Best Served Cold: A DCI Harry Grimm Novel

by David J Gatward

  ‘What a shit tip,’ Harry said, as they bounced into the yard in the Land Rover, leaving the road and its smooth, clean surface behind, to be replaced by a mismatch of cobbles, rubble and patches of crumbling tarmac, all well hidden beneath a blanket of undulating muck and mire. Liz’s motorbike was propped up on its stand to one side.

  ‘The man had no pride,’ Jim said, pulling them to a stop and heaving the handbrake. He then looked at Harry’s feet and shook his head.

  ‘What?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Still not bought any, then?’ Jim asked, shaking his head, as though disappointed in the behaviour of a child.

  Harry said nothing and clambered out, his shoes sinking deep into the stink. He’d been putting off buying some proper farmer style wellington boots, because buying them added a sense of permanency to his life in the dales that he wasn’t quite ready to accept. But with something indescribably awful now creeping over the lip of his shoes and onto his socks, he made a mental note to get a pair as soon as they were back in Hawes.

  Harry looked around the yard. ‘I can’t believe I’m asking this, but which building is the actual house?’

  It was, from where they were standing, impossible to tell which of the buildings that surrounded the yard was the one which was lived in. Harry had been in some rough places, but this was like stepping back in time. There was a mean Victorian dread to the place, as though at any point people in rags would stumble from one of the chewed, rotting doors, their feet bare, their starving mouths begging for food.

  Jim gave a nod to their left with his head and said, ‘Follow me.’

  At the other side of the yard, having negotiated some angry chickens and even angrier dogs, Harry followed Jim through a scuffed, muck-covered door and into a room which clearly served as a living room, kitchen, and dining area. Liz was there to meet them.

  ‘I’d make you a mug of tea,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think any of us want to risk it.’

  A quick scan of the room had Harry inclined to agree. Every surface was covered, not just in unclean crockery and tins and packets of food, but equipment and supplies clearly for use on the farm.

  Liz was leaning up against a sofa, which looked like it should’ve seen a bonfire years ago, her PCSO uniform hidden beneath her motorbike leathers.

  ‘No milk anyway,’ she said, then tapped her right foot against a grubby looking sack on the floor, ‘unless you want some of that.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘That’s dried milk for lambs,’ Liz explained. ‘You use it if you have to hand feed them. Sometimes mothers reject their own, or you get triplets and have to take one away. Smells great, like really sweet custard powder, or a Caramac bar, but I don’t think it would work too well in a brew.’

  Harry looked for somewhere to sit down, eventually pulling a chair out from under a dining table, which itself was covered in unopened letters held down with a scattering of shotgun cartridges. The chair looked sticky but Harry went for it and hoped that when he got up that he wouldn’t leave the place with ruined trousers.

  ‘So then, Liz,’ Harry said, as Jim shuffled along and took up another seat, Liz staying where she was against the sofa, ‘what exactly happened?’

  ‘All I was doing was talking to him,’ Liz said. ‘He was in a proper state over what he’d found so I was just trying to calm him down and find out what had gone on.’

  ‘And you met him here?’

  Liz gave a nod. ‘Jim sent him here to calm him down and get him away from the accident.’

  ‘And he just buggered off?’

  ‘Yep, out of here, like I’d set a rocket up his arse.’

  Harry smiled just a little at that. ‘Why was he up here in the first place? And how did he know where to find the deceased? Doesn’t strike me as all that normal to just walk up into a field to meet a friend.’

  Jim said, ‘All I know is that when I got to the scene he was in a flap, properly jumping around and not making much sense.’

  ‘Liz?’ Harry asked. ‘He say anything to you?’

  Liz screwed up her face and gave a little shrug.

  ‘What is it?’ Harry asked.

  ‘It’s just that he said he was out here because John sent him a text,’ Liz said, then held up her hands as if to fend off any accusations of making stuff up. ‘Don’t look at me like that, it’s what he said.’

  Harry glanced at Jim with a raised eyebrow. ‘He mention this to you?’

  Jim shook his head. ‘He can’t have sent one, can he? John’s been dead a couple of days, easily. Nick’s talking bollocks.’

  ‘And that’s your professional opinion?’ Harry asked, a crease of a smile in the corner of his mouth.

  ‘It’s the opinion of someone who’s known him all his life.’

  ‘Exactly my thoughts,’ Liz said. ‘But that’s what he said, or at least that’s what I could make out from his hysterics. He said John sent him a text, that he needed help, and when he arrived he found what you’ve all seen, John not exactly being in a fit state to have sent him a text in the first place.’

  Harry folded his arms and felt his brow crease as he tried to deal with what he’d just been told. ‘So this Nick bloke reckons he received a text from John, who’s clearly dead, telling him to come to the field this morning? You’re sure that’s what he said? Absolutely positive?’

  Liz gave a short, sharp nod.

  ‘And then he just ran? Was there anything you said that set him off?’ Harry asked, eyes back on Liz. ‘Anything you said or did?’

  Liz was quiet for a moment. ‘When I arrived, Jim had him pretty calm, so I just took over.’

  ‘He was probably still in shock,’ Jim said.

  ‘And having seen the body, that’s more than understandable,’ Harry agreed.

  ‘That bad?’ Liz asked.

  Harry and Jim both nodded.

  Liz’s eyes grew wide at this, but she kept on speaking. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘he was quiet to begin with, so I just tried to keep it like that, but then he started getting agitated.’

  ‘About what?’ Harry asked.

  ‘John texting him and John being dead and how could a dead person send him a text, and then he kind of just started leaping about a bit.’

  ‘Leaping about a bit?’ Harry said then gestured to the room they were in. ‘How does anyone leap about a bit in here without doing themselves a mischief?’

  ‘He had a good go,’ Liz said. ‘And he’s not that big, not much taller than me if I’m honest. It’s what he does anyway, never seems to stand still, like he’s always agitated, but he was worse than ever.’

  ‘So where is he now?’ Harry asked.

  ‘When I said that you and Matt were up there as well, with Jim, he kind of just went silent, then just did a runner, jumped in his van, and buggered off.’

  Something jogged Harry’s memory. ‘When was this?’

  Liz checked her watched. ‘Twenty minutes ago?’

  ‘That’ll be the car we heard then,’ Harry said. ‘Raced off up the road. Any idea where he was heading?’

  ‘None,’ Liz said. ‘But we know where he lives.’

  Harry fell silent. They had a body in a field which looked like cause of death was a little suspicious. Nothing concrete, but enough to call it in and investigate further. And now they had this Nick bloke going up to meet the deceased at the field because apparently the deceased had sent him a text asking for help. Which was either total bollocks, or something much, much worse. Harry knew he’d be wanting to have another look at the field then, that was for sure. If a text had been sent, did that mean there was a phone lying around? And if there was, who had used it? Because if there was one thing he was pretty sure the dead didn’t do, it was send text messages to friends.

  ‘So,’ Harry said at last, the word rolling out on the end of a long, slow breath, ‘and just to make sure we’re all absolutely clear on this, so forgive my repeating a few things, we’ve got the deceased, who is either the victim of a hard
to explain, tragic and particularly gory farming accident, or was murdered in such a way as to make it look like an accident. He’s been lying up in the field all weekend, attracting every blowfly from across the dale and no one has done a damned thing about going up to see what had happened because this mess isn’t actually visible from the road. And we’ve got this Little Nick who’s up rolled on up here to meet the deceased because the deceased contacted him.’

  ‘You don’t think Nick did it, do you?’ Jim asked, disbelief clear in his voice. ‘Did him over on Friday than came out here today to try and cover things up with his idiotic story?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ said Harry. ‘I’m just saying that it’s all a bit bloody weird. Could be connected, could be completely irrelevant. I’m just keeping things open. Anyway, he goes up to the field, finds his mate in a pretty poor state of repair, calls the police. Then he gets jumpy and does a runner. Am I missing anything?’

  ‘All bases covered,’ Jim said.

  ‘How long before the circus turns up?’

  Jim checked his watch. ‘Another half hour I’d say.’

  ‘You okay to wait here and direct everyone up to the field?’ Harry asked, looking over at Liz.

  ‘I know where it is,’ Liz said. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘Right then,’ Harry said, looking at Jim, ‘I want the rest of the team over here as soon as possible. We need house-to-house in the local area, and I want us to start tracing Capstick’s last few days if we can. Oh, and someone contact his GP.’

  ‘GP?’ Jim asked. ‘Why?’

  ‘Something Matt said earlier about suicide,’ Harry said. ‘I get what he meant about it not being the usual way to do it, but stress can really bugger someone up. And someone’s medical history can tell you a lot about them.’

  Harry stepped outside the house. ‘Come on then, Jim,’ he said. ‘let’s go and have another look around, shall we?’

  ‘At the field? But what’s there to look at?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Well,’ said Harry, ‘if Nick did receive a text, then there’s got to be a phone lying about somewhere, hasn’t there?’

  Chapter Seven

  Back in the field, Harry was surprised to find another vehicle in the field parked up next to the police Land Rover, which had been moved down towards the entrance into the field by the road. Matt was standing by it.

  Harry could see that Matt had done a good job of cordoning off the site with the tape he’d handed him, pinning it down on the grass with rocks. He’d even managed to lay out a route in and out of the site to avoid contamination of crime scene. It hadn’t done much to improve it though. If anything, it had added to the grimness of it all, the tape standing out against the landscape, a sign that here, amongst the beauty, was something pretty bloody terrible indeed.

  The vehicle next to the police Land Rover was a black Discovery. Like the Land Rover, Harry saw that it was covered in its fair share of muck and mud, but unlike the Land Rover, it looked comfortable and worth way more than he could ever afford to spend on a vehicle. Hell, it looked worth more than he’d happily spend on a new flat.

  ‘So who the hell is that, then?’ Harry asked, winding down his window to snarl at Matt. ‘I mean, this isn’t a bring-a-friend party, is it? Or do folk around here just like to turn up and have a look-see at a crime scene, whether they’re invited to or not?’

  ‘It’s Mike,’ Matt said. ‘One of the local GPs. I thought you called him?’

  ‘And why the hell would I do that?’

  ‘Confirm death?’

  Harry pursed his lips and took a long, slow and particularly deep breath.

  ‘How’s about you think about what you just said and try that again,’ he said. ‘And bear in mind what a live person looks like, so, you know, like you and me and Jim here. And then think about what a dead person looks like, particularly one who’s been runover by a tractor and then left out in the sun for a couple of days.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t call him?’ Matt asked.

  ‘No, I bloody well did not!’ Harry roared, biting on his words as he said them. ‘It’s not like he’s needed, is it? Poor old Capstick is a bit beyond CPR and a couple of sodding paracetamol!’

  Jim turned the engine off. ‘Maybe Nick called him?’

  ‘I specifically said for people to go to the farmhouse first,’ Harry seethed. ‘Otherwise this place is just going to end up like a car park at a National Trust site, and before you know it, Matt here’ll be charging for parking, and someone will turn up with a burger van!’

  ‘He’s a doctor, though,’ Jim said. ‘Might be useful? And you said you wanted someone to contact John’s GP.’

  ‘Look, we’ve the pathologist on her way already,’ Harry sighed, ‘And we all know what a pleasure Rebecca Sowerby is to deal with, don’t we? We need him gone, you hear? Or she’ll simply use this as a grenade to shove where I’d rather she didn’t.’

  The last time Harry had had to deal with her they hadn’t exactly got along. And he was already not exactly looking forward to experiencing again her particularly spiky approach to developing a good working relationship.

  Harry stared up towards the crime scene. ‘So just where exactly is this good doctor, then?’

  Harry didn’t give Matt a chance to answer and, climbing out of Jim’s vehicle, headed straight off up across the field and towards the grisly remains of the late John Capstick.

  Matt made to follow but Harry turned on him and stared hard.

  ‘No, you stay here. Scene Guard, remember?’ He looked to Jim. ‘You got something that’ll do the job as the log?’

  Jim and Matt both pulled out their notebooks.

  ‘Right,’ Harry said, ‘names, occupations, times in and out, okay? And as soon as people start arriving, Jim, you take over as Scene Guard. Matt, you get to come up and start using that fancy new detective qualification you’re so proud of.’

  Matt and Jim both gave firm nods which helped Harry feel a little confident that things were in control. Then he turned away and headed up the field, muttering to himself, ‘Now let’s go and see what this doctor has to say for himself, shall we?’

  In this distance, Harry spotted the doctor. He was standing on the right side of the police cordon tape, which was at least something, Harry thought.

  As Harry drew close, the man turned to meet him. He was tall, Harry noticed, taller than himself by a couple of inches, and altogether exceptionally neat. He was dressed well, inasmuch as he was wearing a pair of good leather shoes, and the kind of trouser, shirt and jacket combo Harry only ever saw in the expensive clothing catalogues which were sometimes pushed through the door to his flat back in Bristol. He looked fit, too, not bulked up, but wiry, like a runner or a climber, his clothes fitting him well enough in places to show that beneath them lay muscle. He was also not only clean shaven but completely bald. As to his age, Harry wasn’t so sure, but he’d have put him at around fifty, though it was the kind of fifty that he could only ever dream of achieving himself, because Harry figured that when he hit fifty, he would do so with all the weight and care of an out of control articulated truck and make a right proper mess of it.

  ‘Michael Smith,’ the man said, placing a worn leather doctor’s bag onto the ground. ‘I’m the local doctor. Well, one of them. My colleague is back at the surgery.’

  Harry reached out with his right hand, expecting a handshake, only to see that the doctor had done the same, only with his left hand instead.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘an old wrist injury! And there’s nothing worse than a limp handshake, am I right?’

  Harry couldn’t agree more and swapped hands. The doctor’s grip was strong, the smile warm and genuine, and the accent clearly one that said more about where the man had been educated than where he had grown up.

  ‘Grimm,’ Harry said.

  ‘Yes, it is rather,’ the doctor agreed. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything quite like it if I’m honest.’

  Harry smiled. ‘
No, sorry, I mean that’s me, Harry Grimm.’

  Harry saw a fleeting look of disbelief flicker across the doctor’s face, which then broke into realisation.

  ‘Really? Goodness, I thought that was just someone having me on when I first heard it, your name, I mean.’

  ‘A face like mine usually has the opposite effect,’ Harry said.

  ‘IED?’

  Harry gave a surprised nod.

  ‘I was army reserve for a while,’ the doctor said. ‘Did a couple of tours.’

  ‘Para,’ Harry said. ‘Long time ago now.’ He gestured at the body just away from them both on the other side of the tape. ‘Don’t think we need you to confirm that he’s dead, do you?’

  ‘No, not really,’ said the doctor. ‘Hell of a way to go, though. Any idea what happened?’

  Harry declined answering the question, thinking it best to keep any ideas to himself and his team only. Not that he really had any, but sometimes just pretending that he might have was enough to keep people on their toes. Instead, he asked, ‘Who called you?’

  ‘Nicholas Ellis,’ the doctor said. ‘Sounded in a real panic so I rushed up here. Didn’t tell me what I was going to find, though, just that there had been an accident. I thought he would be here. I didn’t expect all of this. You know, you, as in the police.’

  ‘Nicholas Ellis?’ Harry said, then realised who the doctor was talking about. ‘Oh, right, Little Nick, or whatever he’s called.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘No idea,’ Harry said. ‘Buggered off. So, you knew the deceased?’

  ‘Of course,’ the doctor said. ‘Comes with the job. I know everyone just about.’

  ‘And what was he like?’

  ‘John Capstick?’ The doctor stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and took a long slow breath. ‘Accident prone,’ he said at last. ‘Always knocking and cutting himself or ending up in and accident and emergency and getting a cast or stitches. And he had his own problems.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Patient confidentiality,’ the doctor said. ‘Can’t really say any more, I’m afraid.’