Corpse Road

by David J Gatward

  ‘You’ll have to show me, sometime,’ Harry said and switched off the engine. Then he stared up at the house, wondering what it was that had caused Kirsty to leave it and head off to Swaledale.

  ‘I see there’s a car in the drive,’ Jim said. ‘So, I guess someone’s home.’

  The other car in the drive was a black BMW, and Harry did his best to force himself to not automatically assume that the owner, who he figured must be Kirsty’s husband, was a tosser. But the odds weren’t exactly in his favour, not least because Harry had spotted the M3 emblem at the back.

  Harry undid his seatbelt and turned to face Jim. Only it wasn’t just Jim staring back, but Fly, too, his long tongue flopping out of his mouth which, Harry was pretty damned sure, was fixed in a permanent doggy grin. ‘So, Jim, do you remember the last time we had to do this? Tell someone a relative has been killed?’

  Jim said, ‘I do. George Hodgson, when we found his wife at Semerwater.’

  It had been Harry’s first week in the dales. And what a week that had been, he thought. And here he was, just over four months on, doing the same thing.

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ Harry said. ‘We’ll just see how it goes, okay? You can never tell how someone’s going to react.’

  Climbing out of the RAV4, Harry was about to make his way over to the house, when his phone rang. The number flashing up did not make him happy. He looked over to Jim, who was pointing a sharp finger at Fly, who was sitting on the passenger seat and staring at him through the passenger door window. ‘Just need to take this,’ he said. Then, with the phone up against his ear, he said, ‘Good morning, sir. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  At the other end of the call, Detective Superintendent Swift emitted a very clear huff of annoyance, which wasn’t a good sign, particularly as the conversation hadn’t really even started yet.

  ‘I understand our run of quiet months is over,’ the DSup said. ‘How long were you going to wait before informing me?’

  ‘I was going to call you later today,’ Harry lied. ‘You know, when we had a bit more information through from the SOC team. Didn’t want to bother you otherwise, knowing how busy you are with, er, whatever it is you do that keeps you busy.’

  ‘It’s my job to be bothered!’ the DSup snapped back. ‘I get paid to be the one you and everyone else bothers. It is what I am for, bothering. Just so long as you only do it when something is important. And this, I believe, is important, agreed?’

  ‘Well, now that I know that, sir, I’ll make sure that I bother you as much as I can.’

  The line fell silent for a moment.

  ‘So, what do we have, then?’ the DSup asked. ‘And what exactly are you all doing about it?’

  Harry gave a quick run-through of what had happened, where Kirsty’s body had been found, and what the rest of the team were up to right then.

  ‘And you’re two officers down as well,’ the DSup said. ‘Which means I’ll have to cancel my weekend and come down to keep an eye on things.’

  ‘There’s no need for that, sir, I’m sure,’ Harry said. ‘Honestly, everything is in hand.’

  ‘Yes, but they’re your hands, Grimm, are they not?’

  Harry sucked in a slow, deep breath. The DSup had taken a dislike to him from the moment they’d first met. Harry hadn’t exactly worked to discourage him from it either. ‘Detective Inspector Haig and PCSO Airey will be back next week,’ he said. ‘In fact, I think Liz is back Sunday evening. So I’m sure we’ll be fine until then.’

  ‘Regardless, I’ll be on my way as soon as I’ve sorted a few things. Where are you right now, Grimm?’

  ‘The victim’s house,’ Harry said. ‘With PCSO Metcalf.’

  ‘And where is that exactly? The house?’

  ‘Somewhere up near Darlington,’ Harry said

  ‘Well, then, I shall no doubt see you later today at the community centre. And I shall expect a full and complete update.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Harry said, willing the conversation to end with just the power of his mind.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ Harry said, wondering how his superior had managed to make it now sound as though it was he who had initiated the call and not the other way around.

  ‘Good,’ the DSup said and hung up.

  Harry stuffed his phone back into the depths of his pocket. He’d always been of the opinion that the mobile phone was responsible for an awful lot of time being wasted in people’s lives, not just because of things like social media, but also because it gave everyone far too much access to everyone else. How many phone calls happened when they just didn’t need to? he thought. Well, that had been one, hadn’t it? And how many times were people called about something that just wasn’t important or didn’t need to be said? And the impatience which had come with the mobile phone, hand in hand almost, well that was something else, wasn’t it? The absolute expectation that if you called someone, then they simply had to answer, and if they didn’t, well then the only conclusion to be had was that they were either rude or in dire straits. And with Harry, it was generally because he was rude. If he didn’t want to answer, then he just didn’t. It was as simple as that. It was someone else’s decision to call him and his if he answered or not. Usually not.

  Walking over to the front door, with Jim alongside him, Harry briefly rested his hand on the hood of the car.

  ‘Warm,’ he said.

  ‘So, someone’s in then,’ Jim said.

  ‘Looks that way,’ Harry said. And that someone, he was pretty sure, had to be the husband. Which meant that this visit wasn’t going to be just a simple chat, was it? No. It was going to be a little more awkward than that. Giving the news of someone’s death to their nearest and dearest was something that no training on earth ever made easy. Yes, it ensured that you were able to do it correctly, but that was about it. Harry knew that having Jim with him for support, not just for the person who was about to get the news, but himself, too, was a very good thing indeed.

  Harry was at the front door. He caught his reflection in one of the glass panels and saw staring back at him a face that looked like its only purpose was to deliver the worst news imaginable, which this pretty much was. He was half tempted to stand Jim in front of him, have him be the first face seen by the husband, but instead, he stretched out a hand to press the doorbell.

  The door flew open, at exactly the same moment as the bell rang out, and Harry was assaulted by a filthy cackle riding on a cloud of perfume, aftershave, alcohol, and the background scent of musky sweat and garlic.

  ‘Ah, sorry,’ Harry said, stepping back from the door and into Jim, who tripped and fell backwards onto the lawn, as a woman stumbled out backwards and into him. She was wearing just enough to hide what was necessary, and what there was of it was leaving nothing to the imagination.

  Harry glanced round to Jim, who was quickly pushing himself back up onto his feet. ‘You okay, Jim? Sorry about that.’

  Jim said nothing and instead stared at the woman in front of them, who turned around to face Harry and then fell into him just a little bit further.

  The woman’s breath folded over Harry with the rich scent of wine and whatever else she had eaten and drunk the night before. It was thick, Harry thought, almost chewy.

  ‘No, my fault,’ the woman said, pushing herself away to reveal a man standing behind her in the doorway, to whom she threw a carefree wave then blew a kiss. ‘Thanks for a lovely evening! Surprising, too, you naughty thing! Call me and we’ll do it again!’

  The man at the door stared at Harry, at Jim, his eyes hard, then turned his attention to the woman. ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  He was tall and broad, Harry noticed, his black dressing gown doing little to disguise the gym-built body beneath. His face was all chiselled angles. But his expression was one that reminded Harry of how politicians stared at the public—a mix of disdain and superiority.

  The sound of a car’s engine caught Harry’s attention and he
turned to see a taxi pull into the drive behind his vehicle. The woman half-walked, half-stumbled towards it and climbed in, offering a flirty wave out of the window as the taxi reversed back out then sped off into the rest of the day. In his car, Harry spotted the small black nose of Fly peeking up above the lip of the passenger door window, steam blasting across the glass.

  Harry turned his attention back to the man in the doorway. ‘Mr Jackson? I’m Detective Chief Inspector Harry Grimm,’ he said, showing his ID. ‘And this is PCSO James Metcalf. Can I, I mean we, come in, please?’

  The man rubbed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Look, whatever this is about, and I’ve honestly got no idea how or why that mad bitch has sent you here, but I’m tired, I need to shower, and really it would be much better if you came back later. Actually, no, it wouldn’t. So, thank you, and goodbye.’

  Mr Jackson went to close the door, but Harry’s hand was on it and stopped it dead.

  To make doubly sure the door wasn’t about to move without his say-so, Harry slipped his fingers around its edge, clamping it tightly in his grip. ‘I worded it as a polite request,’ he said, ‘but it wasn’t. Can we come in?’

  Up until the moment the door had opened, Harry had been preparing himself mentally to deal with a man who he assumed was dealing with a failed marriage—the reasons behind it being none of Harry’s business, though from what they’d found at the crime scene it was key to Kirsty heading off into the wilds—and would then on top of that, be sat down and told that his wife had been murdered. Impending divorce or no, that was still going to be horrendous news to receive. Now though, however, Harry realised that he was dealing with an entirely different animal. He didn’t quite want to jump to conclusions, but the evidence before him was presenting him with the kind of person he just didn’t like. Okay, so he wasn’t in a position to judge, and that wasn’t his job either, and people dealt with marriages going wrong in numerous different ways, but right there and then, Harry wasn’t getting much in the way of regret or remorse. Plenty of mind your own sodding business, but that was about it.

  Mr Jackson didn’t move.

  Harry ever so slowly and ever so surely pushed against the door. Mr Jackson tried to resist, but it was no good, and Harry could see the look of mild surprise in the man’s eyes.

  ‘You’d better come in, then,’ Mr Jackson said, annoyance in his voice.

  Harry stepped through the door and into the house, Jim behind him, but not so close as to come a cropper again. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ he asked.

  ‘Will this take long?’

  ‘I think it would be best if we sat down,’ Harry said, then nodded towards a door to their left. ‘Is the lounge through there?’

  He didn’t wait for an answer and made his way over to the door and pushed it open. On the other side was a room containing yet more evidence of the night before. Three empty bottles of wine were on a glass-topped coffee table, along with a small board containing the remnants of cheese and crackers. The sofa had been stripped of its cushions, which were on the floor in front of a gas fire. Scattered around them were various items of clothing clearly torn off in the throes of drunken passion. A packet of condoms, ripped open, the contents scattered, discarded. Harry stared for a moment at the scene before him, not so much shocked by it as intrigued as to how the woman he’d just seen leaving the house still had enough clothing left to put on, what with so much of it left behind.

  ‘We can talk in the kitchen,’ Mr Jackson said, and Harry and Jim turned from the room and followed him across the hall into the kind of kitchen he had only ever seen on television.

  ‘Coffee?’ Mr Jackson asked.

  ‘Your car,’ Harry said, ignoring the question as he made his way over to a stool perched around a central workstation with a granite top.

  ‘Yes, what about it?’

  ‘Just wondering if you’ve been anywhere this morning?’ Harry asked.

  ‘I went to the shop to get some things for breakfast,’ Mr Jackson said.

  ‘In your dressing gown?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Of course, not,’ Mr Jackson replied.

  ‘And you think you were safe to drive?’

  ‘You mean the wine, I assume? I had one glass twelve hours ago. I rarely drink. It messes with my training.’

  ‘One glass?’ Harry asked. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘I’m very sure about that indeed,’ Mr Jackson snapped back. ‘I will be at the gym later and alcohol doesn’t exactly mix well with the routines I do. Now, what is this about? Why has Kirsty sent you? What I do now is my own business and has nothing at all to do with her!’

  ‘Please,’ Harry said, ‘could you just sit down? I do think it’s for the best.’

  Shaking his head, Mr Jackson headed over to sit opposite Harry. Jim, however, stayed on his feet.

  Harry didn’t respond, deciding instead to just get on with the information every police officer dreaded having to deliver. ‘Mr Jackson, I have some very bad news I must tell you,’ he said, the words in his mouth as welcome as gristle, their inherent wrongness so clear, their intent so obvious, that Harry wished to God he was anywhere but where he was right then. ‘Your wife, Kirsty, was involved in an incident in Swaledale last night. I’m sorry to tell you that she was killed.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Bollocks!’ Mr Jackson exclaimed, jumping to his feet. ‘I don’t have to listen to this! Who the hell do you think you are, anyway? Did she put you up to this, is that it? Try and mess with my head? That’s absolutely bloody typical of her! Unbelievable! And if she thinks she’s even getting a tenth of what this house is worth then she’s got another thing coming!’

  ‘Please, Mr Jackson,’ Harry said, keeping his voice flat and calm, which wasn’t easy when deep down he had an undeniable urge to give the man a massive, meaty slap. ‘I need you to sit back down. I know this will come as a shock, but–’

  ‘A shock? A shock? I’ll tell you what will come as shock, my foot up your arse as I kick you out of my house, that’s what!’

  Mr Jackson was around and into Harry’s face in a beat. Then Jim stepped in and ever so gently and yet with more than enough force, eased the man back and away from his superior.

  ‘Mr Jackson, please,’ Jim began, his hands now up in some attempt to calm down the clearly enraged man, but Mr Jackson was having none of it and was leaning into him now, words spitting out of his mouth with rage, and Jim did his best to lean away from the verbal attack.

  ‘He’s not taking it all that well, is he?’ Jim said, turning around to Harry.

  ‘He’s not really taking it at all,’ Harry replied.

  Mr Jackson started to shout again. ‘What, she thinks she can just kill a marriage and then start having people join in with her insane stories to somehow get back at me, does she? Is that it?

  ‘We are the police,’ Harry said, his voice emotionless, although this was quickly becoming difficult to maintain. ‘Please, Mr Jackson, sit down.’

  ‘And for what? That’s what I want to know!’ Mr Jackson continued, not listening. ‘How much did she pay you to do this? Not much, judging by the look of you. But I’ll pay you three times as much to just get the hell out of my house, how’s that sound?’

  Harry ignored the unnecessary dig at his attire and tried once again to calm the man down, but it didn’t work.

  ‘So, you’re just going to sit there, are you? Well, we’ll soon see about that, won’t we!’

  With a roar, Mr Jackson heaved himself past Jim, knocking him across the floor and onto his knees, then lunged at Harry, grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and threw all of his weight into one enormous heave to have Harry up and onto his feet.

  Except, it didn’t work.

  Harry sat on his stool, staring up at the mad man in front of him, an immovable object that no amount of swearing and heaving was going to shift.

  Jim was back on his feet. ‘Can I arrest him, boss?’

  ‘Mr Jackson,’ Harry said, ful
ly aware that his complete lack of being affected by Mr Jackson’s protestations and physical attack was only serving to make the man even angrier. ‘I can understand the shock and upset that you must be feeling, but you need to calm down. I really don’t want to have to arrest you, not at a time like this, but you need to sit down, to calm down, and listen to me, okay?’

  For a moment, it seemed as though Mr Jackson wasn’t going to do anything of the sort. Then he let go and stepped away.

  ‘Do you understand, Mr Jackson?’ Harry asked, pushing the point. ‘Please, sit down.’

  When Mr Jackson spoke next, his voice was barely an echo of the shouting which had come before. ‘I . . . I need to have a shower,’ he said, and before Harry could say anything more, the man turned and walked calmly out of the kitchen and into the hallway, the sound of his footsteps disappearing up into the house.

  Harry followed him. ‘Mr Jackson? Please, you need to listen to what we’ve just told you. Do you have any family we can call? Someone who can be with you, now, at a time like this? Also, I need details for Kirsty’s parents, if you have them.’

  The only response Harry received was the sound of a shower being switched on.

  Jim came to stand with Harry. ‘Well, that went well,’ he said.

  ‘Hmph,’ was about all Harry could manage, so he added a, ‘Buggered that right up,’ just in case Jim wasn’t quite clear on how annoyed he now was.

  Harry and Jim spent a minute or two at the bottom of the stairs trying to work out what they were dealing with, while from upstairs the sound of the shower was drowned out by electronic dance music. The kind Harry had always assumed was for late-night dance floors in warehouses, or illegal raves, not Saturday mornings after a one-night stand.

  ‘This ever happened to you before?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Can’t say that it has,’ Harry said.

  ‘Well, that’s something.’ Jim wandered into the kitchen then came back out again to join Harry. ‘Quite a place, isn’t it? Must both earn a fair whack to afford it.’