Shooting Season: A DCI Harry Grimm Novel

by David J Gatward

  Walking through the woods, the trees catching the wind and turning it into their own language of secrets whispered through bark and twig and branch and leaf, Arthur enjoyed the feeling of the weight of the bag of feed he carried. He’d never been one for keeping fit as an interest, couldn’t understand folk who spent hours in a gym, but he had a feeling he could out walk and out lift most people half his age, thanks to the life he’d led.

  Ahead, a dozen or so pheasant dashed about. The pens were open now, and the birds could freely move between the world beyond and where they’d been reared. But they were still a little cautious of moving too far away. There were fewer now, though, Arthur noticed, thinking back just to a few days ago when he’d last been up here, and the daft creatures had been racing about, that odd, manic clollocking sound they made filling the air.

  At the feeder, a cylindrical thing of green plastic that used gravity to provide a continuous source of high-calorie nutrition for the birds, Arthur dropped the sack and cut it open with his trusty old pocketknife. It still held a good edge, the blade worn from years of use and the sharpening stone to keep it keen. Lifting the sack to fill the feeder, something caught Arthur’s eye just a way off in the distance. Whatever it was, he couldn’t tell from where he was standing, because it was hidden in the shadows of the low branches of some old silver birch trees.

  Resting the sack back down on the ground, Arthur walked over to see what it was, because from where he stood, all he could make out was odd shapes and colours, which just didn’t seem to fit with the surroundings. This pen was one he’d put together himself, and he was pretty damned sure that what he was looking at now had nothing to do with anything he had done himself.

  Drawing closer, the shapes and the colours began to take form, and Arthur found himself walking towards what to him looked like someone lying on the ground. That made no sense at all, he thought. Who the hell would be out here, in the pen, and lying in the dirt of all places? And why?

  ‘Hello?’ Arthur called out, his footsteps slower now, cautious, his voice steady and calm so as not to frighten whoever it was. ‘This is private property, so if you’re lost, and I assume you are, I can help you find your way out, no bother at all.’

  A sound to his left had Arthur snapping around to see a blur of movement.

  ‘Oi! You! I see you!’

  Arthur made to move after the blur, only to trip over his own stick in his haste. He crashed to the ground, the softness of the woodland floor breaking his fall just enough to only wind him, rather than break or bruise anything too seriously.

  Swearing under his breath, Arthur pushed himself up onto his knees and stared again at the body as the blur which had caught his attention revealed itself to be a roe deer. It bounded off, a flash of brown disappearing to nothing in the trees.

  He could see the person more clearly now, and Arthur noticed that it was strangely still. Perhaps it was someone who’d had a skinful at the pub and got lost on the walk back home, he thought. There was a pub not too far away, and he recalled that he had, on occasion, taken a wrong turn after a few too many ales and ended up a little lost. Not from that particular pub, but from one or two others, with shortcuts across fields leading to nowhere but trouble. And whoever this was, bedding down with the pheasants of all things, well they must’ve had a proper skinful the night before, Arthur thought, because they weren’t responding at all to his voice.

  ‘Hello?’ Arthur called again, his voice louder this time, clear. ‘You’ll be catching your death if you stay out here any longer. So, let’s be getting you on with heading back to wherever it is you were going in the first place, eh?’

  Arthur paused. Whoever it was, they were either very hard of hearing, unconscious, or . . . But no, Arthur thought, they couldn’t be, could they? Of course not. It’s just some daft sod who got drunk, pranged his car, and spent the night out here unconscious and half-frozen to death, no doubt, that’s all . . .

  A pheasant crashed through the space between Arthur and the figure on the ground, a squawking, panicked mass of feathers dancing in the speckled sunlight dripping like molten gold through the tree canopy above.

  ‘Away with you!’ Harry said, waving his stick at the bird, frustrated now that whoever this was in front of him was quickly moving from mildly annoying to downright rude.

  Arthur took two further steps further, ducking under branches thick with leaves turning from emerald green to burnished bronze. When he lifted his head again to see ahead where the person lay, ready with his stick to give the daft sod a damn sharp jab, he saw then that something was wrong. Terribly so, actually, but for a moment he couldn’t quite take it all in.

  At first, Arthur was fairly sure that what he was seeing was nothing more than a trick of the light, the way the body seemed to just finish at the shoulders. Then he was convinced that it was the woodland gloom hiding what was surely there, that being a head and all, because trees held shadows thick around themselves, didn’t they, and all God’s creatures used them to stay hidden? But it wasn’t light and it wasn’t shadow, and Arthur’s voice was caught in his throat like sheep wool in barbed wire, as his mind, at last, took in what was in front of it and made the only sense of it that it could.

  The body was laid out on its back, as though felled by an axe, arms down by its side. It was wearing expensive-looking leather shoes, blue jeans, and a grey jumper. All of it looked so normal, Arthur thought, so every day, except what was above the jumper made it anything but. Because where a head should have been, a proper solid human head, the kind of head that all human bodies had, was nothing but an empty space, a dark pool where blood had poured from the ragged neck into the soil, and a fan-shaped spray of blood and bone painted on the woodland floor. And around it, decorating the branches of the trees like tinsel, hung thin threads of wet flesh, slowly drying in the breeze.

  And Arthur’s only real thought, other than what the birds must have thought to see this happen right where they liked to come in for rest, shelter, and a feed, was that he was going to have to speak to that woman again, only this time it was him that was going to have to do the cancelling.

  Harry’s phone woke him at seven thirty-three, shifting a thick fog of beer and food from his brain with the deft and deadly swipe of a razor-sharp scythe. He was close to ignoring it, but instinct held sway and before he could do anything about it, the phone was in his hand.

  ‘Grimm,’ he said, his voice a phlegm-filled cough. He was pretty sure he’d been sensible the night before, but the ache in his head and his arid throat said something different.

  ‘Yeah, you don’t sound great, Boss,’ the voice on the other end said.

  ‘Matt?’ Harry said, checking the time on his phone, immediately alert to an early morning call on a Sunday morning from his DS. ‘What’s up? Something happen?’

  ‘You could say that, yes,’ Matt replied. ‘We’ve got a body.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  By the time Harry had arrived at the crime scene, the rest of the team were already there, had the place fully cordoned off with lots of nice bright stay away tape, and were waiting for the scene of crime team to turn up. Jadyn was Scene Guard and taking the details of anyone and everyone who entered the site.

  ‘They’ll only be another fifteen minutes,’ Matt said, as Harry came over to stand with him. ‘I’m sure Sowerby will be thrilled that we’re ruining her weekend.’

  ‘It’s not us,’ Harry said. ‘And she’ll be fine, I’m sure.’

  When he’d first met Pathologist Rebecca Sowerby, they hadn’t exactly seen eye to eye, or got on, or really liked each other at all, if he was honest. But their last encounter, which had started with the discovery of a body on the moors above Gunnerside in Swaledale, had gone a little bit better. He certainly wouldn’t go so far as to say they were now friends, but the cold between them had definitely thawed a little.

  ‘Who called it in?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Arthur Black,’ Matt said. ‘He’s a gamekeeper. Was d
own here to feed the pheasants.’

  ‘He around?’

  ‘Just over there,’ Matt nodded, and Harry looked over to see an old man leaning up against an old Land Rover and talking with Jenny.

  ‘I’ll be having a word with him in a bit, then,’ said Harry. ‘So, what have we got?’

  ‘‘A smashed-up car, and a nice one, too, at that, and a body,’ Matt said. ‘It’s a bit of a mess, to be honest.’

  Harry wasn’t quite sure what Matt meant by that but wasn’t going to question it. He’d be finding out soon enough. ‘Last night was great, by the way,’ he said, stifling a yawn. ‘Joan enjoy it?’

  ‘She did that,’ Matt replied. ‘Though she’s none too happy about me heading off to this, on today of all days, I can tell you. Not much I can do about it, like.’

  Harry stared up the lane, then back down again to the main road. ‘How does anyone kill themselves on a lane like this, then?’ he asked. ‘You’d be lucky to get up enough speed to get a puncture.’

  ‘I didn’t say the body was in the car,’ Matt said.

  ‘Well, that’s even weirder, then, isn’t it?’ Harry said. ‘First, you have to not be wearing a seatbelt, then you have to be fairly flying along to be thrown clear in an accident. And this car, I don’t suppose it’s a Porsche by any chance, is it?’

  ‘Yeah, it is,’ Matt said, his voice grave. He then cupped his hands together and blew into them to warm them up. ‘So, do you fancy a quick gander before the SOC lot turn up?’

  ‘What about the divisional surgeon?’

  ‘She’s already been,’ Matt said, and Harry was a little disappointed to have missed the force of nature that was Margaret Shaw, a woman who seemed to cast herself through life with the drive and spectacle of a tall ship racing through a storm, sails taut in the howling wind.

  Harry glanced around at the rest of his team. Jadyn was having a natter with Liz, Jen was still with the gamekeeper who had called it in, and Jim was down by the main road, to direct the SOC team when they arrived. Gordy was on her way.

  ‘You know what, Matt?’ Harry said, nodding at the others. ‘Looks to me like this is all in hand. So, why don’t you head back to Joan?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t do that,’ Matt said, shaking his head. ‘This is important. It’s all part of the job, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s the weekend,’ Harry said. ‘And it’s your wedding anniversary. You should be with Joan. I’m sure you had plans.’

  ‘That we did, but she understands.’

  ‘You’re not listening to me, are you?’ Harry said, leaning in now and making full use of his imposing size. ‘I’m telling you to go home. We’re all good here.’

  Matt was quiet for a moment, thoughtful.

  ‘If you’re sure . . .’

  ‘Of course, I’m bloody well sure!’ Harry said, his voice a sharp bark. ‘I’m not in the habit of saying things if I’m not sure about them, am I?’

  ‘True,’ Matt agreed, then added, ‘Look, I’ll do a once-over of the crime scene with you, then head off. How’s that sound as a compromise?’

  ‘It’ll do,’ Harry said. ‘Come on then.’

  Matt handed Harry some PCP kit then led the way.

  At the car, Harry first checked the number plate against the one he’d been given by Adam the day before.

  ‘It’s his,’ he said. ‘The author’s, Charlie Baker.’

  ‘Must be doing alright, then,’ Matt said. ‘Imagine earning enough to have something like this on your driveway, eh?’

  ‘Can’t say that I’d want it.’ Harry shrugged. ‘Better things to spend your money on than a massive penis extension.’

  Harry had a slow walk around to see if he could see anything strange or untoward. He couldn’t. It was just a car that had been driven off the road at speed and into a bush, deeply, too. Which was what got him thinking.

  ‘This looks deliberate, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, I wondered that, too,’ agreed Matt. He then wandered over to point at the tyre tracks on the lane leading up to where the car had veered off. ‘Doesn’t look like it skidded off at all, if you ask me. There’s no indication that the driver lost control, more like it was driven in here then aimed into the bush at speed.’

  ‘To make sure it was nice and hidden,’ Harry said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Harry looked in through the windows then went round to the driver’s door. ‘Bit of a scramble to get out,’ he said, ‘what with all these brambles. Where’s the key?’

  ‘Arthur has it,’ Matt said. ‘Took it out when he found the car just to make sure someone couldn’t come back here and nick it.’

  Harry stepped away from the vehicle. It would definitely need towing out, that was for sure. ‘So, where’s the body, then?’

  ‘Follow me,’ Matt said.

  Harry stepped in behind Matt as the DS led them a little way further up the track, before heading off into the woods themselves. Harry was struck by the deep quiet of the place. Yes, there was the wind stretching its way through the branches to take any loose leaves on a dance, but it was a silence which went beyond the simple notion of a lack of sound. It was as though here, beneath the deep green canopy, nature had taken it upon itself to begin mourning the awful events it had witnessed at some point over the past couple of days.

  They hadn’t gone far when Matt said, ‘Just ahead now. Mind and watch yourself with the branches though.’

  A few steps further and Harry was staring down at a scene which was as artistic as it was horrific.

  ‘Good God . . .’

  ‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ Matt said. ‘I mean, if you’re going to top yourself, at least this way you make sure. Do you think it’s him? The author?’

  ‘We’ll leave that to the pathologist to find out for sure, but it’s not looking good, is it?’ Harry didn’t want to get too close, if only because he knew to do so would go a long way towards souring things again with the pathologist, who was very keen to have a crime scene as untouched as was possible. But also, he didn’t really want to. What he could see from where he was now standing was more than enough to give him some idea as to what had taken place.

  ‘Must’ve just walked in here from the car with the shotgun and then—’ Matt mimed placing a gun under his chin and pulling the trigger.

  Harry moved a little to get a different view of the body, but didn’t go far, afraid of damaging evidence, because what the gun had done to the head, well, who knew how far DNA evidence had spread? He spotted the shotgun, which was laying close by, just away from the body’s right hand. Then he allowed his eyes to roam across what was in front of them in an attempt to absorb it all and take in all the detail.

  The head was gone, that much was obvious, but in such a way as to be completely obliterated. Perhaps both barrels had been used at once? That would certainly do it. He’d witnessed similar suicides, but usually some part of the head remained, often the back of the skull, the blast having erased the face from existence completely. The contents of the head were scattered all around, covering the ground directly above where the body had fallen, and also hanging from the trees and bushes around them. The body itself was laying on its front, resting on a woodland floor of leaf-mulch and twig, but amongst it, he spotted something else.

  ‘What’s this, then?’ Harry asked, holding up a brownish pellet in his fingers. He squeezed and the pellet broke into crumbs.

  ‘Pheasant feed, I should think,’ Matt said.

  Harry saw the pellets scattered around and about.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ Matt asked as they both turned away from the body to make their way back up past the car and to the rest of the team. ‘I mean, from what you and Gordy said, it certainly sounded like this Charlie Baker was pissed off after what happened at the book signing event. Add in a load of alcohol and you’ve a recipe for something like this.’

  Harry said nothing. Yes, what Matt said made sense, and it would be easy to see how this could all be tied up n
eatly as the shocking and terrible act of a man who probably wasn’t in a fit state, deciding that he’d had enough. But he couldn’t get away from what his gut was telling him, that something here wasn’t quite right, though he couldn’t yet identify what that was.

  Back with the rest of the team, Harry made his way over to chat to the gamekeeper, but on the way stopped and stared hard at Matt.

  ‘That’s you done for the day,’ he said. ‘Now get back to your wife and do the best you can to relax and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Not easy with this playing on my mind,’ Matt replied.

  ‘That’s why police work is teamwork,’ Harry said. ‘There’s nothing more for you to be thinking about until tomorrow because everyone else is here doing the job. Now, do I have to physically throw you into your car, or will you go quietly?’

  ‘You threatening me, Boss?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Harry grumbled. ‘Now do us all a favour and bugger off.’

  Matt gave a short nod and walked away, then as he went to get into his vehicle, he turned around and said, ‘One final thing . . .’

  ‘What?’ Harry growled.

  ‘The gift. It’s great.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Everyone loves a hamper, Boss,’ Matt said. ‘And a hamper filled with tea, clotted cream and jam? Very thoughtful.’

  ‘Just a bit of fun,’ Harry shrugged, ‘that’s all.’

  ‘Obviously I’m now going to have to make scones,’ Matt said, ‘which is perhaps where it could all go very wrong. Anyway, like I said, thanks.’

  Harry gave a nod, then pointed at the road. ‘Go!’

  Once Matt had finally reversed out of the lane and sped off, Harry continued over to meet and talk to the gamekeeper, Arthur Black.

  ‘I’m DCI Harry Grimm,’ he said, introducing himself.