hanging on the wall. Gallagher stared into the face.
‘Well, if you’re going to pick a victim,’ he sighed, ‘you might as well pick a good one.’
‘Guv,’ came Butterfield’s voice from upstairs. It sounded flat.
Gallagher knew what she had found.
Jack Harris shouldered his haversack, trying to blot out what he had just been told by his sergeant. It was not easy and as he walked across the soggy moor, his thoughts grew darker, his mind constantly wandering back to the attack on the war memorial. It would, he knew, only serve to increase the tension in the valley. He recalled a seminar on rural policing that he attended shortly after returning to Levton Bridge. The officer giving the talk, who had been based in a similar upland division to the inspector’s, had said, ‘Where do you think my fear of crime is highest?’ One sergeant had said, ‘The housing estates in your towns?’ ‘Wrong,’ the officer had replied. ‘They are used to crime, see it most days. Sounds callous, I know, but it’s a fact of life, I am afraid. No,my biggest fear of crime is in my rural areas where nothing happens from one month to another.’ Noticing the puzzled expression on some of the officers’ faces, he had explained: ‘Why? Because when someone nicks a quad bike from a farm, the shockwaves ripple through all the communities for weeks. And you can multiply that tenfold when, God forbid, you get a murder. The place goes into meltdown, take it from me.’
God forbid you get a murder
. Those words resonated now with Harris. He stopped walking as a thought struck him. Had he erred? Had they already seen a murder but not recognized it for what it was? Had he blindly backed Gallagher against Esther Morritt without properly considering all the options? Had her son really been the victim of an assault that night? Had he…?
‘No,’ he said, ‘Matty was spot on and there’s an end to it.’
Harris glanced down at the dogs, who were eyeing him expectantly. The inspector cursed under his breath. He hated it when work impinged on his walks.
‘Enough,’ he said. ‘We’re supposed to be on a day off.’
Harris could not be sure but it seemed that Scoot nodded in agreement. The inspector chuckled and had just started to walk again when his mobile phone rang. He took the phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. Gallagher, it said. Harris tensed.
‘What now?’ asked the inspector irritably into the phone. ‘Can’t you sort out a hot-head with a pot of paint without me?’
‘It’s not the graffiti that worries me,’ said the sergeant’s sombre voice. ‘I am afraid we got us a murder.’
God forbid
.
‘Don’t tell me that someone has killed Esther Morritt?’
‘No such luck, guv.’ Gallagher hesitated. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I’m afraid the dead guy is your mate Harold Leach.’
Harris closed his eyes. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘He’s been done over good and proper. Didn’t have a chance, poor fellow. You coming down?’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘Quick as you can. There’s already quite a few media here – someone tipped them off about the vandalism – and they’re asking what’s happened at the cottage. That television reporter – Landy or whatever she’s called – she’s getting arsey about it.’
‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ said Harris, slipping his phone back into his pocket and looking down at his dogs.
‘Sorry, boys,’ he said. ‘Duty calls.’
The driver eased the dark vehicle into a parking place at the motorway service station and cut the engine.
‘What now?’ asked his passenger.
‘We wait.’ The driver noticed his friend’s worried expression. ‘Don’t worry about it, Ronny. There’s no way they can trace it back to us. We were careful. You know that. And we never meant to … I mean, the old bastard shouldn’t have …’
‘But he did, didn’t he, Dave? He did and we …’ He saw a man walking over to the car. ‘That
‘Well, if you’re going to pick a victim,’ he sighed, ‘you might as well pick a good one.’
‘Guv,’ came Butterfield’s voice from upstairs. It sounded flat.
Gallagher knew what she had found.
Jack Harris shouldered his haversack, trying to blot out what he had just been told by his sergeant. It was not easy and as he walked across the soggy moor, his thoughts grew darker, his mind constantly wandering back to the attack on the war memorial. It would, he knew, only serve to increase the tension in the valley. He recalled a seminar on rural policing that he attended shortly after returning to Levton Bridge. The officer giving the talk, who had been based in a similar upland division to the inspector’s, had said, ‘Where do you think my fear of crime is highest?’ One sergeant had said, ‘The housing estates in your towns?’ ‘Wrong,’ the officer had replied. ‘They are used to crime, see it most days. Sounds callous, I know, but it’s a fact of life, I am afraid. No,my biggest fear of crime is in my rural areas where nothing happens from one month to another.’ Noticing the puzzled expression on some of the officers’ faces, he had explained: ‘Why? Because when someone nicks a quad bike from a farm, the shockwaves ripple through all the communities for weeks. And you can multiply that tenfold when, God forbid, you get a murder. The place goes into meltdown, take it from me.’
God forbid you get a murder
. Those words resonated now with Harris. He stopped walking as a thought struck him. Had he erred? Had they already seen a murder but not recognized it for what it was? Had he blindly backed Gallagher against Esther Morritt without properly considering all the options? Had her son really been the victim of an assault that night? Had he…?
‘No,’ he said, ‘Matty was spot on and there’s an end to it.’
Harris glanced down at the dogs, who were eyeing him expectantly. The inspector cursed under his breath. He hated it when work impinged on his walks.
‘Enough,’ he said. ‘We’re supposed to be on a day off.’
Harris could not be sure but it seemed that Scoot nodded in agreement. The inspector chuckled and had just started to walk again when his mobile phone rang. He took the phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. Gallagher, it said. Harris tensed.
‘What now?’ asked the inspector irritably into the phone. ‘Can’t you sort out a hot-head with a pot of paint without me?’
‘It’s not the graffiti that worries me,’ said the sergeant’s sombre voice. ‘I am afraid we got us a murder.’
God forbid
.
‘Don’t tell me that someone has killed Esther Morritt?’
‘No such luck, guv.’ Gallagher hesitated. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I’m afraid the dead guy is your mate Harold Leach.’
Harris closed his eyes. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘He’s been done over good and proper. Didn’t have a chance, poor fellow. You coming down?’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘Quick as you can. There’s already quite a few media here – someone tipped them off about the vandalism – and they’re asking what’s happened at the cottage. That television reporter – Landy or whatever she’s called – she’s getting arsey about it.’
‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ said Harris, slipping his phone back into his pocket and looking down at his dogs.
‘Sorry, boys,’ he said. ‘Duty calls.’
The driver eased the dark vehicle into a parking place at the motorway service station and cut the engine.
‘What now?’ asked his passenger.
‘We wait.’ The driver noticed his friend’s worried expression. ‘Don’t worry about it, Ronny. There’s no way they can trace it back to us. We were careful. You know that. And we never meant to … I mean, the old bastard shouldn’t have …’
‘But he did, didn’t he, Dave? He did and we …’ He saw a man walking over to the car. ‘That
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