The first, a middle-aged woman, looked more than a little wired, her eyes flittering from Harry to Matt and back again. She held a lit cigarette between her fingers and was first to sit down on one of the sofas by the fire. Charlie’s agent, Anna James, Jenny guessed, remembering what Harry and Matt had told them about the interview the previous day. So, she’d been in a relationship with the victim, had she? That was interesting. And then there was that thing with her finding out that Mr Baker had been using a ghostwriter. Though it sounded as though the man hadn’t really been aware of it, being too tied up in being famous to notice.
The woman had turned her attention from Harry to another in the group, a young woman who looked like she hadn’t slept in days. She was rubbing her left arm as well, probably out of nervousness as much as anything else. Chris, Charlie’s agent, Jenny thought.
The rest of the party then joined them, two men and a woman—Adam, Mark, and Abigail. Looking now at the six people in front of them, it was rather difficult for Jenny to see how any of them could be responsible for Charlie’s death. Not a single one of them seemed capable.
Anna was a wreck from it all and was already over at a cabinet pouring a drink. Chris struck Jenny as someone who would have trouble killing a fly, never mind pointing a shotgun at someone and taking their head off. Not only that, Jenny had shot plenty herself and she knew just how those guns could kick. If you didn’t know what you were doing, then a painful bruise was impossible to avoid. She was rubbing her arm, though, Jenny thought again. But no, that was in the wrong place, for sure. As for Adam, why would he kill his employer?
As for Mark and Abigail, they struck Jenny as two hangers-on, fair-weather friends of the worst kind, now caught up in something they undoubtedly desperately wanted to get out of. But then again, all of that was an assumption, wasn’t it? These were strangers to the dales, a murder had clearly happened, and in the end, first impressions counted for little. One of them, Jenny thought, was most likely Charlie’s killer. Now they just had to find out who.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Harry found himself standing with his back to the fire, the toasty warmth seeping into him. In front of him were Jenny, Liz, and Matt, all standing, and the six suspects, all sitting. Beyond them was this house, or lodge, or whatever the hell it actually was, and he couldn’t shift the sudden feeling that this now-murder investigation was, without any help from him or anyone else, doing its best to turn into something from a book or a television show. What the hell was he doing, standing where he was, about to conduct himself in the manner of the erstwhile detective tracking down a murderer hidden in plain sight? And to think, just a few months ago, he would have probably been tracking down some proper underworld scum, his life a rich but terrifying mix of dark alleyways, violence, and adrenaline!
As he got himself ready to speak, Jenny’s question from their journey came back to him. Would he think about staying? Well, would he? Harry thought. What were his reasons to go back? And if he did decide to stay, what would keep him here?
‘Is someone going to tell us what this is all about?’
The question was from Adam and Harry looked at the man and gave a firm nod, locking away, for now, his thoughts on what his future held. Right now, this was what mattered, as it always had.
‘Right then,’ Harry began. ‘First of all, thank you all for your time today.’
‘Weather like this we’re not exactly going anywhere, are we?’ Abigail sighed.
Harry ignored her and continued.
‘As you are all aware, following evidence found at the crime scene, and various other details, Charlie’s death is no longer being regarded as a suicide. We believe that he was murdered.’
‘Well, it clearly wasn’t Anna, was it?’ Adam said. ‘Ridiculous to even think that it could’ve been.’
‘If you’re referring to our interview yesterday, that was, as is this, simply procedure. We are investigating all possible leads and routes of enquiry.’
‘And everyone knows now about how much I helped Charlie,’ Adam continued. ‘After everything, Anna told us about Rose White, and, well, here we are, aren’t we?’
Harry held up a hand to put an end to Adam’s rambling.
‘We are here to speak to you all again about what happened on Friday night and Saturday morning. We will also have a look around the house. I hope I can count on you all to cooperate with us.’
‘So, you do think one of us did it, then?’ asked Mark. ‘One of us killed Charlie? That’s preposterous! He was our friend! If you ask me, you should be spending your time out there, not in here. We’re still grieving him, you know!’
‘All we know is that Charlie was murdered,’ Harry said. ‘It’s our job to find out who was responsible. As yet, we have no suspects. However, hopefully, with the help of everyone here, we can get this all sorted quickly. And I know this is very difficult, but we will do our best to conduct our inquiries as sensitively as we can.’
Eric pushed himself to his feet.
‘I think the best we can all do is to help as much as we can. What happened is a terrible shock to us all, so the sooner it’s all sorted out, the better. Now, who would like some tea?’
Eric didn’t wait for an answer and instead made his way slowly out of the room to the kitchen beyond.
Harry called his team over.
‘Matt, I want you and Jenny here to have a chat with everyone on their own. There must be a room we can use.’
‘We could get them to come over to Hawes,’ Jenny said.
Harry shook his head. ‘No, not yet. Right now, I think this is the best approach. Unconventional, I know, but they’re comfortable here, more relaxed. I know we’ve got a crime scene, but what happened here is linked to it, for sure. I just don’t know how.’
‘Tea’s ready!’ Eric called, coming back into the room with a tray, but as he made his way over to the table, he stumbled.
Harry was over as quick as anyone else. Eric was on the floor, rubbing bruised knees and shooing everyone away from making a fuss. A teapot, cups, and saucers lay scattered about on the floor.
‘You alright?’ Harry asked. ‘What happened?’
‘Tripped on the edge of a rug I believe,’ Eric said. ‘That rather hurt, I must say.’
Harry reached down and, with Adam’s assistance, helped him back up onto his feet. He looked around but could see no rug edge close by for Eric to have come a cropper on.
‘Look at the mess.’ Eric sighed. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ll clean it up.’
‘You’ll do no such thing!’ Anna said, then pointed to Mark and Abigail. ‘I’m not sure I’ve seen either of you make a single pot of tea since we’ve been here, so perhaps you could see yourselves to cleaning up and rectifying that situation, hmm?’
Harry helped Eric over to one of the sofas.
‘Are you sure you alright?’ he asked. ‘You look pale.’
‘I’m fine,’ Eric said. ‘No damage, I’m sure, other than to my pride.’
Harry leaned in then and said, ‘You didn’t trip over a rug.’
‘Well, I tripped over something.’
‘Boss?’
Harry looked up from Eric to see Matt staring at him from across the room.
‘There’s a room out back we can use. I think it used to be a gun room, but it’s now just a reading room or something, because that’s what big houses like this need, apparently.’
Harry stood up and walked over to the detective sergeant.
‘Right then, like I said, if you and Jenny can have a natter with everyone on their own, that way we can cross-check stories and details later on. I’m going to go for a wander with Liz first then we’ll join in. But leave Chris to me, okay?’
‘You want to check up on Anna’s story?’ Matt asked.
‘Like you wouldn’t believe,’ Harry said, then he turned away from Matt, happy to let him get on, and called Liz over, who was at that moment over with Chris.
‘Yes, Boss?’
; ‘You good to go?’
‘Of course.’
Harry then made his way out of the lounge and into the hall.
‘Everything all right back there?’ Harry asked when they were alone and standing at the bottom of the ornate stairs.
‘Not sure,’ Liz replied. ‘Jenny noticed that she, Chris I mean, was rubbing her arm, so I just thought I’d ask if she was alright.’
‘And?’
‘She wouldn’t say much. Just that she’d knocked it against something in the night, going to the loo.’
‘Easy to do in a house like this,’ Harry said. ‘Must be pitch black at night out here.’
‘So, what are we on with, then?’ Liz asked. ‘Just a mooch around, see what’s what?’
‘Basically, yes,’ Harry said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. ‘Like I said, we’ve got a crime scene, we know Charlie was killed where we found him, but I still can’t help but feel like there’s something here, too.’
‘You going to call in forensics?’
Harry shook his head.
‘There’s nothing here to call them out for other than a hunch. So, it’s down to us to see if my hunch is anything or nothing.’
‘After you then, Boss,’ Liz said, and Harry started to make his way up the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Back at the community centre, Jim was more than a little bored. He knew that having someone there was important, and he had Fly for company, so that was something, but he would have much preferred to be out and about.
Considering what the rest of the team was on with, Jim’s day wasn’t really looking as though it was going to be all that exciting. That didn’t matter though, not to Jim, because he knew that his job was an important one. He would do a walk around later, probably closer to lunch, just to show his face, and make sure that the police presence was noticed. He’d pop into a few shops, have a chat with a few folk in the marketplace, that kind of thing. So what if he was just a PCSO? He and Liz both worked as a halfway house between the rest of the team and the general public and he fully believed in his role. He was as close to a local bobby as you could get nowadays, and he liked that. He also appreciated how being a PCSO enabled him enough flexibility to still help out on the farm at home, which was just as important.
Jim leaned back on his chair, considered making yet another mug of tea, but decided against it. At his feet, Fly was doing what Fly seemed to do best, he thought, that being lying on his back with his paws in the air, fast asleep. Of all the dogs he could have picked, he thought, he seemed to have ended up with the one least interested in working the sheep.
A knock at the door caught Jim’s attention. Fly didn’t even twitch an ear.
Walking over, Jim found himself face to face with someone he recognised from the weekend—Arthur Black, the gamekeeper—and who was somewhat wet from the rain.
Jim opened the door.
‘’Ow do,’ the man said, his voice as gruff and rough as the jacket he was wearing, a wax-proof jacket that hadn’t so much seen better days as never had any in the first place. Every bit of it was scratched and worn and ripped and torn, pockets half hanging off and the zip missing half its teeth.
‘Hi,’ Jim replied. ‘It’s Arthur, isn’t it? Is this about the weekend, about the body?’
‘Aye, it is that,’ Arthur said. ‘You got a minute, lad?’
Jim opened the door and allowed Arthur through into the room, guiding him over to a chair that wasn’t in full view of the board Jadyn had put together earlier on. Though Jim had to admit that even if Arthur got a good look at it, there was very little he would learn from it. Not because it didn’t contain any information relevant to the case, but because Jadyn’s approach had been, in many ways, a case of enthusiasm over style. As Arthur walked over, he seemed to bring most of the wet weather outside indoors, as he dripped a path across the floor.
‘Can I get you a tea?’ Jim asked.
‘Usually, I’d say yes,’ Arthur replied, ‘but not right now, no. I won’t be stopping long, like. Just wanted to drop something off.’
‘Oh, right,’ Jim said, and sat down next to the gamekeeper. ‘And what’s that, then?’
‘This,’ Arthur said, and after rummaging around in a pocket inside his jacket, obviously one of the only ones left that still worked as such, he pulled out what he was searching for and dropped it in Jim’s hand.
‘What is it?’ Jim asked.
‘You tell me,’ Arthur replied.
Jim looked down to see a small scrap of material in his palm. It was pretty muddy, so he picked at it a bit to reveal a grey tweed beneath the grime.
‘Where did you find it?’
‘I didn’t, the dog did,’ Arthur said. ‘She’s old, is Molly, but still gets excited when I take her out, like. Typical Springer, she is. Nose to the ground and she’s off like a rocket, flushing birds out all over the place!’
Arthur swept his hand out, miming Molly zipping off to send birds up into the air.
‘Might be something,’ Jim said.
‘Well, it’s definitely nowt to do with me,’ Arthur said. ‘And I can’t see that it’s blown in from anywhere, like, what with them woods being so sheltered. So, when old Molly brought it back, all excited like, I just thought I’d be best dropping it over. It’s the scent that’ll have had her on it. Only reason she would’ve picked it up. Daft animal is half-blind, but thanks to that nose of hers she can still find her way around, better than me, actually.’
Jim looked again at the scrap of cloth. Yes, it was definitely some kind of tweed material. But from what, he had no idea.
‘Well, I’ll get this off to be analysed,’ Jim said, though pretty sure that with the mud, being out in the elements for a few days, and the chewing of it by Arthur’s dog, Molly, there would be little chance of it coming to much.
‘I was right to bring it in, then? Well, that’s grand,’ Arthur said and stood up. ‘That your dog, then?’
Jim looked over to where Fly was stretched out on the floor on his stomach. His eyes looked closed, but the dog obviously knew they were talking about him because his tail started to wag.
‘Yeah,’ Jim said. ‘He is, though what use he’ll be, I wouldn’t like to say right now, if I’m honest.’
Arthur walked over and dropped to his heels with surprising ease and reached out to stroke Fly’s head. ‘He’s a grand looking lad, isn’t he?’
‘He is that,’ Jim replied. ‘Reckon he knows it, too.’
Fly rolled deftly to one side to expose his stomach for a scratch, and Arthur duly obliged.
‘Best friend you could ever have, is a dog,’ Arthur said. ‘You training him to work?’
‘That’s the aim,’ Jim said. ‘Can’t say it’s going to plan.’
Arthur was back on his feet.
‘He’ll be fine,’ Arthur said. ‘He’s strong, alert, and he’s got that look in his eyes, hasn’t he? You’ve seen it, I’m sure. That one that lets you know that he knows exactly what you’re talking about.’
Fly’s tail wagged again, harder this time.
‘See what I mean?’ Arthur grinned and made his way over to the door.
‘Well, thanks for coming over,’ Jim said. ‘Much appreciated.’
‘No bother,’ Arthur replied. ‘If I come across anything else, I’ll be sure to drop it over.’
And with that, the old gamekeeper was gone.
Jim turned back to stare down at Fly.
‘So, you know what I’m talking about do you?’
He was getting hungry now and with lunch only a few minutes away he would usually take the dog out for a stroll. But with the weather as it was, the rain still coming down in stair rods, he had a feeling it would be a bit of a battle to get the animal to leave the warmth.
Fly didn’t move his head, but his eyes shifted just enough to stare up at Jim. His tail thumped once, twice, then dropped to the floor.
Jim smiled and was about to give the dog a belly rub when there was an
other knock at the door. Thinking Arthur had come back for something, he was up and over to it before he realised that it was someone else entirely, though who he had no idea.
‘Yes?’ Jim said, opening the door. ‘Can I help?’
In front of him was a man, probably a few years older than himself, wearing a soaking wet waterproof in the manner of someone who last wore a garment like it a couple of decades ago.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Can I ask what this is about?’
‘Charlie Baker,’ the man said, and Jim noticed that he was fiddling with something in his hand.
‘Right, and can I ask what it is about Charlie Baker you’re here about?’
It’s a digital recorder, isn’t it? Jim thought. And that meant only one thing: the press.
The man lifted his hand, the digital recorder at the ready.
‘I understand that the actress, Rose White, was interrogated yesterday about Charlie’s murder,’ the man said. ‘She is reportedly shocked at the accusations levelled at her.’
Jim tried to close the door. The man slipped his foot forward to stop him.
‘She also states that she was hired by one of Charlie’s friends, his agent no less, to pose as a fan at his book launch, that she was to accuse him of using a ghostwriter, and that she believes the event has led to his committing suicide.’
Jim shoved harder this time and the man’s foot slipped a little.
‘I’m afraid that I am in no position to talk about anything to do with the case with the press,’ Jim said, his generally calm demeanour being pushed now by this journalist.
‘So, you will neither confirm nor deny what I’ve said? Is that not confirmation then that what I’ve said is true, that Charlie Baker committed suicide because someone outed him about using a ghostwriter?’
‘I need to ask you to leave,’ Jim said. ‘Please.’
‘How many of Charlie Baker’s books were ghostwritten? Do you know who his ghostwriter is? Why do you think his agent hired Rose White? Is it suicide or is the death more suspicious?’
Shooting Season: A DCI Harry Grimm Novel Page 20