Broken Fall: A D.I. Harland novella

by Fergus McNeill

  Linwood seemed to sense his mood, giving him a moment before asking, ‘So, where do you want to begin?’

  Harland rubbed his eyes and took a breath.

  ‘Let’s start with the basics,’ he said, frowning to himself. ‘Who was the last person to see Albert alive?’

  Linwood considered this. ‘Someone from the care agency?’ he suggested.

  ‘Could be, yes.’ Harland glanced back down the hallway towards the front door. ‘Tracey Miller was his regular carer. She came in to help with meals, and housework …’

  ‘Do we know what time she was last here?’

  ‘No. We need to talk to her.’

  ‘I’ll track her down,’ Linwood promised.

  ‘If you would.’ Harland frowned. He glanced past his colleague towards the back door. ‘Any signs of forced entry?’

  ‘No, nothing. Front and back doors were both locked. And all the windows have those screw-in security bolt things.’

  ‘So we’re looking for someone with a key of their own, or access to the key-safe.’

  They stood in thought for a moment.

  ‘Is the key still in there?’ Linwood asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Harland brightened. ‘Yes, let’s check it for prints; the key-safe too. We ought to find Brian’s and Tracey’s …’

  ‘And if we don’t …?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  They both turned to look down the hall, hearing raised voices from outside.

  ‘Back in a minute.’ Harland scowled, stalking towards the front door.

  There was a couple at the gate, with several onlookers behind them. The man was in his forties, jowly, with a wave of fair hair, and some sort of blazer flapping around his bulky frame as he gestured and blustered. Well dressed and well fed, Harland thought. The slender woman beside him – his wife, perhaps? – was pale and drawn, her straight blond hair shining under the light of the street lamp.

  ‘… but I still need you to stand back.’ Lawson’s voice rose above the clamour, his arms spread wide, as he positioned himself to block the gateway. ‘Please, sir! Stand back!’

  ‘What d’you think you’re playing at?’ the stocky man protested. ‘Who the hell’s in charge here?’

  Harland stepped directly into his path, his face impassive as he calmly folded his arms.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Harland.’ He spoke softly and stood his ground, forcing the other man to quieten down and back away. ‘Can I ask who you are?’

  The man looked at him, slightly deflated.

  ‘I’m Richard Errington, and this is my wife Amanda.’ He jabbed out a thick finger to point towards the house. ‘Now you listen, this is my father’s property, and I want to know …’

  The woman, who had been staring intently at Harland, seemed to read something in his face.

  ‘Richard,’ she tugged at her husband’s arm. ‘Let him speak.’

  ‘… what the bloody hell is—’

  ‘Richard!’

  The steel in her voice quietened everyone for a moment.

  Richard blinked at his wife, then lapsed into silence.

  Harland put a hand on Lawson’s shoulder, nodding for him to stand aside and let the couple through. There was no privacy on the street, so he led them a short way into the garden, halting on the cobbled drive, and turning to face them. Delivering a death message was always grim, but you could learn a lot from people’s reactions.

  ‘I’m sorry about this …’ He took a breath, looked the stout man in the eye. ‘It’s bad news, sir.’

  ‘Oh God, no …’ Amanda gripped her husband with one hand and raised the other to her mouth.

  ‘I’m afraid that Albert Errington …’ Harland paused, then changed his mind. Too impersonal. ‘… that your father died earlier this evening.’

  ‘Eh?’ Richard gave him an incredulous look, before his jowly face twisted in distress. He turned towards the house. ‘Let me see him …’

  ‘Sir.’ Harland moved quickly, taking hold of the big man’s arm. ‘SIR!’

  ‘Get your bloody hands off me!’ Richard yanked himself free and stared at him, outraged. ‘He’s my father!’

  ‘And I’m very sorry,’ Harland spoke calmly, ‘but you can’t go in there just now.’

  ‘Why not?’ There was confusion on Richard’s face now, and it seemed genuine. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to establish.’

  ‘But … how did he die?’

  Harland gave him a long steady look.

  ‘Your father was found at the foot of the stairs.’ He sighed. ‘We’ll know more soon.’

  Richard faltered, seeming to shrink slightly. ‘So … he fell downstairs?’

  ‘As I said, we’ll know more soon.’

  Amanda stepped forward to put her arm around her husband. He hunched over, indignation crumbling to sorrow as he raised a hand to rub his eyes.

  ‘No … no …’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Richard. But there’s nothing anyone could have done.’ Amanda placed her hands on either side of his face, gently lifting, forcing him to look into her eyes. ‘Really nothing.’

  Richard nodded slowly, then suddenly threw his arms around her with a strangled cry. She accepted his embrace somewhat stiffly, her eyes flickering across to Harland.

  ‘I know,’ she murmured to her husband. ‘But it’ll be all right.’

  Harland shuffled awkwardly as she stared at him, as though he was somehow trespassing on a private moment. He looked down and frowned, dismissing his discomfort by thinking of other things. If they hadn’t known Albert was dead, what had brought them here so late? He decided to approach the issue indirectly, with an oblique question.

  ‘Have you come far?’

  ‘No,’ Richard replied, straightening up and sniffing. ‘We live down on Spike Island.’

  There was no hesitation in his answer. Spike Island was just a couple of minutes away … but what were they doing here now?

  Amanda extricated herself from her husband’s arms and drew herself up to address Harland.

  ‘The people from Help Line left us a message about the alarm being activated,’ she explained, then turned back to Richard. ‘But we were watching a DVD together; we didn’t hear the phone.’

  Richard stared at her, his expression stricken, then he bowed his head with a muffled sob.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Amanda soothed, as she patted his shoulder.

  Harland watched them thoughtfully. Was he seeing remorse? Regret, for words not said? Or was there something else?

  ‘Look,’ he sighed. ‘I appreciate this must have been a terrible shock for you both, but there’s really nothing more that you can do tonight …’

  Richard’s head snapped up.

  ‘I want to know what happened,’ he demanded. ‘I have to know …’

  ‘I understand.’ Harland nodded slowly. ‘Listen, I’ll try and pop round to see you tomorrow – or today, rather – and we can talk more then. Lawson will take down your address. Is that all right with you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Amanda replied. ‘And thank you.’

  Putting an arm around her husband, she gave him a gentle squeeze and began turning towards the gate. But Richard froze.

  ‘Oh shit, what about Jenny?’ He looked at his wife with new anguish.

  ‘Who’s Jenny?’ Harland asked.

  ‘Richard’s sister,’ Amanda replied. ‘Poor thing, has she been told?’

  Harland remembered the photograph, the boy and the girl – Richard and Jenny.

  ‘We haven’t contacted her yet. Would you like me to …?’ He left the question hanging.

  Richard glanced across at him with a flicker of hope, then sagged and shook his head.

  ‘No, better she hears it from family,’ he managed, then faltered and turned to his wife. ‘Dammit all, should we drive over there now? Or phone her? What are you meant to do in these situations?’

  Amanda took her husband’s arm and steered him towards the gat
e.

  ‘Call her from the car, Richard. I can drive …’ She glanced back over her shoulder. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Harland replied. He watched them as they made their way back across the cobbled driveway, and gave the nod to Lawson, who stood aside to let them pass into the street. Then, allowing himself the yawn he’d been stifling, he turned to look at the house. It was a nice-looking property; the last sort of place you’d expect to discover a murder. But he was certain that Albert Errington’s death wasn’t an accident. And he was going to find out who was responsible.

  Chapter 3

  Harland switched off the engine and peered out through the windscreen. Little Cross House was anything but little – a grey, sixteen-storey tower block, jutting up to loom over the cramped terraced houses of Southville. An open swathe of rough grass and concrete encircled it – like a huge impact crater, as though the enormous structure had been dropped from the sky.

  He put a hand over his mouth and yawned deeply. Last night had run late, but he’d woken early this morning, eager to advance the investigation. And this was a good place to begin. Getting out, he locked the car and started across the residents’ car park, counting the succession of ‘No Ball Games’ signs lining the way. He shook his head. In his experience it wasn’t ball games you had to worry about; it was what the kids got up to instead that became a problem.

  The main entrance was sheltered by a broad porch, and he paused for a moment, leaning forward to study the stainless steel panel with its array of tiny metal buttons, an engraved number beside each one. He traced his finger across until he located 73, then pushed it and waited. After a short delay, there was a crackle from a hidden speaker grille and a woman’s voice said, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Harland, Avon and Somerset Police …’

  A loud buzzer cut him off before he could say anything further, and the safety-glass door beside him rattled as the lock snapped open.

  Inside, the lobby was bare, and the air tasted of pine bleach, kindling memories of early mornings in the corridors when he was still at school. The lift shuddered as it climbed to the seventh floor, the metal doors eventually sliding open to reveal a featureless hallway with a linoleum floor. He found number 73, and knocked. She opened the door almost immediately; mid thirties, with large, sad eyes.

  ‘Tracey Miller?’ He held up his warrant card but she was already standing back, beckoning him forward.

  ‘Yeah, that’s me.’ Athletic, with dyed-blond hair scraped back into a ponytail, she was wearing a standard blue tunic top with the care agency logo embroidered in white. He followed her through to a spacious living room that was light and airy, settling himself into a comfortable armchair while she took the sofa opposite.

  ‘You heard about Albert Errington?’ He watched her shoulders stiffen slightly, and when she nodded it seemed to be with some effort.

  ‘Agency rang me this morning, just as I was leaving for work.’ She clasped her hands, her voice thick with emotion. ‘Poor old Albie.’

  ‘Albie?’

  ‘Yeah, nobody called him Albert. He wouldn’t have it – said it reminded him of his mum, telling him off when he was a kid. “Call me Albie,” he’d say, “then I know I’m not in trouble.”’ She looked up and managed a sad little smile. ‘Sorry, d’you want a cup of tea or anything?’

  While she was in the kitchen, Harland’s eye swept across the room. It was very feminine, tastefully decorated in pale, coordinated colours. There were plenty of photos – individually framed and grouped together on the wall – with lots of smiling friends, but no obvious signs of a significant other. Maybe that was why the interior seemed so consistent; it was the choice of one mind, not the compromise of two. Idly, he wondered how she filled her spare time if she wasn’t in a relationship; he dreaded the emptiness of evenings and weekends since the loss of his wife.

  ‘Here you go.’ Tracey walked back into the room, carrying two pastel-coloured mugs.

  ‘Thanks.’ Harland took his drink with a polite smile and watched her carefully as she sat down. Still wrestling with her emotions … or wrestling with something. He decided to start out with an easy question, just to get her talking. ‘So, what sort of things did you help Albert with?’

  Tracey looked at him over the top of her mug.

  ‘It was just his meals and a bit of housework,’ she sighed. ‘Two visits a day – half-hour mid-morning, half-hour at teatime …’ Her eyes glistened as she looked up to a clock on the shelf, then she shook her head sadly. ‘I’d be over there now, if … well, you know.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Harland murmured. ‘I appreciate this must be difficult for you.’

  ‘It’s not my first death,’ Tracey shrugged. ‘Occupational hazard in my job.’

  ‘Mine too.’ He gave her a sympathetic little smile, but quietly determined to find out just how many other people had died in Tracey’s care. ‘Did he manage all right on his own? Generally, I mean?’

  ‘Yeah, he was mostly okay.’ She paused, her brow crinkling into a frown as she considered. ‘A little difficulty walking, and he found it uncomfortable to stand for long periods … but he was all right.’

  Harland sat back in his chair. She seemed calm, happy enough to talk … it was time to steer the conversation on to other people, and see who she mentioned. ‘Do you think he ever got lonely living there?’

  Tracey’s expression softened and she looked down into her mug.

  ‘Maybe a little, yes. But he never complained. Said you had to make the best of what you had, ’cause there was plenty folk with less.’

  Harland smiled, despite himself.

  ‘Did he get many visitors?’ he asked. ‘Friends, neighbours, that sort of thing?’

  Tracey thought for a moment, then shook her head.

  ‘There was a lady next door; used to pop in quite a lot … but she moved. There’s a younger couple there now, and they keep to themselves, pretty much.’

  ‘What about family?’

  ‘Well, his wife died a few years ago,’ Tracey replied, then brightened a little. ‘His daughter pops in quite often – evenings, weekends, whenever she can.’

  ‘His daughter …’ Harland consulted his notebook. ‘That would be Jenny, yes?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Tracey nodded. ‘There’s a son too – Richard – but he doesn’t come round very often.’

  ‘They weren’t close?’ He spoke as though it was a throwaway comment, but watched her reaction closely.

  ‘Not really, no,’ Tracey murmured, shaking her head thoughtfully. ‘They didn’t speak that much.’

  Harland took a sip of his tea, then balanced the mug carefully on his knee.

  ‘So when did you see Albie last?’

  ‘It would have been just after six thirty yesterday,’ she replied. ‘I was running a bit late from a previous call.’

  ‘And you were there to sort out his evening meal?’

  ‘Yeah, he liked a hot dinner. He could probably manage it himself, but standing at the cooker was tiring for him, you know?’

  ‘I understand.’ Harland nodded. He had wondered if she might make an issue of Albie’s frailty – underline the idea that his death was an accident, divert suspicion away from herself – but she was doing the opposite. There was even a faint note of pride in the way she spoke about the old man. ‘So after you gave him his meal, how did he seem?’

  ‘He was fine, far as I could see.’ And now, for the first time, she became a little defensive. ‘I would never have left him on his own, not if I thought he was unwell.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Harland reassured her. ‘And I wasn’t suggesting anything, it’s just … these are the kind of questions we’ve got to ask.’

  Tracey ran a finger round the rim of her mug, then shrugged.

  ‘I suppose,’ she murmured.

  Harland took a sip of tea, to give her a moment, then continued carefully.

  ‘Do you know what time you left him?’ he asked.r />
  ‘Seven … maybe five past.’

  ‘And he was in a good mood when you left?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’ Tracey frowned at him. ‘He certainly didn’t top himself if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘That’s … good to know.’ Harland nodded, making a show of writing something in his notebook, readying himself for the crucial next question. He glanced up. ‘Was he expecting any visitors? Anyone dropping round to see him?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. Far as I know he’d just watch telly or read, ’til he was ready for bed –’ She broke off, her expression darkening. ‘Why? What are you getting at?’

  ‘Sorry?’ Harland adopted an innocent tone but he knew the penny had dropped.

  ‘What happened to him?’ she pressed. ‘It was an accident, wasn’t it?’

  He looked down for a moment, pointedly ignoring her questions.

  ‘Where were you, yesterday evening?’

  ‘Here.’ She sounded upset now, her knuckles whitening as she tensed up. ‘I had one call after Albie, then I came home. Why?’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’

  She stared at him for a long moment, then turned away, shaking her head.

  ‘No. No one will confirm anything.’

  An uncomfortable silence filled the room.

  Harland shifted in his seat, then sighed.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘But it’s like I said; there are certain things that we have to ask.’

  He held her gaze for a moment, until her scowl softened and she turned her eyes towards the window.

  ‘He was just a sweet old man,’ she said, sadly. ‘Who’d want to hurt him?’

  Harland bowed his head and nodded to himself. That was what he had to find out.

  Back in the car, he pulled the door shut and sat with the engine off for a moment, thinking. Then, taking out his phone, he called Linwood.

  ‘Hello, Jack?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Do me a favour and have a look at Errington’s carer, Tracey Miller. I want to know details of anyone else who died while in her care. Check the last three … no, the last five years. And be discreet.’

  ‘Got it,’ Linwood answered. ‘You think she did him in?’