‘He started shouting again, called me a liar, that he would never do a DNA test and that I was just a gold digger, after his money. I told him exactly where he could stick his money, and that’s when he grabbed me.’
‘Your arm, then,’ Liz said.
Chris nodded. ‘He grabbed me, kept on shouting. I told him to get off, tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let go, and it was really hurting, and I just gabbed something and hit him with it and he let go and I ran. And that was the last time I saw him!’
‘You hit him?’ Harry said, remembering the blood spatter on Charlie’s shirt, which Sowerby had said had nothing to do with the whole being shot in the face thing. ‘With what?’
‘I don’t know!’ Chris replied. ‘He just kept shouting and my arm was hurting and I wanted him to leave me alone. It was self-defence.’
Harry looked to Liz. ‘Have you got that thing you found upstairs, please?’
Liz pulled out the statue, its head in the evidence bag.
‘Do you recognise this?’ Harry asked as Liz placed the statue on the table.
‘No,’ Chris said, staring at it. ‘Should I?’
‘You really don’t recognise it?’
Again, Chris shook her head.
‘This was found in Charlie’s room,’ Liz explained. ‘Broken, like you see now. Do you think it could be what you hit Charlie with?’
‘I don’t remember,’ Chris said. ‘All I know is that I grabbed something and hit him with it and ran back to my room.’
‘Did he follow you?’
Chris shook her head. ‘No. I saw him fall back onto his bed. I think he was bleeding. He bloody well deserved to be, too! Look!’
Chris pulled up her sleeve then and for the first time, Harry and Liz saw the bruising. The top of Chris’ arm was black and blue.
‘And Charlie did that?’
‘Yes,’ Chris said, fighting tears suddenly. ‘He did. And I was going to leave in the morning, but then, with him disappearing . . .’
Chris’ voice faded.
Harry knew what he had to ask next. ‘Chris, did you follow Charlie when he left the lodge?’
At this, Chris laughed, but there was no warmth in the sound, just disbelief.
‘Follow? How? And anyway, he was in his Porsche!’
‘There were other cars,’ Liz pointed out.
‘Like that makes a difference,’ Chris said. ‘I can’t even drive!’
Harry stared at her in disbelief.
‘I grew up in London,’ Chris explained. ‘Never needed a car. Never learned. I’ve never even been behind the wheel.’
‘You mean, you’ve never driven at all?’
‘I’ve never driven,’ Chris said. ‘Ever.’
For a moment, no one spoke.
‘How do you feel about losing your dad?’ Liz asked.
‘I don’t feel anything,’ Chris replied. ‘It was my mum who brought me up, and Gran. Charlie wasn’t ever a part of my life.’
‘What would you have done if he’d continued to refuse to take a DNA test?’ Harry said.
‘Hardly matters now, does it?’ Chris replied. ‘Eric’s said I can still get the test done. Get it confirmed. He thinks I’m Charlie’s closest relative.’
‘Does he?’ Liz asked.
‘He’s known Charlie for years,’ Chris said. ‘There’s never been correspondence or contact with any family. Sad, isn’t it? He had a daughter and just never really cared.’
Harry left Liz to close the conversation, thanking the young woman for her time, before going for a stroll. Once again he felt like he was getting nowhere. Not that he’d thought Chris could have murdered Charlie, it was just that wherever they went with the case, and no matter what they were told or uncovered, they were never any closer to what had actually happened. And yet, regardless, Charlie had been killed, someone had shot him in the head with not just one but two blasts from his own shotgun. There were easier jobs, Harry thought.
The rest of the day was given over to the rest of the interviews. Matt reported back that everyone’s stories seemed to corroborate. They were no closer.
‘What did Eric have to say, then?’ Harry asked, standing with Matt outside the lodge. The press had finally given up and gone home, and with them the rain, the sky breaking from dark grey clouds to the promise of blue, even though the day was drawing itself to a close. The rain had brought new smells to the air, Harry noticed, a scent rich with grass and leaf and damp earth.
‘Same as everyone else,’ Matt sighed. ‘He confirmed everything we know about Chris being Charlie’s daughter, the argument he walked in on, and that he saw Charlie head out of the lodge and chased after him. Then, like Abigail, he saw him drive off a while later.’
Harry didn’t reply. He was tired, mentally more than anything.
‘And nothing from anyone else?’
‘Nowt that stands out, no,’ Matt said.
‘Mark?’
‘You mean the money thing? Gambling addict. Thought he could get some from Charlie. Turns out not.’
‘Motive?’
Matt shook his head. ‘Someone else helped him out that same night. Sounded dodgy, but that’s his business, right?’ He sighed deeply. ‘I’ll be honest, this is doing my head in, Boss.’
‘Mine, too,’ Harry said.
‘So, what now?’ Liz asked, walking over to join them, Jen with her.
‘There’s the scrap of material that old gamekeeper dropped off with Jim,’ Harry said. ‘He’s headed over to get it dropped off and tested. But I doubt that’ll come to much.’
Everyone else’s silence was enough confirmation that they agreed.
Matt tossed his keys into the air, catching them as they fell. ‘There’s only one thing for it,’ he said.
‘And what’s that?’ Harry asked.
‘Beer,’ Matt said.
Chapter Thirty
‘So, what are you having, Boss?’
Matt’s question led Harry to the row of beer pumps in front of him at the bar. He recognised two of them, those being Theakston’s and Black Sheep. The other three were new, to him at least.
‘What do you recommend?’ Harry asked.
‘Buttertubs is a great session ale,’ Matt advised, pointing at the pumps in turn. ‘Brewed over in Askrigg by the Yorkshire Dales Brewery.’
‘Old Peculier will have you on your arse after a couple of pints,’ said Liz. ‘So, probably a bit early for that.
‘Wensleydale Bitter is absolutely lovely,’ Matt added. ‘Nowt stopping you having all of them, though that depends on how long we’re out, mind.’
‘Make it Buttertubs,’ Harry said, remembering back to his first drive in his old Rav-4, driving over the road named after the strange limestone potholes, supposedly once used by farmers to store their butter in on hot days to and from the market.
The three of them were now having an after-work pint in the public bar at the Fountain Hotel in Hawes. It had been Matt’s idea and Harry had been happy to agree to it. The day had been a long one, what with the press turning up and the various interviews at the lodge. Jim had headed to get the piece of material tested that Arthur Black, the gamekeeper, had brought in, and was probably now on his way back home, no doubt to head out into the fields to try and train Fly. Gordy was back home, Jadyn was apparently out on a date, and Jenny was over at some local group meeting in West Burton. What group it was, Harry had forgotten, but it had sounded like it mainly involved lots of retired people, tea, and cake.
As they waited for the beers to be poured, Harry glanced around. The bar was small and cosy and didn’t look like anyone had taken to decorating it for a couple of decades. Not in a bad way, though, he thought. It was nice and clean and unassuming, with a comfy seat in the bay window, an open fire, and a darts board. A couple of other punters were both hiding behind newspapers and oblivious to the world.
‘What do you think, then?’ Matt asked, handing Harry a pint, the glass cool against his fingertips.
&nb
sp; ‘I like it,’ Harry said, taking his first sip of the amber liquid, which was topped by a good centimetre of thick, creamy white froth. That in itself had taken a bit of getting used to, as back home in Bristol, if a pint got served like that, then it would be handed back and a top-up requested. Not here, though, Harry had soon discovered, having done exactly that, only to be flatly ignored by the woman who had served him. ‘The beer’s good, too.’
‘Of course, it is,’ said Liz, and she led them over to a small round table in the middle of the room.
As Harry rested his pint down, Matt called over from the bar, ‘Fancy a game of darts?’ He made his way over, resting his pint on the table, and handed Harry a small plastic pouch.
‘Round the clock or 501?’
Harry reckoned the last time he’d played darts was back in his days in the Paras, not that he could remember anything specific as such, because most nights out on the lash ended up with a punch up, usually just for the hell of it.
‘Do it properly,’ Liz said. ‘501. I’ll keep score and play the winner.’
Matt leaned in. ‘Don’t suppose you’re any good, are you?’
‘Why?’ Harry asked.
‘Liz plays in the local league. She’s got good arrows, as they say.’
‘And that’s what they say, is it?’ Harry asked. ‘Good arrows?’
‘Well, it’s what I say,’ Matt replied. ‘Away, then.’
Over at the board, Matt placed a foot against the oche—the thin white line on the floor that they had to throw from—and lobbed his first three darts, one after the other, at the board on the wall. They all smacked neatly into the twenty. Harry stepped up next, threw three darts, and wished he hadn’t bothered, grabbing himself two darts in the five, and one just above double twenty.
‘It’s been a while,’ Harry said, collecting his darts.
Liz stood at a small chalkboard. ‘Ready when you are, then.’
The game didn’t last long and Harry was almost relieved to sit back on a stool and watch Matt then get thrashed by Liz. When she turned and challenged him to come up for a go, he knew that the outcome was a foregone conclusion, but it didn’t matter. The game wasn’t important, being out together was. And it was something that, back in Bristol, had happened, yes, but not really in the same way. That had been more pressured, people cagey about what they said and to whom, and there were always more of them, larger teams. Here, though, it was a quiet pub and just the three of them. It was, thought Harry, uniquely wonderful.
‘Let’s do round the clock,’ Liz suggested, having proven rather easily to be the considerably superior darts player. ‘We can all play then, can’t we?’
Harry and Matt agreed and they all stood behind the oche, their drinks on a wooden ledge close by.
‘You’re up first, Boss,’ Matt said. ‘Start at one, finish on the bull. Easy!’
Harry threw and hit a twenty, an eighteen, and a four.
‘Yeah, nice and easy,’ he said, walking over to collect his darts.
‘So, about today, then,’ Liz said, as she and Harry watched Matt take his throw. ‘Any closer?’
‘I wish I could say yes.’ Harry sighed, taking a mouthful of his beer. ‘Not much came from those chats, did they?’
‘Not really, no,’ Matt said, throw done, Liz taking her turn. ‘Well, other than Chris confirming she was Charlie’s daughter and that she’d lamped him one.’
‘Sounds like he deserved it, too,’ Liz said, taking her throw and hitting all three of the numbers she needed to.
Harry threw again and managed to hit a one, so he was happy with that.
The darts game continued, Harry’s throw not really improving at all, and soon Liz was at eighteen, Matt at fourteen, while he trailed way behind at seven.
‘Whatever went on, someone must have followed Charlie,’ Matt said. ‘That’s the only logical conclusion, isn’t it? He was seen leaving the lodge, right? By Abigail and by Eric. So, that leaves us with Anna, Chris, Adam, and Mark.’
‘But what about motives?’ Harry asked. ‘This wasn’t random, was it? It was deliberate. Whoever did it, they knew Charlie had his gun in his car, that the idiot kept the keys to it on his key ring—not exactly legal—and they really wanted to make sure that he was a goner. There was no messing about.’
Liz stood at the oche and threw an eighteen, a nineteen, and a twenty, all of them trebles.
‘That’s just showing off.’ Matt laughed.
‘Yes, it is.’ Liz smiled. ‘Anyway, motives. Well, I’m not seeing one for Mark, for starters. The man’s just a hanger-on, isn’t he? An old school friend who likes to drink and is crap at cards. Money troubles, yes, but sounds like that’s just part of who he is.’
‘What about Adam?’ Harry asked, throwing his next three darts and surprising himself by landing a seven, eight, and nine. ‘And I’m improving, so watch out.’
‘He ghostwrote for Charlie, yes, but that’s no motive,’ Matt said. ‘He was getting paid, and well it seemed, and hasn’t he got his own stuff coming out at some point?’
‘Well, he’s got a manuscript with Anna, yes,’ Harry said.
‘There’s enough to be jealous of, though, isn’t there?’ Liz said. ‘You’ve got Charlie there, right, earning crazy money, and Adam knows it’s him that’s actually doing the writing! That’s bound to piss him off a little, isn’t it? It would certainly piss me off, that’s for sure.’
‘Not enough to slot his boss and supposed old university friend, though,’ Harry said. ‘I don’t buy it.’
‘That leaves us Chris and Anna,’ said Matt.
Liz threw and, to no one’s surprise, including her own, her darts took her to the bull. Game done, they all retired to the small table and took a stool each.
‘Anna’s got issues, that’s for sure,’ Matt said. ‘She’d worked out that Charlie wasn’t writing his own stuff, she’d been dumped by him, and she hired that Rose White.’
‘Why bite the hand that feeds you, though?’ Harry said. ‘Charlie was one of, if not the, biggest author she had on her books.’
‘That leaves Chris, then,’ said Matt.
‘Chris can’t drive and never has, so it’s not her,’ Liz said, sinking the last of her pint.
‘They had an argument, but that’s hardly enough for her to go after him,’ Matt added.
‘No, it’s not,’ Harry agreed. ‘And like Liz just said, she can’t drive. So, I can’t see how she made off after him. And anyway, why would she shoot him? She’s never shot before, probably wouldn’t have a clue how to use the gun in the first place. It doesn’t add up.’
Harry stared at his pint glass then reached out for it and downed what was left.
‘Nothing does,’ Matt said. ‘Fancy another?’
‘No, I’m good,’ Harry replied. ‘Well, I’m not good, but I don’t think more beer is going to help, good though it is.’
‘So, we’ve got nothing.’ Liz sighed. ‘Brilliant.’
‘No,’ Harry said. ‘What we’ve got is a murder victim and a hell of a lot of unanswered questions.’
‘That’s mainly because there’s a lot of questions we don’t even know that need asking,’ Liz shrugged.
‘And what about that broken leg?’ Matt asked. ‘How the hell did that happen, then? There’s no way Charlie could have driven his Porsche with it like that, is there? Those X-rays—ouch!’
‘It must have happened at the crime scene,’ Liz said. ‘Maybe he tripped up trying to get away from whoever was there to kill him. There were tree roots all over the place. It’s pretty easy to snap your leg if you fall and twist badly.’
‘Well, it certainly looks like that,’ Harry said.
‘Oh, before I forget,’ Matt said, and pulled an envelope from a jacket pocket, handing it over to Harry. ‘Photos, from the caving trip. Thought you’d like your own copies.’
Harry opened the envelope. The first photo was of him looking monumentally pissed off.
‘Ha, yeah, I had to put
that one up first!’ Matt laughed. ‘God, your face when you jumped into that pool, expecting it to be nearly up to your balls! Funniest thing I’ve ever seen!’
Harry couldn’t help but smile. ‘Yeah, it was hilarious,’ he said, pushing himself to his feet.
‘Time to go?’ Liz asked.
‘For me, it is, yes,’ Harry replied. ‘I’m going to head back, think everything through. By which I mean, sit in front of the TV then fall asleep.’
Outside, Harry said his farewells and headed back to the flat. It was heading towards nine in the evening, Hawes was sinking into a sleepy gloom, and yet the sky was still bright and clear, the moon high and full and surrounded by a glittering burst of stars.
Pushing his way through the door to the flat, Harry reached out for the light switch only to find that the bulb had gone. Muttering curses under his breath, he pulled out his phone to use as a torch and made his way in the grey half-light through to the kitchen.
‘Hello, Harry.’
It was a voice from his past, a voice bedecked in so much history, so much of who and what he was, that hearing it so close after so many years sent his heart racing, adrenaline surging through his body, and he clenched his fists white-knuckle hard.
Harry turned and a light came on in the adjoining room, which doubled as both the dining room and lounge.
‘You said you’d call,’ Harry said.
‘I lied,’ replied his father.
Chapter Thirty-One
Harry didn’t move. He stared into the yellow light seeping out from the other room, keeping himself cloaked in the shadow of the kitchen, trying to weigh up his options, to work out just what the hell was going on. His senses were on full alert now. He could see his father, yes, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others there, too, lurking in the shadows, hiding elsewhere in the flat.
‘I expected your security to be a little bit better,’ Harry’s dad said. ‘That lock was one a child could pick.’
‘Why would a child want to?’ Harry asked. ‘Not everyone’s like you, thank God.’
For a moment, both men stared at each other, the only sounds being those of the world outside slowly folding itself into slumber, the residents of Hawes settling into late-night television shows, a drink or two, and then bed.
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