Back in his twenties, Harry had been fit, particularly when he had been in the Parachute Regiment. But then it was impossible not to be if you were a member of that particular branch of the armed forces. Harry had fond memories of his P Company training, not so much because it was fun, but more so because it had been a relentless attack on everything he had ever thought he was capable of, and he’d survived it. Though memories of what he had been like back then weren’t exactly helping in the here and now. He was an out of shape middle-aged man, and he was pretty sure that the sight of him flapping his massive feet against the ground, as his belly wobbled out in front, was something a law should quickly be rushed through parliament to prevent.
Huffing and puffing, Harry did his best to push on, and all the time his mind kept reminding him of what he had once been, sadistically intent on motivating him by constantly reminding him of just how hideously unfit he truly was.
And to think you used to weigh eleven stone, it whispered. Now look at you! It’s enough to make someone’s eyes bleed. You’re a bloody embarrassment! Give up now. Go on, just give up and eat some doughnuts, a nice piece of cake. Embrace the real you. The fat you.
Harry wasn’t sure what it said about who he was that his own mind was trying to fat-shame him into moving more. It was working though, and he swore through gritted teeth and pushed on.
To get himself motivated and moving, Harry had initially started with an app on his phone which had promised to get him from a couch to five kilometres in twelve weeks. But he didn’t like running with a phone, not just because people kept calling him on it, but also because the app had an horrendous, chirpy American voiceover, which Harry had ended up arguing with.
‘That’s one kilometre done.’
‘Shut it . . .’
‘You’ve got this!’
‘Like balls I have . . .’
‘Remember, never ever ever ever give up!’
‘That’s too many evers . . .’
‘You’re awesome!’
‘Oh just piss off will you!’
So that hadn’t lasted much longer than a few days.
Instead, Harry had managed to come up with a little three and a half mile route around the picturesque lanes of Hawes and Gayle, the two almost conjoined villages-cum-small-county-towns which sat together at the top end of Wensleydale, and was working slowly up from a mix of running, jogging, swearing and walking, to eventually – hopefully – being able to do the whole thing in one go, although the swearing would probably stay. If he was honest, that was the only bit he really enjoyed, and some days his creative use of expletives surprised even himself. Three and a half miles didn’t sound far, but this was the dales and wherever Harry looked, wherever he walked, there were hills.
Starting from the hotel, Harry’s route had taken him through Hawes marketplace then out of the town and past the garage, with a left up Tufty Hill, which was a lovely, cute name, Harry had thought, for something that made him feel like he was going to cough up a lung.
The hill was a main road but not exactly busy early in the morning and, after just over a mile of huffing and puffing, Harry took another left onto Cam Road. This turned his view from staring up the dale, to instead gaze on towards the wonderfully named Snaizeholme Fell, which rose slowly in front of him, a wide swathe of greens and browns, the fields and distant moors quietly contained inside the ancient network of drystone walls, the sheep inside them like a splattering of little dots of white paint from an artist’s brush.
Harry did his best to focus on the countryside, to distract himself from the pain of moving through it at speed, but it didn’t work. Hills are bastards, Harry thought, and pounded onwards even harder in a hopeless attempt to flatten them.
Back in his hometown of Bristol, Harry had tried and failed numerous times to get back into running. He’d always managed it enough to make sure he could pass the regular police fitness test, but keeping it going had always been a problem. Running the streets, dodging traffic, trying to avoid commuters and shoppers and then just smashing into them, just wasn’t his idea of a good time. But up in the dales, Harry could already sense that running was altogether different. He wasn’t any less knackered or unfit, but he was certainly getting a lot more out of it. Enjoying was perhaps too strong a word, but it was definitely more rewarding, he thought, as he stumbled forwards for the next mile or so, which was now all on single track lanes, the kind that even Google hadn’t bothered to send its cameras down to film.
From there the route brought him into the top end of Gayle, down Harker Hill and eventually past the Methodist Chapel, then right and over the bridge, which rose over the bubbling laughter of the clear water of Gayle beck, and left down Old Gayle Lane. At the end of this, it was then just a left turn and back into Hawes, past the auction mart and down till the road became cobbles and the Herriot Hotel came thankfully and at last into view.
The last hundred metres or so Harry dug as deep as he could, upped his speed, and attempted to sprint. It wasn’t graceful, and the sound of his massive feet hammering against the road was considerably louder than Harry would have preferred, but he kept going, eventually pulling himself up to a breathless stop outside the Herriot.
Dizziness at the exertion sent Harry’s world a little too fuzzy round the edges and, after walking it off for a minute or so, he leaned against a wall, dropping his head forward, half wondering if he was about to throw up. But he didn’t, and that was something. Not an achievement as such, but definitely a relief.
Back in his hotel room, Harry stripped and showered, undecided as to whether it was better to stand under hot water, which was more pleasant but could easily make him pass out, or cold, which would cool him down and wake him up, but was ultimately little more than pure torture. A part of him rather fancied going for a swim in a nice cold river or lake. He’d done exactly that just a few weeks ago, in Lake Semerwater. And it was something he kept meaning to get around to doing again, his swimming gear kept in his car just in case, but time had raced ahead and he hadn’t since ventured back out into the cold embrace of the silvery water. In the end, he did a bit of both, finishing the shower with a cold blast that sent him dancing out of the cubicle to slam the big toe of his right foot into the leg of his bed.
‘Ah, you bastard!’ Harry hissed, dropping himself down onto the mattress to hug his foot, glad that today would see him move out of the hotel room and into something a little more accommodating, a small flat overlooking Hawes marketplace. Living in a hotel was nice for a while, but Harry had soon grown weary of it. And with no actual end in sight quite yet as to how long he was going to be up north, he’d pushed for better digs and they had been provided.
Half an hour later, Harry had his bags packed, and was down in the hotel restaurant for breakfast. And sitting in front of him on the table was another reason he absolutely had to get out: a full English breakfast, with tea and toast.
Wensleydale, Harry had quickly realised, was a place populated by people who placed food at the centre of just about everything. Breakfast was not something to be had in a rush, but a meal to be enjoyed. You couldn’t have a mug of tea or coffee on its own; it had to be served with cake. And cake, it seemed, if it was of the rich, moist fruity kind, had to be accompanied by cheese, no matter what time of day it was. And that was generally a slab of crumbly Wensleydale, made in the creamery just up the road between Hawes and Gayle. Teatime was dinnertime, or was it the other way round? Harry couldn’t remember, but what he did know was that if he had either meal out at one of the local pubs, then the food was cooked well and piled high, and positively demanded a pint or two of ale as an accompaniment.
With a shrug, Harry picked up his knife and fork, and tucked into the feast in front of him. It even came with a slice of fried bread, and he took great delight in shoving a piece of it into the yolk of his egg before stuffing it into his face.
This would be his last fried breakfast, Harry promised himself. He’d put on weight since driving north, a
nd it was now time to reverse that before he didn’t so much walk as roll.
With breakfast finished and his mug of tea drained, Harry left the hotel and headed off into the day. He wasn’t really sure what lay before him and having had to deal with a murder in his first week, he’d been more than a little relieved that the following couple of weeks had been considerably more mundane. He’d made good use of them, getting to know the area, and was even on spoken good-morning terms with some of the locals as he walked up into the marketplace and across to the community office, which was also the home for the local police at this, the top end of the dale. The actual police station had closed over twenty years ago and with it had gone the provision of a local lock up. If anyone needed taking into custody, then it was an hour-long drive to Harrogate.
Having crossed the main road running through the centre of Hawes, Harry’s phone trilled into his day and it was up against his ear before he’d even had a chance to check the number buzzing in.
‘Grimm,’ Harry said.
Down the line, Harry heard crying.
Chapter Three
‘Ben?’
Even though the voice had said not a word, Harry recognised it immediately. The world around him dissolved and he was back down south, sitting across a table in a prison visitors’ room, staring at the sunken figure of his younger brother. Even though they were miles apart, he could see him clearly in his mind: a man broken by life, drowning in memories steeped in darkness. And all because of one man, their bastard of a father.
‘Harry,’ Ben said, his voice breaking as he spoke. ‘I . . . I . . .’
Instinct took over. Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, checked for his car keys. ‘Whatever it is, I’m on my way.’
Harry had no idea what he would tell the rest of the team, but right then he didn’t care. Family came first, it was as simple as that.
For a moment, Harry heard nothing but stuttered breathing. He wanted to be there, to be with his brother, sorting him out, protecting him.
‘It’s Dad,’ Ben said then, breaking the silence. ‘He . . .’
Harry’s breath caught in his throat and the shiver of ice that pierced him turned his skin to goose flesh. ‘He what, Ben?’
No reply came, just the sound of more crying.
‘He what? Speak to me!’
Harry’s voice was hard as an axe.
‘He contacted me,’ Ben said. ‘Yesterday.’
Harry was so stunned by Ben’s words that he stumbled backwards a little. He shook his head in disbelief, squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that he saw sparks fly in the darkness, his hand covering them, feeling the scars on his face, a topography of pain he wore proudly.
‘How? He can’t have done! He’s not allowed to! He doesn’t even know where you are!’
Ben was quiet again, just his breathing on the other end of the call, slow and shallow.
Harry’s mind was in sixth gear and still accelerating, crashing through possibilities, reasons, anything that he could think of which would have allowed their father to somehow reach out to Ben.
The last time Harry had seen the man was over twenty years ago. Ben had been ten years old. Harry had come back from another tour to find a broken front door, and in the house beyond, splintered furniture, blood on the walls, a family ruined. He should have been there to protect them, to keep his mother, his brother, safe. But he hadn’t been, and it still haunted him. It always would. Professional counsellors and therapists had told him that he needed to move on. Harry, however, refused. Moving on meant the bastard had gotten away with it. And Harry would never allow that.
‘Listen Ben,’ Harry said, his voice all menace, ‘whoever’s responsible, they’re going to regret it, you hear me? I’ll call my boss, we’ll get you safe, I promise.’
‘You can’t,’ Ben said, cutting in before Harry had even finished speaking. ‘He said so. He warned me! He warned me . . . to warn you.’
Harry could feel his rage building, his hand gripping his phone so tight he half wondered if it would soon just give up under the pressure, the shattered screen slicing into his palm.
‘Warn me? Ben, what the hell are you talking about? Warn me of what? Did he call you? I need to know if he called you, Ben. We need to find out how this happened, what went wrong, and who the hell is responsible!’
‘It was one of the other lads in here,’ Ben said. ‘Told me he had a message.’
Harry said nothing, just listened. His brother was talking now and an interruption might just put a halt on that, one neither of them could afford.
‘He said that dad told him to talk to me so that I would talk to you, right? And that if I told anyone other than you, he would know. He said he’d been watching me for years, keeping an eye on me. On you, too, Harry.’
‘On me?’ Harry said.
‘Said he knew all about why you’d been sent up north. That you’d roughed up a couple of blokes, chucked them in the back of a van.’
Harry swallowed hard. He’d never told Ben anything about any of his cases, period. So how the hell had this information got to him?
‘What else did he say, Ben?’ Harry asked, concerned that his brother’s crackling voice could give up at any moment, while in the darker part of his own mind, his thoughts were already threading together what he would do to whoever was responsible for this.
‘He . . . He said he was sorry for what happened. To Mum, to me. He said you had to let it go, to stop going after him.’
‘Bollocks to that,’ Harry spat. ‘After what he did? No chance, Ben, and you know it.’
‘He said he could get to us if he really wanted to. Get to me.’
Ben’s voice broke on his words and Harry patiently listened to his kid brother as he tried to pull himself together just enough to keep talking.
‘He said . . . He said that he would come for me first, Harry. Not you, me. He said that was very important for you to know. That he would come for me. Get me. In prison.’
Harry clenched his jaws so tightly that a jolt of pain shot through his skull like a drill bit chewing through bone. The notion that their supposed father was swaddling an apology for what he had done in the mean cloth of a threat sent him cold.
‘Ben,’ Harry said, but Ben cut him off, his voice rising in pitch, his words tumbling and crashing into each other.
‘He can get to me, Harry! He can get to me! I need to get out! I can’t take this! I can’t take it any more! I need to get out, to get out now! I need to get out!’
‘Ben!’
Harry’s voice was the roar of a soldier’s battle cry and Ben shut down, his voice dropping to a pathetic whimper.
‘You need to listen to me,’ Harry said, his voice quieter now, but no less dangerous.
No response, just a sniff.
‘I’m going to sort this out right now. When we end this conversation you are to speak to a prison officer immediately. Tell them you are in danger and need immediate isolation and protection. I will talk to everyone I need to and I promise you nothing will happen to you. Do you understand?’
Still no response.
‘Ben? Do you understand?’
‘I can’t, Harry,’ Ben said, his voice quiet and weak, the whisper of a ghost. ‘I can’t.’
‘Yes, you can,’ Harry said. ‘You have to.’
‘He’ll know,’ Ben said. ‘He’ll know and then he’ll send people to get me. He’ll know.’
‘You need to do what I’ve said,’ Harry said, working hard to keep his voice calm and measured. ‘You have to.’
‘I . . . I can’t.’
‘Ben . . .’
The line went dead.
Harry stood for what seemed like an eternity, his phone till clamped to his ear, hand gripping it hard. He was staring off into nothing, rage flooding though him like fire through a tinder dry forest.
‘Harry?’
The voice registered somewhere in Harry’s mind, but he couldn’t quite place it, his mind unable to break itse
lf free from what Ben had told him.
‘Harry!’
Someone was shaking him. Harry didn’t like being shaken.
‘What?’
The word came out not as a question but a threat as he turned to face whoever it was trying to butt into his day.
‘Matt?’
‘You alright, Boss?’
‘I’m not your boss.’
The man standing in front of Harry was Detective Sergeant Matt Dinsdale. He was around the same age as Harry, at least that’s what Harry assumed, because Matt’s age seemed to be a mystery to everyone. Matt also had the habit of being always just a little bit too cheerful. Not in an annoying way, more that it was just a part of who and what he was. He was the kind of man, Harry had realised over the past few weeks, who didn’t so much see life as a glass half full, but one filled right to the top. He had only recently qualified as a detective, which was pretty late in his career, Harry had thought, not that Matt seemed to care about such a thing.
Matt shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers and stepped back. ‘Anything I can do?’
‘No,’ Harry said. ‘Look, I need to make another phone call, okay? I’ll see you inside.’
Matt raised an eyebrow then gave a nod. ‘I’ll get the kettle on, if you’re sure, that is, that I can’t help?’
‘I am,’ Harry said, seeing that Matt was being absolutely genuine, but then that was a trait he’d noticed in nearly everyone he’d met since coming north. They were who they were, no disguises. ‘You do that and I’ll be over in a bit.’
‘I think we’re good for biscuits but if we’re not I’ll nip out and get some,’ Matt said. ‘And cake. Can never have too much.’
Matt made to head off to the community office but turned back one last time. ‘And you’re that sure you’re okay?’
Harry relaxed his face, gave a nod.
‘See you in a bit, then.’
With Matt gone, Harry opened the contacts folder on his phone and punched in a number. His call was answered in just over three rings.
‘DCI Grimm,’ the voice said.
Best Served Cold: A DCI Harry Grimm Novel Page 2