walk over to the front door, his phone rang.
‘Grimm,’ he said.
‘It’s Swift,’ the voice on the other end of the call said.
Harry stared up at the sky in annoyance, because he was pretty sure that whatever Detective Superintendent Swift wanted, it was bound to ruin his day.
‘Sir,’ he said, but left it at that, not wishing to encourage too much of a conversation.
‘Do you have a minute?’
‘No,’ Harry replied. ‘We’ve a missing person’s case just come in, so I’m just about to go and meet the person who reported it.’
‘I know all about that,’ Swift said. ‘DS Dinsdale already filled me in with the detai
ls. Sounds like a lot of fuss over nothing.’
‘Possibly,’ Harry said, ‘but we have to do our job properly and make sure.’
‘Yes, of course, you do,’ Swift replied. ‘Did you think I was implying that you wouldn’t?’
Harry didn’t reply. He knew there was no point, not with Swift.
‘What about later?’ Swift asked. ‘Mid-afternoon? At the community centre?’
‘That should be fine,’ Harry said, heart sinking at the thought of actually having to meet with the man in person. ‘Can I ask what this is about?’
‘It’s about DCI Alderson, but I’ll explain more when I see you in Hawes, say, three-ish?’
Harry had heard little if any mention of the previous detective chief inspector since arriving in Wensleydale himself as a temporary replacement.
‘I’ll see you then, sir.’
‘Good,’ Swift replied and hung up.
Stuffing his phone back into a pocket, Harry walked over to the lodge as the sound of another vehicle caught his attention. He turned to see a Detective Inspector Gordanian Haig pulling up in an incident response vehicle beside his own somewhat humble transport. She climbed out and walked over.
‘Any more news on this?’
Harry shook his head. ‘Nothing yet. Was the thing you went to any good?’
Gordy’s eyes widened and she gave a slow nod. ‘Well, it was certainly eventful.’
‘Really?’ Harry replied. ‘Wasn’t it just a book signing or something?’
‘Yes,’ Gordy replied. ‘But things kicked off at one point with a fan. I had to step in to calm it down. Bit strange, to be honest. Can’t say anyone was expecting it.’
‘You think that’s got anything to do with this? With this author bloke disappearing?’
‘Well, we’ll just have to see,’ Gordy said. ‘After you.’ She gestured to the door, which was at least eight feet high and painted a deep green. ‘It’s an old shooting lodge,’ she explained. ‘In case you were wondering. It’s quite evocative, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Evocative?’ Harry repeated, the word almost refusing to leave his mouth. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I don’t really know,’ Gordy said. ‘Just seems a wee bit more polite than saying it looks old and knackered and could probably do with pulling down.’
Harry knocked at the door, which opened almost immediately.
‘Oh, thank God you’re—’
The woman at the door was bleary-eyed, and Harry assumed that it was from worry and lack of sleep over the missing Charlie. But then almost immediately, on seeing Harry’s not entirely welcoming visage, it swiftly moved to one of abject horror.
‘Ms James?’ Harry said, attempting reassurance and a smile, which he knew probably only made matters worse, ‘I’m DCI Harry Grimm, and this is—’
‘Your face . . .’ the woman said, lifting a hand to her own almost as though she was making sure that whatever had happened to Harry wasn’t infectious. ‘Dear God, what happened to you?’
‘What, this?’ Harry said, pointing at his chin. ‘Count yourself lucky. I have to live with it.’
The woman was wearing an ankle-length silk dressing gown covered in an elaborate pattern of tropical birds. It wasn’t, Harry thought, the kind of thing he would ever wear himself.
‘And your name is Grimm?’
‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’ Gordy said. ‘May we come in?’
‘Oh, yes, of course, and you poor man!’ the woman squawked, as though what Harry had said was the most appalling thing she’d ever heard. ‘I’ll get Anna for you. Come in, come in!’
Harry and DI Haig followed the woman into the lodge. The hall they now stood in, from which a large oak staircase led upstairs, was dark but warm, the walls decorated with various paintings of shooting scenes—Spaniels retrieving birds, men with shotguns raised to the sky as flurries of birds passed overhead. A coat rack was hung with various jackets, there was a large china pot filled with battered walking sticks, and beneath the coats a row of green Wellington boots. Abigail led them through a door and into a large lounge, similarly decorated, but with the addition of various stuffed animals, a roaring fire, and a number of sofas and comfortable chairs. A table was set to one side with food and Harry’s stomach rumbled. Gordy glanced up at him.
‘Hungry?’
Harry didn’t answer. He was still taken with the décor of the place, feeling almost as though they’d stepped back in time a few decades. And everywhere he looked, another dead animal stared back.
‘Anna? Anna, darling! The police are here about Charlie!’
The woman in the dressing gown swept off up the stairs. Through a door in the hall, another woman joined them, a lit cigarette between her fingers.
‘I’m Anna James,’ the woman said, raising an eyebrow at Harry, then she looked over at Gordy.
‘DCI Harry Grimm,’ Harry offered. ‘And this is DI Gordanian Haig.’ He checked his notebook. ‘I understand that an Eric Jones called in earlier about a MISPER?’
The woman stared back at Harry, confusion in her face.
‘Oh, right, sorry,’ Harry said. ‘Police speak. A missing person?’
‘Of course, Charlie! No idea where he’s gone. What an idiot! He has no idea of the trouble he’s caused.’ the woman said, but turned her focus again to Gordy. ‘You were there yesterday,’ she said. ‘At Charlie’s event? So, you’re a fan, then?’
‘I am and I was, yes,’ Gordy replied.
‘You don’t think that had anything to do with it, do you?’ the woman asked. ‘That fan, what she said, it was so upsetting for him, you know. We were so pleased and so very fortunate that you were there to calm things down. Honestly, you saved the day, I’m sure of it.’
Gordy said, ‘Perhaps we can sit down?’
‘Oh, yes, of course, how rude of me,’ the woman replied, taking a quick suck on her cigarette. ‘Do sit.’
‘Thank you, Ms James,’ Harry said.
‘Anna.’ The woman smiled. ‘Please, call me Anna. I’ve just made some fresh coffee. And we’ve some food leftover from last night, if you’re hungry? It is lunchtime after all, isn’t it? And we were just sitting down to have something to eat after spending the morning worrying.’
‘We?’ Harry asked. ‘How many of you are there?’
‘Six,’ Anna replied. ‘Myself, Chris Eghart, she’s Charlie’s PA, and Adam Sharp, his editor. Then we had some friends come over as a surprise for Charlie—Mark, Abi, who you met, and Eric, who called you. Though I wish he hadn’t, because we really don’t want to cause any trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ Harry said. ‘It’s our job.’
‘We were just having a little party, you know? It was rather jolly, too. Goodness knows why Charlie’s run off. Authors can be very sensitive souls, you know?’ She gestured to the food. ‘Please, do help yourselves. I’ll go and collect the others.’
As Anna left them alone, Harry asked, ‘So why are they here, then, do you think? I mean, it’s not exactly plush, is it? I would’ve thought a best-selling author launching a new novel would be staying in something a bit more luxurious.’
Gordy was over by the food.
‘PR stunt I think,’ Gordy said. ‘His new novel is set up here, well the first part of it is anyway. I read the first few chapters last night. It’s a cracker! Which reminds me . . .’ Gordy reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a book, handing it to over Harry. ‘As promised! That’s the first in the series. Give it a go. Honestly, you’ll thank me later.’
Harry took the book. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’ll love it, trust me,’ Gordy said, then handed Harry a plate. ‘Now, what do you fancy? Some slices of cold roast beef, a couple of spoonfuls of that rather excellent-looking slaw, or shall we just throw caution to the wind and dive into the cheeseboard nice and early? Because if we don’t get in early, I reckon that Brie is going to do a runner all by itself, don’t you?’
Chapter Ten
Having taken eve
ryone’s details, he explained about his face once again, just so they were all clear that yes, he was fine, and no, he wasn’t in pain, and indeed others had come back from Afghanistan in a much worse state than him so really he was actually very lucky, wasn’t he? Harry was now far too comfortable for someone investigating a missing person, sitting as he was in a deep, soft armchair, a mug of tea close by, and a plate of the most delicious cold food he’d had in a long time resting on his knee.
The warmth pushed out by the fire was only serving to make matters worse and he sensed the urge for a nap scratching at the back of his brain, reaching out thin tendrils of temptation to his eyelids to make them heavy. Sitting forward and doing his best to ignore how his eyelids were doing their best to close for a while, he turned his attention to the six people now in front of him and DI Haig.
The first, a young woman called Chris Eghart, was sitting on the edge of a sofa, picking at her fingernails. A plate of food was in front of her, but as yet, all she’d done was move its contents around a bit rather than eat anything.
‘I knew we should have called the police when he walked out,’ she said. ‘I knew it. It’s my fault!’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said the man sitting next to her, who Harry had been introduced to by Anna as Adam Sharp. He was a couple of years older than Harry, and was sitting on the same sofa with his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together.
Behind them both stood Anna, a fresh cigarette on the go. Harry checked the time to see that it was barely past one in the afternoon, and yet she was already nursing a large glass of red wine. Of the other three, Abigail Edwards, the woman who had greeted them at the door, was sitting on the edge of another sofa staring at her mobile phone. She had, at least, bothered to get dressed, Harry thought. Beside her was Mark Stirling, wearing a linen suit and who sported the smallest, neatest goatee he’d ever seen, and was reading a well-thumbed shooting magazine. The last of the group, Eric Jones, and the oldest by a couple of decades at least, had a kindly, relaxed face. He was sitting in an armchair and looked ready to fall asleep.
Shooting Season: A DCI Harry Grimm Novel Page 8