is.’
‘I heard that fellow from the dog place were found dead on the hills today.’
‘You knew him?’ said Harris sharply.
‘Yeah,’ and Charlie Myles glanced nervously around the deserted market-place as if fearful that someone was watching their conversation. ‘I mean, just to look at, like. Folks in the pub were saying that his dog were kilt as well. Folks reckon it were another dog as did it.’
‘It was.’
‘Is it still up there?’
‘You said you had something to tell me,’ said Harris, ignoring the question.
He looked round but Len Radley had vanished and the only movement in the deserted square was a cat skulking in the shadows in front of the darkened Co-op. The inspector glanced back to the Land Rover where Scoot was sitting up in the passenger seat, his ears pricked as he watched the cat make its way past the store. The dog noticed his master’s expression and lay down with a disappointed expression on his face.
‘Go on, Charlie,’ said Harris. ‘There’s no one can hear you. Tell me what you know about Trevor Meredith.’
‘You got to promise me that it won’t go no further, Mr Harris. I don’t want people thinking I’m a snitch.’
‘You know me, Charlie.’
‘Aye, Mr Harris, I imagine I do. It were six or seven weeks ago – about midnight. I were up by Jenner’s Farm—’
‘And what, pray, were you doing there?’ asked the inspector, glancing across at Butterfield with a slight smile.
‘Out for a walk,’ said Charlie evasively. ‘It were a nice night.’
‘Nice night for conies, more like. Look, I’ve warned you before about poaching,’ said Harris sternly. ‘Anyway, I’ll let you off this time. I take it you saw something?’
‘Aye. There’s an old barn up there – George Jenner used to keep his silage in it but the roof started leaking. He ain’t used it since last winter.’
‘I know it,’ nodded Harris: he and Scoot had passed it many times in recent weeks on their walks, the inspector having selected the route as a covert way of checking out the dog-fighting rumours. ‘But I have never seen Trevor Meredith up there if that’s what you are trying to tell me.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, Mr Harris – he were snooping round like he were looking for something.’
‘Any idea what?’
‘All I know is what when he saw me, he walked off quick like in the other direction. It were right suspicious.’
‘Is there any chance that—?’ began Harris, but Charlie shook his head quickly.
‘I aint saying nowt else, Mr Harris. I’ve probably said too much. You know what folks are like round here.’
‘Sometimes,’ murmured Harris as, without a further word, Charlie Myles headed unsteadily across the market-place and disappeared from view, ‘I wonder if I do.’
‘There’s definitely something weird going off tonight,’ nodded Butterfield.
‘Well, hopefully tomorrow we can make sense of it all,’ said Harris walking back to his vehicle and climbing back into the Land Rover, ‘And who knows, I might even remember to attend Trevor Meredith’s post-mortem.’
Butterfield could see him laughing as he edged the vehicle past her and out on to the main road through the town centre. She grinned ruefully: like everyone always said, you just never knew where you were with Jack Harris.
Tidying up the examination room as he prepared to head for home, James Thornycroft tensed as he heard a sound from the reception area.
‘That you, Hawk?’ he called.
There was no answer. Trying to stay calm, he walked out of the room and into the reception area to be confronted by a large shaven-headed man.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ asked Thornycroft nervously, glancing past the man. ‘And where’s the dog?’
‘Don’t worry about the dog. What have you been telling Jack Harris and his little bimbo friend?’
‘I did as I was told,’ said Thornycroft, trying to stop his voice trembling. ‘I told them nothing.’
‘That
‘I heard that fellow from the dog place were found dead on the hills today.’
‘You knew him?’ said Harris sharply.
‘Yeah,’ and Charlie Myles glanced nervously around the deserted market-place as if fearful that someone was watching their conversation. ‘I mean, just to look at, like. Folks in the pub were saying that his dog were kilt as well. Folks reckon it were another dog as did it.’
‘It was.’
‘Is it still up there?’
‘You said you had something to tell me,’ said Harris, ignoring the question.
He looked round but Len Radley had vanished and the only movement in the deserted square was a cat skulking in the shadows in front of the darkened Co-op. The inspector glanced back to the Land Rover where Scoot was sitting up in the passenger seat, his ears pricked as he watched the cat make its way past the store. The dog noticed his master’s expression and lay down with a disappointed expression on his face.
‘Go on, Charlie,’ said Harris. ‘There’s no one can hear you. Tell me what you know about Trevor Meredith.’
‘You got to promise me that it won’t go no further, Mr Harris. I don’t want people thinking I’m a snitch.’
‘You know me, Charlie.’
‘Aye, Mr Harris, I imagine I do. It were six or seven weeks ago – about midnight. I were up by Jenner’s Farm—’
‘And what, pray, were you doing there?’ asked the inspector, glancing across at Butterfield with a slight smile.
‘Out for a walk,’ said Charlie evasively. ‘It were a nice night.’
‘Nice night for conies, more like. Look, I’ve warned you before about poaching,’ said Harris sternly. ‘Anyway, I’ll let you off this time. I take it you saw something?’
‘Aye. There’s an old barn up there – George Jenner used to keep his silage in it but the roof started leaking. He ain’t used it since last winter.’
‘I know it,’ nodded Harris: he and Scoot had passed it many times in recent weeks on their walks, the inspector having selected the route as a covert way of checking out the dog-fighting rumours. ‘But I have never seen Trevor Meredith up there if that’s what you are trying to tell me.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, Mr Harris – he were snooping round like he were looking for something.’
‘Any idea what?’
‘All I know is what when he saw me, he walked off quick like in the other direction. It were right suspicious.’
‘Is there any chance that—?’ began Harris, but Charlie shook his head quickly.
‘I aint saying nowt else, Mr Harris. I’ve probably said too much. You know what folks are like round here.’
‘Sometimes,’ murmured Harris as, without a further word, Charlie Myles headed unsteadily across the market-place and disappeared from view, ‘I wonder if I do.’
‘There’s definitely something weird going off tonight,’ nodded Butterfield.
‘Well, hopefully tomorrow we can make sense of it all,’ said Harris walking back to his vehicle and climbing back into the Land Rover, ‘And who knows, I might even remember to attend Trevor Meredith’s post-mortem.’
Butterfield could see him laughing as he edged the vehicle past her and out on to the main road through the town centre. She grinned ruefully: like everyone always said, you just never knew where you were with Jack Harris.
Tidying up the examination room as he prepared to head for home, James Thornycroft tensed as he heard a sound from the reception area.
‘That you, Hawk?’ he called.
There was no answer. Trying to stay calm, he walked out of the room and into the reception area to be confronted by a large shaven-headed man.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ asked Thornycroft nervously, glancing past the man. ‘And where’s the dog?’
‘Don’t worry about the dog. What have you been telling Jack Harris and his little bimbo friend?’
‘I did as I was told,’ said Thornycroft, trying to stop his voice trembling. ‘I told them nothing.’
‘That
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