Best Served Cold: A DCI Harry Grimm Novel

by David J Gatward

  Pat took a deep breath then started to talk, his thick, Yorkshire accent dancing around his words like children around a maypole. ‘Well, I was up at five,’ he said. ‘Bit early for me, to be honest, but there we are. Got up anyway and decided I may as well just head on out and do something with my time. No point lying around in bed, is there?’

  Harry wasn’t exactly of the same opinion and asked, ‘Why were you up so early, then?’

  Pat shrugged. ‘I think it was a fox that woke me. Heard a scrabbling sound outside. That’s why I went out, really. They can’t half scare the animals. And little Gracie, she’s my youngest, she’s got these two rabbits you see, and that’s a tasty meal for any fox for sure, and I can’t be doing with seeing her all upset.’

  ‘You didn’t hear a car?’

  ‘Oh, there’s always cars,’ Pat said. ‘It’s a busy road, that.’

  Harry turned to look briefly at the road behind them. Busy wasn’t a word that immediately sprang to mind, and particularly not so in the middle of the night. ‘So, you heard a car as well?’

  ‘No, I said there’s always cars,’ Pat replied. ‘But there were one or two I’m sure, yes.’

  ‘And then you went outside?’

  ‘Not immediately, no,’ Pat said. ‘I grabbed my gun and then I went out.’

  ‘Gun?’

  ‘For the fox,’ Pat said. ‘At least it would scare the bugger off, sending a couple of barrels off in the air. Can’t shoot a fox with a shotgun. Well, you can, but I don’t think it’s right, myself. Need a rifle for that. So I don’t.’

  Harry was beginning to wonder just how many households in the dales held their own private little armouries.

  ‘And what did you find?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Nowt much,’ Pat shrugged. ‘I mean, I wasn’t expecting to find anything, was I? I was just wandering around outside, checking for a fox, and then decided to go and have a look in on the animals, wish them good morning, like. They spook easily, but they were fine. And that’s when I saw it. The body. In the slurry, if you know what I mean? And I shouldn’t have been able to see it, should I?’

  Harry tried to imagine what it must have been like, up early in the morning, surrounded by the countryside, to then find a body in your own backyard. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not?’ Pat asked, more than a little incredulously. ‘I’ve got kids, that’s why not! You think I’d have a slurry pit uncovered when I’ve got kids? Of course not! And there it is as plain as the nose on my face, a body, just floating in the shit, and the cover has been all pulled back! Doesn’t make sense! It’s never uncovered! Never!’

  ‘How did you spot it?’ asked Harry.

  ‘With my own bloody eyes, that’s how!’ Pat said. ‘What kind of question is that?’

  Harry was used to people being bristly so reworded his question. ‘What I mean is, what drew your attention to it in the first place? It wouldn’t have been easy to see.’

  ‘It was a bloody great lump sticking out of the muck,’ Pat explained. ‘That, and the fact that the cover had been pulled back. Thought it might be a deer or a sheep, perhaps even a badger, and I knew I’d have to clear it out later, because you can’t leave something like that just floating there, can you? So I went over to check, which was when I realised what it actually was. Bit of a shock, if I’m honest.’

  ‘I’m sure it was,’ Matt said. ‘Any idea who it is?’

  ‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you? How the hell do you expect me to know that?’

  Harry jumped in with, ‘I think what DC Metcalf is asking is, if there was anything about the body, something it was wearing perhaps, that you recognised? Anything at all?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ Pat said. ‘All I know is that I’ve got some poor bugger floating dead in an uncovered slurry pit, police traipsing all over my farm, and I’ve a business to run. Can’t stop just because of this, you know. I’m a busy man!’

  ‘And there’s nothing else you can tell us?’ Harry asked. ‘Nothing else you saw which was strange or out of place? Nothing else you heard or noticed?’

  Pat shook his head and shrugged. ‘Just the uncovered pit. And the body. That’s enough to be going on with, surely, isn’t it? Because someone must’ve pulled the cover off, and either that poor sod threw themselves in, or someone pushed them in.’

  Harry was hoping for more. ‘Right, well, thanks, Mr Coates,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a tremendous help.’

  He hadn’t been of any real help at all, that Harry could see, but perhaps something would come out later, you never knew. Had that fox he heard been someone in the farmyard, perhaps? Possibly, but still, what did that actually tell them other than sod all?

  ‘That it, then?’ Pat asked. ‘I can go?’

  ‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘But if you can pop into the office in Hawes later on, that would be very much appreciated.’

  ‘I’ll have to see,’ Pat said.

  ‘By which I mean, I will expect you to come into the office today, Mr Coates.’

  ‘Right, well, if that’s how it’s going to be.’

  ‘It is.’

  And with that, Pat Coates turned back towards his house and strode off, his gait not that dissimilar to that of a cowboy, Harry thought.

  ‘Learned a lot there, then,’ Matt said as they all stared, watching the farmer go back into his house.

  A call cut the air and Harry, Jim and Matt all turned at the same time to see someone waving at them from beside the slurry pit. The pathologist and her two colleagues had been joined by other officers now as the body was now no longer in the pit and they were busy examining the rest of the site for possible evidence. It looked like a terrible job to be on with, Harry thought, as he walked over. ‘What is it?’

  Rebecca Sowerby walked over to meet him, pulling her facemask down on the way.

  ‘This,’ she said, and held up an evidence bag.

  ‘Ah, bollocks,’ Harry said.

  ‘Exactly what I said,’ Sowerby agreed. ‘Looks the same as the one we found on the body yesterday. Kind of links the two deaths, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Links?’ Harry said. ‘Links! Hell, this pretty much handcuffs them together and throws them into the same bloody cell!’

  Harry turned then and stormed back towards Matt and Jim.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Matt said.

  ‘No I won’t,’ replied Harry, then he added, ‘But yes, it’s another sodding feather. Another!’

  ‘Seriously?’ Jim said. ‘What does that mean, then?’

  Harry knew exactly what it meant and already his gut was twisting up at the implications of what they could potentially be dealing with. ‘What it means, Jim,’ he said, his voice quiet, low and rumbling, the sound of it the approach of thunder, ‘is that whoever did this, to whoever that is down there, killed old John Capstick as well.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Back in Hawes, and sitting at a table in the main room the local police used at the Community Office, Harry was staring hard into an enormous mug of tea, which had just been handed to him by Matt. Jenny and Liz were on their way back from the domestic. Gordy, having done her bit with the family at the farm, had headed back down the dale, but had promised to be in touch later on, assuming, she said, ‘that all those wee squaddies at Catterick aren’t out on the piss’. On the table in front of him was an open laptop on which he had already gone through the files sent by the photographer and pathologist from the day before. He’d left a couple of terse messages on DSI Swift’s phone, enquiring about the files, but had as yet heard not a thing.

  ‘How big actually is this?’ Harry asked, his hands clasping the mug, his fingertips only just meeting around the other side of it.

  ‘Well, it’s a pint mug,’ Matt said, ‘so I’m guessing it holds a pint. I figured you needed one.’

  ‘A pint? Of tea? And where did you get it?’

  ‘Café over in Ingleton,’ Matt explained. ‘I’ve been going there for years, you see. Loads of cavers and walkers and whatnot us
e it. That’s one of café’s souvenirs. Well, what I mean is, it’s actually their only souvenir. I was over there the weekend before last. Meant to bring it in before, but I forgot.’

  Harry picked up the mug and stared at it, trying to take in the scale of the thing. ‘It’s nearly as big as my head.’

  ‘Can’t beat a pint mug of tea and a bacon butty,’ Matt said. ‘So . . .’ He removed a paper bag from his jacket pocket and handed it to Harry, who took it from him and stared at the contents for a moment before removing the roll inside, which was generously filled with bacon. ‘Stopped in at Cockett’s on the way through,’ Matt said, then gave another bag to Jim. ‘After what we saw this morning, I figured we all needed a little pick-me-up. And there’s cake for later.’

  Harry bit into the butty waiting for Matt to announce that he’d also bought cheese for the cake. He didn’t, so Harry was a little relieved, because he still hadn’t quite got used to that particular food combination, though he had no doubt there was some lurking in the fridge in the corner of the room. ‘Nice,’ he said, his voice muffled a little. ‘You not eating?’

  ‘Already eaten,’ Matt said, patting his stomach. ‘Pushed mine into my face on the way here. I think I inhaled it, to be honest.’

  For the next couple of minutes, Harry and Jim quietly munched their way through the butties, and all the time Harry was thinking about what they were now in the middle of. One death, one murder, well that was something folk could handle, not in a way that meant it was any easier, because all investigations were different, but more in the way that it was communicated. The press would snap at it but lose interest pretty quickly unless it was a particularly horrific death or involved a celebrity. Things would quieten down, and then you would be able to just get on with the job in hand. But two murders, and within days of each other? Harry was pretty sure he could hear journalists up and down the country already sniffing it out like pigs seeking out rare and expensive truffles. Particularly that local one who had got right up his nose a few weeks ago, Richard Askew. And there was a nagging thought as well, one that was telling him that where there were two murders, three soon followed. He certainly hoped there wouldn’t be, and that this was as far as it all went, but he had an awful feeling that whatever was going on, wasn’t finished. And that meant they needed to get ahead of this, and fast. But with no suspects, and bugger all evidence, where were they supposed to start?

  ‘Right then,’ Harry said at last, the bacon butty demolished, and his pint mug of tea halfway to being gone, ‘best we get something up on that board.’

  He stood up, grabbed a drywipe pen and pulled the cap off, then pointed at the whiteboard which had the name ‘John Capstick’ written on it, a few other scant notes, and nothing else. It didn’t exactly inspire confidence in him that this was going to be easy.

  ‘Should we not wait for Jenny?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She was doing the board, wasn’t she?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure that the three of us can do it just as well,’ Harry said. ‘I’ve used a pen before and it may surprise you to hear, I know, but I’ve even been known to write on a board screwed to a wall. Multi-talented.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  Harry knew he was being sharp, but sometimes he just couldn’t be doing with people being precious about things, and more times than he cared to remember, he’d found the board to be one of those things. From the way some lay it out, to what colour pens others used, the whole area of The Board in many ways got right on his nerves. It was a useful thing, and he was a big fan of its simplicity, the fact that it wasn’t computer generated and all technical, but as far as Harry was concerned, no board in any investigation belonged to any one person.

  The office door opened.

  ‘Hi Jenny,’ Jim said, then glanced at Harry who saw the smile on his face. ‘Look, it’s Liz and Jenny. Fancy that!’

  Jenny strode in and caught sight of where Harry was standing. Liz sat down between Matt and Jim.

  ‘Seems I got here just in time,’ Jenny said and before Harry was even aware of what was happening, the Detective Constable had plucked the pen from out of his hand and was standing at the other side of the board. ‘So, what have we got, then?’

  Harry caught Jim looking at him, laughter creasing the corners of his eyes, and he sat back down. ‘Before all that,’ he said, ‘what happened with you two, then?’

  ‘You missed a classic,’ Matt said. ‘Death by slurry!’

  ‘Yeah, I’m not really convinced we actually missed out at all,’ Liz said.

  ‘Well, come on then,’ Jim said. ‘Anything exciting, or not?’

  Liz pulled a sandwich packet from her pocket, tore it open, and handed half to Jenny. ‘Two kids skiving off school,’ she said. ‘They’d been down at the tip, bin diving! Got caught, we were called in, and we had to sort it out.’

  ‘How’s that a domestic?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Oh, that’s easy,’ Jenny said. ‘Just throw in a husband in a white vest with a can of Special Brew in one hand, and a wife who had moved on from Special Brew to something stronger by the time we arrived, and you can let your imagination do the rest.’

  ‘A wee bit shouty, then,’ said Matt, in a pretty terrible Scottish accent. ‘As Gordy would say.’

  ‘A wee bit shouty indeed,’ Liz nodded.

  ‘Anyway,’ Harry said, bringing everyone back to why they were actually all there to begin with. ‘The board . . .’

  ‘The feather from yesterday,’ Jim offered first. ‘The one found in John’s mouth. It’s an eagle feather.’

  Jenny jotted that down on the board, and as the conversation continued, started to join points up with lines if she thought it necessary. ‘Why do that, then?’ she asked. ‘Seems a bit weird.’

  ‘What, stuff something in his mouth?’ Matt asked.

  ‘No, not just that,’ Jenny said. ‘Why an eagle feather? Seems a bit specific.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Liz said, her mouth a little too full with sandwich, ‘why not just a pigeon feather, something easy to find? And just where the hell does anyone get an eagle feather from, anyway?’

  ‘Maybe it’s some kind of reference to being a predator,’ Matt offered. ‘Birds of prey, right? They’re pretty amazing predators and maybe that’s what our killer thinks he or she is.’

  ‘There was another today as well,’ Harry said. ‘Found in the second victim’s mouth. Don’t know if it’s an eagle feather, but I’d put money on it being the same.’

  ‘And we know that John was incapacitated before he was crushed,’ Matt said. ‘Someone used a sleeper hold on him, knocked him out, then drove him up into the field before finishing him off.’

  ‘Which to my mind rules out Nick,’ Jim said. ‘John’s a big bloke. Nick isn’t. Even if Nick managed to knock him out, there’s no way he could get him up to the field. Doubt he could drag him even a foot or two.’

  ‘Someone did though,’ said Harry. ‘Bill, that farmer I spoke to over in Oughtershaw, he saw them, Saturday morning. Two people in the tractor. He assumed it was Nick, but if it wasn’t him, then . . .’ Another thought bumped its way into Harry’s mind. ‘So where was John when he was attacked?’

  Silence took a seat in the room.

  ‘Back at the house, I suppose,’ Jim said.

  Harry’s stomach twisted just enough. ‘I need forensics to go over there ASAP,’ he said. ‘I know there’s probably nothing, particularly as we’ve all been in there, but it’s worth a look, just in case.’

  Jim quickly made a call while everyone waited. ‘Sorted,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ nodded Harry.

  What about the fact that they’re both farm accidents?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Well, for a start, they’re neither of them accidents,’ Harry said. ‘That much I’m pretty sure we can all agree on, right?’

  ‘No, but they’ve been made to look like them, haven’t they? Capstick was run over by a trailer, now some poor sod’s been d
rowned in slurry. And the first one is surely more common than the second.’

  ‘We don’t know that they drowned,’ Harry corrected. ‘And how do you know one’s more common than the other?’

  ‘He’s got a point,’ Jim said, agreeing with Matt.

  ‘Has he now,’ Harry said. ‘And you can support that statement, can you?’

  Jim gave a nod and explained further. ‘The three most common causes of fatal accidents on a farm are falling from a height, being hit by a vehicle, and being hit by a moving object. Those three alone account for around sixty percent of deaths.’

  Harry was impressed. ‘But what about being shot, then?’ he asked. ‘I’ve met two farmers in two days, both with guns.’

  ‘People are careful with shotguns and rifles,’ Jim explained, ‘because they know they’re dangerous. Other stuff, well, they can get complacent, make a mistake, just forget what they’re doing because it’s so routine. That’s usually what happens, which is why the common accidents are what I said they are.’

  ‘You always read up on farming statistics?’ Harry asked.

  ‘There was an article on it in the Farmer’s Guardian a while back,’ Jim said. ‘Can’t recall a mention of death by slurry pit. They’re usually covered up these days, like Pat said, remember? So how had his cover been pulled back?’

  Harry did remember and at the time hadn’t thought much of it, wondering if the farmer had forgotten to do it himself. But now, thinking about it, what if someone else had done it? Didn’t that make more sense?

  ‘So, we’ve got two farm deaths,’ Matt said, ‘and that’s a bit weird, however you look at it. Why do it like this? Go to all that trouble? What’s the point?’

  ‘There’s something else though,’ Harry said. ‘We’ve got two victims. The second one we don’t have an ID for yet. When we do, we will need to establish a link. Because there has to be one, doesn’t there? Unless it’s just some mad bastard out killing at random for shits and giggles, which I doubt.’