SHOOTER ON THE MOOR

A Yorkshire private detective mystery

Ric Brady

Published by

THE BOOK FOLKS

London, 2024

© Ric Brady

Polite note to the reader

This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.

The right of Ric Brady to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, sections 77 and 78.

Cover design © Cold Peak Media Ltd.

ISBN: 978-1-80462-231-5

SHOOTER ON THE MOOR is the sixth standalone mystery in this series by Ric Brady. The full list of titles, in order of publication, is as follows:

MURDER ON A YORKSHIRE MOOR

BUTCHER ON THE MOOR

MISSING ON ILKLEY MOOR

DETECTIVE ON THE MOOR

COLD CASE ON THE MOOR

SHOOTER ON THE MOOR

More details can be found at the back of this book.

You are invited to visit www.thebookfolks.com and sign up to our mailing list to hear about new releases, free book promotions and other special offers.

We hope you enjoy the book.

Chapter One

Maxwell Birchwood felt the cold wind against his face. The forest around him was dark, but his head torch lit up the gloom ahead.

The trees, except for the evergreens, were bare-leaved. Their knotted branches and trunks flashed out of the darkness as the torch beam crossed them. Freezing-cold water from a puddle splashed up his legs and trickled down his skin. His nose dripped onto the scarf pulled up over his mouth, and he stared ahead into the dank forest, keeping his pace as he followed the stream known locally as Black Beck.

Maxwell had been out running each morning throughout the winter, getting up at 5.30 a.m., and being out the door before 5.45 a.m. He’d even kept up the routine during the Christmas break, not missing a single day. Just three weeks into the new year, the festive excesses had already been eliminated from around his waist.

His daily running route took him down from his house on the hill that overlooked Ilkley, to the Riverside Gardens in the valley below. A three-mile round trip on a severe incline.

Easy to start and hard to finish, just as Maxwell liked it.

It was below zero degrees Celsius out. His feet pounded the solid, frosty ground. His wife had told him not to wear shorts in this weather, but he liked the bracing cold. He was a wild swimmer when he had the time, as he enjoyed the sensation of jumping into icy waters. The exhilaration was life-affirming, and made him feel like he was in his prime.

He quickened his pace, running through the strip of forest on the west of Ilkley alongside empty fields. Breathing hard. Pushing his muscles harder. Ensuring his technique and posture were optimal.

The surrounding trees slipped past, and he listened to his breath and the stilted wildlife around him rustling in the branches. He hated listening to music on his runs. His teenage daughters always had those bloody earphones in. He feared they lived in a world of their own, glued to their screens, with music blaring in their ears. He worried this new generation couldn’t survive without their little luxuries. They were too soft, he thought; they lacked the mettle needed to get on in life.

Well, his first daughter Victoria had it. He recognised his iron will in her, but the other one, Whitney, was beyond useless. Her only hope was finding a husband who’d look after her. One that Maxwell had handpicked himself, as she had a terrible taste in men; as recent events had proven.

Bloody daughters, he thought. They’ll be the death of me.

Lucy, his wife, told him not to be so hard on them, asking him to remember what he’d been like as a teenager.

He’d been someone to whom his wife wouldn’t have given the time of day. What a hellraiser he used to be! He’d caused all sorts of mayhem. He was lucky to have straightened himself out in his early twenties.

He didn’t see the other runner until he was a few metres in front of him, or her.

His flashlight flickered over the other person’s black outfit.

If it was a runner, they weren’t moving.

They stood in front of a large oak to the side of the path. Black Beck trickled on the other side of them.

Maxwell saw the silver glint of the pistol in the light of his torch. He stopped running, his trainers skidding on the frozen earth.

The gun’s barrel was aimed at his chest.

Why did I stop? he asked himself. You should be running, you fool!

Jumping forwards, he tried to dash past the other person, just as the gunshot sounded.

An invisible force lifted Maxwell into the air, and he landed on the stiff leaves and hard jagged ground.

He rolled onto his back, trying to suck in a breath, and felt the freezing waters of Black Beck gurgle around his head. Liquid infiltrated his running outfit as the cold waters wrapped around his head.

What had just happened? Had he really just been shot? Had he, Maxwell Birchwood, been shot?!

He felt warm liquid on his chest, pulsing out of him to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

The shooter came to stand over him. Maxwell’s torch shone in their face.

“Come on then, you bloody coward!” Maxwell spat, tasting blood.

The killer aimed the pistol at his head, and everything went black.

Chapter Two

Former Detective Chief Inspector Henry Ward hated freezing temperatures. It was mid-January, a few dark and quiet weeks after Christmas, and a cold snap had Yorkshire in its grips.

The TV weatherman said it was going to last for another week. And that more snow was on its way! An Arctic blast, he’d called it.

Henry lay in his bed, wrapped in two duvets, with the green glare from his digital alarm clock in his face. He hadn’t slept well and had been awake for the past hour. Winter stressed him out.

Thick ice and snow everywhere? Henry hated both.

Well, telling a lie; he had liked snow as a lad, sledging down hills and having snowball fights with friends, but now he was in his mid-sixties. One wrong step on a sheet of ice, and he’d fall and dislocate his prosthetic hip – or do irreparable damage to the other one.

He rolled over in his double bed, wrapping the two quilts around him. He’d prefer to stay inside and wait for the thaw, but that would do him no good. Henry wasn’t the type to lock himself inside his home, as he’d learnt during the COVID lockdowns.

What a depressing time, he thought, checking the clock. 7.00 a.m. It must be near Blue Monday, he thought. The most depressing day of the year. His Christmas had been miserable too. His two grown-up children hadn’t bothered to visit or invite him anywhere. He’d received a Christmas card from his son, Dean, and his wife, with scrawls from his two grandchildren, but nothing from his eldest, Carol, or her family.

Not even a text.

Bloody Carol, he thought, closing his eyes again and trying to drift back to sleep.

They used to be as thick as thieves when she was a kid, but she’d not bothered to contact him for years. Henry didn’t even know what she was doing and how his grandkids were. She’d taken her mum’s side during the divorce and had become a distant figure in Henry’s imagination, filled with hostility and spite.

He opened his eyes and gave up chasing sleep. He realised he felt colder than before. His breath even misted as he yawned, which was never a good sign. Getting out of bed, he shuffled to his radiator to find it was as cold as the frosted glass in his bedroom window.

“Bugger,” he said.

Wrapped up in the duvets, he shuffled to the airing cupboard on the upstairs landing where the boiler was housed. Opening the door, he found the large white metal box devoid of life.

Henry swore.

After twelve years of loyal service, his boiler had decided to give up the ghost. In the middle of a cold snap. In January. After a miserable Christmas.

He trundled down the steps, wearing his dressing gown over a T-shirt and jumper, along with a pair of thick pyjama bottoms. Thermal socks kept his feet warm in his slippers.

The house must have been around ten degrees. Or less.

Tessa, his brown and white wire fox terrier, appeared blissfully unaware of the chill. She lay on her back on the sofa, fast asleep.

Henry turned on the gas fire, seated himself opposite his sleeping dog, and looked outside his front window. It was dark on Addingham Main Street, and quiet. The street lights gave off an orange hue. Through the condensation-covered glass, Henry saw frost glistening on his garden path.

“Crap,” he said. He turned to Tessa. “Well, we can’t stay inside or go outside.”

Tessa woke up and shook her head, looking confused as to why he was up and about at this time.

Heat came in waves from the gas fire, and Henry felt it against his face. Soon he’d start feeling warm again, but what the hell was he going to do for showers and warm water? Maybe Jean Whitehead, his next-door neighbour, would let him use hers. However, she’d probably insist he stayed over if he told her about his broken boiler. And he didn’t want to be a trouble, especially not after Christmas.

After she’d found out he’d be spending Christmas Day on his own, which Henry had successfully managed to keep from her up until Christmas Eve, Jean insisted he spend the day with her and her son, who came with his wife and children.

It had been a nice day, but Henry hated being the object of sympathy. He couldn’t stand the simpering looks he’d gotten from Jean’s son, full of pity tinged with suspicion as to why Henry’s own family didn’t want to spend time with him.

Sighing, he picked up his mobile phone from the side table and flicked through the numbers in his contacts. He was looking for his boiler engineer’s number, but he couldn’t remember his name. He’d called him out a few years before and preferred to deal with him directly rather than go through the useless gas company. He soon gave up looking for the name, and placed the phone back on the side table and sat in his despair for a moment, letting waves of hot air waft over him.

The siren came without any warning, blaring as it zoomed past his window heading in the direction of Ilkley. Henry was questioning if he’d imagined it when another police car sped past, its blue lights flashing.

And then a few moments later, an ambulance flew by.

“What the bloody hell?” Henry asked himself aloud, and then he and Tessa shared a look.

Two patrol cars and an ambulance? That suggested something was going on in Ilkley. Henry suspected it must be serious.

His hand went instinctively to the TV remote, but he thought better than turning on the news, as they wouldn’t have anything to say yet. It would all just be kicking off. Glancing out the window at his icy front path, Henry asked himself, “Is going outside to find out what’s happening worth breaking my hip?”

Tessa tilted her head to her side, as if to say, ‘You’re not that fragile, old man.’

Henry nodded his head in agreement. “Right you are. Let’s get changed and find out what’s going on in Ilkley before they lock down the scene. Besides, I can keep warm in the car.”

Chapter Three

Despite a brief moment where Henry’s boot slipped on the footpath, he made it to his parked Skoda without injury. He took Tessa with him, as he doubted another walk would be on the cards later that day. She sat down on the tartan blanket on the back seat with her lead still attached to her collar. The terrier looked excitedly around her, as walks so early in the morning were an oddity.

Henry drove towards Ilkley on a quiet road, a journey that normally took ten minutes. As he left Addingham, he drove past the new housing estate to the east of the village. The construction project was very controversial with the locals, and Jean, his neighbour, had been complaining about it for months.

A local property developer, known for his wheeling and dealing, had bought the land to build thirty small, expensive houses on it. The wood panels fencing off the site had blue and yellow lettering proudly naming the developer’s company: Birchwood Properties.

As Henry neared the edge of Ilkley, he spotted the police cars in the field on his right. They’d parked at the far end of the field, close to a small wooded area. The patrol cars’ blue lights still flashed. Henry slowed his Skoda and passed through a wooden gate in the drystone walls, left open by the police cars. He drove up the tractor path and then stopped, keeping half a field’s length between him and the emergency services.

Peering through the darkness, he watched the police shine torches into the thicket. Their beams flitted behind the black tree trunks and occasionally flashed off their fluorescent vests.

Henry took his binoculars from his glovebox and focused on the forest. The ambulance crew was manoeuvring a stretcher between the trees, following the path of light the officers provided.

“Something bad’s gone on,” Henry said to Tessa, who’d crawled onto the passenger seat next to him.

Henry took in a sweep of the empty field. It was private land belonging to a local sheep farmer Henry had met a few times. No flock grazed on it now, as it was too cold.

After listening to Tessa scratch on the window, trying to get out, Henry relented and opened the car door. The cold shocked him as he stepped outside the car’s heated interior. He zipped up his coat and positioned his scarf to block a draught. Pulling Tessa’s lead, he led her across the field towards the forest.

The air was crisp and bracing, and the grass underfoot was brittle with frost. Tessa sensed there was an issue, and walked slowly, keeping to Henry’s side. When they neared the parked emergency vehicles, Tessa started barking, as she did when she saw another dog she wanted to get to know.

“What are you on about?” Henry said to her, pointing into the darkness. “There isn’t a dog there–”

A reciprocating bark echoed from the darkness, and Henry squinted into the gloom to see someone with a large Alsatian on a lead several feet away from him.

Henry quickened his pace. “Hello,” he said.

The dog walker – a woman, Henry guessed from her stature – turned her hooded head to him.

“Don’t come any closer,” she said.

“Oh right?” Henry replied.

Ignoring her, he continued walking towards her. Only her face was visible in her pink ski jacket, but Henry guessed she was in her fifties. She had the stern, bookish look of an accountant or librarian.

The woman shook her head. “They’ll be angry.”

“Who?” Henry asked, playing ignorant.

She turned to the forest. “The police. They said I had to stand here and wait for them to question me.”

“Right. What about?”

She looked at him. Her eyes glistened with emotion, which she seemed determined to keep under check. “A body.”

“Right. Did you find it?”

“Him,” she corrected.

“Do you know who it is?”

She shook her head. “Not personally. I’ve seen him around. He’s always running down that path.” She pulled her Alsatian to heel, stopping him from sniffing Tessa. “If Charlie here hadn’t been messing around this morning, I might’ve seen it happen.”

“Sounds like he’s done you a favour,” Henry said. He peered into the forest again as the torches flashed between trees. “So, you don’t know the name?”

She shook her head, grimacing. “And I can’t say any more. I shouldn’t be talking to you, anyway.”

“It’s all right. I’m former police.”

She frowned. “Are you? Then why are you here? Did you know him?”

He shook his head. “Like you, I don’t know who it is yet.”

A police officer rushed out from the trees heading to his car, probably to fetch something. The beam from his torch flittered around the grass.

“Oi! Get away,” he shouted over at Henry. “This is a crime scene.”

“It’s alright,” Henry said, holding up his hands. “I’m on my way. Just walking my dog.”

The officer sprinted towards him, his torch temporarily blinding Henry. When he reached him, he pointed the light at Tessa. The officer’s face was flushed, and he struggled for breath.

“I said to get away,” he said, panting.

Henry knew he’d best leave. He could call one of his police contacts later in the morning to find out more. Detective Inspector Kate Barnes might fill him in, although she had become less inclined to share intel with him recently.

Just then, the police officer’s attention was gripped by a black BMW pulling into the field.

He swore. “Listen. You have to get out of here, now,” he said, his eyes following the car approach.

Henry nodded. “Of course.” He pulled Tessa away from the Alsatian and returned to his Skoda.

The black BMW rolled towards him, its driver navigating carefully over the frozen earth. Henry made eye contact with Detective Chief Inspector Barry Acton at the car’s wheel, who glared back at him. The BMW stopped, and DCI Acton rolled down his window.

He stuck his broad face into the cold. “What the hell are you doing here, Ward?”

“I was wondering the same about you, Acton. It must be serious if they’ve sent a detective chief inspector onto the scene before he’s had his breakfast.”

Acton’s disgruntled expression confirmed everything Henry needed to know.

Chapter Four

With Tessa in the passenger seat scratching at the window to see her new Alsatian friend, Henry remained in his car. The heating inside the car was on full blast, and Henry could just about feel his fingertips again. His Skoda remained parked in the field, at a distance from the growing collection of vehicles that had amassed near the wooded area. Scene of crime officers had arrived and were marching around in their white plastic suits.

Henry watched the activity through his binoculars. Daylight emerged over the top of the hill before them, casting early sunlight over the frosty grass. DCI Acton was interviewing the dog walker who’d found the body. Her Alsatian remained at her side, his ears pricked up as if he sensed trouble brewing. Acton held a notepad in his gloved hands and wore a black Crombie that hung down to his knees. Henry suspected it had been tailored for him, and wondered how much a detective chief inspector made these days. Then again, Henry thought, Acton must find it difficult to get coats that fitted his huge shoulders and chest.

Henry wished he could lip-read what the dog walker was saying. He watched the woman’s face intently, trying to make sense out of her facial movements. Suddenly, she turned and pointed in his direction. DCI Acton glared at Henry, his dark eyes fixing on Henry’s binoculars. Henry started; his hands fumbled, and he dropped them between his legs.

After picking them up, he saw Acton make large strides across the field towards him. Henry shoved his binoculars back in his glovebox.

“Well, it’s been fun,” he said to Tessa, “but I suspect we’re about to be told to sod off.”

Henry lowered his window as Acton approached, letting cold air into his car.

“What the bloody hell are you doing, Ward?” Acton shouted.

“I’m just being a good citizen.”

“You’re a nosy old sod, is what you are,” Acton said in his Mancunian accent.

Henry pointed to the forest. “A body found by a dog walker. A runner, I suspect. Probably fairly well-to-do to if he lives in this part of Ilkley.” Henry glanced up at Acton. “I’m assuming there’s been foul play, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. And that he must be someone important.”

Acton stuck his chin in the air. It was lined with ginger stubble. “Is that all you got out of my witness?”

“She only told me it was a bloke she’d found. A runner. I worked out the rest myself, while sitting here keeping warm.”

“Well, you can sod off back to your house and keep warm there.”

“I wish I could,” Henry said.

Acton frowned, slightly confused. “What is it you want?”

“I just like keeping an interest in what goes on in my area.”

“Crossed into your jurisdiction, have I?”

Henry laughed. “Nothing like that. Here, Acton…” He paused. “Imagine yourself in ten or twenty years, when you’re retired.”

Acton laughed. “Thirty more like. The way things are going, I’ll be lucky to retire in my eighties.”

“Well, whenever you do, imagine what you’d do if there was a murder on your doorstep.”

“I’d keep my bloody nose out of it and stay at home.” Then he grunted. “Home being the south of Spain.”

Henry tried again. “You know I won’t talk nor be a nuisance. I’ve proven myself before, haven’t I?”

Acton heaved a sigh. “I suppose you’re sound enough. Though, the last time you got involved in a case, you doubled the amount of paperwork, and Murphy was on my back for months.”

Henry’s relationship with Detective Superintendent Samuel Murphy had been a messy one. They’d once been partners, working together as young detectives, until Murphy decided climbing the greasy pole was more important than solving crimes and putting bad people away. Since then, they’d been sworn enemies.

Acton glanced at his notebook in his gloved hand. “I can’t say I know much. SOCO are doing their best to preserve the scene, but it’s hard-going when the body’s lying in a stream.”

Henry nodded. “Ah, Black Beck. It runs down the moorside to the River Wharfe. Do you know the cause of death?”

Acton turned his large back on Henry to look at the woods. “That’s the easy thing to work out.”

“Stabbed?”

Acton shook his head. “Shot. Twice. Chest and forehead.”

Henry felt a cold chill run over him. “Any bullet casings?”

“Not as yet, but SOCO are looking for them.”

Henry shivered. “Do you think it could be a professional job?”

Acton’s look suggested he’d prefer not to at this stage. Professional hits were very difficult to solve, as the culprits knew what they were doing and rarely left any traces.

“I suppose it could’ve just been a good marksman,” Acton said, sounding unsure of himself.

That didn’t sound good either. Handguns were illegal for private ownership in the United Kingdom, with a few exceptions. Military personal or police officers could access them under strict conditions, and so too could members of gun clubs, if they abided by the complicated regulations.

“What time did this happen?” Henry asked.

“Just after six in the morning. I’ve got officers knocking on the doors of nearby houses. One resident heard two gunshots at five past six.”

“And they didn’t call the police?”

“The fella didn’t know what to think. Thought it might be a vehicle backfiring.”

“Well, at least we know the gun wasn’t silenced. Are you sure it was a handgun that did it?”

“I can tell the difference between a 9 mm bullet hole and that left by a rifle. I used to work Moss Side in Manchester.”

“I bet that was rough,” Henry said, recalling hearing that Moss Side had been the epicentre of UK gun violence during the 1990s.

“It was hellish,” Acton said, looking weary. “The first job for my new MIT is to check the gun ownership lists for the people living in the area.”

“No one around here would have a pistol. They’re banned.”

“There are ways and means of getting one. Checking people who know how to shoot and who have links to the victim could be of use to us.” Acton fell silent a moment. “Another odd thing is that the victim’s phone is missing. That’s assuming he had it with him.”

“Perhaps it was a robbery gone wrong,” Henry suggested.

Acton shook his head. “Have you ever heard of an armed robbery taking place in a forest at six in the morning?”

“I can’t say I have. Who is the victim?”

“Well, that’s where you might actually be of some use,” Acton said, sighing.

“Oh right?” Henry asked, shifting in his front seat.

“Ever come across Birchwood Properties?”

Henry’s eyes widened in surprise.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Acton said. “Know anyone who’d wish its owner dead?”

Henry couldn’t help but let out a short chuckle. “Only half of Addingham, and no doubt other inhabitants of nearby towns where he’s built his horrid houses–” His eyes bulged and he shook his head. “Crikey. So it’s Maxwell Birchwood who’s been shot dead?”

“Yep,” Acton said. “I’ll have to make a list of people who wished him ill.”

Henry grimaced. “Well… that’ll be a long list.”

Chapter Five

Henry lay his head, thinning hair and all, against the headrest while heated air blasted out of the car’s vents. He couldn’t believe it.

Maxwell Birchwood was disliked by so many for building expensive but shoddy housing. Housing that blighted the picturesque countryside. But that didn’t mean the man deserved to be shot – paramilitary style – and left dead in a stream.

Acton had left Henry after telling him to skedaddle, but Henry still felt at a loss. Maxwell Birchwood, that man who’d seemed like a force of nature, carving up the fields in the area to build his estates, dead?

Tessa scratched the passenger window and barked as the woman who’d found the body strolled past with her Alsatian. The hood of her pink ski jacket was up, and she was looking away from Henry’s Skoda. Henry opened the passenger window and grabbed onto Tessa’s lead to prevent her from jumping out.

“Here, Mrs!” he called out when the woman was several feet away.

She shied further away from him, pulling her Alsatian closer.

“Here!” Henry shouted again. He pushed the barking Tessa onto the back seat. “I need to speak to you.”

Reluctantly, the woman stepped closer, keeping a tight grip on her Alsatian’s lead.

“Keep that dog at bay,” she said, glaring at Tessa on the back seat.

“She’s alright. Just a bit overexcited.” Henry gave Tessa a look to silence her, and she obeyed.

“I’ve seen smaller dogs bite my Charlie,” the woman said, as if her huge tan and black Alsatian wasn’t a danger itself.

Satisfied that Tessa would remain quiet, Henry asked, “What’s your name, if you don’t mind me inquiring?”

The woman straightened up. “Audrey.”

No surname given, Henry noted.

“Right, I’m former DCI Henry Ward.” The woman didn’t react to his name, as if it was of no importance to her. “You knew it was Maxwell Birchwood when you found him?”

Audrey stiffened. “I didn’t–”

“Come off it. Most of West Yorkshire knows who he is. His face is plastered all over his building sites.”

She peered knowingly at him from under her pink hood.

“I knew it was him. I see him almost every day while I walk Charlie.”

“Do you know where he lived?”

“No, I don’t.” She checked her digital watch. “I must be getting on. I’m very late for work.”

Henry was tempted to ask her more questions, but the woman was already walking away from him.

He wound up the window and sat back in his seat. This would be a big case, with implications for Addingham. There’d been an almighty row over the Birchwood development on the outskirts of the village. The farmer who’d owned the field on which it was built wanted to sell up and retire, and Birchwood apparently made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. But the village didn’t want thirty new houses where a lush green field had once been.

Plus, the occupants of those thirty new houses would use the village’s already strained infrastructure. Birchwood had promised affordable housing for local people and money to help improve Addingham’s amenities, but Henry’s neighbour had looked into Birchwood’s other developments in the area and she’d found that the affordable housing and money for local services often never materialised. So Jean had become the development’s biggest critic, and Henry wondered how she’d react at learning her adversary had been gunned down.

Movement in Henry’s rear-view mirror caught his attention. A silver Audi that he recognised rolled into the field behind him.

“Oh dear. Here comes trouble,” he said to Tessa, who gave him a blank stare in reply.

The silver Audi parked next to his Skoda, and its passenger window lowered. Henry wound down his own to find Detective Sergeant Ellie Hargreaves staring back at him.

Horrid dance music blared out of her speakers, and her black bob was cut as short as usual. Her bright-pink lips moved around as she chewed gum.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” she asked.

“I’ve as much right–”

“I can’t be arsed with your nonsense today, Henry. Go sling your hook!”

She was closing her window when Henry shouted, “Acton wants my help.”

Her window remained open a crack, and she let out a sharp laugh. “Well, he’s finally lost it.”

“Why?” Henry asked, sensing more to her comment than insult.

“We’re rushed off our feet, Henry. Too many cases. We’re struggling to cover the basics.” She shook her head as if half-dazed. “I just wish people would stop maiming each other and give us a break.”

“Not enjoying being a detective sergeant?” Henry asked, commenting on her recent promotion.

“We’re all feeling the pressure. It’s insane.”

“How’s DI Barnes getting on?”

“Her? She’s had enough of it. Looking to get out.”

“And do what?” Henry asked, slightly surprised.

“Dunno. I said she’d end up like you, a nosy busybody who gets in our way at every opportunity.”

“That’s not what you called me in the last case I solved for you.”

“Aye. But what have you done for me lately, Henry?” She blew a bubble with her pink chewing gum, which popped. “Anyway, nice chatting to you as always, but I’ve got a fresh murder to add to the pile.”

She drove off across the field, taking her horrid dance music with her.

Henry frowned. So, DI Kate Barnes was looking to get out of the police? He’d first come into contact with her a few years ago, and she had flirted with the idea of leaving before, but he didn’t know she’d gone as far as telling her colleagues that she was actually planning to go.

He’d have to call her later to find out.

But first, Henry thought, starting his engine, it was time to see what Jean had to say about the death of her great enemy, Maxwell Birchwood.

Chapter Six

A layer of thick mist shrouded the new-day sun, and Henry doubted it would shift until later that day, as he knocked on Jean Whitehead’s front door.

She opened it and immediately started wittering about the cold, as if she’d been in mid-conversation with someone else.

“It’s freezing out,” she said. “And Lee says his kid’s school is threatening a snow day. He asked if ‘Grandma’ would look after them. Well, I said, I have better things to do, but he’s busy with work and she’s neither use nor ornament.”

Henry, despite his coat, shivered in the cold. He pretended to understand her predicament, but just hoped to get off her doorstep and into the warmth.

Jean glanced around Addingham Main Street and then up at the sky. “A snow day? What snow, I ask? When I was teaching at Harrogate Grammar, we’d only call it a snow day when it was three-inch thick on the tarmac.”

Eventually, she let Henry step into her warm living room. He felt the heat seep into his bones, as he appreciated the room’s cream and white colour scheme and comforting low-level lighting.

It wasn’t even 8.05 a.m., and Jean’s blonde hair was curled. She wore a cream woollen jumper and dark-blue trousers.

“Can I get you tea?” she asked, heading into her kitchen.

Henry accepted the offer and wiped the water off his boots on the doormat before heading to the sofa, where Jean’s grey cat was sitting. Its green eyes glowered at him, and Henry remembered Christmas Day when he’d tried to pat the cat as a gesture of goodwill, and received a nasty scratch in return. Before sitting down, he felt compelled to move the cat on with a cushion before it considered attacking him again.

Jean came in with two milky cups of Yorkshire Tea, and then rushed into the kitchen to get a plate of warm crumpets, already buttered and jammed. She placed them on the coffee table in front of Henry, insisting he helped himself. She took a seat in her cream-coloured armchair and turned off the television that had been playing a cooking programme on low volume.

“So, how are you doing?” she asked him, sipping her tea.

“Fine,” Henry said. He leant forward and picked up a crumpet. The butter had melted, and the strawberry jam was layered on thick.

“There’s been trouble in Ilkley,” he said, chewing.

“Oh right?”

Henry nodded and licked liquid butter off his fingers. “I’ve just got back from there.”

“Already? It’s only just after eight.”

“I know.” Henry slurped his tea.

“So, what’s gone on?”

Henry had experience breaking bad news to people, but he didn’t know how Jean would take this particular announcement. “Maxwell Birchwood–”

“Oh, that swine! I’ll tell you; I’ve been on to his little deputy again – Chris whoever – and I said I’ll be taking legal action on behalf of the parish council if they don’t give us more than six affordable houses. I mean, they’re only planning to give us three. Originally, it was supposed to be twelve.”

She shook her head in disgust. “I mean, it’s just greed, isn’t it? Stealing land off an old farmer to build those ugly shoeboxes that only the rich can afford. I mean, what about Addingham? We need more life in it, more young people, before it becomes a retirement village.”

Henry jumped in while she drew breath. “Maxwell Birchwood has been found dead.”

Jean’s eyes bulged and she didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Dead?” she asked.

“Shot dead. Murdered.”

She covered her mouth. “Really?”

Henry nodded. “I’ve just been over there. He was out running this morning when someone ambushed him and… Well, did him in.”

Jean tilted her head to the side, lost in thought. “I don’t know what I think of that… I suppose that silly Chris person will now be in charge of things.”

“Right, possibly…” Henry said, wondering if the shock was altering her priorities. “But Maxwell Birchwood has been killed. Murdered. I believe he had a family.”

“Oh… I know. And I’m sad for them, it’s just…” She frowned. “I wouldn’t have wished him dead…”

“But?”

She glanced at him as if she was slightly ashamed of what she thought. “Nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m being silly.”

“Go on,” Henry said.

“Well, it’s just… I suppose he got under my skin. He was a good adversary, kept me on my toes.” She then sounded disappointed. “And now he’s gone.”

“Well, I’m sorry for your loss,” Henry said, sarcastically. “But you do know they’ll be looking at people who held a grudge against him.”

“Oh right.” She smiled. “So, they’ll think I killed him?”

“Not unless you’ve got a secret life as an assassin I’m unaware of. But they might want to talk to you.”

“Oh,” she said, her humour dissipating. “They will think I killed him?”

“Or had him killed.”

“What do you mean ‘had him killed’?”

“It could’ve been a professional hit.”

Her eyes widened. “A hitman? In Ilkley?”

Henry nodded and took up another crumpet. “You’ve not been hiring any, have you?”

She seemed shocked. “Why, of course not. I wouldn’t know where to look for one!”

Henry swallowed his mouthful. “You can get them on the dark web, apparently. Do you know anyone else who might’ve wanted him dead?”

Her eyes widened at the question. “Someone in Addingham? I don’t think anyone around here would do a thing like that.”

Henry leant forward. “Tell me from the beginning what happened with that estate on Ilkley Road.”

“Why?” She sounded suspicious.

“So I can rule it out. I might be able to save people a lot of hassle. If I can look into this first, I’ll tell the senior officer of the murder investigation not to bother anyone.”

“Do you know him?”

Henry nodded. “And by all accounts, the police are struggling to deal with the cases they’ve got. If I can tell them Addingham’s clean, they’ll look elsewhere and avoid wasting their time here. Then the people of Addingham will avoid being upset by it.”

The suspicion remained in Jean’s eyes. “What if someone in the village did kill him?”

Henry cocked an eyebrow. “Do you think they did?”

“Oh, no. Never.” She paused, then shook her head definitively. “No, I’m sure no one here did kill him. I mean, why would they? They’ve already built the bloody houses. Killing him now would be useless.”

“Fair point. So–” Henry slurped his tea “–start from the beginning. When did you first meet Maxwell Birchwood?”

Jean rolled her eyes. “A while back, and the first time I met him, I knew he was a scoundrel.”

Chapter Seven

The plate of crumpets was almost empty, and Henry regretted eating so many. He had missed breakfast, however, he consoled himself as he sipped a fresh cup of tea.

Jean had told him as much as she could remember about the new estate in Addingham. It had been officially called the Ilkley Road Estate, as it was on the road to Ilkley.

The farmer, Fred Sowerby, now in his mid-seventies, was the last descendent of a farming family that traced its ancestors back to the English Civil War. Fred wanted to sell the land his family had accumulated over the centuries and retire, preferably to warmer climes. Jean stated that Sowerby had wished to sell the fields to another farmer as it was prime agricultural land, but Maxwell Birchwood had other plans.

“Apparently, Birchwood told Sowerby that Bradford Council was reviewing the land’s usage. He said they were going to reclassify some of his land as residential and force him to sell it, due to the housing shortage.” Jean took a sip of her tea.

“Which was false?”

Jean nodded. “Completely. But old Sowerby didn’t know that. He claims Birchwood showed him an official letter from the head of the council.”

“A fake one, I presume?”

“It must’ve been. I asked to see it, but Birchwood wouldn’t give it to me. Anyway, despite feeling bitter about the arrangement, Sowerby accepted it, believing it a fait accompli. Then, when Sowerby came to sign the contract with Birchwood to sell some land, he learned that Birchwood wanted right of first refusal on all future sales.”

“So Birchwood would have an option to buy the rest of it? And Sowerby agreed to that?”

Jean nodded. “Birchwood strong-armed him into it. He said he’d have health and safety people snoop around his farm if he didn’t agree. Sowerby’s knocking on, and there are loads of problems up there. Birchwood could’ve easily had it all closed down.”

Henry rested his chin on his hand and looked into the distance. “Surely the right of first refusal agreement couldn’t be legal?”

“Of course it’s not legal, but Sowerby didn’t know that, and now he’s signed the contract, he doesn’t want the hassle of taking Birchwood to court. That was Birchwood’s plan; he’d drag out the court case to bleed Sowerby dry.”

“Christ, what a charmer this Birchwood was.”

“And you wonder why his name is like muck around here.”

Henry nodded. “I’m beginning to see that, aye. And Sowerby can confirm all of this?”

“Of course! I’m not making it up, even if I sound like I am.”

“I’m just asking in case we need to prove it.”

Jean chuckled shallowly. “Well, proving anything against Birchwood is a challenge, just as Sowerby found out. He never leaves a trace of anything. But you can guess what he’s up to, and it’s never good.”

“So, after cheating old Sowerby out of his land–”

“Which Birchwood bought for a hundred thousand.” She shook her head again. “I asked a chartered surveyor to estimate its value, and he said three hundred! So poor Sowerby lost out by two hundred thousand pounds.”

Henry sighed. “Bloody hell.”

“Yes. Birchwood was a complete bastard, if you pardon my French.”

Henry’s face flushed. He hardly heard Jean swear, only when she was very angry.

“So, I suppose Sowerby is very sore about all this.”

“Of course he is, wouldn’t you be?”

Henry nodded. “I would. Furious. But would I be angry enough to have him killed?” Then, remembering that farmers were the people most likely to have firearms in the Yorkshire Dales, Henry said, “Or, he killed Maxwell himself.”

Jean shrugged. “You’d have to ask Sowerby. Although, wouldn’t he have killed Birchwood before now? Like I said earlier, it’s a bit late.”

Henry agreed, but it was still worth speaking to Sowerby to get his version of events.

Leaning forward, Henry placed his notepad on the coffee table. “Who else had dealings with Birchwood in the village?”

“Well. There was me, Sowerby–”

“You, only because you’re on the parish council? You didn’t have any other dealings with him?”

“Oh Lord, no. I only had the misfortune because of the parish council, yes. Noel and I had to deal with him.”

“Noel?”

“Noel Cleeves. He hates Birchwood just as much as I do.”

Henry scribbled the name down. “Why’s that?”

“You know Appleby Manor at the bottom of the village?”

Henry had driven past the large Georgian stately home every time he’d gone to Ilkley. The two-storey building was walled in and had an impressive amount of land. Henry then realised why the owner of such a house would be so angry with Maxwell Birchwood.

“That’s just off Ilkley Road, isn’t it?”

Jean nodded. “It is. He’ll have to contend with all that traffic from the new estate. Plus, his bedroom window faces the new estate. Beforehand, he had an unspoilt view of the fields and the hill that went up to the moors. Now he has to look at all that shoddy housing.”

“Which would affect his property’s value?”

Jean answered with a nod.

“Who is this Noel? I don’t think I’ve met him.”

“I thought you had. He’s from old money but keeps quiet about it. He’s into antique dealing, and so on. He’s got loads of the stuff inside his house. It’s lovely.”

A man of means, Henry thought. Perhaps Noel could afford an assassin’s fee. But again, Henry came to the same issue: as the building work on the estate had already started, there wouldn’t be much point in killing Maxwell Birchwood now.

Henry sighed. “I’ll talk to him as well and see what he says. But it’s looking less and less likely that someone in Addingham killed Birchwood.”

“I told you that already.” Jean bit into the last crumpet, which was the only one she had taken. “So, what do you think, Mr Detective? Who do you think killed Birchwood?”

“I don’t know. Maybe someone in Ilkley. Maybe beyond. Or someone in his family. Who knows at this stage?”

Jean’s eyes narrowed as if she’d thought of something. “His family were quite nice, actually. Normal. Considering how much of an arse he was. His wife is called Lucy, and he had two teenage daughters who seemed sensible.”

Henry made a note of the Maxwell’s wife’s name. “When did you meet them?”

“Last year. They came to the village fête in the summer. Birchwood insisted on having a stall because he wanted to improve relations with the village, but he just turned it into a marketing opportunity for his crappy houses.” Jean ate the last of her crumpet. “He did make a donation to the event, but we had to plaster his logo everywhere in return.”

“And what did you make of the wife?”

“Erm… she was the opposite to him. Blonde, smiley, seemed to know what he was like and wasn’t right happy with him. She was a bit apologetic.”

“Did you sense any marital issues?”

“Well I don’t know, Henry! I only met her for a few minutes.”

“That’s never stopped you making guesses before,” he said, chuckling to himself.

“Well…” She squinted into the distance. “If I had to guess who killed him, I’d be looking at her.”

“Why?”

“Well, if I was married to that swine, I might want him dead.”

Chapter Eight

Henry slipped on his frosty garden path as he walked to his front door. Swearing, he leant on the garden wall next to him and moved steadily towards his front step. He gripped his door handle as soon as he got close enough.

“Bloody ice,” he said, stepping inside.

Tessa was curled up on the sofa, looking pitiful. The living room was almost as cold as outside, and Henry remembered that the boiler was out of action.

He turned on the gas fire, made a cup of tea, and sat down in his armchair – wrapped in a woollen blanket with his mobile phone in hand.

First, he looked through his contacts for the boiler engineer’s number, but he still couldn’t remember the name. Hoping it would jump out at him, he scrolled through the numbers in alphabetical order until he found ‘Tom, Gas Safe’. Excited, he called the number but got his voicemail, so he left a message for Tom to call him back urgently.

“We’ll be warm again at some point,” Henry told Tessa, as the area around the gas fire heated up.

But deep down, Henry knew it’d take a while to have the boiler fixed, possibly a day or two. What would he do until then? He’d not had a proper wash that morning. He’d spent an hour at Jean’s and hadn’t told her of his predicament, which meant she’d be annoyed later when she found out. ‘Why didn’t you say anything this morning?’ she’d no doubt ask.

Putting the matter aside, he searched for DI Barnes’s number and called her. He wanted to know if she was on the Maxwell Birchwood case, and also to learn more about her plans to leave the force. If what DS Hargreaves had told him was true.

Henry had worked well with DI Barnes over the last few years. It would be a shame for her to leave.

She answered his call just as Henry expected it to go to voicemail. “Henry. How are you?” she asked, sounding mildly sarcastic.

“I’m fine, Barnes. And how are you?”

“I can’t complain,” she said in her Sussex accent.

“A little birdie told me you were planning to leave the force,” Henry said.

He heard a mumble of consternation, and the background noise around Barnes went quieter, as if she’d stepped into a smaller room. “I’m not planning to leave,” she said, too defensively.

“Oh right, yeah,” Henry said. “I believe you. But let’s say, hypothetically, someone in your position wished to leave the force. What would be their reason behind it?”

Barnes’s sigh was mournful. “Oh, I don’t know. Exhaustion. Overwork. Being treated like an imbecile. Being expected to do the impossible as quickly as they can. Why do you think they would?”

“Well, probably the same things you’ve just mentioned,” Henry admitted, feeling sorry for her.

He’d faced intense pressure when he was in the force, but he knew things were different now. The nature of the game had changed. Police were expected to protect, serve, defend, help, council, teach, heal, and whatever else the rest of the state couldn’t do. In his day, there were other services and departments who would sort out the rest while detectives focused on their jobs. Not anymore. And these poor detectives had to do a lot more on less interesting pay and conditions.

“Listen, Barnes, if you do want to get out, I wouldn’t think any less of you.”

“This coming from a man who was kicked out.”

“Aye, kicked out for political reasons.” Henry always got slightly riled when his forced resignation was brought up.

“Political? I thought it had something to do with corruption allegations.”

Henry grunted. “Fake ones. Concocted to get rid of me. Anyway, less about me… So, you’re not thinking of jumping ship?”

“No.” She sounded like she was hiding something, but Henry didn’t pry.

“Alright. Fair enough. So, this Maxwell Birchwood case. Are you on Acton’s major investigation team?”

“I’m on three teams at the minute, and that’s one of them. Why? Acton’s not letting you stick your oar in this, is he?”

“Well, considering Maxwell Birchwood managed to wind up most of Addingham before he met his demise, I thought I might ask people a few questions.”

“Did you? Well, we’ll be coming over to Addingham soon to ask our own.”

“Oh, right? I suspect you’ll be wishing to talk to Jean Whitehead, Noel Cleeves, and Fred Sowerby.”

Barnes talked through gritted teeth. “We might.”

“Well, I’ll save you the bother, shall I? I’ve already talked to Jean.”

“She’s your neighbour, isn’t she?”

“She’s not involved in this.”

“Let me be the judge of that, Henry,” she said. “Although I must admit, she didn’t strike me as a well-trained marksman the last time I saw her.”

“Don’t let her blonde perm fool you. That woman’s dangerous.” Henry chuckled, but Barnes wasn’t laughing. “I suppose you’re focusing on Maxwell’s background and looking into his business dealings.”

Barnes paused as if she was deciding what to say.

“And I suspect the crime scene is pretty clean, as in you haven’t found the bullet casings nor any other signs of the killer.”

“We can’t say that for certain,” Barnes said. “But things aren’t progressing well.”

“Listen, Barnes, you and I know what will happen here. If it was a professional job, you won’t find any hard evidence at the scene of the crime. You’ll have nothing to go on. Then it’ll take you ages to follow down numerous leads, finding dead end after dead end, until, eventually, perhaps, you come across something that might suggest who paid for his assassination, but whatever you do find will never stand up in court.”

Barnes was silent.

“Trust me,” he said. “I’ve been there and done that. I had three – no, four – such cases in my time. Two linked to the IRA, which we were never able to pin on anyone, as you’d expect. These cases just get forgotten about after a while, as you don’t have the resources nor manpower to properly investigate them.”

“Alright, stop harping on about it,” Barnes said. “So you want to help?”

“I am helping. I’m looking into any potential connections in Addingham.”

“Fine. I’ll tell Acton you’re looking into it. But if you get a whiff of anything that could be of interest to us, contact me or Acton immediately.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t dream of doing it any differently.”

When he ended the call, he smiled at Tessa. “Well, it looks like we’re wanted after all,” he said, getting a miserable look from his dog in return.

Her expression suggested she wanted him to fix the heating, not solve the murder of a man nobody liked.

Chapter Nine

As Henry’s Skoda rolled up the steep lane in first gear, he worried about the black ice on the tarmac. Dirty snow was piled up at the sides of the narrow country road. The snowfall from the previous day had only settled on the tops of the moors.

Fred Sowerby’s farmhouse was at the top of the hill above Addingham. It overlooked the new housing estate that was a blight on the otherwise picturesque Yorkshire valley.

Henry planned to speak to Fred Sowerby to get his version of events and then talk to Noel Cleeves. After speaking to both, he’d report back to Barnes and Acton, hoping they would assign him further tasks. That was unless Henry found something from his discussions with the two men that needed to be reported back to Barnes sooner.

It wasn’t even 10 a.m. when the farm came into view over the ice-glazed drystone walls. Several fields surrounded a modest limestone farmhouse and its outbuildings. Parking next to the entrance of the farm, Henry heard the barking of a sheepdog and the worried bleats of ewes in the distance, but he couldn’t see where they came from. He wondered why they were still out in the snow. He entered the farmyard through a metal gate, stepping carefully on the uneven concrete underfoot, which was still covered in snow and ice from the previous day.

The sun was still hidden behind grey clouds and as he knocked on the farmhouse door, he felt the chilly wind blast through his coat. It was bloody cold up here, he thought. He knocked again, and an old man wearing a tweed flat cap opened it. His forest-green corduroy dungarees were streaked with mud.

“Fred Sowerby?” Henry asked.

The old man peered at him suspiciously. His wrinkled face was weather-beaten. “Aye.”

A big dog barked from inside his property but didn’t come near the door. Henry wondered if Fred let the dog off its lead when his visitors weren’t welcome.

“I’m former DCI Henry Ward. I believe you’ve had dealings with Maxwell Birchwood?”

Fred’s face crinkled. “Are you arresting that bastard?”

“Why would I want to arrest Maxwell Birchwood?”

“As I said… He’s a bastard.”

“Well, unfortunately, you can’t just arrest people for being like that.”

“What a damn shame.” Fred rubbed his nose with a handkerchief. “In my day, I’d have taken a couple of lads to his house and kicked the crap out of him. Can’t do that these days.” He sounded disappointed.

“Well, I don’t think you’ve ever been able to do that,” Henry said.

Fred peered up at him, his head stooped and back crooked.

“I need to ask you some questions about Maxwell Birchwood.”

“Why? If you’re not arresting him?”

“I understand you recently had business dealings with him over the sale of some land.”

Fred sniffed loudly. “You could say that. Why?”

“I hear they didn’t go very well for you.”

Fred narrowed his eyes as he peered up at Henry.

“Could you tell me where you were first thing this morning?” Henry asked.

“What business is that of yours?”

Seeing he wasn’t getting anywhere, Henry changed tack. “Ever heard of a stream called Black Beck?”

Fred scrunched up his nose. “In Ilkley? Why? What about it?”

“Mr Birchwood was found dead in it this morning.”

Fred’s eyes widened for a moment, and then the corners of his mouth curled into a smile. “Oh dear,” he said, not sounding very sorry.

“Can I come in and have a chat?” Henry asked, wanting to get out of the cold wind.

Fred looked at Henry with renewed interest. “You said ‘former’? Former whatever it was… DCI. What do you want with me?”

“I’m helping the official police investigation, and you can either talk to me, all civil like, or you can have DCI Acton banging at your door. And he’s from a nasty part of Manchester.”

“Manchester?” Fred’s eyebrows went up. “They’re rough as arseholes over there. Come on in. I’ll make you a brew.”

Henry followed him inside the old farmhouse. The floor tiles had once been a cream colour but were now filthy. Fred walked along them in muddy outdoor boots. A large Border collie bounded out from behind the kitchen door, when Fred opened it, and ran straight up to Henry.

As he went to pat her, Fred said, “I wouldn’t. She bites.”

The dog was just about to nibble on Henry’s hand when he pulled it away.

Henry took a seat at the kitchen table, which was piled high with newspapers, magazines, and used takeaway food boxes. The smell inside the kitchen was unpleasant, and a stack of dirty plates rested in the sink, with more plates and dishes piled high next to it. On the wall above an old cuckoo clock, which was stuck at 1.50 p.m., was a framed photo of Fred Sowerby from a few years earlier stood next to a plump woman with grey hair. He had his arm around her, and they both smiled at the camera – on holiday somewhere.

Henry doubted the wife was still around, considering the state of the farmhouse.

“Milk?” Fred asked, pouring it into Henry’s cup before getting an answer.

His shaking hand caused him to spill some on the filthy worktop, and when he placed the mug before Henry, milky tea slopped onto the table. The cup’s rim was covered in black cracks and stains.

“How are you coping?” Henry asked.

Fred lowered himself into a chair opposite, his joints cracking. He shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“Right.” Henry nodded, pretending he thought the same. “So, this business with Maxwell Birchwood.”

Fred shook his head. “Awful bastard.”

“What can you tell me about him?” Henry pulled the notepad and pen from his coat pocket and put them on the table, next to the spilt tea.

“He’s really dead?” Fred asked, eyeing Henry as if it might be a joke.

“Yes, he really is.”

Fred nodded, as if satisfied with the news. “I don’t know who did it, but when you find out who, let me shake the man’s hand.”

“Were you keen to see Mr Birchwood murdered?”

Fred blinked away the amusement in his eyes and suddenly became aware he was talking to a detective. “I didn’t kill him.”

“Okay, but you’re happy to learn he’s been found dead?”

Fred shrugged. “Men like him get what they deserve.”

“He has a family. Two girls and a wife.”

“They’re better off without him, in my opinion. Besides, he was minted, wasn’t he? They’ll get life insurance payouts and all sorts. They’ll be rolling in it.”

“Do you think that’ll make up for their father being murdered?”

Fred shrugged. “I don’t waste worry on the rich.”

“But couldn’t someone say you’re a wealthy man, Mr Sowerby? I mean, how much land do you own? A fair chunk, or so I hear.”

“I have a few fields…” Fred replied, and Henry noticed a twinkle in his eyes. “And now that prick’s gone, I won’t have to take him to court. I can sell it to whoever the bloody hell I want.”

Henry cupped his chin as if he’d been struck by a novel idea. “Very true… Maxwell Birchwood had a right of first refusal on all further sales, didn’t he?”

Fred didn’t answer, but his miffed expression did.

“That would mean, with him out of the way, you could make a killing.”

“So?” Fred asked.

“So… that gives you a motive for murder, Mr Sowerby.”

Chapter Ten

Henry raised his head slightly. Steam rose off the untouched tea in the dirty cup next to him. “Now, let’s talk about guns.”

“What guns?” Fred Sowerby said, stroking his Border collie that stood next to his leg.

“Don’t you have any on this farm?”

Fred’s eyes glanced left to right. “No…”

“Alright, you don’t use them for pest control or anything?”

Fred sniffed and shook his head.

“Don’t lie to me, Mr Sowerby. I can have the police search your property. It’d be easier if you just tell me what you have.”

Fred shrugged as if he thought working out what weapons he had was beyond him.

“Are they all licensed?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you got licenses for your guns?” Upon Fred’s blank stare, Henry said, “Have you asked permission from the local police to hold them? Do they come up and check on them every now and then? Have you got the appropriate paperwork; are they stored correctly?”

“Why would I ask the police to check my guns? They’d only take them away.”

“And why would they do that?” Henry waited a moment, before asking, “Are they legal?”

As Fred’s eyes darted around the kitchen, Henry could tell the old man had no idea if they were or not.

“Can you show them to me?”

“Now?” Fred said.

“Aye, if you wouldn’t mind? Otherwise, I can have the police fetch a warrant. But I suspect, as you’ve already said, they’ll take most of them away–”

“No! I need them… for hunting rabbits.”

Henry looked the farmer in the eyes but didn’t say anything.

When Fred could no longer bear Henry’s stare, he grimaced. “Some of them are worth a bob or two.”

“Which ones?”

Fred didn’t say.

Henry stood up. “Come on, Fred. Show me them.”

Fred reluctantly rose out of his chair, and the Border collie rushed to the kitchen door, excited to get out of the room.

“Alright… I’ll bloody show you,” Fred said.

They went into the farmyard and, walking past a large stone barn, the bricks of which were now crumbling, they approached a small shed made from well-weathered sheets of corrugated iron. The shed’s wooden door had rotted in places, leaving large holes big enough for fat rats to climb through. A silver padlock held the door shut; otherwise, Henry thought the wind would have opened it in a flash. Fred unlocked the padlock, and the door did blow open.

The shed’s interior lacked electrical lighting, so Henry had to rely on the pale daylight to see inside. Along one side of the wall were gun racks holding a collection of rifles and shotguns. All of them looked old but well maintained. The pungent stench of gun oil and metal got stronger as Henry stepped inside.

“Use all these for hunting rabbits, do you?” Henry asked Fred, as he counted thirty large weapons.

Fred remained at the door, watching Henry sullenly.

Henry stepped further inside the shed, its floorboards creaking underfoot, and felt cobwebs on the top of his thinning scalp. Something scuttled over his shoulder, and he batted it away. He approached the rifles, faintly lit by the silver daylight. All of the gun racks held a weapon. And while tempted to pick one up, Henry kept his hands to himself, not wishing to get his fingerprints on any.

“Are these the ones worth a bob or two?” Henry asked Fred, pointing at what looked to be British rifles from WWII.

“Aye… them and the others.”

“Which others?”

Fred pointed at the darker end of the shed. “They’re worth more.”

Henry squinted into the gloom before turning on the torch on his phone. The light illuminated a smaller gun shelf; this one held revolvers and pistols, all their barrels pointing to the left. Henry stepped towards them, accidently kicking a stack of boxed ammunition. Looking at the guns, he noticed two six-shooters on the self that looked like props from a cowboy film.

“Are these even real?”

“Of course they are,” Fred answered, slightly offended.

Henry shone his torch on a German Luger pistol. It looked like something straight out of a war film.

“Where did you get this from?”

He studied the weapon under his torchlight and spotted the Swastika insignia on its handle.

“Oh, that…” Fred said. He cleared his throat. “It was my dad who started the collection… I don’t know where he found that one. I’ve added a few pieces to it over the years. But it’s been harder to get hold of them since that ban.”

“Ah, so you are aware that handguns were banned in the UK in 1997?”

Fred shrugged. “I heard something about that… But I can keep historical ones, can’t I?”

Henry glanced over the collection of handguns, and had to admit Fred might have a point. “You can, but you can’t keep them in a rickety wooden shed like this.”

“I keep the door locked.”

Henry then noticed that the bottom-left slot of the shelf was empty while the rest held guns. “Are you missing one?”

“What?” Fred said, stepping inside. “I shouldn’t be.”

Henry counted the weapons and then the slots. “Fourteen slots for thirteen pistols, is that right?”

Fred came up behind Henry and scrutinised his shelves. “Erm…” He cleared his throat. “That’s not right.”

“You’ve got fourteen?”

“Aye.”

“So, what’s missing?”

Fred leant forwards while Henry pointed the torch on his phone at the firearms.

“Erm…” Fred was reluctant to say it.

“You’d better be honest about this, Mr Sowerby.”

He coughed. “The PPK’s missing.”

“A Walther PPK? As in James Bond’s gun?”

Fred gave Henry a side-eyed glance. “That’s it,” he said, sounding guilty, before adding, “I love that gun.”

“Should it be here with the rest of them?”

“Of course it should.”

“When did you last see it?”

“Erm… I don’t rightly know.”

“Well, where has it gone?” Henry asked, feeling his stress levels rising.

“That’s what I’m wondering!” Fred said, matching Henry’s frustration. “It’s worth a fortune, that gun.”

Henry rounded on the old man. “I’d worry less about that pistol’s price and more about its potential use in a murder.”

“Whose murder?” Fred asked, and then it all clicked in his head. “That bastard’s?”

Henry walked out of the gloom and into the steely daylight. Switching off the torch on his phone, he dialled Barnes’s number.

When she answered, he said, “I might’ve found the murder weapon. Well, I think I know where it came from.”

“Where?” Barnes asked, sounding flustered.

Henry turned to glance at Fred. “I’m at old Sowerby’s farm, and his 007 gun’s been stolen.”

“You what?”

“Let’s put it like this: either James Bond killed Maxwell Birchwood or someone quite possibly used his gun to do it.”

Chapter Eleven

Henry walked across the farmyard, taking care over the icy concrete. He kept to areas where the snow was a few inches thick and avoided the slippery sheets of ice.

He pressed his phone to his ear, despite Barnes having placed him on hold while she broke the news to Acton. Fred Sowerby’s Border collie sniffed Henry’s jeans before doing another tour of the yard’s perimeter. She moved over the frost as if she hadn’t a care in the world, which Henry resented slightly.

Fred Sowerby locked the flimsy wooden door to his shed and tried the handle a few times. “What do you mean ‘this shed isn’t secure enough?’ It’s as hard as owt.”

Henry’s expression gave dubious agreement, before he looked out at the snow-covered fields beyond the yard’s stone walls. The cold wind was getting to him, wearing him down, and he wanted to get into the warmth. Preferring his car to Fred’s squalid farmhouse, he looked longingly in its direction. He couldn’t leave the scene until Barnes had instructed him on what to do next.

What would she tell him to do? The fact he’d learnt of a missing handgun didn’t mean it was used to kill Maxwell Birchwood – unless its bullets could be matched with the ones found in him.

But without the gun, they couldn’t do that.

Maxwell had received a bullet to the head and chest at point-blank range, a level of precision that meant the shooter must have been a good shot. Looking back at Fred, who was patting his Border collie with a shaky hand, Henry doubted the old farmer was much of a marksman these days. However, that didn’t exclude Fred entirely from the murder of Maxwell Birchwood. The old farmer had a motive to kill Maxwell.

Barnes came back on the line and interrupted Henry’s thoughts. “Sorry. Acton was on a call with upstairs, and I had to wait my turn. He asks if you can get a picture of the gun.”

Henry sighed. “I can ask Fred, but I doubt he’s got one.”

“Ask anyway. Then the next step is to see who else has access to the farm.”

“I’ve done that,” Henry said. “He had two local lads helping him a few days a week, Lee Nothers and Ben Lloyd. I’ll go speak to them after here.”

Barnes paused a moment. “Do you think the old farmer could have had Maxwell killed?”

“Well, he has a motive, and his weapon might be implicated, but I doubt he’d splash out and pay someone to do it.” Henry turned to look at the rambling old farmhouse and the rusty corrugated-iron shed. “The going rate for assassins is quite high, and I doubt old Sowerby’s got the cash.”

“You might have a point.” Barnes shuffled some papers. “Acton says the bullets found in Maxwell Birchwood were ‘9 mm shorts’.”

“They’ve already performed the autopsy?”

“Not yet. The crazies over in ballistics have studied the gunshot wounds.”

“Ah, is Quarrie still there?”

“The old one who stinks of gunpowder and BO?”

“Sounds like him.” Henry nodded to himself. “I was hoping he’d be on the case. He knows his firearms, that man.” He glanced at Fred Sowerby’s rickety shed. “He’d have a field day with all these guns. When is the autopsy due?”

“This afternoon. Acton forced a rush on it, and seeing as he was a well-known figure, Murphy and the top brass are getting scared. They want to know as much as they can before they go public.”

“Makes sense,” Henry said.

Henry could see why Murphy would be terrified of a high-profile public figure being killed in an apparent assassination. Not only would it look terrible, it would disrupt his plots for promotion.

Then Henry had another thought.

“Hang on,” he said. He covered the lower part of his phone and called out to Fred. “Here, what rounds does that PPK take?”

Fred stared back at him, biting his lower lip while the Border collie licked his hand.

Knowing he wasn’t going to get an answer, Henry pressed him. “Could it be 9 mm shorts?”

Fred scrunched up his face, which Henry took as an affirmative.

“Can it still shoot? Have you tested it recently?”

“Of course! I keep all my weapons in working order,” Fred said, sounding offended.

Returning to the phone, Henry said to Barnes, “I think this could be our gun, you know.”

“Well, let’s find it first. Any idea where it is?”

“None. I’ll chat to these two lads who work up here, if old Sowerby gives me their addresses.”

“Don’t bother, when he gives you them, send them to me, and I’ll get Hargreaves to question them.”

“Oh, don’t trust me doing it?”

“No,” Barnes said. “It’s just that now you’ve found something that might be useful–”

“You have to get me out of the way?” Henry said, completing her sentence.”

“That’s not exactly how it is,” she said.

“Oh, really? Because it sounds like that.” He took in a breath, but knew he couldn’t get too angry, as he could see her point. “There’s always this Noel Cleeves I can talk to next.”

“Well, go ruin his day–” he heard Barnes cover her phone for a second “–Acton says you might be right about the PPK, and he looks pleased. So thanks for that.”

“You’re very welcome. Fred’s not very pleased with me, considering most of his weapons will have to be seized and he’s facing a list of firearm charges.”

“Tell him if he cooperates, we’ll see what we can do.”

“Is that a promise?”

“We don’t do those around here,” Barnes said, without a hint of sarcasm.

Henry hung up and stepped carefully over the ground to Fred, who guarded the entrance to his shed, watching Henry approach.

“Have you got a picture of that PPK?”

“Why?” Fred asked.

“I need to send it to the police so they can take a look at it.”

Fred stuck out his chin. The freezing wind ruffled the tufts of his grey hair that stuck out under his flat cap.

“They did say that if you assist them in their inquiries, they’ll see what they can do to help.”

“Help me? Why’d I need their help?”

Henry narrowed his eyes at the old man. “You are aware what’s happening, right, Fred? You’ve got a shedload of weaponry and no licences. You’re facing firearm charges and, if this missing PPK is the gun that killed Maxwell Birchwood, the police will start adding more charges.”

“Like what?”

“Incorrect handling and storage of a firearm” – Henry peered into the darkened interior of the shed – “multiplied by forty-three.”

Fred looked wearily into the distance; his head stooped further into his chest. “Am I buggered?”

“Not if you help us.”

The Border collie whimpered and then barked. Fred looked down at her. “What do you need?”

They returned inside the farmhouse, with Henry following Fred and the dog into a small study. Folders and paperwork, stacked over two feet high, covered the desk. Wind rattled down the chimney of the unlit hearth. Hanging on the wall above the fireplace were three shotguns, which looked almost as old as the weapons in Fred’s shed.

“Are these legal?” Henry asked.

“Oh, aye. I need them for the rabbits.” He went to the drawers in a dresser. They were jammed full with more papers. “It’s here somewhere…”

Henry spotted an Inland Revenue & Customs letter, browned with age, on top of the one of the stacks of folders. It was dated 2002 and marked ‘Urgent’.

“Doesn’t anyone help you with all this?”

“What do I need help with?” Fred asked, sounding confused. “Here…” He pulled out a battered photo envelope from the drawer and passed it to Henry.

The envelope had the image of a beach holiday on its cover along with the name of a defunct photo lab. When Henry opened it, he found dozens of images of Fred’s handguns. Sorting through them, he found the one that looked like the weapon James Bond had made famous.

“Is this it?” he asked, showing Fred the photo of the small black pistol.

Fred nodded.

“Good. Now fetch me the addresses of the lads who came here to work. They’re due a visit from a very obnoxious and unpleasant detective.”

“Right, they probably deserve it, to be fair – the pair of rascals,” Fred mumbled, shuffling over to the piles of paperwork on his desk.

Henry looked at the image of the handgun and, for reasons he couldn’t describe, felt certain it was the weapon that had killed Maxwell Birchwood.

Chapter Twelve

Henry drove past the new housing estate on Ilkley Road in Addingham. The blue signage on the site’s hoarding featured Maxwell Birchwood’s beaming face, along with the tag line: ‘More Birchwood Houses are coming to your town!’

Henry spotted activity around the site’s entrance, suggesting the construction’s progress hadn’t been halted by Maxwell’s murder and the extremely cold weather. There was no way of stopping the wheels of progress, Henry concluded, motoring past.

The lawns of Appleby Manor stretched from the drystone walls of the property to the house itself and were tinted white by frost. As Henry’s Skoda rolled up its driveway, Henry spotted Christmas decorations still up around the house. Gold ribbons and stars adorned the cornices, all classy and non-garish.

The Georgian manor house was impressive. Two big bay windows stood either side of its wide front door, which was painted navy blue. A pair of stone pillars stood either side of the entrance, and the gravel driveway came right up to it, presumably allowing past visitors, in horse and carriage, to make a big entrance. The house appeared empty, but Henry spotted movement in one of the three windows on the first floor.

He parked the car near the front entrance, and spotted the thick front door opening before he’d even pulled up the handbrake. Getting out and zipping up his coat against a blast of freezing wind, Henry approached the house.

“Hello,” he said.

A woman with long dark hair, who looked to be in her late forties, peeked at him from behind the door.

“Hello,” Henry said again, wondering if she heard him. “Is Mr Cleeves in?”

The woman shook her head, remaining half-hidden by the door.

“Do you know when he’ll return?”

She shook her head after a short delay.

“Okay…” Henry shoved his hands in his pockets to get them out of the cold. “I’m former DCI Henry Ward, I need to speak to Mr Cleeves about a serious incident. Are you his wife?”

She neither nodded nor reacted.

This is odd, Henry thought. Could she even speak English? “What’s your name?” Henry asked, slowly.

After a few moments, she said, “Maryna.”

Henry noted the Eastern European accent. “Nice to meet you, Maryna. Do you have Mr Cleeves’ mobile number?” After receiving a blank stare in return, he added, “It’s to help the police.”

Her eyes widened at a word she must’ve recognised, then she disappeared behind the door.

Henry made his way up the front steps, which were covered in grit to melt the ice.

The woman returned with a yellow note in hand and gave it him. “Take.”

Henry took it from her. It read, ‘Call me if needed…’ and had a mobile number.

“This is for Mr Cleeves?”

Maryna thought a moment, and then nodded.

“Right. Thank you very much, Maryna.”

She watched him get into his car, and was still standing half-behind the front door as he looked back at the house in his rear-view mirror.

“That was odd,” Henry said to himself, shaking his head. “I wonder what that’s all about.”

He stopped off at his cottage to have a quick lunch and to call Noel Cleeves to arrange a meeting. As soon as he stepped through his front door, however, he remembered the boiler was off. The air inside his living room was icy cold. Tessa hadn’t moved from her spot on the sofa. She was curled up into a ball and stared at him with sad eyes.

“I know… I’d forgotten,” he said, leaving his winter coat on.

He checked his mobile phone in case he’d missed the call from the plumber as he entered his kitchen. He hadn’t, so he gave him a call.

Tom, the heating engineer, answered, and after reminding him who he was, Henry learnt he couldn’t get an appointment for three days.

“You really can’t come any sooner?” Henry asked.

Tom sounded as if he was fixing someone else’s boiler. His voice strained as he lifted something heavy. “Not unless… it’s an emergency.”

“Well, I’ve got neither hot water nor heating, and it’s minus five outside, so what would you call that?”

“It could be one, aye.” Tom banged something. “You’re quite elderly, aren’t you – if you don’t mind me asking?”

Henry nearly lost his temper. “I beg your pardon!”

Tom quickly went to defend himself. “It’s just that, if you’re vulnerable and have no heating in a cold snap, I can put a rush on it and head over today. However, if not, you’ll have to wait.”

Henry scrunched up his lips. Could he admit to being old and frail in order get his hot water running quicker or would he maintain his pride and remain cold?

“Aye, I’m old, frail, and bloody freezing. So when can you come over?”

Tom grunted into the phone, and Henry heard the crash of metal on concrete and pictured someone’s old boiler landing in their backyard.

“How about three o’clock this afternoon?” Tom asked, out of breath.

“Perfect,” Henry said. When he’d reminded Tom of his address, he hung up and said, “Cheeky bloody swine.”

After making a tuna sandwich, he took a seat at his kitchen table with his thick winter coat still on. He was tempted to wear his gloves while he ate but didn’t want to get salad cream on them. He looked down at the yellow note Maryna had given him and decided he’d ring Noel Cleeves when he’d finished eating. He didn’t think a respectable man like Noel Cleeves, a parish councillor, would be involved in Maxwell’s murder, but he should still find out if that was the case or not.

After that, all the links to Addingham would have been exhausted, or so he hoped. Well, there was still the small matter of Fred Sowerby’s handgun being the possible murder weapon. Wherever that gun now was. Henry supposed the killer still had it – presuming they hadn’t chucked it into the River Wharfe already.

He rinsed his plate under cold water and put it on the draining board while the kettle boiled. The knock on his front door came as a surprise, and he hoped it was the boiler man, here to make his cottage warm again.

But it wasn’t – it was DS Hargreaves.

“Off somewhere?” she asked, looking at his outdoor coat.

Henry shook his head. “No. It’s just cold inside.”

“Why are you wearing a coat inside? Put the bloody heating on.”

“I can’t,” Henry said, feeling his cheeks redden. He couldn’t admit his house wasn’t in working order.

“Why? It’s minus five out here.” She walked into his cottage, keeping her knee-length black coat on. Its woollen fabric made it look like it was made of luxurious fur. Stepping into his living room, she said, “It is bloody freezing in here.”

Henry shut the door. “I know. The boiler’s gone, and the engineer’s coming this afternoon to fix it. What is it you want, DS Hargreaves?”

She pointed at Tessa on the sofa. “Poor dog’s freezing to death here. Wait any longer, and she’ll be an icicle.”

“She’ll be fine,” Henry said, nodding at Tessa, hoping he was right.

“I’m on my way to these lads Barnes wants me to talk to,” Hargreaves said, sounding unenthusiastic.

“Right?”

Her heels made marks in the beige carpet. “Seeing as you were up at the farm, I thought it’d make more sense if you came with me.”

“Can’t handle it yourself?”

She rolled her eyes. “Questioning two yokel farmhands? Of course I can.”

“Well, what is it you need me for?”

“I just thought you might fancy a drive out somewhere. Besides, one of these lads might’ve stolen the murder weapon and killed Maxwell Birchwood. You might like to be there when they admit it.”

Henry grunted. “Nice try, but what’s more likely is that they had no idea there were any guns on the farm and never nicked any.”

Hargreaves went to sit on the sofa next to Tessa, but then thought better of it, as the last time she’d sat there, she got Tessa’s fur all over her clothes.

“How’s the investigation going?” Henry asked.

Hargreaves strode towards the window and looked out at Main Street. “How do you think?”

“That bad?”

“Nothing at the crime scene. No weapon. The family doesn’t know anything.”

“So you’ve spoke to them?”

She nodded. “Well… Barnes did. I was allowed to sit there and watch. The wife was weepy.”

“Well, her husband has just been gunned down.” Henry then recalled what Jean had said to him earlier. “What did you think of the wife?”

Hargreaves shrugged. “Not much.”

“I’ve heard rumours that they might not have gotten on.”

Hargreaves turned to look at him. “Domestic abuse?”

“Nothing that far. I heard Maxwell’s wheeling and dealing might’ve been unpalatable for her.”

Hargreaves nodded slowly. “Interesting.” She walked towards the front door. “Here, let’s make a deal.”

Henry watched here suspiciously. Always playing games, Hargreaves, he thought. Just like her mentor, Detective Superintendent Murphy.

“Go on,” he said.

“Come with me so we can close down these two lads quickly, then you and I can take a crack at Mrs Birchwood. See what she has to say for herself.”

“Can you do that?”

“I can have a consultant with me while I interview a witness. It’s happened before.”

“What’s in it for you?” Henry asked.

“Any help we can get to close this case as quickly as we can, the better.”

Henry sensed Murphy had been meddling somewhere. “Why does the detective superintendent want you to wrap this up so fast?”

Hargreaves shrugged like it wasn’t important. “He’s battling the rest of them upstairs. He needs a win. He wants this concluded in twenty-four hours, tops.”

“That’s insane. He won’t solve this that quickly. There’s no evidence.”

“Birchwood was well-known, and he doesn’t want the community to be scared–”

“Well, they should be. There’s a gunman out there.”

“That’s why we need to find him or her by the end of play tomorrow.”

Henry shook his head. “For all we know, this was a hit job. Do you know how many of them we solve?”

“Is it? If the weapon came from the farm, as you’ve proven–”

“Eh, nothing’s been proven at this stage.”

“As you’ve suggested, then it could be someone local who held a grudge against him.”

“That could be anyone.”

“It could also be his wife?”

Henry ground his molars together.

“Come with me and check out these wee lads, and then we’ll go question the missus.”

“And what if Acton or Murphy find out I’ve been helping you?”

“They don’t need to know, and if they do find out, I think they’ll be willing to turn a blind eye, considering the situation.”

“Really? They’ve not done that before.”

“Because there’s something you don’t know about all of this.”

Henry cocked an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

“Birchwood wasn’t just a property developer, he was also knee-deep in local politics.”

Henry didn’t like the sound of that. “How so?”

“A major donor and keen supporter of several local MPs… of both parties. And, what with 2024 being the election year…”

Henry could see what she was getting at, and didn’t like it. Both political parties were avoiding the merest hint of impropriety as the general election loomed. The news of a major donor being murdered – possibly assassinated – would ignite uncomfortable questions for powerful people.

Unless the police could resolve the matter as quickly as possible.

“So, are you coming?” Hargreaves asked.

Henry was unsure. “Well… I’ve got the boiler man coming this afternoon.”

“Leave the key under a plant pot or with that nosy neighbour. Or just leave the bloody door open. It’s Addingham, nobody nicks anything over here.”

Chapter Thirteen

Hargreaves drove Henry over the snowy tops of the moors towards Skipton in her silver Audi. An old market town known for its castle and weekly markets, it was over the county line in North Yorkshire.

Henry texted the heating engineer, telling him that the key to his front door was under the potted chrysanthemum in his front yard. He finished by explaining that his neighbour had a spare key, in case he couldn’t find it. After he’d sent the message, Henry hoped the boiler man would be able to fix the problem. The tops of the hills around him were white with snow and frost, and Henry recalled the weatherman’s prediction that the arctic conditions were set to last.

Hargreaves drove along the A65 as though they were in a high-speed pursuit, overtaking cars going at the correct speed and accelerating into hard turns as if in a rally. Loud electronic music blared out from her speakers, making Henry wish he had driven himself. He feared they wouldn’t make it to the farmhand’s flat.

Thankfully, they arrived in one piece, and Hargreaves pulled into a quiet car park near Skipton Canal Basin. The town was calm on this January afternoon, and the temperature had gone down further.

Hargreaves parked in a disabled spot near the car park’s entrance and said to Henry, “Don’t worry. I never get ticketed.”

“That doesn’t mean you should park here,” he said, but she wasn’t listening.

Lee Nothers’ address was on Broughton Road, usually a bustling street to the west of the town centre, but today it was serene. The shops were mostly empty, and even the fish and chip shop looked in want of customers.

Hargreaves banged on the front door of a tall residential building overlooking Broughton Road. Henry studied the buzzer, searching for Lee’s name, but he couldn’t find it.

“Is this his address?” Hargreaves asked, banging the door again with her closed fist.

Henry checked the scribbled note he’d received from Fred Sowerby. “Aye, it’s what he wrote…” Then he shook his head. “Hang on.”

He double-checked the handwritten names on the intercom and found ‘Lloyd’. “Old Fred must’ve mixed them up,” he said to Hargreaves, who rolled her eyes.

Henry pressed the buzzer and after a few moments, someone answered. “Ben Lloyd?” Henry asked.

“Yes–”

Hargreaves jumped in before Henry could speak. “Police. Open your bloody door!”

Ben came down and opened the front door. The bruises and cuts on his face were immediately evident. It looked like he’d recently received a serious beating. Neither Hargreaves nor Henry said anything, but they shared a look, with Henry raising an eyebrow.

Ben led them up two flights of stairs to the third floor without a word. The stairwell smelt of damp and cigarette smoke. The flat was larger than Henry expected, comprising a living room, separate kitchen, and bedroom. The ceilings were high, in the Edwardian fashion, and the place looked to have been renovated over thirty years ago and needed a fresh coat of paint.

Two youths were in the living room, sitting on an old sofa. They were wearing hoodies and had their hoods up, both peering at Henry and Hargreaves sheepishly as they walked in. Ben headed over to an armchair next to the sofa. The window was open, letting in blasts of cold air that failed to hide the smell of cannabis.

Hargreaves’ expensive coat and outfit made her look out of place as she strolled about the room, looking at Ben’s games console that was plugged into a large TV. The football video game they’d been playing had been paused. She surveyed the young men, then inspected the coffee table, which Henry could tell had been hastily cleared.

“Been toking spliffs?” Hargreaves asked.

“We haven’t been smoking owt,” Ben said, seating himself in his battered armchair. He seemed to have taken on the role of spokesman for the group, as the other two looked too scared to speak.

“You think I don’t know what weed smells like?” Hargreaves asked, kicking a loose cigarette filter across the dirty carpet.

Ben shrugged. His bloodshot eyes flitted between Henry and Hargreaves.

“Well, if it’s only weed, I don’t really care,” Hargreaves said.

Ben swallowed hard. “What do you want?” he asked.

“You work at Fred Sowerby’s farm?” Hargreaves asked.

Henry spotted Ben glance at one of the other youths on the sofa.

“Ah,” Henry said, looking at the lad on the sofa. “You must be Lee Nothers.”

Lee’s eyes widened in horror.

“What do you want with us?” Ben asked.

Hargreaves ignored his question and approached the third youth on the sofa. “Who are you?”

“Phil Carlson,” he muttered.

“Phil, I don’t know who you are, so you can sod off.”

Phil looked at his two friends, uncertain of what Hargreaves meant.

“Best get going, lad,” Henry added. “We need to talk to these two.”

“Wait outside,” Ben told Phil.

The lad got up off the sofa and shuffled to the door.

Hargreaves turned to face the window. “Can I close this now? It’s freezing.” She didn’t wait for an answer, and pulled it shut.

Henry watched the two youths. They looked to be in their early twenties. Ben had a rodent-like face and seemed to have his wits about him, while Lee, who was better-looking, appeared to be of the ‘nice but dim’ variety. His head tilted to the left as if he was struggling to follow their conversation.

Lee, Henry noticed, also had the signs of having been in a scuffle recently, even if his face was partially obscured by his hood.

“Have you two been scrapping?” Henry asked.

Ben licked his lower lip, which was busted and only just healing. “We like to get into a few fights after closing time, don’t we, Lee?”

Lee agreed with a murmur. If these two were up to something, he thought, Ben would be the mastermind.

“So, what can you tell me about Fred Sowerby?” Hargreaves asked.

Ben shrugged. “What about him?”

“You work on his farm?”

“Aye.”

“Have you been working there recently?”

“Have you seen the weather?” he asked, sharing a quick snicker with his friend.

Hargreaves silenced them with a look.

“Have you ever come across Maxwell Birchwood?” she asked.

“Who?” Ben asked.

“You know, the bloke who built all those houses in Addingham.”

Lee looked anxiously at his friend, who answered for him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, really?” Henry asked. “Birchwood bought some land from Fred Sowerby. You never heard him talk about him?”

“Erm, well…” Lee started, looking at the coffee table to avoid his friend’s glare. “He came up to the farm a few times. Fred reckons he’s a bastard.”

“Is that right?” Hargreaves asked. “When did he last go there?”

Lee clearly sensed he’d stepped into dangerous territory. “Erm… I dunno.”

“Go on. Tell me. It’s important.”

“Well… a few months ago.”

“Which one?”

Lee frowned as he tried to remember. “The vet came up to vaccinate the sheep. When was that, Ben?”

Ben was sitting low in his seat, glaring at his friend, and didn’t answer.

“November,” Lee said. “Aye. My sister started her new job then.”

“How old’s your sister?” Hargreaves asked.

“She’s seventeen,” Lee answered, clearing wondering why Hargreaves was asking.

“And how old are you two?”

“I’m twenty…” Lee looked to Ben, who wasn’t going to say anything.

Hargreaves picked up on this. “Are you both twenty?”

Lee nodded for Ben.

“Do you know how long you can get in prison for lying to a police detective?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Twenty-five years. That’s longer than you’ve been alive.”

Lee’s eyes widened as he tried to comprehend that length of time. “I’m not lying, though. I really am twenty.”

Hargreaves ignored him and focused on Ben. She’d clearly also worked out he was the one with the brains. “When did you last see Maxwell Birchwood on Fred Sowerby’s farm?”

Ben attempted a spiteful look that couldn’t withstand Hargreaves’ glare, so he stared down at his hands. “In November.”

“Did you speak to him?”

He shook his head.

“Why didn’t you want to tell us about it?”

He shrugged.

“Okay. What about the guns?”

“Guns!?” Lee asked.

Ben silenced him with a glare.

“Did you nick that PPK?” Henry asked.

He received shocked looks from both of them.

“What PPK?” Ben asked, after too long a pause.

“Where is it now?” Henry asked.

Ben scratched his nose. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lee pulled a face as he tried to think. “Why do you want to know about that?”

Henry cleared his throat. “Because, lads, we believe that gun was used to murder Maxwell Birchwood. So if you nicked it, you’re in a shedload of trouble.”

Chapter Fourteen

Ben Lloyd pulled the hood off his head and ran a hand over his shaved hair. He then gingerly touched his busted lip, which had started to bleed.

Hargreaves stood in front of him and Lee Nothers with her arms crossed, staring at them both in turn.

The room was still cold despite the window being closed, and Henry spotted an old radiator behind the sofa that he suspected no longer worked.

“Do you mind telling us how you nicked this gun?” Hargreaves asked.

Ben shook his head. “We didn’t–”

Hargreaves tutted. “What did I just say about lying to police detectives? Do you really want to spend twenty-five years in prison?” She glanced around the room, taking in the gangster rap posters on the wall. “I know you might think you’re tough criminals, but believe me, little boys like you from sunny Skipton won’t survive long inside.”

The threat appeared to work on Ben, and his mouth quivered.

“So,” Hargreaves continued, “what can you tell us?”

It was Lee who spoke first. “We’d not been in the shed before.”

Henry jumped in. “Alright. Tell us more.”

Lee locked eyes on him, as if encouraged. “Aye, and he let us shoot.”

“Shoot at what? Beer cans?” Henry asked.

He nodded. “And a few road signs Fred uses for target practice.”

“When did you use the handguns?”

“After we’d used the rifles. I wanted to try the revolvers.” He smiled boyishly. “I fired two at a time.”

Ben shook his head at his friend’s naivety.

Henry looked at them both. “Whose idea was it to nick the PPK?”

Lee glanced at Ben and remained quiet.

“When did you nick it, Ben?” Hargreaves asked.

Ben scrunched up his rodent-like face as if weighing up what to admit. He gave Hargreaves a rueful glance. “End of November. The last time we were there.”

“Why did you nick that one?” she asked.

Ben shrugged. “I just thought it might be the one worth more than the others.”

“Right?”

Ben, his head lowered, sniffed before continuing. “Fred, he’s shit at paperwork but thinks he can handle it. He stiffed us out of a month and a half’s wage. He says he paid us, but he didn’t. And there’s no talking him round.”

“So, you nicked the gun to cover your unpaid wages?” Henry asked, sounding fair.

“We’re not planning on going back there, we can get work elsewhere. It’s just him who liked going up there.”

Lee nodded. “It’s alright up there. Fred’s a good ’un. Lets us do what we want.”

“After you’d stolen the gun, where did you leave it?” Henry asked.

Ben sighed, looking around as if trying to find another way to get out of his predicament, but found none. “We’ve got a lock-up on the outskirts of Skipton. We left it there over the weekend, but when we came to it on Monday, it’d gone.”

Lee concurred. “They’d cut straight through the padlock and everything. We had to buy a new one.”

Hargreaves stepped forwards. “Any idea who nicked it?”

Ben shook his head.

“Which day was this?” she asked.

“Erm… 24th. Just before December.”

The weapon had been missing for nearly two months before being used in a murder, Henry thought. “And you’ve no idea who could’ve taken it?”

Ben shook his head.

“You weren’t aware of being followed by anyone when you stole it from Sowerby’s?”

Another shake of the head.

Henry and Hargreaves exchanged a stumped look.

“Well, we’d better take a look at this lock-up,” she said, not sounding too happy about the idea.

“What will happen to us?” Ben asked.

“That all depends on whether Fred Sowerby wants to press charges or not,” Henry said. “Seeing as he loved that gun, I fear he will.” Then he added, “Saying that, the fact the gun could’ve been used to kill Maxwell Birchwood may work in your favour. Old Sowerby hated the man so much, he might let you off.”

They crossed Skipton town centre in Hargreaves’ Audi, with the two lads sitting in the back. The almost-new-car smell that Hargreaves had maintained was being tainted by the sickly-sweet cannabis stink coming off their clothes.

The lock-up was on the outskirts of the town near the bypass. A few warehouses were dotted around, and a new housing estate was in the distance, which Henry thought looked similar to the one in Addingham.

“Another Birchwood estate?” he said to Hargreaves as she parked up.

“He bloody did get about, didn’t he,” she replied.

The youths lead them to a warehouse painted in garish green and bright yellow. Walking through the loading bay doors, the lads waved at a man wearing blue overalls sweeping up the entrance. He gave Henry and Hargreaves an unwelcoming look. They moved down a long corridor, walking past a dozen yellow doors – all padlocked, until Ben stopped at one near the far end. He removed a key from his pocket, unlocked the bulky padlock, and opened up the door.

Knowing he didn’t have the right to walk into the lads’ storage unit and snoop around, Henry remained in the corridor. Hargreaves wasn’t as concerned and wandered around the unit, studying the farming equipment, trailer, and cardboard boxes it contained.

“This was where you were robbed?” Henry asked, looking up and down the corridor.

Ben nodded. “We had an old, flimsy lock that they just cut through, so we bought this.” He lifted up the bulky padlock.

Henry inspected the door but couldn’t see any sign of a break-in.

“Where were you keeping the gun?” Hargreaves asked from inside the storage unit.

Lee stepped into the room and kept an eye on Hargreaves as she started touching the rakes and spades along the wall. He pointed to a shelf in the corner that held cardboard boxes. “They emptied all of them until they found it.”

Henry looked around the corridor. Their lock-up was as far from the main entrance as you could get. He attempted to imagine someone breaking into this warehouse, finding this door out of dozens, and knowing which box the gun had been stored in.

He couldn’t see how it had happened.

“What about the main entrance? How did they get through there?” he asked.

Ben shrugged. “Eddie says he’s had a few break-ins.”

“Were any other units broken into when yours was?” Hargreaves asked.

Ben shook his head.

“Alright,” Hargreaves said, wiping a clump of dry grass off her long black coat. “Thanks for showing us this.”

Ben and Lee shared a quick look, before Ben said, “No problem.”

As Hargreaves walked past them, she said, “Hang tight here, I need to go make a phone call.”

“No worries,” Ben grumbled.

Henry and Hargreaves walked down the corridor to the loading bay door. “What do you make of this?” Henry asked her when they were far enough away from the two lads.

“I don’t know,” she said under her breath.

Before they exited the building, Henry saw the man in blue overalls sweeping the corridor. He was wearing a scarf and gloves, as the warehouse’s thin metal walls didn’t provide much insulation.

“Excuse me,” Henry said, approaching the man.

He looked up and nodded. “Can I help?”

“Eddie, is it?”

“It is.” He scrutinised Henry and Hargreaves. “You wouldn’t happen to be police, would you?”

“Aye; she’s DS Hargreaves, I’m former DCI Ward.”

“Alright,” Eddie said, resting the sweeping brush against the concrete wall. “What can I do you for?”

“Had many break-ins in here recently?”

He shook his head, looking unmoved.

“Really? So, you’re not aware that a storage unit was broken into in November?”

“Not at all.”

“We’ve heard that a storage unit at the back–”

“With those two lads? Ben and Lee?” He shook his head again. “If they’ve been broken into, they’ve not told me. Why? What was stolen?”

Henry made eye contact with Hargreaves, who was already striding back towards the corridor from which they’d come. “I’ll go get them.”

“So, this main door hasn’t been damaged in the past few months?” Henry asked Eddie.

“No,” he said. “It’s fine.”

“There’s no other exits?”

“Fire one around the back, but that’s it. Both in good nick, so I’m not sure what they’re talking about.”

Henry thanked him and then rushed to catch up with Hargreaves. He found her standing outside the lads’ lock-up, taking deep breaths.

“They legged it.”

“Must’ve gone through the fire exit at the back,” Henry said, looking past her and seeing no signs of them.

“Why’d they lie to us?” she asked.

“Two possible reasons. Either they didn’t and the gun really was nicked, or they have it, and we’ve just let Maxwell Birchwood’s killers go free.”

Chapter Fifteen

Henry and Hargreaves had to wait for a search warrant to be issued before they could ask the warehouse manager to open Lee and Ben’s lock-up. However, obtaining a warrant was difficult as they’d crossed into North Yorkshire, a different county. A long, drawn-out process was taking place, which involved West Yorkshire Police requesting the force in North Yorkshire to obtain one on their behalf.

Hargreaves found it all incredibly infuriating. “It’s sodding nonsense!” she shouted.

“We have to make sure it’s a legal search,” Henry said, trying to placate her.

They were hanging around the main entrance of the warehouse, with the loading bay door wide open despite the freezing temperatures outside.

Hargreaves shook her head, her hands deep into her coat pockets. “What if we’ve just let those little twats get away with murder?”

“They won’t get far,” Henry said.

Hargreaves had reported Lee Nothers and Ben Lloyd as wanted for questioning in connection to a murder inquiry. Henry hoped North Yorkshire patrol cars would be searching Skipton for them right now.

A wooden door opened near the loading bay, and Eddie the warehouse manager emerged, his scarf tied snugly around his neck. “Here, if you have to wait, you can always come into the office to keep warm.”

Hargreaves looked accusingly at him. “Have you got CCTV footage in there?”

Eddie nodded, looking slightly perturbed. “I do. Why, do you want to look at it?” he asked, as if unsure he wanted them to say yes.

“Hang on, Hargreaves,” Henry said, “North Yorkshire Police need to request a warrant for the CCTV footage before we can view it.”

“Aye, but if he’s offering?” she replied.

Henry couldn’t argue with that, even though Eddie didn’t sound too happy.

He followed Hargreaves and Eddie into a small office. It was windowless, with bare plasterboard walls smeared with paint. An electric heater in the corner kicked out warmth, which almost beat the cold. A desk took up the space, and was littered with screwed-up paper and empty soft drink cans. Three screens were mounted on the wall above the desk, two of them showed CCTV footage.

Eddie took a seat in the chair with a sigh and clicked the computer mouse. “It was November when they said they were robbed?”

“That’s right,” Hargreaves said, looking at the filthy carpet, her lip curled in repulsion.

“What date was it?”

“The weekend of 24 November,” Henry said, stepping forwards to study a screen. He recognised the corridor in the image and the door to the lads’ lock-up.

Eddie typed in the dates, and the screen altered slightly as the footage jumped forwards in time. The timestamp now said ‘24/11/23’.

Hargreaves joined Henry at the screen. “Fast-forward through the weekend. Let’s see if those little shits were having us on or not.”

Eddie did as instructed, and the image blurred as he sped through the footage. A few figures glided up and down the corridor and in and out of doors.

“Stop,” Henry said.

Eddie froze the image. Ben Lloyd and Lee Nothers could clearly be seen opening their storage unit door.

“That’s them going in,” Henry said to Hargreaves, who concurred with a nod.

The timestamp stated ‘18:45 24/11/2023’.

“Fast-forward again,” Hargreaves said.

Eddie continued scrolling through the footage. He paused it momentarily. “Looks like they left ten minutes after they went in,” he said.

“Alright, go through the whole weekend, let’s see if anyone else goes into that lock-up.”

Eddie again did as he was told, and the three stared at the screen as two days’ worth of footage sped past.

As it neared the end of Sunday, Eddie took in a breath. “Well, it looks like they were talking nonsense. No one went near that door again–”

“Hang on!” Hargreaves said.

Eddie paused the footage. A figure stood near the door of Ben and Lee’s storage unit.

“Who’s that?” Eddie asked.

“Can you zoom in?” Hargreaves asked.

Eddie shook his head.

“It wouldn’t matter if you could,” Henry said, leaning closer to the screen. “He or she is wearing a motorcycle helmet.”

Hargreaves stepped forward to see for herself. “Crap. Well, who on earth nicked the gun?”

Henry didn’t answer her question. He made a note of the time stamp, which read ‘23:47 26/11/2023’ and then peered at the figure on the screen.

“Whoever it is,” he said, “they must’ve known that Ben and Lee were keeping the gun in there.”

“Could it have been them?” Hargreaves asked.

“I don’t know,” Henry said.

The figure had a medium build, medium height, and looked to be a man. He wore a thick black jacket and blue jeans with black gloves on. A motorcycle helmet covered his face.

“Play the footage slowly,” Henry instructed Eddie, who obeyed.

The figure looked up and down the corridor, and then straight at the camera. The light from the overhead panels danced over the helmet’s visor as he regarded the camera.

“Which direction did he come from? The fire escape?” Henry asked Eddie.

“He must’ve done.”

“How’d he get through there, isn’t it locked?” Hargreaves asked.

Eddie shrugged. “It usually is, but sometimes people go out there to have a smoke and prop the door open. I tell them not to.”

“Was it barred open that night?” Henry asked.

Eddie shrugged. “I don’t work Sundays.”

“But people can access the site on a weekend?”

“Of course, it’s 24/7.”

Henry returned to the screen. The man approached Ben and Lee’s lock-up, clearly knowing which one it was, and pulled out a key. He opened the door, slipped inside, and within ten seconds, stepped back into the corridor, locking the door behind him. He adjusted a small bulge under his jacket before disappearing in the direction of the fire exit.

“Do you have a camera near the emergency door?” Hargreaves asked.

Eddie shook his head. “We’ve only got three cameras; I’ve asked for more.” He shook his head again as if he wasn’t going to get any. “One camera is pointed there – in the west corridor – the other’s in the east, and then there’s one near the main door.”

“You don’t have any on the exterior?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yeah, at the front car park, but not the back.”

“Check the front car park camera and see if he drove in.”

“He won’t have done. He’d have legged it over the wall,” Eddie said, before clicking on the exterior footage to prove his point. “See,” he said, after a few moments. “Nothing in the front car park.”

Hargreaves exhaled noisily.

Henry tapped his chin with his index finger while he thought. “Well, you’d best give us a screenshot of the man in the footage. I reckon he could be our killer.”

“Killer?” Eddie said, looking both perplexed and worried. “I thought this was just a robbery.”

“We bloody wish,” said Hargreaves.

“Who’d he kill?”

“You know those horrid toy-box houses a stone’s throw away,” Hargreaves said, pointing in the direction of the nearby Birchwood estate. When Eddie nodded, she said, “The bloke who built them.”

“That Birchwood fella?” Eddie asked, then he shook his head. “Bloody hell.”

“Aye,” said Henry. “And it looks like our killer stole his murder weapon from your premises, so you’d best close up shop for the day, because North Yorkshire Police are going to be crawling all over the place.”

Eddie scrunched up his face in despair at the prospect of the disruption.

“Don’t worry, chuck. You’re not the only one having a bad day,” Hargreaves said, patting him on the shoulder.

Chapter Sixteen

Henry and Hargreaves had considered leaving the warehouse and allowing North Yorkshire Police to handle the search for Ben Lloyd and Lee Nothers, but DI Barnes insisted they wait for a detective from North Yorkshire to turn up before they left the scene. They remained in the warehouse manager’s small office which Eddie had vacated, leaving them on their own. Henry had taken the only chair, while Hargreaves leant against one of the walls, staring at her bright-pink mobile phone. The heat from the electric heater radiated over Henry, and he felt quite comfy in that windowless room with its low lighting. He was on the verge of dropping off for a nap when Eddie knocked on the door.

“Police are here,” he said.

They walked to the loading bay just as a tall man in his late thirties approached from the car park. He wore a thick yellow shell jacket, which looked well-used, as if he’d been climbing mountains in it. His long, wavy chestnut hair, strong jawline, and brilliant green eyes made him look like some rugged Prince Charming. As he smiled at them, Henry wondered if he modelled outdoor clothes on the side.

“I’m DS Adrien Wiltshire,” he said, shaking Henry’s hand.

When he shook Hargreaves’, she introduced herself and then turned to Henry. “This is former DCI Henry Ward. He’s assisting me with the investigation.”

DS Wiltshire raised an eyebrow. “Are you so undermanned in West Yorkshire that you’re pulling detectives out of retirement?”

“Something like that,” Henry said, smiling.

Hargreaves wasn’t impressed. “You’ll be locking down the site–”

“Yes,” Wiltshire said. “I’ve had instructions from my DI. Your man – DCI Acton, is it? – has spoken to my boss.”

“Any luck finding those two lads?” Hargreaves asked.

Wiltshire shook his head. “Nothing so far. But they won’t get far. Skipton’s not that big.”

“Unless they skip town and head off into the Yorkshire Dales,” Henry said.

Wiltshire nodded. “Yes, well… that’d be less than ideal.”

“Let’s hope you find them,” Hargreaves said.

“I’m sure we will,” Wiltshire replied, giving a chivalrous smile.

“Here’s my details for when you do.” She handed him her card.

“It’s alright, I have all your details. It’s all been sent through. So,” Wiltshire added, “he’s really dead, this Birchwood fellow?”

“What did you know of him?” Henry asked.

“Not much, to be honest.”

“Was he popular around here? He built some houses not too far away, didn’t he?”

“He did indeed, but Skipton’s quite happy to grow bigger. The local council’s looking to increase its tax base.”

“So, Birchwood was popular?”

“I wouldn’t say that. There was this Gargrave thing that annoyed people.”

“Gargrave? You mean the village north of here?”

Wiltshire appeared surprised they hadn’t heard about it. “The news mustn’t have crossed the county line. There’s a large stretch of land just outside the village of Gargrave. It used to be owned by an aristocratic family – long gone now. Anyway, Birchwood planned to build a huge estate there. They’re finishing the groundwork as we speak.”

“Why are people unhappy about it?”

“It’s a big development, one hundred houses, and there used to be a lovely forest on that land with firs, chestnuts, oaks, little streams and the like. So, clearly the people in the village were annoyed about losing it. Plus, it’ll increase traffic in the area, the school will be overwhelmed, there aren’t enough doctors, et cetera. You know, the usual complaints.”

“Looks like Birchwood was making friends all over,” Hargreaves said.

Wiltshire nodded. “Indeed. Well, I shan’t be keeping you any longer.”

Henry and Hargreaves said their goodbyes and left DS Wiltshire with Eddie and headed back towards their car.

“He seemed on the ball,” Henry said when they were out of earshot.

Hargreaves pulled a face. “Did you hear how he speaks?”

“He sounded like he’d read a few books, what of it?”

Hargreaves opened her car door aggressively. “He sounded like a toff.”

They drove back into the centre of Skipton to double-check Ben Lloyd’s address, on the off chance the two lads were stupid enough to return.

The steely daylight in the sky had begun to ebb as it neared 3 p.m. Yorkshire was only entitled to seven hours of sunlight in winter, and their daily allowance was nearly up. They parked on the street outside Ben’s flat, with Hargreaves leaving the engine running. They peered up at the windows on the third floor of the building.

“I don’t see any movement,” Henry said, staring at the Ben’s living-room window.

“I doubt they’re here. Hey up–”

Hargreaves pointed at a North Yorkshire Police car as it rolled past them. One of the officers inside peered up at the flat and then made eye contact with Henry and Hargreaves.

“Looks like they are out looking for them, too.”

“Good. Let’s hope they find them,” Hargreaves said.

She pulled into the street and headed towards Skipton railway station. “Here, where did the other one live?”

Henry pulled the piece of paper Fred Sowerby had given him earlier from his pocket and, after struggling to read the handwriting, remembered the names and the addresses had been mixed up.

“It’s on the outskirts of town,” Henry said when he’d worked out which was Lee’s, “in this direction, in fact.”

“Good, let’s go take a look.”

They drove over to the address, which was on a terrace of small Victorian houses that had seen better days. The houses didn’t have front gardens and fronted the pavement where dirty slush from recent snow had collected. Shafts of smoke rose out of a few of the chimney pots, suggesting some inhabitants were at home on a weekday. At the end of the street was the Leeds and Liverpool Canal, the brown waterway visible through leafless shrubbery. Lee Nothers lived in the end-terrace, and Hargreaves parked outside. Henry surveyed the street but didn’t see anyone.

They knocked on Lee’s door and didn’t get a response.

Henry peered through the living-room bay window and saw a dark and empty interior. He walked carefully over the frosty pavement to join Hargreaves at the front door.

“He’s not here,” he said.

“Aye. Worth a shot, though.”

Henry peered around the street and noticed the netted curtain in the window of the house opposite twitch. “Hang on; it looks like we have a nosy parker.”

After crossing the street, Henry knocked on the opposite house’s front door. When he didn’t get a reply, he knocked again.

A middle-aged woman eventually greeted him. She wore a large, pink fleece over several jumpers and black tracksuit bottoms. Her dyed-blonde hair was in a ponytail, and she chewed gum while smoking a cigarette.

“Can I help?” she asked with hostility.

“Were you just watching us?” Henry pointed at the woman’s front window.

“No,” she said, unconvincingly.

Hargreaves approached with her police ID in hand. “We’re police, love. Have you been in all day?”

The woman took in a drag on her cigarette. “What if I have?” she asked, exhaling smoke.

“Seen anyone come in and out of the house opposite?”

The woman regarded them both in turn. “What’s this about?”

“We want to speak with your neighbour opposite. When did you last see him?”

The woman held her cigarette between her fingers, holding it up in the air. “He’s alright, is Lee. I know he’s not all there, poor love, but whenever I need a hand with the shopping, he helps. A heart of gold, that lad has.”

“I bet he does,” Henry said. “But have you seen him today? He might be in a spot of bother, so if you can tell us anything, we might–”

“What’s happened? Is he alright?”

“He’s fine. We just need to know where he is.”

The woman scowled. “It’s that Ben, isn’t it?” She sucked in some smoke and spat it out. “He’s a bad piece of work that one.”

Hargreaves was losing what little patience she had. “Have you seen anyone come in and out of that house today?”

The woman seemed to sense it wasn’t worth winding Hargreaves up further. “Aye. I have.”

“Was it Lee Nothers?” Henry asked.

The woman shook her head. “It was just that Ben. But if he’s there, then Lee’s not far behind.”

“When did they come?”

“An hour ago, I suppose. Then that other bloke came by.”

“Who?”

She shook her head. “No idea. Looked like trouble if you ask me.”

“When did he turn up?” Henry asked.

“Ten to fifteen minutes after they’d left.”

“How did Lee and Ben leave? Did they drive?”

Her eyes went to the shrubbery near the canal. “I saw Ben run up there.”

“Right.” Henry glanced at Hargreaves, who stepped away to report it. Henry turned back to the woman. “And the bloke who came after, what did he look like?”

“Couldn’t see his face.”

“What was he wearing?”

She shrugged as if it wasn’t important. “He had a black jacket and jeans.”

“And why couldn’t you see his face?”

She puffed out more smoke. “He was wearing a motorbike helmet.”

“Was he driving one?”

She nodded. “You could hear him driving up the street. He made a right bloody racket.”

“And which way did he go?”

She pointed down the street, in the direction of Skipton town centre.

Henry nodded. “Thanks, Mrs…?”

“Glover. Ms.”

“You’ve been a great help, Ms Glover.”

As Henry stepped back across the street, Ms Glover shouted, “Look after our Lee. He’s a good lad. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Henry was sure she was right, and was more concerned about someone hurting Lee.

Chapter Seventeen

Henry moved slowly down the short passage leading from the terraced street to the towpath alongside the Leeds and Liverpool Canal. Managing to make it through the passage without slipping, he stepped onto the gravel path, which was frozen solid, next to the narrow waterway. Looking from side to side, he noted that one direction led back into the centre of Skipton, while the other exited the town and would eventually traverse the Pennines into Lancashire. Ben Lloyd and Lee Nothers could have gone in either direction.

Hargreaves came up behind him, still speaking to Barnes on her mobile. “Yeah, he’s here. Why? What do you want to say to him?” She grunted an affirmative and then hung up. “Barnes says you’d best not get caught up in a shooting incident again.”

Henry chuckled. “She’s not the only one.” He pointed left and then right. “Which direction do you think they went?”

Hargreaves looked both ways. “Who knows, though I doubt they headed back into town. Let’s see what DS Darcy thinks.”

“You’ve given Wiltshire a nickname already?”

“I’m trying it on for size. I also have DS Dashing, DS Tory, DS Blue-Blood–”

“I’d keep trying if I were you.”

Henry studied the bollard on the towpath in front of him and then noticed the narrowboats moored along the canal bank. He glanced at the red and green narrowboat on his right and the aged and rusty riverboat to his left. Between them was an empty space long enough to fit another vessel.

“Does Lee Nothers have a boat?” he asked Hargreaves.

“I doubt it. Unless they nicked one.” Hargreaves approached the side of the canal and looked up and down it. “These canal boats can’t make good getaway vehicles, can they?”

“Not really, they only go four miles an hour,” Henry said. “But the canal will be quiet in this weather. If no one spotted them, they could quietly get away.”

“I don’t think they could.”

Footsteps sounded along the passage from the terraced houses, and DS Wiltshire smiled at them as he strode out. His hands were stuck inside the pockets of his yellow shell jacket.

“Hello again. Seems like you’re getting closer to these two lads.”

“Henry reckons they sped away on a canal barge,” Hargreaves said, dismissively.

“You never know,” Henry said, defending himself.

Wiltshire seemed to accept the idea and stared at the narrowboat-width gap along the side of the canal. “I can ask the canal warden who rents this mooring. However, I doubt these two lads own a boat.”

“Best send a car along the canal and see if they can spot it,” Henry said. “They’ll be halfway towards Gargrave if they set off an hour ago – assuming they’ve left Skipton.”

Wiltshire nodded in agreement. “And what about the motorcyclist who’s chasing after them?”

“We need to talk to him, preferably before he finds Lee and Ben,” Hargreaves said. “Have you got many cameras on the roads around here?”

Wiltshire winced slightly. “There are a few in Skipton, but there’s nothing on the country lanes or roads. Do you have a registration number for this motorcyclist?”

Hargreaves shook her head, her downbeat expression showing she knew it’d be near impossible finding the biker without one.

“We’ll do our best, but without the registration, I can’t promise much.”

“Keep us posted, either way,” Hargreaves said, turning her back on him and heading down the passage back to her car.

“Thanks, DS Wiltshire,” Henry said.

Wiltshire nodded. “Oh, by the way, I asked around about you. Seems like you have a good reputation over here.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, a few of the older detectives knew of you. They said you were a big deal over in Bradford and Leeds back in the day.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“That’s not what they said. DI Yeates called you ‘The Bloodhound’, or something.”

Henry’s cheeks reddened on hearing his old nickname. The Bloodhound, what a ridiculous name, he thought. “That was a long time ago.”

“I can see why they’re letting you hang around and help them. I bet they’re really smarting after they got rid of you.”

Henry’s ears pricked up. “What’s that?”

“DI Yeates said some false charges were concocted against you with the aim of getting you off the force. Internal politics, he claimed.”

Henry didn’t comment.

“But don’t worry. We don’t play dirty politics over here. We’re much more sedate… We actually take care of our detectives.”

Unsure of how to respond, Henry said, “Glad to hear it.” A car horn beeped, and Henry sensed Hargreaves wanted him. “Well, see you later, DS Wiltshire.”

Wiltshire’s bright-green eyes sparkled. “Yes, DCI Ward.”

* * *

Hargreaves sped over the tops of the moors in the direction of Addingham. The snowy white fields were less brilliant in the faded daylight. Henry checked the time on his phone and saw it was after 3.30 p.m.

He had two missed calls, one from Jean and the other from Tom the boiler man. Both were recent.

Henry called the boiler man first.

“Hello,” said Tom. Henry could hear someone chattering in the background and recognised Jean’s voice.

“How’s it going?” Henry asked.

“Your neighbour insisted on coming in with me,” Tom said, sounding depressed. “She didn’t know there was an issue and thought I was a burglar or something.”

“Is that him?” Henry heard Jean ask from the background.

“Tell her I’ll call her in a minute,” Henry said. “What’s the matter with the boiler?”

“It’s completely kaput, I’m afraid. I’ll order the most basic model for you tomorrow. It’ll be next-day delivery, which is the best I can do.”

Henry exhaled. “You can’t get something done for tonight?”

“Unfortunately, not. I haven’t got any spares. Your neighbour insists that you’re staying at hers, though.”

Henry could hear Jean mentioning her spare room.

“Right,” said Henry. “We’ll see about that.”

Henry thanked Tom and hung up. Waiting until tomorrow wasn’t ideal, but at least it was better than the several days Tom had mentioned earlier. Looking around at the moving scenery, Henry felt sick at the prospect of calling Jean and asking to stay at hers that night. He’d prefer not to.

He liked his own space – no, he needed it. He hadn’t slept under the same roof as someone else for years, and hated being in need of someone’s assistance. And what about Tessa? Henry couldn’t leave her in that cold cottage overnight, and Jean wouldn’t let a dog into hers. That cat of hers couldn’t stand them, especially Tessa – for reasons Henry didn’t understand.

As Henry sulked, Hargreaves glanced at him. “Everything alright?”

“Aye, just wondering what I’ll do tonight. The boiler won’t get fixed until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s not bad. It took me over a week to get my dad a new one last Christmas.”

Henry was at least grateful for that. He then noticed Hargreaves had mentioned her father for the first time. He recalled her a while ago suggesting her mother had passed away but hadn’t gone into detail.

“Where does he live, your dad?” Henry asked.

Hargreaves cleared her throat as if becoming aware she’d let something slip. “Bradford.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Fine.”

Henry looked at the winter-frosted countryside as it flew by. “Is he retired?”

“Yep. Ten years. He was a joiner. Ran his own business.”

“Oh, right. Did he ever come across Birchwood?”

She shook her head, keeping her eyes on the road. “He did shopfitting. Worked nearly exclusively in big commercial centres. He travelled all over the north with it.”

“Did he like it?”

She glanced at her phone, which was secured in a holder on the dashboard. “I think so.”

Henry was about to brave a question about her deceased mother. And, as if anticipating it, Hargreaves jumped in with a question of her own.

“Aren’t there B & Bs in Addingham?”

“There’s one.” Henry then imagined what Jean would say if he turned down her offer and stayed in a B & B instead. Her imagined response wasn’t pleasant.

“It’s not even four o’clock yet,” Hargreaves said. “There’s time to sort it out. Where are we off to next? I promised you a visit to Birchwood’s family, didn’t I?”

Henry thought that’d be interesting, and immediately forgot about his sleeping arrangements. “Aye, that’d be worth a trip.”

“Plus we’d be back in West Yorkshire, and won’t have to deal with DS Charming and his ilk.”

Henry rolled his eyes at her, and then recalled he’d also wished to speak with Noel Cleeves in Addingham, to see if he had any connection to Birchwood’s murder. Deciding a discussion with the family might be more interesting, he made a mental note to talk to him later that evening.

“Let’s head towards Ilkley then,” Hargreaves said, tapping Birchwood’s address into her satnav.

“Won’t Barnes be pissed off you brought me?” Henry asked.

“I said I’d take you, and a deal is a deal in my books. Anyway, as long as you don’t piss off the weeping widow, they won’t know you’ve been.”

Henry accepted that as an answer. And doubted he’d be the one to piss off Lucy Birchwood; that’d be something his current companion was more likely to do.

Chapter Eighteen

Hebers Ghyll Drive was at the top of Ilkley, where the residential streets ended, and the wild snow-speckled moorlands began. The daylight had declined to twilight by the time Hargreaves’ Audi made it up the ridge of the steep hill. They’d passed houses that got larger the further they climbed, until they passed secluded mansions, their gardens fenced off by evergreen trees. It was the biggest of these properties that belonged to Maxwell Birchwood.

The huge Yorkshire brick building dated back to the beginning of the twentieth century. Two bay windows faced the north-east and the Wharfe valley below, with two dormer windows directly above them. On the other side, facing the drive, were more bay windows and a wrought-iron conservatory in pristine condition. A small brick tower came out the conservatory’s roof, presumably housing a circular staircase that went up two floors. Henry counted four chimney stacks sticking out of the slate roof and wondered how many rooms the house had.

Its expansive lawns were covered in snow and sloped steeply down the valley. Not ideal for playing ball games, Henry thought.

Hargreaves drove past a blue estate car parked on the drive and went down a ramp, parking in front of some double-garage doors. Presumably, the Birchwoods had installed underground parking under their old house.

“The family liaison officer must still be here,” Hargreaves said, referring to the parked blue car.

“It’s a big old house,” Henry said, still impressed by it.

“You should see inside. It’s all brand-spanking-new and must have cost a fortune. Birchwood clearly wasn’t short of a bob or two.”

Henry couldn’t argue with that, and they both got out of the car.

The white-walled entrance hall was sleek and bright, despite the dying daylight outside. An art deco crystal lamp cast sparkles across the white walls. The house’s original features were still present, such as the brown and green porcelain tiles that covered the floor.

They were greeted by a woman in her thirties wearing a grey suit, her long auburn hair tied in a ponytail. She looked harried, and exhaled as she closed the front door behind them.

Hargreaves appeared to know her and nodded a hello.

“This is DC Claudia Forrester,” Hargreaves said to Henry. “Family liaison officer.”

Henry introduced himself, which provoked a perplexed look from Forrester.

Before he could explain himself, Hargreaves said, “It’s fine, I’m vouching for him. How’s the missus doing?”

Forrester exhaled. “She’s struggling to realise what my role entails and what it doesn’t.”

“Right?”

“She keeps treating me like I’m her PA, which is stupid, because her PA’s bloody here.”

“Who else is here?” Hargreaves asked, looking around the entrance.

“Chris Harper, Maxwell’s number two, and the girls are upstairs.”

Hargreaves nodded. “Any detectives?”

Forrester shook her head.

“Alright, we’d like a word with Mrs Birchwood.”

Forrester noted the ‘we’ and glanced at Henry. “She’s a bit wound up, you know. It wouldn’t be a good idea if you both spoke to her–”

“She’ll speak to us if she wants her husband’s killer found,” Hargreaves said.

Forrester clearly didn’t think it was a good idea but couldn’t see how she’d win the argument. “They’re in the day room.”

As they followed her down the corridor, with multiple rooms on either side, all as equally well-designed as the next, Henry turned to Hargreaves.

“Forrester might have a point,” he said quietly. “I don’t see any point in winding Mrs Birchwood up. What is it we actually want to know from her?”

“To see if she has any links to Sowerby’s farm. We could also give her an update on our progress so far.”

Henry wondered what progress that’d be. They only had a vague idea where a possible murder weapon might be, but they didn’t have any proof or evidence to confirm it.

“We can also start sniffing around their relationship,” Hargreaves added as they approached a doorway at the end of the corridor.

Henry doubted Hargreaves could pry into the Birchwood’s marital problems without causing a scene, but it was too late to change plans as Forrester led them into a large room that faced the Wharfe valley. A tall bay window looked over the hill toward Ilkley, and Henry was stunned for a moment as he looked down the snow-covered hill into Ilkley, with the dark-green evergreens rising up around the nearby mansions, and the ominous grey clouds threatening more wintry weather.

He heard hushed chattering and found some people occupying plush sofas in a large room with a high ceiling. A state-of-the-art wood stove was ablaze in the old hearth, providing a rich warmth. The chatter in the room ended abruptly, and Henry realised the people in the room were looking at him. Two of them, a man and a woman in their early forties, were seated on the sofa. A younger woman standing nearby, with a mobile phone pressed to her ear, gave them a puzzled look.

The man on the sofa, clad in a blue, tailored French suit, had tanned skin and dark hair cut short. He appeared to be a salesman of some sort; his features were sharp, his hair slicked back as if to make him aerodynamic. He sized up Henry and Hargreaves with calculating brown eyes that were almost as glassy as a shark’s.

The woman beside him, whom Henry assumed was Lucy Birchwood, had shoulder-length blonde hair and wore a white knitted jumper over her lithe figure. Her black leggings showed off her shapely legs, and her feet, tucked snugly in some leather boots, were folded under her as she sat on the sofa.

The younger woman, with her mobile phone still pressed to her ear, excused herself quietly and rushed out.

Hargreaves stepped towards the sofa. “Hello again, Mrs Birchwood.”

Lucy Birchwood’s eyes narrowed. Her cheeks were stained with mascara. “What is it?”

“We need to ask you some more questions.”

“Again?” She sniffed, and turned to the man next to her, whom Henry assumed was Chris Harper.

“Don’t worry, I’ll sort it,” Chris said, patting her arm. He addressed Hargreaves. “What is it you need to ask Lucy?”

Hargreaves exhaled some frustration. “That’s between her and us.”

Chris stared at Henry again. “Who are you?”

Henry started to approach the sofa. “I’m former–”

Hargreaves held out her hand to him. “He’s an investigator assisting us with Mr Birchwood’s murder.”

That didn’t placate Chris, who clearly sensed something was up. “If you want to ask Lucy questions, you’ll have to get your DCI to do it. I’m not having any old sod off the street.”

Lucy quietly nursed some fresh tears, wiping them with a handkerchief.

Henry could see why Lucy was reluctant to talk, considering her emotional distress, but he disliked Chris Harper’s attitude. After making eye contact with Hargreaves, he realised she hated Chris even more. She ground her teeth together and her eyes burned with vexation.

“Well, if Mrs Birchwood isn’t up to it, maybe we could have a word with you, Mr Harper?” Henry asked.

Chris’s eyes widened. “Me? What do you want to talk with me for?”

“We’re building a picture of Mr Birchwood’s business dealings, and you might be the best person to help us.”

Chris’s confidence deserted him; he looked cornered. “I’d much prefer to talk with your DCI; DCI Acton isn’t it, if you don’t mind?”

Hargreaves didn’t let him use the same trick twice. “DCI Acton wouldn’t waste his time on such trivial matters, Mr Harper, so you’re stuck with us, I’m afraid. Is there a room we can talk in?”

Chris and Lucy shared a look. Henry noted a hint of fear and worry travel between them.

“How about the room next door, where we spoke to Mrs Birchwood this morning?” Hargreaves asked.

“Erm…”

“Come on, Mr Harper,” Hargreaves said, walking to the door. “The sooner we get this over with, the better it’ll be for you. And when we’re finished, Mrs Birchwood might be up for talking with us.”

Henry remained in the room, waiting for Chris Harper to get up off the sofa. He eventually did and straightened his suit jacket before following Hargreaves out into the corridor. Henry smiled at Lucy Birchwood, who peered up at him with wet eyes. Henry didn’t know what was going on between her and Chris Harper, but he was sure he’d find out.

Chapter Nineteen

Henry and Hargreaves sat opposite Chris Harper at an oval-shaped Edwardian table, its surface varnished so well it almost reflected their faces. Behind Chris’s chair, a bay window provided a view of the trees down the hill and the twilight winter sky.

They were in what appeared to be a library, its walls lined with rows of books, but to Henry it didn’t look to be used often. He’d glanced at the spines of the books before he had sat down and noted they all seemed to be first editions of literary classics, along with volumes of Shakespearean plays bound in leather.

A nervous energy radiated from Chris, whose leg twitched under the table, the heel of his dress shoe tapping annoyingly on the floorboards.

“How are you doing?” Hargreaves asked, sounding oddly pleasant.

“Fine,” Chris said, biting his thumbnail.

“It must be a shock, all this. What with Maxwell dying so suddenly.”

Chris took his thumb out of his mouth to run a hand over his gelled hair. He straightened up, as if he’d mentally told himself to get a grip. “It’s been a huge shock… all this.”

“Aye, it must’ve been,” Henry said.

Chris’s eyes shifted between Henry and Hargreaves. “So, what is it you want to know? I should really get back to Lucy.”

“She’ll be fine for a minute,” Hargreaves said.

“Were you close to Maxwell?” Henry asked.

“Of course I was. We worked every day together for… What? Twenty years.”

“You worked for him that long?”

Chris nodded. “When I came out of uni, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. I worked a few sales jobs but found them boring. I was good at selling things, but I wanted bigger margins. More of a cut. So, I thought to myself, what’s the most expensive thing I could sell?” He looked at them both, as if expecting a reply.

Hargreaves and Henry shared a look.

“Houses?” Henry said eventually.

“Exactly. Biggest thing people buy. So, I became an estate agent, but that wasn’t enough for me, so I decided to jump ship into property development. That’s how I met Max.”

The whole spiel was well rehearsed, Henry noted. “Where were you, this morning, when you found out Mr Birchwood had died?”

Chris swallowed, looking less put-together. “I was at home. I’d just had a shower and was getting ready for work, and the call came through from Lucy.”

“And where’s home?”

“I was in Ilkley today. I have two flats, one’s here, the other’s in Leeds.”

“Any reason why you were in your Ilkley flat today?” Hargreaves asked.

Chris shook his head. “It depends on work. I was due to drive out into the Yorkshire Dales today, which is easier to do from here.”

“It was lucky you were here, considering what happened.”

Chris’s dark eyes calculated the meaning behind her question. Keeping cool, he said, “It was a complete coincidence.”

“Why do you have a flat in Ilkley?” Henry asked. “Are you from around here?”

He shook his head. “Originally, I’m from Guiseley. That’s where I grew up. I only bought a flat in Ilkley as Max was building so many properties around here that it made sense. Plus, it was a good investment. Prices just climb up and up around here.”

Henry nodded. Chris was still on edge. He’d undone the button on his shirt collar. His blue suit jacket fitted his athletic frame, and his rich spicy aftershave overpowered the room. He appeared to be in his early forties, but either smoked too heavily or didn’t get enough sleep, as large black bags hung under eyes. Henry then spotted his silver wedding ring.

“Where does your other half live if you have two houses?” he asked.

Chris clasped one hand in the other to hide his ring finger. “He’s in Leeds.”

“Does he work in the same field?”

Chris straightened up in his chair. “He’s a professor and has nothing to do with this.”

Henry bowed his head, acknowledging he wasn’t going to ask questions about Chris’s married life. “What can you tell us about the housing estate in Addingham?”

“Ilkley Road?” Chris asked, clearly not expecting it to be brought up. “Not much. We’ve had a few delays due to bad weather.”

“What can you tell us about Fred Sowerby?”

Chris stared blankly at them. “Who?”

“The farmer who lives on Addingham Moor.”

That didn’t clarify things for Chris, who still looked confused.

“We believe the weapon used in Mr Birchwood’s murder came from his farm,” Henry said.

“You’re telling me some old farmer shot Max?”

“Not exactly. The weapon might’ve been stolen from there.”

“Really? It was nicked off an old farmer in Addingham?”

Henry noted the surprise in Chris’s voice. “It’s a working assumption, Mr Harper. Where do you think the gun came from?”

Chris forced a deadpan expression. “I’ve no idea.”

“Do you know anything about guns?”

Chris laughed. “Not at all. I’ve never held one in my life. I’ve never even been clay pigeon shooting.”

Henry sensed that was true enough. “So, who do you think killed Mr Birchwood?”

Chris shrugged. “No idea.”

“You really don’t have any ideas?” Hargreaves asked.

Chris shook his head.

“Do you think his death is linked to his business dealings?” Henry asked.

Chris snorted dismissively at the idea. “I know we ruffled feathers, but no one’s threatened to kill us. Especially not Max.”

“You might refer to it as ‘ruffling feathers’, Mr Harper, but many people find your housing estates very irritating.”

“Only the bloody local Nimbys. They hate everything we do.”

“You believe they’re the only ones who complain?”

“Of course it is. We have ninety-seven per cent customer satisfaction. Our customers love our houses. It’s only the damn busybodies with nothing better to do that make a fuss.” Chris snarled while discussing an old bugbear. “Do you know how many houses we need to build in this country every year?”

He paused, waiting for Henry or Hargreaves to make a guess. When neither did, he said, “Over three-hundred thousand. Do you know how many we actually build? Two hundred. What causes that deficit? It’s the sodding not-in-my-backyard brigade and their petitions and solicitors… and – most importantly – the spineless politicians who give in to them.”

“I wouldn’t say they’re the only cause, Mr Harper. Our arcane planning system can take its share of the blame,” Henry said. “In all seriousness, do you think a group opposed to your housing developments could clump together to attack Mr Birchwood?”

Chris’s grin suggested he didn’t think it serious. “What? A bunch of old retired teachers and solicitors? Planning to kill Max because he was building houses they didn’t like?”

“When you put it like that…” Henry said.

Sensing Henry had exhausted his questions, Chris asked, “Is that everything? Can I go see to Lucy now?”

Henry shook his head. “Before you do, what can you tell me about Gargrave?”

Chris dark eyes widened. Fear flickered within them. “Tell you what?”

Henry noted the fear but pretended he hadn’t. “I’ve heard something about an estate in the Yorkshire Dales near Gargrave. What can you tell us about it?”

“Not much,” Chris said, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets. His leg twitched more rapidly, making the annoying tapping sound again.

“You don’t know anything about Gargrave? Nothing at all? There aren’t any problems or issues over there?”

Chris shook his head slowly. “Not that I’m aware of.”

Hargreaves leant forward, placing her elbow on the varnished tabletop. “So, it’s all going fine in Gargrave?”

Chris offered a shrug.

“Where were you planning on going today?” Henry asked.

“Nowhere in particular.”

“But you said you were planning to drive into the Dales…” Henry looked to Hargreaves to back him up, as if he needed the confirmation.

“Aye,” she concurred, “you said you’d stayed in Ilkley because you had to head into the Dales.”

Chris bit his lower lip. His front teeth were plastic-white. “I had business up at the Skipton estate.”

“What kind of business? From what I heard, the estate in Skipton’s going fine.”

“Erm…” Chris’s fingernail tapped the tabletop, keeping an offbeat rhythm with the tapping of his heel.

“There’s no point trying to lie to us, Mr Harper. If you’re aware of the issues in Gargrave, why don’t you tell us about them?”

Chris cast his dark calculating eyes over Henry and Hargreaves. “I should see how Lucy is.”

“She’s fine,” Hargreaves insisted.

But Chris stood up from the table anyway. “I probably shouldn’t say anything more without my solicitor present,” he said.

Henry leant back in his chair. “That makes you look even more suspicious, Mr Harper, and will make us investigate this Gargrave business even further.”

Chris remained standing near the table, leaning on it for support. His dark eyes darted around the room, evaluating his options. He shook his head. “I can’t say a word without a lawyer, and even if I had one, they wouldn’t let me tell you a thing.”

“Mr Harper–?”

“No…”

He crossed the room, passing the tall bookshelves, and opened the door.

Hargreaves jumped out of her seat. “Get back here! We’re not bloody finished.”

Chris darted through the doorway and into the corridor.

“What the bloody hell do you think that’s about?” Hargreaves asked after a moment.

Henry frowned as his mind went through what had just happened. His blue eyes flashed up at Hargreaves. “I think we need to look into this Gargrave business and see how it’s linked to Maxwell Birchwood’s murder.”

Chapter Twenty

Hargreaves stood at the bay window in the old library. The twilight sky had darkened, and the lights in the windows of the grand houses down the hill were lit. It was 4.30 p.m. and Chris Harper had left the room only a few moments earlier.

Henry, still sitting at the table, had one leg crossed over the other and was deep in thought.

“What do you think about all this?” Henry asked, glancing up at Hargreaves.

She took a moment to respond. “I think we should have a shot at the missus, and if that doesn’t give us anything, I’ll check in with Barnes. Hopefully those lads in Skipton have been found.”

“I’m sure DS Wiltshire would’ve called if they had.”

She grunted a reply as she turned to look at him. Her eyes narrowed as if deep in contemplation. “So, what do we have? We have these lads in Skipton, who nicked the farmer’s gun.”

Henry checked the door to the library was closed before responding. “Aye. They nicked the gun, which was then stolen from them by the biker fella.”

“So, potentially we have the weapon in the hands of this biker. So, who is he? Where is he? Is he after the lads?”

Henry nodded thoughtfully at her questions. “It sounded like he is, from what Lee’s neighbour said. What connection can they have to this biker?”

“We’ll find out when we catch them.”

“Aye.” Henry pulled a dissatisfied face. “There’s also the small matter as to whether this biker was paid to kill Maxwell. Is he a professional hitman?”

Hargreaves raised an eyebrow. “He could well be.”

“In that case, who hired him?” Henry said. “In such murders, we have the one who did the deed and the one who contrived to make it happen. We need both.”

“Well, what if he wasn’t a hitman,” Hargreaves said, looking to the closed door. “From that CCTV footage in the warehouse, would you say he’s medium build, this biker? Medium height?”

Henry nodded.

“What about Chris Harper? He could’ve worn a helmet and shot his boss. Maybe he knows these lads somehow.”

Henry didn’t dismiss the idea out of hand because it was feasible that Chris Harper could have hidden himself in those trees beside Black Beck and murdered Maxwell Birchwood – but he felt it unlikely.

“No, I believed Chris when he said he’d never touched a gun in his life. And our killer must be a trained marksman. Hitting someone’s sternum and the spot between their eyes takes talent.”

Hargreaves didn’t seem satisfied. “You’re right… probably. I’d still like him involved in this somehow.”

“He bloody is involved,” Henry said. “He was Maxwell’s deputy and knew reasons why people would want him dead.”

“Reasons he didn’t share with us.”

“Well, no. He’s making it hard for us. It’s a matter of sniffing out enough proof to force him to talk.”

Hargreaves nodded. “Let’s get to it, then.” She stepped away from the window and tapped the table’s varnished surface, as if in a furniture showroom. “I do like this house. Maybe one day, I might be able to afford a night’s stay in a place like this.”

Henry chuckled and got out of his chair; his legs were stiff from sitting down too long. “Don’t be silly, Detective Sergeant. On your wage, you’ll never afford that.”

They returned to the living room and found Chris reclined on the sofa, cradling Lucy’s head in his lap. She was weeping silently, trails of mascara lined her cheeks.

Chris frowned at them as they walked in. His expression saying, ‘still here?’

Hargreaves looked at Lucy Birchwood. “We were wondering if you’d be up for answering–”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Chris said. “See those pills over there?”

On the side table next to the sofa, a carton of prescription pills lay next to a half-empty glass of white wine.

“She’s just taken a day’s worth of them.”

“Right,” Hargreaves said.

Lucy Birchwood stared up at the ceiling and didn’t appear to be aware they were in the room.

Henry suspected the box of sedatives hadn’t been prescribed that day, judging by its well-used carton.

“Right,” Henry said, looking at Hargreaves. “It looks like we should be leaving, then.”

Hargreaves didn’t follow Henry to the door. “Hang on.” She stepped closer to the sofa. “Mrs Birchwood, I really recommend you speak to us about your husband’s death.”

“She can’t hear you,” Chris said, but Lucy stirred herself out of her stupor.

“What is it?” she asked Hargreaves, blinking hard.

“We need to talk about your husband–”

Lucy shaded her eyes from the ceiling light. “I know I need to speak to you, of course I do. Just not today… for Christ’s sake. I’ll do it first thing tomorrow. Just let a widow have a day to grieve, would you?” She rolled over on the sofa, keeping her back to Hargreaves.

Chris gave a smug smile. “I think you get the message now.”

But Hargreaves clearly hadn’t. “When did you arrive here today?”

Chris’s smug smile evaporated. “What?”

“When did you arrive here?”

He shrugged. “I went to the crime scene this morning, near that stream, and then I went to the office.”

“Where’s the office?”

“Ilkley.”

“And when did you come here?”

He cleared his throat. “About an hour and a half ago…” He wasn’t sure of himself and got frustrated. “Why does it matter?”

“You haven’t been in Skipton, have you?”

Henry rolled his eyes at Hargreaves.

“Come on, Hargreaves,” Henry said, sensing her task futile.

She glared at Henry and didn’t make a move. Refocussing her glare on Chris, she asked, “Have you been in Skipton today?”

He was gritting his teeth. “I might’ve been.”

“Ah,” she said, contently. She gave Henry a wink. “I’ll have your car registration number and your movements for today, please.”

Chris cracked. “I didn’t bloody kill Max! Why are you asking me these questions?”

Lucy Birchwood stirred herself out of her stupor and moaned loudly. “Shut up, would you?”

Chris gestured to the semi-conscious lady of the house lying on his lap. “Would you please leave?”

“Not without your registration number–” Hargreaves said.

Chris swore. “It’s personalised – 25Fox.”

Hargreaves nodded her thanks and followed Henry out after a subdued farewell.

“Was that really worth it? You’ve completely pissed him off,” Henry asked as they walked down the corridor to the front door.

“He fared better than the last guy who walked out of an interview.”

* * *

They were in the entrance hall, about to leave, when DC Forrester emerged from the kitchen. She flicked a strand of red hair out of her flushed face and flapped her hand, creating some air.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“Fine,” answered Hargreaves suspiciously.

Forrester looked at them both, particularly at Henry. “Did she speak to you in the end?”

“No. We only spoke to Chris.”

“Oh, good.” Forrester sounded relieved.

“What are you doing?” Hargreaves asked.

“Nothing,” Forrester said, sheepishly. And then an oven timer went off in the kitchen behind her.

“Are you cooking?” Hargreaves demanded.

“Mrs Birchwood wanted some comfort food – shepherd’s pie, she said. And the housemaid wouldn’t stay so late, seeing as she was also upset. So, I offered–”

“Hang about,” Hargreaves said, appalled. “She’s got a detective constable cooking dinner?”

Forrester nodded; clearly aware she shouldn’t be. “The girls said they were hungry, too. I’m mostly doing it for them.”

“The girls?” Henry asked. “You mean Maxwell’s daughters?”

“Yes.” Forrester then recognised the glint in Henry’s eye. “No, you can’t talk to them. They’re really not in a good shape–”

“Let’s go have a quick chat,” Hargreaves said, glancing at Henry. “They might have something useful to tell us.” She ignored Forrester’s protestations and walked into the kitchen.

The kitchen looked like something out of a home style magazine. It was all brand new, with sleek marble worktops and oak cabinet doors, two ovens, two sets of gas stoves on which Forrester had been cooking, and a large American fridge-freezer. Two young women – one twenty-one years old, and the other eighteen – were seated at an island near the sink. The eldest was drinking a glass of white wine. She had shoulder-length dark-brown hair and a fair complexion. Her eyes were red from weeping. She barely looked up as Henry and Hargreaves entered. Forester followed behind and rushed to switch off the oven timer.

Henry approached the two girls. The second, who had her mother’s blonde hair and looks, stared down at her phone, oblivious to the world.

“Hello,” Henry said, delicately. “I’m Henry Ward.”

The eldest peered at him, while the other kept looking at her phone.

“I’m here with the police.”

The eldest took in a breath and, while exhaling, asked, “What do you want?”

Forrester approached them after stirring a pot on the stove. “These two are detectives,” she said, then added for Henry and Hargreaves’ benefit, “This is Victoria and Whitney.”

“I’m very sorry to hear about your father,” Hargreaves said, looking unusually sincere.

Victoria, the eldest, narrowed her eyes. “Who are you two?”

“I’m a former detective,” Henry answered, “helping the police find the person who killed your father.”

Hargreaves stepped closer to her. “Have my colleagues spoken to you yet?”

Victoria sipped the wine. “They didn’t want to do it until I’d stopped crying.”

“Is there anything you can tell us about this morning?” Henry asked, noting she wasn’t crying anymore.

She placed the bottom of the glass on the worktop with a clink. “Nothing. I heard him go to bed after midnight.”

“What did he do last night?” Hargreaves asked.

Forrester hung nervously around, seeking an opportunity to intervene and end the interrogation.

“Nothing. He came home, had dinner with us three, went to his office, and then went to bed after midnight.” She sniffed. “And then, this morning, I heard Mum screaming.”

She collapsed into tears, and Forrester rushed to embrace her, giving Henry and Hargreaves an angry look.

Henry stepped away from her and noticed the younger daughter’s eyes were still fixed on her phone. He noted the worry in her face.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Whitney looked up with a start. “What?”

“I asked if you were okay.”

She stared at Henry and then her face crumpled up. “We were supposed to go out for a meal on Saturday for my birthday. I turn nineteen next Monday…” She couldn’t continue speaking.

“Look, both of you,” Forrester said, “I think you’d better–” Another oven timer went off, and Forrester rolled her eyes.

“We’ll let you get back to it,” Hargreaves said, tapping Henry on the shoulder.

He nodded and headed towards the hallway, glancing back at Whitney Birchwood, who was looking at her phone again. After a few seconds, her fearful expression returned, and she placed the device face down on the marble worktop.

* * *

Outside, night had descended, even if it had only just turned 5 p.m. Henry raised Whitney’s reaction with Hargreaves, wondering what it was she’d been looking at online.

Hargreaves just shrugged.

“Have you ever been on social media?” she asked. “Most of it’s rancid. Whitney probably found a troll.”

Henry grunted a reply. All sorts of weirdos came out of the woodwork after a murder, and these days they could contact the victim’s family more easily. “I wonder what drives people to behave like that?”

“Undiagnosed mental health problems, most likely. Have you seen that knobhead who’s been badmouthing Maxwell for years?”

“Who’s this?”

She shrugged. “Some sad idiot who’s got nothing better to do than post insults on Maxwell Birchwood’s accounts. He leaves a foul-mouthed rant every day.”

“When did these start?”

“A few years ago, around the same time the construction on the housing estate in Addingham started.”

“Addingham?” Henry hated the thought that someone so twisted lived in his own village.

“Aye, I was tempted to get his IP address so I could give him a bollocking, but I’ve not had time.”

They headed to Hargreaves’ car, which was parked on the drive in front of the underground garage. The garage doors were open, and the lights on inside. A small electric car came out and stopped when it saw Hargreaves’ silver Audi blocking its path.

“We’re going!” Hargreaves called out, rushing to her car.

Henry quickened his pace and spotted the PA from earlier patiently waiting at the electric car’s driving seat. Looking further into the garage, he noticed a row of parked motorbikes.

“Hang on,” he called to Hargreaves, who gave him a quizzical look.

He strolled past her towards the electric car waiting in the garage. After knocking on the PA’s window, he leant over so he could talk to her.

She lowered her window and gave him a concerned expression. “Yes?”

“Whose bikes are those?” Henry pointed at four motorbikes parked neatly in a row.

She had to look behind her to realise what he was on about. “Oh, Max’s collection?”

“Max’s?”

She nodded, unsure what he wanted to know.

Henry couldn’t believe he was beginning to agree with Hargreaves’ suspicions, but asked the question anyway. “Do you know if Chris Harper has used one of these today?”

“Chris?” She shrugged. “He does use them, occasionally. Max didn’t like it, but Lucy lets him do what he wants.”

“And has he used one today?”

She shook her head and began to close her window as Hargreaves manoeuvred her car out of the way. “You’ll have to ask him. Now, if you don’t mind, I really have to get going.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Hargreaves remained in her Audi after parking next to Forrester’s blue estate car. Henry stood near the edge of the expansive front lawn. The freezing wind had settled down, but the cold was getting worse as the night took hold. He went to zip up his winter coat, only to find it already zipped.

With the PA’s electric car gone, Henry headed to Hargreaves’, but didn’t get in the passenger’s side. Instead, he knocked on the driver’s window. His breath misted as he told Hargreaves about the row of motorbikes he’d seen in the now-closed garage.

“It’s possible,” Henry concluded, “that Chris Harper has used a motorbike today.”

“See,” Hargreaves said, smacking her steering wheel. “I bloody told you there was something up with him.”

“I still don’t think he’s the killer,” Henry said, rubbing his hands together.

Ignoring him, Hargreaves parked her car on the driveway, this time leaving enough space for other vehicles to pass. She then strode up the driveway, joining Henry at the top of the footpath that led to the main entrance.

“We’ll have to ask him about it, won’t we?” she said.

Henry nodded and pointed at a small circular camera near the door of the garage. “Maybe we could take a look at the footage on that.”

“Aye, I’ll request it,” she said, before continuing down the footpath towards the house’s main entrance.

As Henry followed, he wondered if Chris had travelled to another location that day. Then Hargreaves stopped in her tracks, only a few steps away from the front door, and pulled her bright-pink mobile from the pocket of her long coat. She stared at its screen. “Hang on. I’ve got a call.”

She answered and paced away from Henry, stepping off the path to walk on the pristine lawn, its grass sprinkled with snow.

Speaking only a few words, she listened intently.

Henry guessed she was talking to Detective Superintendent Murphy, as her head was lowered and she had a conspiratorial look about her.

The near-arctic temperatures were getting to Henry, and he rubbed his bare hands together. He was about to head inside the house without Hargreaves, when she ended her call and called to him. “We’ve got to go!”

“Sorry?” Henry asked.

Hargreaves didn’t answer, and walked diagonally across the lawn, leaving footsteps in the white.

After taking the path, Henry got into her car. “What about asking Chris if he’s been to Skipton on a motorbike?” he said grumpily, sitting down. “He could be our biker, as you said.”

“I know… but it’ll have to wait.”

She started the engine.

Henry fastened his seatbelt. “What is it? Has DS Wiltshire found the lads?”

She shook her head and reversed quickly out of the driveway. Swinging the back of the car around, she almost took out a stone planter filled with soil and dead plants.

Henry gripped onto the dashboard as he anticipated the impact. “Then it was Murphy, I suspect?” he asked, unclenching his jaw.

“I’ll have to drop you off in Addingham.”

“Why’s that?”

“There’s been a development. Upstairs.”

“Such as?”

“You know I mentioned Murphy was under pressure due to Birchwood’s political connections.”

“Aye,” Henry said, not liking where this was going.

“Some journalist is causing a fuss. He’s threatening to write a story exposing Maxwell’s political ties.”

Henry shook his head, struggling to understand what was going on. “So, Murphy’s pulling a DS from a major line of inquiry to get you to do what…? Scare off a journalist.”

Hargreaves didn’t respond. They drove in darkness down the hill into Ilkley, passing the mansions they’d seen on the way up.

Henry glanced across at Hargreaves. “You know you’re not his dogsbody?”

She didn’t answer.

Henry shook his head. He knew full well that Murphy had a hold on Hargreaves that she couldn’t be wrestled from. Henry would love to know how that hold had started and how it continued.

It was after 5 p.m., and giving into defeat, Henry decided he could still follow up his leads in Addingham and speak with Noel Cleeves. Maybe the old-moneyed man knew something about Maxwell’s death.

“Will you tell Barnes and Acton about the possibility of Chris Harper being our biker?” he said.

Hargreaves peered at Henry. “I might. Though, I’ll have to change the story a bit and remove you from it. Barnes might lose her icy cool if she finds out I took you up there.”

“Fine by me. It’s worth following up.”

As they left Ilkley, they passed the area where Maxwell had been shot dead that morning. A patrol car was still parked in the field near the trees, keeping an eye on the scene.

“Still nothing from Forensics?” Henry asked.

“No,” Hargreaves said, sighing. “I doubt there will be. The ground was too frozen for footprints, and the killer picked up the bullet casings. No other physical evidence has been found.”

Henry shook his head, looking up at tops of the moors in the cold sky above them. “It has to have been a professional job. An assassination. Normal people don’t think to steal handguns and pick up bullet casings when they kill someone. Nine times out of ten, they kill out of passion,” Henry continued. “Knowing his running route, knowing the best spot to get him, leaving no evidence…” He shook his head. “It has to be a pro.”

Hargreaves grunted an affirmative. “It probably was.”

As they entered Addingham, Henry asked, “So where’s this journalist you’re going to silence?”

“He’s up in Skipton, apparently.”

Henry chuckled. “I suppose he knows a thing or two about this Gargrave business.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t publish what he knows until we’ve had the chance to get to the bottom of it ourselves.”

“Aye. You don’t want to be relying on journalists to get your police work done.”

“No,” Hargreaves said, and then she sighed. “But it would make things easier.”

She dropped him off outside his cottage on Main Street and zoomed off after a curt goodbye. Standing in the cold, Henry peered up at his terraced cottage and knew it would be as cold in there as it was outside. The living room light was on in the cottage next door, and he knew Jean would be organising the spare room for him. He’d rather not stay there, and the rush of despair at being a special case – a nuisance – washed over him. Shrugging, he headed into his front yard, with the intent to check Tessa was alright, and expecting to find her cold and hungry.

“Mr Henry Ward?”

The voice was polite, understated, but it still made Henry jump.

He spun around to see a portly man in his fifties standing at his gate, wearing small circular glasses and a brown tweed jacket over a fleece. A laptop bag hung from his shoulder. He looked scruffy in a classy way.

“Yes?”

He stepped into Henry’s yard, offering a mittened hand for him to shake.

“I’m Roy Parker. A freelance journalist. I’m writing an article about Maxwell Birchwood’s death, and your name came up. Do you mind if we have a chat?”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Henry didn’t want to invite the journalist into his home for two reasons. First, it was freezing cold, and he didn’t wish to give Roy Parker the impression he couldn’t look after himself. Second, he didn’t want the prying eyes of a professional snooper looking at all his stuff. So they went over the road to the pub, one of five in the village. The Shepherd’s Rest Inn was an old building, which dated back to before Tudor times. Its Yorkshire stone structure had been extended over the years to create more dining space.

Henry had done his best to avoid pubs in general, considering his own historic issues with alcohol. However, based on his experience with journalists, he reckoned Roy might appreciate a tipple. The speed to which he agreed to a drink confirmed that.

It was 6 p.m. on a Thursday, and the bar wasn’t busy. The pub was split into two sides, one for dining and the other for drinks, and they walked into the latter. An open fire blazed, and the glorious heat coming from it made Henry feel instantly at ease. His eyes took in the shiny ale pumps along the bar, each with a colourful clip. That sweet, hoppy smell from the beer made his mouth water, and the well-known urge to drink himself into oblivion stirred deep inside him. It took all his willpower to quell it and order sparkling water.

As they left the bar with their drinks, Henry chuckled to himself, realising that Hargreaves had headed off to Skipton in order to speak to the same journalist he was about to sit down with. She’d be furious when she found out, Henry thought, chuckling harder.

They chose a round, brass-topped table in a quiet corner and took their seats. Roy, who had ordered a glass of merlot, sipped it before taking out a battered notepad from his laptop bag.

He clicked his pen. “So, I hear you’re involved in the investigation into Maxwell Birchwood’s death?” Roy asked, sipping more Merlot, which left a purple line above his lip.

“I’d like to know who told you about that,” Henry said, unzipping his coat.

“So, it’s true?” Roy scribbled down some notes in a barely legible hand.

Henry scowled in annoyance at himself. He’d need to be more careful with his words. In his prime, he’d been an expert at handling journalists, but he was clearly rusty and out of practice.

“You’re retired, aren’t you?” Roy asked, scribbling down some details in his notepad.

“Yes.”

“You used to be a big detective in Leeds and Bradford?”

“I’ve never been a big man, Mr Parker. I’m medium height and have, fortunately, kept the weight off.”

“You know what I mean. A big DCI. Handled all sorts of cases, found a few serial killers in your time, child rapists, murderers, all sorts.”

Henry drank some ice-cold sparkling water.

“So, why are you investigating Maxwell Birchwood’s death if you’re retired?”

Henry leant forward to place his glass on the table. “Listen. Everything I say is off the record, so stop jotting things down.”

Roy seemed content with this and placed his pen on the table. “Fine. This is all background stuff anyway. If there’s anything I want to quote you on later, I’ll give you a buzz.”

Henry hoped his expression would tell Roy not to bother. “Who told you I was ‘working’ on this case?”

Roy’s good mood quickly soured. “I don’t reveal sources, which you should be aware of. I’m old school; a bit like you, I suspect. I don’t reveal anything to anyone. What you say to me will remain strictly confidential.”

Roy picked up his glass and gulped some wine.

“Which paper do you write for?”

Roy smacked his stained lips and put his glass down. “Whoever pays.”

“Such as the Bradford and Leeds papers?”

“I do a few things with them, but I’m more based in North Yorkshire. The Yorkshire Gazette gives a lot of work, and I also write for the nationals, when they let me.”

If he was based in North Yorkshire, Henry thought, he’d surely been talking to the detectives in North Yorkshire Police. DS Wiltshire had mentioned he’d spoken to his colleagues about Henry. Had one of them tipped off this journalist?

“Right, I see,” Henry said, mostly to himself. “So, what’s your angle with all this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you writing about Maxwell Birchwood’s murder?”

“Well… I’m a journalist, and it’s a huge, great big, bloody story. Why do you think I’m writing about it?”

“The death’s not been made public, as far as I know.”

“The police have said there’s been an incident, but they haven’t released his name. There’ll be a news conference in Leeds tomorrow morning. Some superintendent’s leading it. Murphy. Do you know him?”

Henry pretended not to have heard the name before.

“I want to get a head start before the rest of my profession get their grubby hands all over it. This’ll be a huge one. Most of the towns and villages in the area knew Birchwood, and he’s been shot dead. In Ilkley, no less. That’s Ilkley’s zero murder rate gone for the year.”

“How did you find out about it if it hasn’t been made public?”

Roy scoffed. “Really? I have my sources.”

“Right, so you’re only writing about his murder?” Henry asked. “Nothing about any possible connections to Yorkshire’s great and good?”

Roy’s eyes sparkled. “All that stuff with the MPs? Now you’re talking. What can you tell me about that?”

“I can’t tell you a thing.” Henry sipped more water. “Why don’t you explain what you know, and I’ll fill in the gaps?”

Roy smirked. “I’m sure you’ve been interviewed by a journalist before. You must know it doesn’t work like that?”

Henry smiled. “It depends who’s being interviewed. Have you ever been interrogated by a former DCI, Mr Parker?”

Sipping more wine, Roy grunted. “Doing it the hard way, are we?”

“I’ve been around the block a few times, as you can probably tell, so let’s stop playing games. What can you tell me about the political connections?” Henry could see Roy wasn’t going to play along, so he set the bait. “And then after that, perhaps we could discuss Gargrave.”

With both eyebrows arched, Roy wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Bloody hell. You know all about that, do you?”

“Perhaps. So, the political connections?”

Roy pouted.

Henry helped him along. “It’s Members of Parliament he was dealing with, I suspect. And probably key players in the planning departments of the local councils?”

Roy nodded. “Pretty much.”

“So, what can you tell me?”

“Well, it depends. Will what I tell you end up with the police?”

“If it’s important to the murder investigation, then yes.” Henry tilted his head to the side. “And if you have information crucial to Maxwell’s death and don’t give it up, I’ll call some detectives down here, and they will detain you for withholding evidence.”

Roy sniggered. “Do you think you’re the first to threaten me with that?”

“You won’t be the first journalist I’ve had arrested, believe you and me.”

“I didn’t have you down as an enemy of the free press.”

“I’m an enemy of people who help killers get away with murder.”

Henry’s glare did the trick, and, sulkily, Roy said, “Well, they can’t force me to give up sources. I know my rights.”

“I doubt they would want you to give them up. They’d just want assistance in finding Birchwood’s killer.”

“Hmm… wouldn’t we all.”

Henry noted the pang of sadness in Roy’s expression, and sensed his relationship to Maxwell was more than just a writer to his subject. “You knew him?”

Roy shook his head. “No,” he said, unconvincingly.

“How long did you know Maxwell Birchwood?”

Roy grunted. “I didn’t.”

Henry gave him his best no-nonsense glare.

“We knew each other at Cambridge.”

“At the university?”

“I wouldn’t spend three years there for nothing.” Roy downed the rest of his glass and looked at the bar.

“You can get another in a minute. How long did you know Birchwood for?”

“He was in the year above. As two grammar-school boys ‘done good’ from Yorkshire, we often found ourselves together.”

“When did you last speak to him?”

“Oh, months ago. It was at the reveal of a new project at his office in Ilkley. I covered it just to get a bit of beer money.”

“Which month was this?”

Roy exhaled as he thought, and avoided Henry’s stare. “October… maybe November.” His hand went for this laptop bag by his chair. “I’ll have to check.”

Henry sensed he was keeping something from him, but couldn’t figure out what. “You haven’t spoken to him since?”

Roy shrugged. “Should I have?”

“Were you friends?”

The question stumped Roy. He scratched his double-chin. “I wouldn’t say we were friends… we were close at uni, as we didn’t have any choice. I’d say… we were friendly.”

“And apart from the occasional press event, you didn’t speak to him?”

Roy shook his head.

“Right. Let’s get onto these political connections. Can you give me names?”

Roy snorted with laughter. “Are you serious? I can’t be doing that.” Then his mind caught up with his mouth. “Unless you can tell me what you know about this Gargrave business?”

“Alright,” Henry said, knowing full well he didn’t have much to share about Gargrave. “You have a deal.”

“Well,” Roy said, satisfied, “there’s the Skipton and Ripon MP, Kath Dobson. True-blue Tory. Not from around here, but she’s got a huge majority and should keep it in the next election.”

Henry recognised the name and had seen Kath Dobson on TV politics shows before. She always wore a powder-blue blazer, but apart from her wardrobe, she was pretty bland. Except she was one of those ‘free market’ Tories, about whom Henry felt deeply suspicious.

“That’s Skipton and Ripon. What about Keighley and Ilkley?” Henry asked.

“Well, Birchwood had a long relationship with the previous Labour MP, Steve Smith, who’s hoping to get back in at the next election.”

Henry knew Steve Smith and had met him a few times. He was a larger-than-life character, a huge man, both physically and in presence. Smith had been a union man and worked his way up the chain to becoming a Labour MP, becoming a minister in the previous Labour administration. He’d been in and out of office ever since.

Henry compared what he knew about Steve Smith and Kath Dobson. They were very different. A free-marketeer and a social democrat. Why would Birchwood be supporting them both?

Then he realised the link.

“They’re both fans of more housing.”

“You’d better believe it,” Roy said. “Birchwood wouldn’t give a penny to anyone unless it served his own interests.”

“And he was expecting Steve Smith to win Keighley and Ilkley back at the next election?”

“Aren’t you? It’s a bellwether seat. It nearly always changes with whichever party’s in power and, seeing as we’re due a red government…”

“What does the current MP for Keighley and Ilkley think about this? Seeing as a wealthy property developer was piling cash into his opponent’s coffers?”

“Kyle Ellis, the current MP for Keighley and Ilkley? He’s Tory, but pretty useless. He’s taking this all in his stride. He hates Birchwood and everything he stands for. Ellis sees attacking the property developers as the best way of keeping his seat. He’s after the Nimby vote.”

“Where does this Ellis live?”

“London, most of the time. But his wife lives in Ilkley, and he comes back, every now and then.”

“What’s his wife called?”

“Audrey Ellis. A dour woman. You’d know if you’d met her. She could suck the joy out of an August bank holiday.”

The name rang a bell in Henry’s mind. “Does she have a dog?”

Roy shrugged. “I don’t know… Could have. I’ve only had the misfortune to meet her at social events.”

Henry rose out of his seat. “Excuse me, I must make a call,” he said, ignoring the journalist’s protestations.

Did DI Barnes and DCI Acton know that the spouse of Maxwell’s political opponent found him dead?

Chapter Twenty-Three

Henry stepped out of the warmth of the pub into the freezing-cold winter evening. The contrast between the two took his breath away. Zipping up his coat, he looked up at the pub’s lit-up sign over the door and saw tiny snowflakes falling through the amber light. Speckles of it landed on his face, and he decided he’d better hurry up and call Barnes.

It wasn’t yet 7 p.m., and he suspected she’d still be fully at it.

“Yes?” she asked, without a ‘hello’. The sounds in the background suggested she was traveling somewhere.

The snow was melting into icy water on Henry’s scalp, so he didn’t mess about with pleasantries. “Did you know the woman who found Maxwell Birchwood is the wife of the Keighley and Ilkley MP?”

“Is she?”

“Did you know Maxwell made large donations to his opponent in the next election, and that Kyle Ellis is against new-build properties?”

“Right?” Barnes clearly didn’t see his point.

“Don’t you think it odd that the wife of a political opponent found Maxwell dead?”

Barnes sighed, as if this added another issue to the list. “It sounds odd, yes, but I’m sure it’s nothing. Loads of wealthy and well-connected people live in Ilkley. And what are you suggesting, anyway; that an MP’s wife was involved in Maxwell’s shooting?”

Henry turned up his lip. “I suppose. I just wanted to know you were on top of it.”

“We’re on top of it.”

Henry glanced at the pub door, picturing the journalist waiting for him at their table. “Here, did you know Murphy sent Hargreaves off to browbeat a journalist?”

“Really? How do you know that?”

Henry didn’t want to explain how he knew, as Barnes might work out he’d been with Hargreaves to see Lucy Birchwood. “Never mind. Have you come across those lads in Skipton?”

“Not yet. North Yorkshire say they’re still looking for them.”

“And there’s that biker fella to locate, too.” Henry heard the clicking of the indicator in Barnes’s car. “Where are you now?”

“I’m following up something from another case.”

“Another one?”

“I told you I have three on the go.”

“Bloody hell! I thought once you’re on an MIT, that’s it… you’re on one case and that’s all.”

Barnes laughed at his naivety. “Maybe twenty years ago.”

“Well, who’s on top of Maxwell Birchwood’s investigation?”

“Erm… Acton’s off on another case. Hargreaves is speaking to some journalist, as you said. We have two other detective sergeants on this case: one is following up on the physical evidence trail, and the other’s on the verge of going off with stress and is refusing to do much of anything.”

Henry shook his head. “Are you telling me the only person currently working on Maxwell Birchwood’s murder is me, a retired DCI?”

Barnes neither acknowledged nor denied it.

“But this is a high-priority case, isn’t it? A well-known individual – with all sorts of political and business dealings – has been shot dead in Ilkley.”

“It is a high-priority case, Henry. It’s just one of many. We have…” She sucked in a breath as she thought about it. “Five or six other active investigations which are equally as important.”

“Bloody hell.” Henry couldn’t remember there being that much crime in his day. “Are all of them murders?”

“Not all. We get all sorts to look into, these days.”

Henry’s fingers were growing numb from the freezing cold. “Right, I suppose I’ll ring you if I find anything else on the Birchwood case, seeing as I’m the only one giving a damn about it.”

“That’s not fair, Henry. We all give a damn. It’s just that we have more investigations than we can handle.”

After a short goodbye, Henry hung up and stepped into the heat of the pub. He reminded himself what Hargreaves had told him earlier: Murphy was pressuring the detectives to solve Maxwell’s murder as soon as possible. But from what Barnes had just told him, that didn’t seem to be the case. Had Hargreaves lied to him or was there something else going on?

He found Roy at their table with a fresh glass of merlot in hand. He’d set up his laptop and was going through emails.

Watching Henry approach, he waited until he’d sat down before asking, “Important call?”

“It may have been,” Henry said, removing his coat. His numb cheeks and hands started to burn from the heat from the fireplace.

“Have you just made an important breakthrough in the case?” Roy asked, smirking.

“No,” Henry said, sipping his sparkling water. The ice inside had melted. “It was the plumber. My boiler’s out of action.”

Roy let out a hearty laugh. “Oh really? You went pale at the mention of Kyle Ellis’s wife and stepped outside to make an important call, and you’re telling me that the two aren’t related?”

Henry didn’t answer.

“It doesn’t matter, anyway. I can ask my connections in the police later,” Roy continued.

“The detectives in North Yorkshire?” Henry asked.

Roy’s face didn’t give anything away. He was indeed a smooth operator.

Henry took off his winter coat as the heat from the fire rippled over him. “So, this business up at Gargrave,” he asked, unbuttoning his shirt’s collar to create a draught. “What do you know about it?”

Roy raised his head slowly. “We’re moving onto this, are we?”

“I thought it might be worth clarifying what we both know.”

Roy slurped wine and waited for Henry to continue.

“So, what is it you know?”

Roy raised his palms skywards. “It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid. I can’t go breaking confidences.” He paused, still clearly interested. “Tell me what you know about it first. If you prove you know the meat and veg of it, there’ll be no harm in me adding a little garnish.”

Henry did his best not to show his frustration. He knew next to nothing about the Gargrave project – and besides, he wanted to get information out of the journalist, not the other way around.

After some contemplation, Henry said, “I know Chris Harper doesn’t want to talk about it without a lawyer present.”

“Can you blame him? I wouldn’t if I were him.”

“He also was planning to go up there today to check on it.”

“Oh, was he now?” Roy arched an eyebrow.

“So, what can you tell me?”

Roy smirked and tapped the brass tabletop with his finger. “Oh dear, oh dear. Is that all you know? Well, how about we make a deal. I tell you what I know, and in exchange, you’ll owe me a favour that I can cash in at a later date.”

“I don’t make a habit of getting in debt to journalists, so I suspect that’s not going to work.”

“Well, you clearly don’t know what’s going on.”

“Don’t I now?”

Roy shook his head. “Barely half of it.”

“So, enlighten me.”

“On the basis that we agree you owe me one.”

Could Henry find the information from someone else later on? Unless he forced Chris Harper to talk without a lawyer present, he doubted he would. Henry then considered accepting Roy’s offer, only to deny him the favour later – but that wouldn’t do. Henry was a man of his word.

“Alright, if I can help you out later, I will.” Saying the words pained Henry, and Roy’s knowing grin added salt to the wound.

“Well, now the deal’s done, what do you know about Gargrave?” Roy asked.

“Not much. It’s a small village up in North Yorkshire. There’s a nice hiking path that skirts around it. And the Leeds and Liverpool Canal goes up there.”

“And what was the canal used for?”

“Erm… didn’t it transport wool from the Dales to Bradford?”

“Some of it, but a lot of boat traffic went to Gargrave to collect lead. There are rich lead deposits all around that area, which were exploited for hundreds of years. They used it for ammunition, pipes, and the like.”

Henry nodded, vaguely interested. “And what’s that got to do with Birchwood? Haven’t those mines been out of action for a hundred years?”

“Oh, aye. But back then, they weren’t that fussed about where they dumped the waste deposits. And for most of these old mines, we have no idea where they were really located.”

“Okay?”

“But an old document was found that proved the location of one old mine.”

Henry knew what he was getting at. “The wooded area that Maxwell Birchwood is building his houses on?”

“That’s right,” Roy said, smacking his lips after more merlot. “They’ve finished the groundwork and are now constructing these houses. He’s spent a couple of millions so far and has another few to go.”

“But the land they’re building on isn’t safe?”

“Not if you’re a human being – especially an infant or pregnant. Birchwood had no idea when he bought it, and when he saw that old document, he had the soil secretly tested.”

“And the results were bad?”

Roy nodded. “Several hundred times over legal limits. Anyone who lives there will be put at huge risk, especially the little ones. We’re talking lead poisoning, neurological issues, reproductive problems.”

“Seeing as Maxwell had already put money down, he needed to recoup costs.”

“It was his biggest ever project, and, if it went south, he’d lose all the cash he’d put in. He’d be ruined.”

That was it, Henry thought. That was what caused Maxwell Birchwood to be killed. “Who knew about this?”

“Not many. A few people in his company, Chris Harper for starters, and the company lawyer. I knew, of course.”

“How did you know?”

“Well, I was the one who told Birchwood about it in the first place.”

“You found the old document that showed the location of the site?”

Roy didn’t respond, and instead looked wistful.

“Where did you find it? In some dusty old archive?”

“Actually, I wish it was me who’d uncovered it, then I could take more credit. I didn’t find the document; it was left on my doorstep.”

Henry grunted in annoyance. It bloody would be something like that, he thought. “When was this?”

Roy scrunched up his lips. “It was 3 January.”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “You told me you last spoke to Maxwell in October last year?”

“Did I?” Roy drained his glass.

Henry shook his head. “And I suppose you’ve no idea who left this document.”

“None at all. Maybe you could figure that out, seeing as you’re the detective.”

Henry exhaled. “I’ll add it to my to-do list.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Henry left Roy in the pub to finish off the third drink he’d ordered. Crossing the icy road, he walked carefully over the frosty tarmac and headed into his front yard. His breath steamed in his face in the sub-zero temperatures. He found Tessa on the sofa, huddled up in a makeshift shelter constructed out of cushions and blankets. Henry suspected the construction was Jean’s handiwork and not the boiler man’s. He patted Tessa’s head, who barked at him for having left her in a cold house all day.

Leaving his winter coat on, he entered his kitchen and turned on the light. There was a note left on his kitchen table in Jean’s handwriting:

The boiler man’s coming back tomorrow. He turned the gas off. You should’ve said you had no heating. I’ve got my spare room ready.

Henry sighed. He’d have to go around to hers, wouldn’t he? Looking at his now-useless gas oven, he realised he wouldn’t be able to heat anything for dinner either. What was stopping him from going over to Jean’s right now? He should be grateful he had someone willing to put him up for the night. He knew it wasn’t a logical reason, but one founded on fear. Fear of not being in control of his space and of being beholden to someone else. He turned on the kettle to make a cup of tea and realised he was too much of an independent person. That was his issue.

His dad had been the same. An independent-minded man who’d done fairly well in the army, considering he was a man who hated being told what to do. Henry was much the same, he realised, pouring hot water over a teabag. He’d not lasted as long in the police as he wanted for the same reason: he couldn’t stand being directed to do things by people he didn’t respect.

But his father’s independence became a hindrance. Henry’s mother had passed away in her late sixties, leaving his father alone in their home on the outskirts of Bradford. Henry’s father lived a solitary life in that house, never asking for nor wanting help, even when he dearly needed it.

It was something Henry couldn’t understand at the time. “Why the bloody hell won’t he accept any help?” he’d ask his ex-wife, who would shrug in response. Though, thinking back on it, maybe his ex-wife suspected Henry would turn out just the same. A cranky old man living alone in a ramshackle house, refusing help even when he needed it.

Like old farmer Sowerby, Henry thought, sipping his tea. He wasn’t doing well and could be facing firearms charges as a consequence of not asking someone for help. Maybe Fred Sowerby’s issue wasn’t that he hadn’t asked for help, but that the world beyond his farm had changed with the times, while he still lived in the pre-war farmhouse he’d been born in.

It was nearly 7 p.m., and Henry reckoned Jean would be eating her dinner and probably had a plate waiting for him. He chucked the rest of his tea in the sink, and caught his reflection in the light of his kitchen window. His father’s eyes stared back at him, so much so that he felt a shiver.

“I’m not you, Dad,” he said to the face. “Even if I have the tendency to be. I can choose to be different.”

After placing the empty cup by the sink, he turned off the lights, and explained to Tessa that he’d be away for the night, which she didn’t appear to be too happy about.

* * *

Jean did have dinner ready, and wine was out on the table in her white-walled kitchen. Under-cabinet lighting illuminated the tidy worktop where the only signs of cooking were an empty pan on the stove and a baking tray left on the side. Speakers played 1970s soft rock while Jean explained she’d cooked salmon with new potatoes and green beans.

“You’ve not brought that much with you?” she asked, looking him over and not seeing a bag.

“I only live next door. Did you expect me to bring a suitcase?”

“Well, I suppose not…” she said.

They took their seats at the kitchen table, already laid out, and started eating. The food was warm, despite Henry thinking Jean had been waiting a while for him to arrive.

She explained what the heating engineer had said to her. “I didn’t know who he was at first. I thought he might be a burglar or… Heaven forbid, the killer.”

“Which killer?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ve dealt with so many, you could take your pick.”

The salmon was succulent and well-seasoned, and Henry declined the offer of wine, which Jean seemed to have expected – as only one wine glass was on the table.

“How’s it going with Birchwood’s murder?” Jean asked.

“It’s progressing.”

“Can you say anything about it?”

Henry chewed a mouthful of new potatoes. “I can say things are getting… interesting.”

“Oh? What have you found out?”

“I can’t say–”

“Why not?” She tilted her head in annoyance. “You don’t think that I’m going to tell anyone, do you?”

“Well… you’ll be glad to know the police won’t be looking for the murderer in Addingham.”

Jean drank some chilled Australian chardonnay. “Right?”

“It seems to have been an issue Skipton-way that’s caused it all.”

“Skipton? I didn’t know Birchwood did houses over there.”

“Aye, he has them all over the county.” Henry took another mouthful of food. “Unless we’re missing the real reason why he’s been killed.”

“So what’s happened up at Skipton?”

Henry wasn’t sure how much he could divulge.

“Let’s just say, things had gone a bit haywire at one of Birchwood’s estates, and he was in trouble.”

“Which one?” Realising Henry wouldn’t tell her, Jean rolled her eyes. “Fine, keep it a secret. But at least tell me what you can.”

“He bought loads of land that isn’t safe – don’t bother asking me why, as it’ll give the game away. But he only realised this after he’d started building on it.”

Jean looked as though she was missing something. “If his properties weren’t any good and he was going to lose money, why kill him?”

Henry went to answer but had nothing to say. She had a point. Why would the Gargrave project cause Maxwell’s death? “Well… maybe he owed people money.”

“Like who? Gangsters?” Jane sipped her wine, shaking her head in disbelief. “I don’t think we have many of them living in Addingham and Ilkley,” she said sarcastically.

“You never know,” he said, but he knew she had a point. The fact that the Gargrave Estate was in the process of failing didn’t explain why Birchwood had been killed. In fact, keeping the collapse of the project under wraps could be seen as a motive for murder, but that would put Birchwood as a suspect, not as the victim.

A doorbell sounded, and Henry looked into Jean’s living room, slightly startled.

“Oh, bugger!” Jean said, putting her knife and fork down. “He’s on time for a change.”

“Who is?”

She got up from the table, leaving her half-eaten dinner on its plate. “I thought you might want to talk to him, and I called him earlier, and then…” She shrugged, which Henry took to mean she’d forgotten.

“It’s Noel Cleeves?” Henry asked.

She nodded. “You said you wanted to talk to him.”

“Well, great, I could do with finding out what he has to say for himself.”

“Henry…” she said, with a warning tone and a mildly threatening glare. “Be nice to Noel. He’s a good man, and he has nothing to do with this.”

“Alright. I just want to ask him a few questions.”

“In a very nice manner, I hope. And without suggesting he’s paid someone to kill Maxwell Birchwood.”

“Indeed.” Henry finished off the last of potatoes on his plate. “I’ll be as nice as I can with him. Kid gloves, and all that.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Noel Cleeves was a medium-sized man with a theatrical presence that commanded Jean’s kitchen as he walked in. Shedding his navy pea coat to reveal a Jaffa-orange cardigan, he recounted to Jean a humorous anecdote about a meeting he’d recently endured. However, he stopped mid-sentence and gawped in horror at the unfinished dinner.

“Why… you haven’t finished eating!”

Jean had pre-empted this and stepped behind him, blocking his path to the front door.

“It’s fine, Noel,” she said. “Henry’s eaten his, and I’ve only a bit left that I can finish later.”

“If you don’t mind?” Noel asked, still unsure if he should stay.

“Of course I don’t. Stop being silly. Wine?” Jean asked, pouring him a glass of the chardonnay.

“Well, if you insist.” He almost snatched the glass from her and, sitting down at the kitchen table, looked over Henry. “Ah, you must be the old detective who lives next door?”

“I’m not that old,” Henry grunted.

“Well, we’re all quite old here, aren’t we?” Noel laughed and shook Henry’s hand.

Despite what Noel said about his age, he looked at least a decade younger than Henry. He had thick stubble over his flabby cheeks, which was a similar grey to his stylishly coiffed hair. Henry noted the scarlet tint on his cheeks and the purple spider veins on his nose, suggesting Noel rarely said no to a glass of wine.

Jean tidied away all signs of dinner from the table and then sat down. “I called you over, Noel, as Henry wished to speak to you.”

Noel sniffed his glass of chardonnay as if he was a Parisian sommelier. “Oh yes. I received your phone message, Henry, and was going to call you back, but then Jean phoned me to arrange this meeting… So, what is this all about?”

Jean answered cautiously. “I suppose you know what happened in Ilkley this morning?”

“Oh… that.” Noel’s joviality fled his face as he grimaced. “I heard about it on the news. They only said that a body had been found. No names, but I heard it was him from along the grapevine.”

“I see,” Henry said. “And what did you think when you learned it was Maxwell Birchwood?”

Noel stopped sniffing his wine and took a gulp. His expression suggested he didn’t approve of its taste. “I was very sad for the man. We didn’t see eye to eye on everything, but he was still human and didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“When did you last speak to him?”

Noel raised an eyebrow. “Is that a note of suspicion I hear?”

Jean jumped in. “Henry’s helping the police with their investigation…”

“Okay?” Noel peered at Henry with a look of mild distaste. “And does that allow you to ask me suspicious questions?”

“As a detective, it’s in my nature to be suspicious,” Henry said.

“That mustn’t be much fun for you.”

Henry leant forward, placing his elbows on the table. “My task, as I see it, is to rule out the involvement of key people in Addingham, so the police won’t bother you. So, you can either answer my questions or theirs.”

“How noble of you to carry out such a community service.” Noel’s tone suggested he didn’t find it noble at all.

“When was the last time you spoke to Mr Birchwood?”

Noel drank more wine and swilled it around his mouth. Sensing he had no choice but to answer, he begrudgingly swallowed. “I spoke to him two days ago. It related to the campaign group I’m leading.”

“Campaign group?” Henry directed his question at Jean.

“You know, the ‘Anti-Ilkley Road Estate Group’,” she said.

Henry had never heard of it.

“I call it AIREG,” Noel said, looking proud of himself.

“Just rolls off the tongue, that.” Henry returned to his train for thought. “So, you had this conversation with Mr Birchwood on Tuesday?”

Noel nodded.

“In person or over the phone?”

“Over the phone, unfortunately. It was the rare occurrence when he actually answered one of my calls. Which he only did after receiving a letter from my solicitor that morning, threatening court action.”

“On what grounds?”

“I’d accused him of not following the agreed planning permission for his houses.”

“And he hadn’t?”

“Of course he hadn’t. He never followed any planning permission. But in this instance… You know the valley where my house is? And where his damned estate has been positioned?” Noel placed his glass on the table and spread out his hands to depict the valley outside his manor house.

On Henry’s nod, he continued, “They’re not allowed to build any higher than five and half metres off the ground, or the houses will upset the view of the moors from my bedroom window.”

“Impressive. How, may I ask, did you get Bradford Council to agree to that?”

“Because we caused a hell of a fuss during the planning phase, didn’t we, Jean?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jean, smiling. “We did.”

“And you say Birchwood ignored this height rule and built the houses higher than he was allowed?” Henry asked.

“It’s a fact,” Noel said. “He has built them higher. A few of us measured it a few weeks ago.”

“You broke into his building site and measured a house?”

Noel grinned like a naughty schoolboy. “Well, when you put it like that… no comment.”

“Getting back to this phone call with Mr Birchwood, what did you talk about?”

“Well…” Noel scrunched up his face. “I don’t know how much I can divulge.”

“Why is that? Did you threaten him?”

“Of course, I said I’d sue every penny out of him, and then he threatened to counter-sue.” Noel scoffed. “He also said, what does it matter if the houses blocked my view, I can still see the other hill from the back of the house.”

Henry nodded to himself. “That’s a fair point, why is seeing that hillside such a big deal?”

Noel’s eyes widened with fury. “My family has lived in that house since the Industrial Revolution, when my ancestor, Reginald Cleeves, a well-known and dignified industrialist, had the house built…”

Henry stopped listening to his words and instead focused on the white-hot anger in Noel’s eyes. They gleamed with irrational, righteous rage. It was so intense, Henry felt uncomfortable sitting near him.

Glancing at Jean, he could see her look of enrapture, as if she were a disciple listening to a cult leader’s proclamation.

Noel slammed the tabletop. “I’m not letting that idiot-man destroy my two-hundred-year-old ancestral home. I mean, would you?”

Henry felt the need to answer. “I don’t have an ancestral home, Mr Cleeves, so I couldn’t say.”

“Right, well, imagine you had. Would you protect it?”

“I avoid such hypotheticals, Mr Cleeves. So, getting back to your phone conversation with Mr Birchwood? How did it end, after you’d threatened him?”

Noel paused. “I didn’t threaten him physically, I threatened his reputation and finances.”

“Yes, I understand the difference. But you did threaten him in some way?”

Noel nodded after a pause.

“How did the phone call end?”

“I said I’d see him in court.”

“When would that be?”

“I don’t know. Looking at how rammed the courts are, probably not for several months. Which suited me, as I wanted him to build those houses so I could have them bulldozed down.” Noel grinned as he sipped more wine.

Henry leant back in his seat, as if pre-empting Noel’s reaction to his next questions. “Did you ever wish Mr Birchwood any ill?”

Startled at first by the question, Noel burst into a round of hearty laughter. “By God! Of course I did. But not physically. I’ve never hurt anything more than a fly.”

Henry nodded. “And, seeing as you’ve lived in a country manor, may I ask if you’ve ever been much of a hunter?”

Noel’s expression soured. “Never held a gun. Nothing like that.”

“Okay, and if the police checked the gun register, would they find your name on it?”

“Of course not. They wouldn’t see my name…” Noel stopped. “Well… I do own some blasted heirlooms that have been registered. Great big rifles left to me from a dead uncle, but I’ve no idea how to fire them.”

Henry nodded slowly. “And are you much of a motorcyclist?”

Noel roared with laughter. “Me? On a great big Harley! I wish. No, my lower back causes me so much gyp, I couldn’t ride anything like that if I tried. I can hardly get on an exercise bike, which explains this.” He shook the large gut hidden by his orange cardigan.

“That was an odd question, Henry,” Jean said, peering at him. “Do you think the killer was on a motorbike?”

Henry shook his head. “We’re not sure.” He paused a second, before continuing, “You seem to have a clear understanding of Maxwell Birchwood’s business practices.”

Noel scoffed. “You mean his illegal ones?”

Henry ignored him. “Ever heard anything about his estate up in Gargrave?”

Noel looked into his glass as he took a long sip of wine. “Should I have?”

“I don’t know. Have you?”

Noel shook his head. “Never heard a peep about it. I couldn’t even tell you where it was on a map, to be honest.” He guffawed. “So, do you have any more questions, Detective, or am I cleared?”

Henry could’ve interrogated him further, but Jean’s icy stare persuaded him he’d done enough. “That’s everything for now, Mr Cleeves. Thanks for being so cooperative.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Henry lay on the single bed in Jean’s spare room, staring at the blinds where the street light outside bled through and cast the room in an orange glow. It was clean, white-walled, and orderly. The few pieces of furniture were dustless, the carpet clean, and the bed sheets smelt of fabric conditioner. Despite the pleasant room, Henry couldn’t sleep. He missed his own bed, his own bed sheets, his own space. Jean had been very welcoming, and he couldn’t fault her hospitality, but it still felt odd being here. He didn’t like this unfamiliar space.

Noel Cleeves had stayed for another hour or so, until the wine had dried up, and then he’d left, agreeing to meet Jean the next day for another campaign meeting. AIREG seemed to take up most of his time, Henry gathered, wondering how much work this Noel actually did. Jean was enamoured with him, Henry could tell. She worshipped the ground he walked on. Meaning Henry would have to tread carefully to avoid upsetting her.

Hopefully, Noel Cleeves wouldn’t be involved in Maxwell Birchwood’s murder. And there was no evidence that suggested he was, except for his admission of owning guns, but Henry was sure the missing PPK from Fred Sowerby’s farm was the murder weapon – not some antique rifle.

He recalled that white-hot fury with which Noel had spoken about Maxwell Birchwood. The man had been incandescent when he talked about his ‘ancestral home being under threat’. Normally Henry wouldn’t have put that down as a motive to murder someone, but the way Noel had spoken about it made Henry feel uncomfortable. He’d seen murderers who’d killed with a fraction of that emotion.

Henry rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. No, he couldn’t see Noel Cleeves hanging around those trees on the outskirts of Ilkley to shoot Maxwell dead. If he was involved, he’d be the instigator, the money man, the one who’d made the order. And it was likely that he’d done that through the internet, probably the dark web. Otherwise, Noel might have spoken to a hitman face to face, as Henry doubted Noel would be silly enough to leave traces in his phone records.

Turning onto his side, he decided the bed was too soft to get comfortable. He tutted and wondered if he was being too harsh on Noel.

Was he letting his imagination get the better of him because he knew Jean had a crush on him? Possibly, he admitted to himself.

Was he jealous? “No,” he said aloud. But there was part of him that felt he was.

Ignoring his feelings, he closed his eyes and forced himself to sleep.

Giving up after a minute, he contemplated leaving Jean’s house and going to his own bed next door, the cold be damned. But no, that’d be a bad idea. Jean would be furious if he left her home in the middle of the night, spurning her hospitality…

The noise of a motorbike outside disturbed his thoughts. It pulled up just outside Jean’s house. Through the spare-room window, he heard the muffled sound of someone opening his front gate.

Henry got up and headed to the window in his pyjamas. Lifting the blind to the side, he spotted the same man he’d seen in the warehouse footage. He wore the same black motorbike helmet, black leather jacket, dark jeans and leather gloves. The man stood in Henry’s front yard on the path, peering up at Henry’s house.

Unsure if what he was seeing was real, Henry rushed to his bedside cabinet, picked up his phone, and turned the camera on. If he got it on film, he could show it to Barnes and Hargreaves later.

Sliding his phone into view behind the blind, he filmed his front garden, but the man had gone.

“That’s odd,” Henry said, breathlessly.

But the motorbike was still there…

There was an almighty bang – a gunshot that echoed around the silent street. Then, the sound of wood snapping and breaking.

That was Henry’s front door busted in.

And then Tessa’s barking started wildly.

Henry felt the urge to rush down and face the intruder in his house and protect his dog, but he knew that’d be a terrible idea.

This man was likely armed…

Then the first muffled gunshot sounded…

And the second.

Tessa’s barking abruptly stopped.

“Jesus! Tessa!” Henry cried, his phone’s camera shaking in his hand.

The man rushed out of Henry’s home and shoved a small black gun inside his jacket. Henry caught it all on camera. He panned up to the road as the motorbike sped away, catching its registration plate as it zoomed off down Main Street.

Then, coming to his senses, Henry spun around and ran to the door, hoping to God that his dog was okay.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Henry was stumbling down Jean’s steps when he heard Tessa’s barking in the road outside. The relief hit Henry in his chest so hard, he wondered if he was about to have a coronary. He threw open Jean’s front door, stepped out into the cold, and found Tessa barking into the night. Spittle flecked her chin. She was clearly furious that an intruder had entered her home and fired a weapon, as was Henry.

He called her to him, and, standing at Jean’s front gate, he wondered what the hell the masked biker had fired at.

He entered his home and looked around his living room. Apart from the busted front door, there weren’t any other signs of damage, so he went upstairs. Two bullets had been fired into Henry’s unmade bed. His crumpled duvet had made it appear as if a man lay prostrate in it. The first round hit where Henry’s head would have been, with the second hitting the centre of his chest.

The same two targets as Maxwell Birchwood.

Henry leant against his door frame, peering into his bedroom in disbelief. He wore jeans and a thick jumper he’d quickly thrown on. Tessa growled as she sniffed the tracks of the attacker on the landing carpet. Uniformed police had already arrived and were downstairs, waiting for DI Barnes to turn up at the scene. The blue lights of their patrol cars illuminated the curtains in Henry’s bedroom.

Jean had woken up and remained in her house next door. She was too shocked for words, apart from repeating ‘a shooting’ and ‘in Addingham?’ over and over as if in a daze. Henry was just glad he’d agreed to stay at hers and hadn’t tried to tough it out in his boilerless house.

He shook his head, his mind too tired for him to think through alternative events. The air in his bedroom, tinged with harsh gunpowder, made him nauseous. He told Tessa to come with him as he went downstairs.

The front door was wide open. Its door frame was shattered from where the intruder had fired a well-aimed bullet into the lock, breaking it out of position. So much for my security protocols, Henry thought. He’d prided himself on making sure his cottage was secure.

A police officer stood on the front step, keeping his back to Henry as he entered his living room. The freezing-cold air blew in from outside, but Henry wasn’t bothered; it’d help get rid of that acrid gun smoke. Sitting on the sofa, he dared to look at the time. 4 a.m. He bet Barnes would be annoyed she’d had to wake up. It sounded like she needed her sleep.

There were voices outside after a car pulled up on Main Street and someone got out.

“Jesus H Christ, Henry,” DS Hargreaves said, stepping through his front door in her heels.

She wore her long black coat and had her hands shoved in the pockets. Apart from her jet-black hair being ruffled, there were no other signs that she’d just been woken up in the middle of the night.

“What are you doing here?” Henry asked, as politely as he could muster.

“I heard from Barnes. She couldn’t make it, and seeing as I live the closest, I was sent over.”

Henry was surprised Barnes wasn’t coming. He thought, after their two-year-long friendship, she’d at least want to come over out of concern.

Maybe she really did need her rest.

Hargreaves surveyed his living room, paying close attention to the area around the busted front door. “Looks like he shot the lock and kicked the door open, walked into here…”

She peered up Henry’s staircase, which faced the front door, and walked up the carpeted steps, leaving her boots on.

The floorboards upstairs creaked as she walked around his bedroom. After a few moments, she came back down.

“It’s bloody lucky you weren’t in bed,” she said.

“I’m aware of that.”

“Where were you staying?”

“The boiler’s out, as I told you, and the neighbour next door leant me her spare room.”

Hargreaves’ face lit up with a mischievous grin. “Oh right? The blonde widow? Do you make a habit of sleeping at hers?”

Henry felt his cheeks rouge. His glare must’ve been dirty enough to force Hargreaves to refocus on her job.

“So,” she said, chuckling to herself, “the bloke comes in, scares the dog” – Hargreaves winked at Tessa, who’d been sitting beside Henry on the sofa, watching her – “and then heads upstairs to shoot your pillow and duvet.” She scrunched up her face. “It’s also a good job you didn’t make your bed yesterday morning, otherwise he wouldn’t have been fooled by it.”

Henry ruffled at her mockery. “I usually do make it. I just didn’t yesterday, because…” He shook his head, not wanting to go into further detail.

A headache started behind his eyes, and Henry didn’t think its appearance was accidental, considering Hargreaves was here.

“Did you get a look at him?” she asked.

“One better.” He held up his phone. “I filmed him breaking in and even got his bike’s registration number.”

Hargreaves smiled. “Bloody nice one, Henry. Let’s go find this bastard and teach him not to mess with us.”

* * *

Henry woke with a start at 8 a.m. and felt terrible. His headache was still there, and that acrid gunpowder taste lingered in his mouth and nasal passages. Tessa was curled up on his outstretched legs, fast asleep. He’d caught a few winks back in Jean’s spare room. Tessa was now permitted inside the house with Jean lifting her long-held ban on dogs. Tessa had faced down an armed assailant, after all.

Hargreaves had headed off to Leeds Central police station with the mobile phone footage Henry had taken at around 4.30 a.m. She was getting it reviewed so the search for the motorbike could begin.

Faint light came through the gaps in the blinds, and Henry guessed it was a going to be a sunny winter day.

SOCO needed access to his home for the next forty-eight hours, and he wasn’t allowed back until they’d gone. With any hope, they’d find some physical evidence linking the armed biker to Maxwell Birchwood’s murder scene. However, it meant he and Tessa were forced to be guests at Jean’s for longer than planned.

Putting on some fresh clothes he’d picked up earlier that morning, he headed downstairs to find Jean in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. The television in the living room was on, playing BBC Breakfast, and the scent of coffee filled the air.

“Oh, you’re up,” she said when she saw him.

She was already dressed, with her hair and make-up done. Henry wondered if she’d gone back to sleep after waking up at 4 a.m.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Fine… I wasn’t shot at, thankfully.”

Jean shook her head. Despite her make-up, she looked pale with exhaustion. “I can’t… It’s just awful. Imagine if you’d been there.”

“Aye, well… let’s not dwell on ‘might-have-beens’ and focus on the fact I’m still here.”

“Someone tried to kill you–”

“Jean…” The headache came back with a vengeance, and Henry gripped his forehead. “Have you got any paracetamol?”

She nodded and, wiping a stray tear from her red eyes, pulled some pain medication from a drawer.

Henry took two pills and washed them down with a glass of water Jean provided.

Jean cleared her throat and gestured to the toaster. “What do you want for breakfast? I can do toast, or eggs, or a full English if you want it?”

“Oh no. I can’t stomach that.”

“You need to eat something. It’ll be a long day.”

Henry noticed the jars of honey and marmalade laid out on the table. “Toast will be fine.”

He layered the marmalade on thick and ate his toast in silence, with Jean refilling his cup with coffee twice. She waited until he’d finished his third slice before asking for more details.

“So, what do the police think happened?”

“The same as me,” he said, drinking the rich, strong coffee. Henry was feeling more alive again so he gave her a brief summary of what he thought had happened.

Jean appeared to get paler as he described it. Henry himself couldn’t bear to use the ‘my living room’ or ‘fired at my bed’. He had to stay detached from it – as if it was just another case.

“Any idea who it was?”

Henry shook his head. “Well… I have one, but I need to prove it first.”

“Who? The same fella who killed Birchwood?”

Henry shrugged. “It might be… it might not.” Though, deep down he thought it was.

“And why you?”

“I don’t know… maybe I know something.”

“Like what? I mean, wouldn’t the police know the same information as you? What’s the point in shooting you and not the other detectives?”

“Well…” Then Henry realised that, after his discussion with Roy Parker last night, when the journalist had told him about the lead content in the Gargrave Estate, he would’ve known more than the other detectives.

Had someone seen him talking to Roy or been listening in?

But who? Henry hadn’t seen anyone linked to this case at the Shepherd’s Rest Inn last night. Unless, of course, he was dealing with an assassin he’d not seen before – and therefore wouldn’t recognise.

“Henry?” Jean asked, slightly fearfully. “Are you alright? You dozed off for a minute.”

“I’m fine… just thinking about last night.”

“What? About Noel?”

“Noel?”

“Cleeves? Remember, you spoke to him last night…” She frowned at him accusingly. “You’re not thinking he’s involved in this, are you?”

Henry couldn’t understand her reasoning. “You mean… do I think Noel Cleeves – a man who claims not to be able to hold a firearm – went into my house to shoot my pillows?”

Jean anticipated his response with the raise of an eyebrow.

“Of course I don’t, Jean.”

She appeared only slightly relieved.

Henry took a moment to think if Noel could be involved but decided it was unlikely. They’d have to wait until the motorbike was tracked down before finding out who the biker was.

On that thought, Henry rose out of his chair. “I’m off to make a call.”

“Who to?”

“DI Barnes. I want to see if they’ve found out where this motorbike came from.”

Leaving Jean in the kitchen, he took his cup of coffee and headed into the living room. He searched for the remote control and turned the volume down on BBC Breakfast, which was going through the sport headlines.

DI Barnes picked up after a few rings. “Henry?”

“Aye, how’s it going? Do you have news on the motorbike yet?”

“There’s a search out for it as we speak.”

“Good. Any idea who it belongs to?”

“Uh yes… The bike is registered to Maxwell Birchwood as part of his collection. But his wife says she’s not seen it for a few months. Says it must’ve been stolen.”

“Bloody hell.” Henry knew those motorbikes in Birchwood’s garage were linked to this.

A gust of wind blew down the line.

“Where are you?” Henry asked.

“Up in Skipton.”

“North Yorkshire? What…” Henry’s stomach then dropped. “Christ, what’s happened? Is it those lads?”

“Yes…” Another belt of wind. “I can’t say too much, Henry.”

“You found them?”

“Just one. He’s dead. Found early this morning.”

“Which one?”

“Ben Lloyd.”

Henry shook his head. “This armed biker was busy last night. Tell me where you are, and I’ll come over.”

“Henry, you can’t help us now. Especially not when you’ve been targeted–”

“All the more reason for me to–”

“Henry…” She sighed, knowing that she wasn’t going to win. After giving him an address of a farm, she said that if he did come, not to get involved.

“Are you joking? That bastard came into my house, scared my dog, and shot my bed thinking I was fast asleep in it. I’m going to show the prick that if you shoot at Henry Ward, you’d better not bloody miss.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The sky was light blue and cloudless. The rising sun cast yellow rays over icy fields. Henry noted the sides of the road facing the sun were free of frost and snow, while the other still had piles of slush.

Barnes had given him an address of a farm to the north of Skipton, which was easy to find thanks to the three patrol cars parked in its field.

Pulling up behind what he thought was Barnes’s car on a narrow country lane, he got out, zipped up his coat, and pulled on a woolly hat. The bitterly cold wind blasted him, and his tiredness made him feel it more. Trudging along the frozen field with some parts thawing in the sun’s faint heat, he squinted at the sunlight as he headed over to the crime scene at the edge of the canal. The area surrounding it was cordoned off with police tape that looked to have been hastily erected. Henry spotted a canal barge listing on its right side near the embankment. Hargreaves and Barnes both stood nearby, with DS Wiltshire in his mustard-yellow mountaineering coat next to them. Their heads were bowed and their hands in pockets as the bitter breeze blew past.

Quickening his pace, Henry headed towards them, his boots moving uneasily over the uneven ground.

Wiltshire noticed him first and turned to smile. “Nice to see you, Detective,” he said, shaking Henry’s hand.

Barnes gave him a cold stare and nodded her hello, while Hargreaves stepped towards him. “I thought you’d be resting up, considering you were nearly shot dead last night.”

Wiltshire raised his eyebrows. “Oh yes, your colleagues mentioned you were targeted last night. Awful news. How are you coping?”

“Fine, thanks.” Henry glanced at Barnes, who stared ahead at the canal.

“So, what’s going on?” Henry asked, peering over their shoulders at the activity near the barge.

A forensics tent had been raised on the banks of the canal, its plastic sheeting billowing in the wind.

“It’s one of the lads we were looking for,” Wiltshire said. “Unfortunately, we didn’t locate him before the biker did.”

“Was he shot?” Henry asked.

Wiltshire grimaced and nodded. “Two rounds in the chest. It appears he got into a fight beforehand. There’s extensive bruising around his face and upper body.”

“Bloody hell,” Henry said. Peering at the barge, he watched a SOCO officer carefully step aboard to take photos of Ben’s corpse lying on the deck.

Henry looked down at the grass around them. “Did the motorbike leave any tracks?”

Wiltshire shook his head. “The ground’s too hard.”

“So, the biker came up here, caught up with them, and killed Lloyd?”

Wiltshire nodded, as if he’d decided the same thing.

“Any sign of the other lad?”

“None. He’s disappeared. Either he escaped or the biker–”

Henry finished his thought. “Took him. Are there any signs of a struggle?”

“I think you’ve told him enough,” Barnes said to Wiltshire, who was about to answer Henry’s question.

“Sorry?” Wiltshire asked. “I thought you three were working together?”

“Henry assisted us yesterday. But, seeing as he’s a victim of a serious crime committed by the same perpetrator, he’s had to recuse himself.”

“No, I haven’t,” Henry grunted.

Wiltshire frowned. “Oh, right. That’s poor luck.”

“Hang about, I’ve not recused myself at all,” Henry said.

Barnes squinted at him. “No matter, I’ve done it for you.”

Wiltshire pulled a face. “Well, do you not think he could be of some use?”

“Don’t you understand conflicts of interest in North Yorkshire?” Barnes said.

“Of course we do, but we could still get his insights. Besides, he’s retired, isn’t he? No longer in the force. So, he isn’t governed by the same ethical standards as we are.”

Barnes shook her head, looking as if she were dealing with someone who didn’t understand the facts of life. “No, he isn’t governed by them. But we are. And if we let the victim of a crime involve himself in an investigation–”

“I am only a victim of a crime due to being involved in the investigation in the first instance,” Henry said.

Barnes glared at him. “Yes, thanks for reminding me. With hindsight, it was a huge mistake to let you get involved. Acton and I will probably face the consequences.”

“Come off it,” Henry said. “You really think the police will fire two good detectives because someone broke into my house–”

“Yes, Henry. I do think they’d fire us. The scrutiny on us right now is insanely tense. If we step out of line, we’re toast.”

Henry stopped himself from asking why she was bothered how she left the police, considering she planned to leave. Clearly, she would prefer to go with her head held high, and not after being fired for almost getting a retired detective killed.

“Right.” Henry threw his hands in the air. “I’ll be on my way then. All I wanted to do was see what had happened.”

Wiltshire simpered at him. “Sorry, Detective. It looks like your former colleague has a point.”

Henry nodded, and was about to turn to his car, when instead he asked Wiltshire, “Is the village of Gargrave near here?”

“Yes, just follow that country lane there and you should find it after a few miles. Why…?” Wiltshire then gave him a knowing look. “Oh, right. Yes, doing a spot of sightseeing, are we? It’s a lovely village. There’s a magnificent forest on the road heading into the town that’s well worth a look.”

Henry nodded his thanks to him, and looked back at Barnes, who’d already turned her back.

Hargreaves, in contrast, was watching him go with an eyebrow cocked.

“Stay out of trouble, Henry,” she said, before giving him a wink.

* * *

Gargrave was indeed close to where Ben Lloyd met his maker. It was only a mile and a half down the country lane. As Henry neared the small village, he saw a wooded area to his left, its evergreens tipped with snow. He pulled into the nearest lay-by, stopping his car directly in front of a blue Birchwood sign. Maxwell’s smiling face gazed out at oncoming traffic, and the lettering underneath stated Gargrave eagerly anticipated its new Birchwood housing estate.

Peering up at the sign, Henry got out of his car, bracing himself for the cold. The wooded area was fenced off and had a gate secured with a padlock. Henry leant on it and peered past the fir trees at the building site beyond. There wasn’t much to see, and no builders were present. Maybe the whole project had been mothballed.

He peered down at the grass under the fence and at the frozen soil underneath. There were no visible signs that it was dangerously toxic, but Henry didn’t feel like lingering around. Looking around the lay-by, he noticed a fluorescent-pink poster stuck to the fence near the road. ‘NO TO BIRCHWOOD!’ it screamed in large lettering. It was signed ‘the Committee for the Protection of Gargrave Ecology’. Another local group in opposition to Maxwell Birchwood, Henry thought. He decided it’d be worth speaking to its members to see what they knew about the whole Gargrave scandal.

He got back into his car and headed into the village centre. More bright-pink posters were visible in shop windows, on noticeboards, and stuck on the sides of post boxes. Parking next to the village post office, he got out and decided to have a word with people inside.

The shop bell rang as he entered, and the post office appeared unchanged since the late 1960s. Walking past a display of birthday cards and stationery, he waited while the middle-aged man behind the glass-fronted counter dealt with an elderly woman. The Post Office branded name tag declared him the postmaster.

With her pension book in hand and cash in her purse, the woman left, and Henry took her place.

“Now then,” he said to the postmaster. “I’m with the police in West Yorkshire.”

The man frowned at the mention of a neighbouring county and police. “Alright?”

“I’m looking into the murder of Maxwell Birchwood–”

“Oh, that.” The postmaster shook his head and pulled a newspaper towards him. “Terrible news.”

“You’ve heard then?”

“It’s all over the Yorkshire Gazette,” he pressed the paper’s front page against the glass screen so Henry could see its headline: ‘Property Mogul Shot Dead in Ilkley’.

“So, what was it? Gangsters? Assassins?” the postmaster asked.

“We’re still looking into it.”

The postmaster grunted. “Anyway, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do you have any ID? You look too old to be in the police.”

“I’m a retired DCI, but I’m helping the police with their inquiries.”

“Sounds very irregular. What do you want?”

Henry paused for effect. “You seem unhappy to hear about Mr Birchwood’s demise.”

“Who wouldn’t be? The man’s dead.” He huffed. “And if they close that project down… Have you seen it? A hundred houses they plan to build.”

“I have. From what I heard, I thought the village was against the new estate?”

“We’re not. Not all of us. Well, apart from crazy ecologists who don’t want to lose that bit of forest, which they’ve never bloody walked through anyway.”

“You were hoping to have more customers?”

“Of course, I was. I bloody need them. All us shopkeepers do. We’re a few months away from ruin.”

Henry nodded slowly. “Do you believe the whole estate will be forgotten, then?”

The postmaster smoothed out the newspaper, stroking it as if it were a cat. “I hope not, but I doubt it’ll go ahead now.”

“Aye. I’ve seen those pink posters everywhere…”

The postmaster sighed. He pointed at a photocopier in the far corner, on the other side of the greeting cards display. “They used that to print them off. I didn’t know they were using it for political purposes.”

“Who’s in charge of the committee?”

“To Protect Gargrave or whatever? Oliver James.” The postmaster said the name as if it were a curse.

“Where could I find him?”

“Do you think he’s connected to Birchwood’s murder?”

Henry raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know… do you?”

The postmaster looked alarmed. “Well… I wouldn’t like to speak ill of people. But he is a bit… on the extreme side. I wouldn’t say he’s a murderer… nothing like that. But… if you really want to know… I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Oh, right? Why is that?”

The postmaster exhaled. “He’s a funny sort. Very left wing, been in trouble with the police before. If you ask me, he’s a few buns short of a picnic.”

“You’d best give me his address then.”

The postmaster bit his lower lip. “Are you sure you’re with the police?”

“You can call DCI Acton at Leeds Central police station. He’s leading the major investigation team into the murder. Or you can call DI Barnes or DS Hargreaves?”

The man looked minded to pick up his phone, but instead he just nodded. “Alright… but if anyone asks, you didn’t get it from me.”

“You can trust me. I’d never tarnish the reputation of a loyal public servant like yourself.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Oliver James lived in a row of former council houses near the far end of Gargrave. Most of the houses in the village dated back to before the twentieth century, with a few modern exceptions here and there, but these four streets were a marker of 1960s Britain. The houses were simply built, pebble-dashed, and their woodwork was in need of a lick of paint.

A sign on the gate warned of a dog and an equally dangerous wife. Henry ignored it and walked cautiously along the icy paving stones to the front door. Oliver James’s front garden had gone to seed, with mounds of frosty dead grass protruding from the frozen, boggy ground. A rusty washing machine rested on the flagstones under the kitchen window.

Henry knocked twice and heard movement inside the house and a dog’s bark. A man yelled at the dog to shut up, which seemed uncalled for considering the animal wasn’t being that loud. The door opened, and an unshaven man in his late fifties answered. His greasy hair was in a ponytail, and he wore a brown leather gilet over a Metallica T-shirt.

A rolled-up cigarette rested on his bottom lip, and he looked Henry up and down. “What?”

“Hello, are you Oliver James?”

The man took the cigarette out from between his lips and exhaled smoke. Henry could smell it wasn’t just tobacco.

“I’m here about the Birchwood estate,” Henry said.

“You what?” Oliver asked.

“I saw the pink posters around the village. Did you put them up?”

The man squinted at him. “Who are you?”

“I’m former DCI Henry Ward. I’m helping the police with their inquiries into the murder of Maxwell Birchwood.”

The man’s suspicious look didn’t change.

“Are you aware that Mr Birchwood was murdered yesterday morning?”

He sucked in another drag from his cigarette. “What of it?”

“I understand you are the leader of the committee trying to stop the Birchwood development in the village.”

“You understand wrong.”

Oliver went to close the front door, but Henry’s foot was in the way. “I’d like to have a chat about the estate if you don’t mind.”

“Move your foot,” Oliver said, staring down at it.

“I’d like to know where you were yesterday morning.”

Oliver gave a croaky cackle. “Really? You think I killed that twat?”

“Let me come in so we can have a chat about it.”

“I’ve never laid eyes on him in real life. I only ever saw his little sidekick. The useless one.”

“Might that be Chris Harper?”

“Aye.”

“I agree that smarmy git does seem useless.”

Oliver’s dark brown eyes assessed Henry, seemingly more with curiosity than suspicion. “What is it you want?”

There was a shout from a woman inside the house. “Would you shut that sodding door! It’s freezing.”

Oliver lowered his head. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

Henry stepped inside while Oliver shut the door. The house’s interior was just as chaotic as outside. The lino flooring had been torn up in places, leaving floorboards visible. Cupboards with their doors removed were piled up in the hallway and filled with junk. A large Alsatian strolled up to Henry and licked his fingers, and then toddled off into a living room, where Henry heard daytime TV.

Following Oliver into the kitchen, Henry could smell curry spice in the air that appeared to come from the sink, which was full of pots and dirty plates. After making tea, Oliver joined Henry at the kitchen table and rolled up another cigarette. Tobacco only, this time.

He lit it, closing his eye closest to the flame. “What is it you want to know?”

Henry sipped his strong tea. “Whatever you can tell me about the estate in Gargrave. When did you start the committee?”

Oliver snorted. “It’s not much of a committee. Just me and a few others who meet at the village hall. We have a Facebook page though, with fifty followers.”

“Why get involved in it?”

“Well…” After lighting his cigarette, Oliver let out a lungful of smoke and coughed. “I took the dog for walks around that forest. It’s a nice spot but won’t be when it’s been tarmacked over and has a hundred houses on it.” He took another drag from his cigarette. “Plus, the village can’t handle more people. The school’s full, the doctor’s surgery closed a decade ago, so they’ll be more pressure on the only one left around here in the next village over. The roads are already a nightmare at peak time. It’ll be even worse when they’ve built a hundred more homes.”

“Would you still be against the estate if Birchwood invested in the village? Helped pay for a new doctor’s surgery?”

He scoffed. “Oh yeah, like they would. It’s not just the forest that pissed me off; it’s the council selling off public land to make a quick quid.”

“Ah. So it was the council who sold the land to Birchwood?”

He nodded.

Interesting, Henry thought.

“What else do you know about the project?” Henry asked, as delicately as he could.

Oliver frowned. “Well, apart from what I’ve just told you…” He shrugged.

“Have you looked into the history of the site?”

He shook his head. “No, that’d be Evan’s expertise. Evan Peters is the leader of Gargrave’s Civic Society and involved in the committee. Now, he’s someone who could talk you to death.”

“Has he ever mentioned anything to you about the history of that site?”

Oliver shook his head, looking mildly confused. “Should he have?”

“He might have. Where can I find him?”

“Well, you’re in luck. He lives next door.”

Henry sipped his tea. “Oh, good news. I’ll speak to him after here.”

“No bother, I’ll get him round. He’s retired and doesn’t get out much. Unless he’s at the doctor’s in the next village or at the library.”

Oliver texted Evan and got a reply within a minute. “He’s coming.”

Henry asked more questions about Oliver’s background, learning he was a former council worker until he had a car accident and went off sick. Then he was made redundant and has had multiple issues with his back ever since, which involved his wife driving him over to the doctor’s surgery every other month. Henry finished his tea as he listened and wondered when Evan would turn up. Then there was a knock on the front door and the dog started barking, but Oliver didn’t get up from the table.

A man in his seventies entered the kitchen, having let himself into the house. The Alsatian followed him into the kitchen, and the man discretely gave him a dog treat. He wore a green anorak and held a folder of documents under his arm. His round glasses were perched on the end of his nose.

“Alright, Evan,” Oliver said, not standing up.

“Aye. Alright.” Evan sounded slightly out of breath. He pulled a seat from under the table and sat down, placing the folder before him.

As Oliver introduced Henry, Evan nodded, his eyes magnified by his round glasses.

“How is it I can help?” he asked.

“I’d like to know if you’ve investigated the site that Birchwood is currently building on,” Henry asked.

Evan nodded again. “I have.”

“Oh right. And what have you found?”

Evan looked at Oliver and then back to Henry. “Not much.”

“Have you by any chance, found any documents about the site’s history?”

Evan sniffed.

“Any documents suggesting it might not be… that safe?”

“Ah,” Evan said. “You’ve heard, then?”

“I have. What can you tell me about it?” Henry asked, looking at Evan and then Oliver, who didn’t seem to understand what they were talking about.

Evan pushed his glasses up his nose. “I searched through the archives at the town hall a few months ago, but there wasn’t much there. And then, at the Civic Society, we have our own archive at the back of the library.” He looked at Oliver. “The library’s closing, by the way. Have you heard?”

Oliver was appalled. “No! They’re shutting it down?”

Evan nodded. “Two months’ time, it’ll be gone.”

Worried they might talk about the news for longer than he wanted, Henry interrupted. “I’m very sorry for you. But getting back to the documents.”

Evan sat up straight and straightened his glasses again. “Yes. Quite right. I did some shifting through the documents. It took me a while, but I was leafing through a bunch of papers donated to us by a renowned family in the area, the Turnbridges, and that’s when I came across it.”

“Came across what?”

“A map. Dated 1830. Battered and a bit scratched.”

Oliver frowned. “A map of what?”

Evan looked at him. “A lead mine used to rest under that site.”

He opened the folder in front of him and, from the many papers inside, pulled out an aged document in a plastic sleeve. He placed it in the centre of Oliver’s kitchen table for them all to see.

The corners of the map were torn, and it had been folded multiple times. Its paper, browned with age, had barely visible ink marks. Henry leant forward to scrutinise it. Gargrave was indicated on the map, but it was much smaller than it was today; however, the country lanes and the canal heading to Skipton were still there. South of the village was an encircled area, which was the main focus of the map. Shapes within it were marked ‘shaft’ and ‘barn’. Then, a second shaded area was labelled ‘quarry’.

“So, the forest Birchwood bought is here?” Henry asked, pointing at the map.

Evan nodded. “Indeed it is. An old lead mine was what he bought. I don’t know if it’s safe for him to build on it.”

“It’s not,” Henry said. “And this is the original map?”

“It is.”

“Did you make copies.”

Evan nodded. “I made two. I sent one to the council, to see if they knew what they were selling–”

“Wait a minute!” Oliver interjected. “You knew the site was dangerous and didn’t tell me? I could’ve caused a right fuss about it.”

“I know. And believe me, that was an option I held in my back pocket. But I was advised to keep quiet about it.”

“By whom?” Henry asked.

Oliver leaned forward eagerly waiting for Evan’s reply.

“I sent it to the council but didn’t hear back. So, then I told the local MP I had a copy.”

“The Skipton and Ripon MP?”

He nodded again. “Kath Dobson.”

“You gave it to that idiot!” Oliver shouted, hitting the tabletop.

“I thought she might do something, but it turned out, she didn’t.”

“But isn’t she a free-market Tory?” Henry asked. “Why would she do anything about it?”

“Well, I thought she might.”

“Did you send it to anyone else?”

Evan shook his head. “After Kath Dobson told me to keep it quiet, I decided not to tell anyone else.”

“When did you speak to Kath Dobson?”

“End of December, I believe. I posted a copy of the map to her office along with a letter detailing my understanding of what had gone on, and two days later the MP knocked on my door–”

“That fascist came to your door!” Oliver said.

“Yes. She seemed alright, really. I wouldn’t vote for her, though. She asked me not to tell anyone what I’d found. She said the new estate would be good for the village. Said the local shops and businesses depended on it.” Evan looked down at his folder. “I don’t know. She managed to persuade me to keep quiet about it. Said she’d do her best to make sure everything was made safe.”

“Safe?! There’s a bloody lead mine under those houses!” Oliver shouted, rising out of his seat.

Evan nodded. “I know. I should’ve said something earlier. She just said I had to think before I acted. Asked if I wanted the post office and shops in the village to close because of me. Of course, I don’t. I love this village.”

While Oliver stewed in his righteous anger, Henry asked Evan, “Are you sure you didn’t speak to anyone else about this?”

“Nobody. After I spoke to her, I said nothing.”

Oliver jumped out of his seat, clapping his hands. “Right. We declare war! We copy this map, send it to all the local and national press. Get it on social media. Tell our followers. And then, we aim all our artillery at Birchwood and Kath Dobson, at her corrupt Tory government, and wipe them out.”

Evan stared wide-eyed at Oliver, but Henry crossed his arms. “You are aware that Maxwell Birchwood was murdered yesterday?”

Some of Oliver’s certainty waned. “Aye… so?”

“All this talk of war and shooting might be considered inappropriate.”

“I don’t care. Not only does he want to destroy our village, but he also wants to sell unsafe housing to families. Lead isn’t healthy for kids, is it?”

“No, it’s not. And, before you start your latest campaign, might I suggest you consider the fact there aren’t any workmen on that site.”

“You mean they’ve stopped the building?”

Henry shrugged.

“But they’ve laid foundations and started work,” Oliver said. “They’ve destroyed a whole forest. Are they going to just leave it like that?”

“I’d think so,” Henry said.

Oliver punched his fist in the air. “Then we won’t rest until they’ve put back every tree and every blade of grass.”

Henry wished Oliver luck with that and thanked Evan for his help. He took a photo of the map with his phone and then saw himself out while Evan shouted at someone down the phone. At least he’d found out how the journalist Roy Parker had come across the map: either thanks to someone in the council or someone in Kath Dobson’s office.

Henry searched for the MP’s office address before getting into his car, hoping she was in her constituency and available to answer questions such as why she pressured a pensioner to keep silent about a dangerous housing scandal.

Chapter Thirty

Kath Dobson MP had a constituency office in the centre of Skipton, opposite the bus station and next door to a nightclub that Henry vaguely remembered from the late seventies – when he was of the age to frequent such places.

The Member of Parliament’s office was small and narrow, squished between the nightclub entrance and a kebab house. The office looked like it had once been a shop. Its large front window had a poster of the blonde-bobbed MP in her trademark powder-blue suit jacket. Her image smiled at the street, giving off both pleasant and sinister vibes that made Henry feel mildly uncomfortable. There was very little mention of the MP’s governing party or its leader in the image, suggesting she didn’t want to be associated with them.

Henry went inside the office, and the shop bell rang, an old reminder of the building’s previous use. There was a desk just next to the door, where the shop counter would’ve been. Sitting at it was a young woman with dark hair, wearing a black cashmere cardigan and a pair of stylish mittens. Henry noticed the small electric heater by her desk chair.

She looked up at Henry from her laptop’s screen with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

“Can I help?”

“Yes. I’m hoping to speak with the MP. Is she around?”

“Kath?” The woman glanced to a doorway at the opposite end of the shop. “I’m afraid she’s not available.”

“Right. Is she in London?”

The woman shook her head. “Not today.”

Henry knew the MP should be around, considering it was Friday. MPs usually left London on Thursday evening and headed to their constituencies to show their faces to the people who voted them in.

“So, she’s not here?”

The woman blinked. “She’s not taking visitors. Do you have an appointment?”

Knowing better than to answer her, which would’ve ended their discussion, Henry glanced towards the back of the shop. The rest of the office was filled with cardboard boxes, which Henry suspected contained campaigning literature. The door at the far end, which the young woman had looked at, was ajar.

“You can tell her,” Henry said, loud enough for his voice to travel, “I wish to speak about the old map Evan Peters found in Gargrave. You know, that map with the lead mine in it?”

The woman at the front desk double-blinked.

“Do know what I mean by that?” Henry asked her.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. Kath’s not available right now. But if I could take your name and number–”

“Tell Kath, I’m a former detective chief inspector from West Yorkshire, and I wish to speak to her about the Birchwood estate in Gargrave–”

The door at the far end of the shop swung open, and Kath Dobson stormed out. She wasn’t wearing blue today, but instead a dark suit with shoulder pads that made her look bulkier than she really was. She was shorter than Henry had imagined her to be, but still intimidating.

She was in her late-fifties, Henry guessed, as she stood before him. She held out her hand for him to shake and put on what Henry imagined to be her campaigning expression.

“I’m Kath Dobson. Nice to meet you. Apologies, I was on the phone just now with the Minister of State. Do you want to come through to my office?”

Henry guessed she was lying – as she had not said which minister she’d been speaking to – and followed her past the cardboard boxes into the back of the shop.

The office was just as old as the rest of the shop, and looked like it had been decorated when the previous occupant was there. It had white walls, high ceilings, and a grilled window looking into the back alley. Kath’s desk was the only sign of modernity. A brand-new silver Apple computer was on her sleek glass desk, her ergonomic chair was black and slightly menacing. As she took a seat, she gestured for Henry to sit down on a chair before her.

“Now, Mr…?”

“Former DCI Henry Ward.”

“Alright.” She noted it down on heavyweight paper with an expensive fountain pen. “And you wish to speak to me?”

“Yes. I’ve just been speaking to Evan Peters over in Gargrave.”

“Right, and he is…?”

“He’s someone who met with you just before Christmas.”

She looked nonplussed. “I’ll have to check my diary to confirm that. So, what does this gentleman claim?”

“He said he showed you an old map of the lead mine in Gargrave.”

She shook her head, which wobbled her blonde bob. “I’m not aware of any map nor any lead mine, I’m afraid. What is it this man is alleging?”

“He isn’t alleging anything. His map clearly shows that the site on which Maxwell Birchwood is building the Gargrave housing estate is unsafe.”

“Really?” Her mock horror was well-practised and could almost have convinced Henry.

“Please don’t pretend this is the first time you’ve heard about this,” Henry said. “Evan Peters says you’ve known about it since December.”

“This man” – she leant forward to read her notes – “Evan Peters claims to have spoken to me, Mr Ward. Do you know how many people I speak to in a week? Hundreds.”

“He says you went to his house and told him to keep the contents of the map secret and not to tell anyone about them.”

She shook her head. “That doesn’t sound like something I’d say. I’m a campaigner, Mr Ward, for justice and for keeping those in power in check. If someone such as this… Evan Peters … had immediate and pressing concerns, I’d be on the phone to the minister, alerting him to the issue without delay.”

“Evan Peters did speak to people in authority. He sent the map to the local council, but they didn’t reply to him. And then he told you, which ended up being a dead end.” Henry leant back in his chair, which creaked under him.

“Well, as I’ve told you, Mr Ward, such a conversation didn’t take place,” Kath said. Her blue eyes then took on a predatory glare. “I can’t comment on what might’ve been said, and I hope you can respect that.”

“You’re saying Evan Peters is lying?”

She shook her head. “All I’m saying is that I haven’t spoken to him, I don’t know who he is, and thus can’t comment on imagined conversations.”

“Did you know Maxwell Birchwood found out about the lead mine?” Henry asked, hoping this new gambit might get him somewhere.

Kath raised an eyebrow – more out of curiosity than surprise. “He found out… about the possibility that there might be… Was it a lead mine, you said?”

Henry played along with her subterfuge. “Yes, Maxwell found out about the lead mine on the site, and then he had the ground tested and learnt it was highly toxic, especially for young people. Which renders the whole project worthless and will probably bankrupt his company.”

Kath’s right eye twitched. She crossed her arms. “You are involved in the investigation into Maxwell Birchwood’s death, I suppose?”

Henry nodded. “That’s right. I’m not involved in the Gargrave Ecological group – or whatever they call themselves. Though, they know about the lead mine now.”

Kath exhaled in despair and closed her eyes. “Shit.”

She spun her chair around and walked over to a metal filing cabinet in the corner of the room, where she pulled out a folder from a drawer. She threw the folder in Henry’s direction and it landed on her desk and a photocopy of the old map slid out.

She turned to look at the grilled window. “What was I supposed to do, Mr Ward? It’s an election year. Things are already looking dicey for me. And this old anorak-wearing clown comes and says the largest building project in my constituency – a key achievement that I’ve put in my campaign leaflet – could kill any child that lives on it.”

“And you told Evan not to tell anyone?”

She didn’t respond.

“When did you last speak to Maxwell Birchwood?”

Kath snorted. “I saw him at a Conservative Christmas party. He came with his annoying wife and was – as usual – the talk of the party.”

“Why?”

“He’s a mover and shaker, and his wife was sullen and childish. People found them interesting.”

“Was Maxwell a Tory member?”

She shook her head. “He wasn’t anything, or should I say… he was a pure capitalist. All he did was ensure he could keep building his empire – keep the cash rolling in. It was his focus 24/7.”

“Hence the political donation he made to you?”

She pouted. “All donations made to me are publicly declared and can be viewed on the Parliament’s website.”

“But he did make a donation, because he saw you as being supportive to his empire-building.”

Kath shook her head. “I don’t know what he saw in me. I think he just preferred me over my opponent. Do you know him? Well, how could you? He’s some wet socialist-nobody, who’s trying to ignite the fury of the Nimbys.”

“Aye, sounds about right. Maxwell was supporting the pro-house building candidate in my constituency against the incumbent.”

She looked at him, knowingly. “Yes, I’ve met the Labour candidate. As I said, Maxwell was a pure capitalist – he wasn’t party-affiliated.” She exhaled, almost sadly. “He was a powerhouse. This region will be worse off without him.”

“Do you know who killed him?”

“Lord only knows. I’ve heard rumours of gangsters.”

“And do you believe them?”

“We do have gangsters in Yorkshire, obviously, who doesn’t? But they mostly hang around the big cities, don’t they? Like Bradford and Leeds. Well, you’d know better than me. Over here in the Yorkshire Dales, we only have issues with them using teenagers to move drugs across county lines. Apart from that…”

“And have you heard anything about corruption?”

She shook her head. “Never. Not a whiff of it. Everything he did was above board.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“Well, he couldn’t afford not to. If anyone found out…”

“What about this Gargrave incident.”

“That… that was a cock-up, which was very rare for him – as he barely made any.”

“He bought the land from the council, didn’t he? Do you think they knew about the dangerous levels of lead?”

“Lord only knows. But I highly doubt it.” She huffed loudly. “It’s too damn late to change my flyers now.” Returning to her desk, she slumped down on her fancy desk chair. “They would all have to be pulped and new ones designed. Is there anything else, Mr Ward?”

Henry hesitated. “The old map was leaked to a journalist.”

Kath appeared genuinely shocked, and then she frowned. “Is that how Maxwell found out?”

Henry nodded. “I take it that you didn’t leak it?”

Her blue eyes widened. “I certainly did not. Why would I mutilate my campaign like that?”

Henry believed her, and thought he knew who did leak the map to Roy. “That’s everything, I need. I shan’t take up any more of your time.”

Kath nodded, absent-mindedly, as she stared into the distance.

“Good luck with the campaign,” he said, heading to the door.

“Thanks. I’m going to need it.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Henry walked past the cardboard boxes in the office as he headed to the front door. He spotted a blue leaflet poking out of the top one. Printed next to Kath Dobson’s face was ‘Massive new housing development’ which had been labelled ‘One of Kath’s many achievements’. Henry counted twenty boxes of them – all would have to go.

The dark-haired woman was at the front desk, on the phone. Henry waited for her to finish.

Hanging up, she glanced at the MP’s office and then at Henry. “Can I help?”

“Do you know a journalist called Roy Parker?”

The woman shook her head, but her reddening neck gave her away.

“He received a copy of an old map back in January.”

“I wouldn’t know anything–”

Henry silenced her with a wave of his hand. “I don’t know why you leaked it to him – what game it was in aid of. However, if you don’t confess it was you right now, I’ll go back in there and tell your boss my suspicions.”

The woman’s eyes flashed towards Kath’s office.

“You’ve five seconds to decide.” Henry held up a finger for each second.

The woman waited until the fourth. “Oh, all bloody right. I leaked it to him, yes… I knew he’d be interested.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s a big story.”

“But wouldn’t it destroy your boss’s electoral prospects?”

The woman only stared at him, clearly not wishing to divulge her motives.

Henry observed her, noticed she was in her early forties, and sensed a burning ambition within her. “How long have you been Kath’s assistant?”

“Long enough.”

“You hoped to get her out of the picture so you could take over? Is that it?”

The woman scowled at him. She spoke quietly. “We’re not all a bunch of snakes, you know. Besides, I’d rather not be an MP. Have you seen how they get treated?”

Henry grinned at her. “Why did you do it then?” But the woman clearly wasn’t going to say, so Henry added, “I can still tell Kath what you’ve done. She’ll have to get rid of all these flyers, you know–”

“She’s going to lose. All the polling shows it. Maybe… if we changed candidate before the election, we might just hold on.”

“Ah, so you leak a scandal, causing her to step down, and then you find a replacement who might win? Yeah, it doesn’t sound like you’re a bunch of snakes, at all. Who’d replace her?”

The woman shrugged as if she genuinely didn’t know. “We’ll find someone.”

“Do you think they’ll do any better than Kath?”

“We don’t know. It’s worth a shot, though, isn’t it?”

Henry shook his head. “Was this all your idea?”

She shrugged. “Mostly.”

“Who did you talk to about it?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“You didn’t speak to people in the council, did you?”

She frowned suspiciously. “Why?”

“You know Maxwell Birchwood bought that land from them, so if this scandal takes down Kath, it’ll no doubt take out a few councillors with her.”

The woman’s expression went blank, and she looked slightly grey in the pale sunlight coming through the window. “Right. I see.”

“Care to mention who you spoke to at the council, as I’d like to know who sold the land–”

“They didn’t know anything,” she said abruptly. “Not till that map was sent to them…” She went paler. “I think they buried it in a file somewhere or shredded it.”

“Well, I’m not surprised.” Henry cleared his throat for dramatic effect. “Well, best of luck with everything.”

Heading to the door, Henry mustered all his powers of sarcasm and said, “I hope everything works out for you, it sounds like you deserve it.”

* * *

Outside, a biting wind enveloped him. He walked along the icy pavement with the winter’s sun shining down on him. Pulling out his phone, he searched for Roy’s number, which he’d taken from the journalist the previous night. Roy didn’t answer, however, so Henry left a message, asking him to call him back. He mentioned the map, hoping it’d push Roy into calling him more quickly.

He made it to his car and took a seat. The wind shook his vehicle, and Henry rubbed his gloved hands together to create some warmth.

Henry started the engine in order to get the heating going. Well, he thought, at least he’d learnt the mystery behind the Gargrave Estate and who had sent the map to Roy Parker. However, none of it seemed to implicate anyone in the murder of Maxwell Birchwood. In fact, the Gargrave Estate didn’t appear to have anything to do with Maxwell’s murder at all. It was a scandal, and it would’ve been terminal for Birchwood’s company, but beyond that…

He tapped his chin and peered out the windscreen at the quiet street he’d parked on. A few shoppers braved the elements. One strolled out of a fish and chip shop with a bag of hot food. Henry’s stomach rumbled; it was nearly lunchtime. He got out of his car and crossed the street towards the chippy. A greasy smell billowed out its door, and Henry could almost taste the salty chips. His eyes happened to glance at someone walking down the street to the right of its entrance.

It was Lee Nothers.

Henry’s heart skipped a few beats, and he waved at him, only for Lee at sneak down a narrow alleyway to the side of the fish and chip shop.

Quickening his pace, Henry rushed to follow him.

The alleyway was empty, but footsteps sounded at the other end, moving quickly away. Henry ran after him. If he could get Lee to talk, he might be able to shine light on what happened to Ben Lloyd and–

A motorbike’s engine roared. The sound echoed off the stone walls surrounding Henry. Amid the din, he was certain he heard a cry for help and the sound of wheelie bins being overturned.

Crap, he thought. The biker’s got him.

While distracted, Henry’s foot slipped on a thick sheet of ice, and, falling forwards, he slammed his head into the side of the wall.

Crumpled on the ground, Henry lay still for a while, listening to the motorbike speed off into the distance. Truth be told, Henry was more concerned about dislocating his prosthetic hip than Lee Nothers’ wellbeing. After a few moments had passed, he realised he would’ve felt intense pain if he was badly injured and guessed his legs had survived the fall. He tried to get up, but his head was dizzy. He touched a wound on his forehead where he’d headbutted the wall. His fingers came away covered in blood.

“That can’t be good,” he said to himself.

He hauled himself up and walked carefully to the end of the alleyway behind the row of shops. Two wheelie bins lay on their sides, having spilled their contents onto the ground. The scent of petrol hung in the air from the motorbike but was quickly overwhelmed by oily fumes belching out of the fish and chip shop’s extraction fan. Henry’s hungry stomach grumbled, and he turned back. Maybe the chippy would lend him a newspaper to staunch his bleeding forehead.

He called Barnes when he’d made it back to the front of the shop, but she didn’t answer so he called Hargreaves.

“I’ve just seen Lee Nothers in Skipton,” he said, stepping into the warmth of the shop. He noticed a few panicked stares from the customers waiting in line and wondered what their problem was.

“Christ? Have you?” Hargreaves said. “Right, I’ll get the local plod to look for him.”

“Aye… do…” Henry felt incredibly light-headed. Just holding his phone had become a great effort. “I think… I… heard a… motor…”

He keeled over and landed on his side. One customer screamed, and panicked murmurs filled the air around him. Hargreaves’ muffled voice shouted his name out from his phone’s earpiece.

But Henry couldn’t answer.

All he wanted to do was get comfy on these tiles and drift off to sleep.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Despite only smelling battered fish and chip fat, it took Henry a few moments to figure out where he was when he woke up. A small crowd had formed around him in the entrance of the chippy. The shop owner, wearing a white polo shirt and a blue plastic apron, knelt beside him on the mucky tiles, asking if he was okay.

Henry didn’t know exactly how long he’d been unconscious. Going by the queue at the counter, he realised it couldn’t have been that long, as he recognised the same people as before. His forehead felt hot and wet, and he patted it with his fingers and saw more blood on them. Whether it was fresh blood, he had no idea. His almighty headache lingered, but he no longer felt dizzy, which was a start. He noticed the faces peering down at him. Some looked shocked, some intrigued, while one or two looked embarrassed for him.

Deciding it was time to end the show, Henry went to haul himself up off the tiled floor.

“Don’t move, sir,” said the shop owner, pressing a hand on Henry’s shoulder. He introduced himself as Ken.

Henry obeyed him and remained lying down, only because his head had started to spin again when he’d tried to stand. Ken held Henry’s phone to his ear and spoke into it, informing the person on the other line that Henry was awake.

Ken then hung up the call. “The police detective you were talking to is nearly here.”

Henry strained his aching brain to remember who he’d been talking to before he passed out. “Tell Hargreaves there’s no need to fuss.” Henry went to stand up again, but Ken pressed him down.

“I’ll call you an ambulance, sir.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll be fine. I just hit my head while I slipped outside. Luckily, I didn’t break my hips, otherwise I really would need an ambulance.”

Ken looked at him as if he was talking gibberish.

“No really, I’m fine. I was chasing someone…” Henry recalled the sound of the motorbike and seeing Lee Nothers sneaking down the alleyway. “He’s been snatched… Nothers. I have to get going.”

Henry ignored Ken’s requests to stay seated and pulled himself up. The side of his winter coat was covered in grease and muck from the floor tiles.

“Please, sir–”

“Here,” Henry said, losing his patience. “Get me something to bandage my head with and stop whining.”

Ken looked at the small crowd behind him for backup, but none of them wanted to get involved. They’d come in here for lunch, not to argue with a pensioner with a head injury. Giving in, Ken went behind the counter, where the fryers hissed away, pumping out fatty heat. He returned with a handful of blue kitchen roll.

Henry thanked him and patted the wound on his head. The blood seemed to be congealing, which was good. It had dripped down his coat, and he glanced at the small pool of scarlet on the white floor tiles. He’d made a right mess, Henry realised, feeling even more embarrassed.

Hargreaves appeared at the glass door and spotted Henry from the outside. She stepped into the shop and assessed the scene; Henry’s wound, the blood on the floor, and the scared customers. She brandished her police ID card and took control of the situation.

“Alright, Henry,” she said to him. “Best get you to A & E.”

“I’m not going to hospital,” he said, now satisfied that the cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding.

Ken approached Hargreaves. “He came in with his head cut open and passed out. He says he slipped on ice down the alleyway. He didn’t fall in here. These people can tell you what they saw.”

Hargreaves nodded to him. “Come on then, Henry, let’s be having you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You either let me take you to hospital or I’ll get that fussy neighbour of yours to take care of you.”

Henry couldn’t think of anything worse than Jean turning up to inflame the situation. “Right, fine. I’ll come with you, but no hospital. I can’t be bothered sitting in A & E for twelve hours only for them to give me paracetamol and a leaflet on head injuries.”

Henry followed Hargreaves outside after he thanked Ken for his concern. The freezing temperatures actually made him feel better and he took a lungful of air.

He pointed down the alleyway where he’d slipped. “Lee Nothers went down there, and then, in the back street, I heard a motorbike. The biker must’ve seized him and taken him somewhere.”

Hargreaves looked both alarmed and annoyed. “Shit. Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?” She pulled out her pink phone and called Barnes.

After hanging up, she told Henry that Wiltshire and Barnes were on their way.

“Did you see the biker?” she asked.

Henry shook his head. “I ran after Lee Nothers, but then slipped on ice, and…” He gestured to his head. The headache remained, and he squinted in the pale sunlight.

“Are you sure you don’t want an ambulance?”

“I’m fine. My head’s mostly made of wood, anyway,” he joked. “I found out what had been happening down in Gargrave.”

Hargreaves looked curious. “With the Birchwood estate? What did you find?”

“There’s an old lead mine under the site. Birchwood found out a few weeks ago, had the soil tested, and learnt it was toxic.”

“Bloody hell, I bet he liked that.” She frowned. “How did you find out?”

“A long story. You can go ask the local MP for details.”

“The who?”

“Never mind,” Henry said.

They stepped into the alleyway and out of the wind, with Henry walking cautiously over the frozen ground. He rested his back against the wall and sighed, pressing a hand to his thumping forehead. Hargreaves stood opposite him, wrapped up tightly in her long black coat. The wind blew her jet-black hair around her pale face.

“Here, did you find that journalist last night?” Henry asked.

“No, I didn’t.”

Henry chuckled. “Aye, I thought as much. ’cause he found me.”

“You what?”

“He came to my door last night, and we had a drink over the road.”

“What did he want?”

“He asked me questions about this case, but he didn’t get much out of me. I did, however, find out the truth about the Gargrave Estate from him.”

“Bloody hell. What did you have to hand over to get that?”

Henry shrugged. “He must’ve liked my charm.”

“Aye… he saw you as an easy target, more like. He’s slippery, that journalist. You shouldn’t have spoken to him.”

“Why? Do you know him?”

She shook her head. “Murphy does, and he doesn’t rate him.”

Henry chuckled. “Why? ’cause this journalist knows what questions to ask and doesn’t accept Murphy’s bull-crap?”

Hargreaves didn’t deny it, but instead said, “That journalist you were getting so pally with was threatening to release a story about all the political donations Maxwell Birchwood had made.”

“Really? He didn’t mention that to me.”

“Why would he divulge a thing like that? He was too busy pumping info out of you.”

A harsher wind blasted down the alleyway, and Henry and Hargreaves braced themselves.

“Christ, it’s freezing. Shall we go wait in my car?” she asked.

“When will they arrive?”

“They said soon.”

“Here, did you ever follow up on Chris Harper’s whereabouts yesterday?”

Hargreaves nodded. “Aye, I did. Well… As he was driving around Skipton, I asked North Yorkshire to deal with it.” She rolled her eyes. “But they never got back to me, did they? The useless sods. I’ll ring them now and give them an earful.”

She pulled her phone out of her pocket and stared at its screen. “Oh, not again! This bloody phone. Three missed calls from Barnes. It keeps going into silent mode without me realising.”

She called Barnes and then looked at Henry. “Yeah, he’s here. Why?”

Hargreaves went paler than usual. Moving the phone away from her cheek, she said to Henry, “That journalist…?”

Henry frowned. “Oh, shit. Don’t tell me. He’s dead?”

She shook her head. “I hope not. But there’s been a break-in at his flat, and he’s missing. There are signs of a struggle. His wife called it in thirty minutes ago. Barnes and Wiltshire have just gone over.”

Henry frowned. “Missing?”

Hargreaves nodded and placed her pink phone next to her ear. “What’s that, Barnes?” she asked. She listened, and then said to Henry, “They’ve just got there now.”

“Where does he live?”

“A few streets from here.”

“Well,” Henry said, straightening up. “Shall we head on over and see what’s what?”

Hargreaves shook her head. “You shouldn’t. Apparently, the journalist made notes that he spoke to you yesterday…”

“Aye, as I’ve just told you.”

“And the wife checked his phone messages just now and heard the one you left an hour ago… where you mentioned a map?”

Henry nodded again, wondering where she was going with this. “Aye, someone had leaked the map of the old lead mine to him, and I was going to tell him who’d done it… Why? What’s happened?”

“The wife states the map’s gone missing with the journalist.” Hargreaves listened to Barnes down the line. She then said to Henry, “Sounds like Roy managed to send a half-written text message to his wife, literally saying, ‘I’m being kidnap’ but didn’t finish the word before he pressed send.”

“Jesus,” Henry said. “And the map’s been taken?”

Hargreaves nodded and spoke to Barnes on her phone.

Through his headache, Henry tried to put the pieces together. Clearly, someone knew Roy had a copy of the map and wanted it bad enough to break in and take it from him. Which would indicate that perhaps Maxwell’s murder was linked to Gargrave, after all.

“But it’s too late…” Henry said to himself. “Why try to hush it up now? It’s public knowledge. Everyone in Gargrave will know about it this afternoon.”

Hargreaves peered at him, with a hint of worry. “Are you alright?”

“Aye. I just don’t get it. Why cover it up now?” He then realised. “Ah, they don’t know I’ve just leaked everything to the people of Gargrave.” He chuckled to himself. “Well, what a pity.”

“Henry, you’re not making sense. You sure you don’t want a trip to A & E?”

“Whoever broke into Roy’s place and took the evidence of the Gargrave scandal doesn’t know it’s already become public knowledge. So, what they’ve just gone and done is futile.”

“It still doesn’t stop the fact that they’ve broken into someone’s house and kidnapped someone.”

“Aye, it doesn’t. But, hopefully, it means they’ll have no motivation to do it again. Anyway, let’s find Roy before the biker does away with him.”

“If we let North Yorkshire Police deal with it, he’ll end up just like Ben Lloyd. If you want something done right, don’t ask North Yorkshire Police to do it.” She headed down the alleyway towards the road.

As Henry took a few steps forward, his head spun. He pressed a hand against the brickwork to steady himself and gulped in some cold air.

Hargreaves noticed. “Henry… shouldn’t you have a sit down?”

He shook his head, straightening himself up. “I’m fine. Hopefully, that fall knocked some sense into me. Besides, I didn’t tell you earlier, but I owe Roy a favour. And now I can fulfil it.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Roy Parker lived in a modern stone house on a quiet cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Skipton. His home had a small drive and a garage, in which two vehicles were visible – one of which Henry recalled seeing in Addingham the night before.

After putting on latex gloves and forensic overshoes, Henry followed Hargreaves past the North Yorkshire Police patrol cars parked on the street. She flashed her ID at the uniformed officer guarding the house’s front door, telling him Henry was with her. The officer didn’t seem to care either way.

Wiltshire and Barnes stood on the ground-floor landing, quietly discussing something. They didn’t see Henry, who slipped into the living room opposite the main entrance. A settee and matching armchair were surrounded by bookcases, and the window looked out onto a small garden and the towpath of the canal. Henry inspected the framed pictures on the mantelpiece over the gas fire. Each one showed Roy smiling and standing next to a woman a similar age.

Henry then strolled out of the room and, ensuring Barnes and Wiltshire had their backs to him, he went upstairs. He overheard Barnes explaining the situation to Hargreaves, most of which Henry had already gathered, as he crossed the upstairs landing and entered a study.

A North Yorkshire Police officer was in there, taking pictures of a messy desk. Henry nodded a greeting to him, and the uniform carried on talking photos, paying him little notice.

Keeping his distance from the desk, Henry looked at the paperwork. There were several notebooks wide open, each containing Roy’s illegible handwriting. Newspaper clippings, academic reports, and correspondence littered the rest of the desk – all seemed to be linked to various stories Roy had been working on. A few of them mentioned Gargrave and the Birchwood housing estate. An empty space in the middle of the desk suggested a laptop had been stolen along with the map. But, considering the disorder of the study, Henry wondered how anyone could’ve guessed the map was missing.

“How does the wife know the blueprints for the mine were nicked?” Henry asked the uniformed officer.

The officer pointed at four pins on a noticeboard on the wall. “The wife says she saw the map there.”

“Ah,” Henry said. Under one of the pins, was the ripped corner of a sheet of A4 paper. “I see.”

Henry had seen enough of the study and headed downstairs, walking down them slowly as he was unsure if Barnes was on the landing. When he heard her voice in the kitchen, he knew he was safe, and headed to the front door. Before stepping out into the cold, he peered at the door frame. The lock was intact, suggesting the intruder hadn’t shot it open like they’d done with his own door.

That reminded him he’d have to get that fixed once SOCO had finished with his cottage. A new boiler and a new door? He hoped his finances could stretch to that.

While standing in the doorway, Henry heard the voices moving down the hallway and spotted Barnes before she saw him.

She looked at him with shock and confusion, which quickly turned to anger. “What the hell are you doing here!?”

Henry couldn’t see the point in lying. “Trying to see what happened to Roy.”

“Get out of here.” She then squinted at the wound on his forehead. “What the hell happened to you? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he said defensively.

“You can’t be here,” she said with less venom.

“I understand that, and I’m just leaving.”

Glancing around the landing, she asked, “How the hell did you get in anyway…” Her eyes landed on Hargreaves. “You gave him access to an active crime scene?”

Hargreaves shook her head. “Not to my knowledge.”

“What happened here?” Henry asked, remaining near the door. He spotted Wiltshire leaving the kitchen with the middle-aged woman he’d seen with Roy in the framed photos in the living room. “Don’t tell me. Someone knocked on the door; Roy recognised them and allowed them to enter his home. The visitor then ‘persuaded’ Roy to go with him, before or after he’d taken the map and the laptop from the study upstairs?”

Barnes clenched her jaw shut.

“I doubt the wife was in?” Henry asked, looking over Barnes’s shoulder at Roy’s wife.

The woman blinked her red eyes at Henry. “Who’s this?” she asked Wiltshire.

“He’s leaving,” Barnes answered.

Henry could see he’d outstayed his welcome. “I’ll be going then.”

Stepping out into the bitter winter, he walked past the uniformed officer, who appeared oblivious to what had just happened inside the house. Henry surveyed the cul-de-sac as he walked down the drive, looking for a sign of anything out of the ordinary. There were no tracks on the drive. The houses opposite seemed lifeless in the middle of the working day. Two uniformed officers knocked on a neighbour’s door and weren’t getting a response.

“No clues here, then,” Henry said to himself.

As he approached the street, he remembered he’d come to the house in Hargreaves’ car, and that his own was parked outside the MP’s office a few streets away. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he braced himself for the wind and walked towards it. The road led out the cul-de-sac and back into town, but Henry spotted a narrow alleyway running between two houses, so he took it, hoping it’d be quicker than walking along the street.

The alley took him to the canal, and he followed the towpath in the direction of his Skoda. His headache hadn’t fully gone and, for a moment, he wondered if he should see a doctor – only to make sure he didn’t drop down dead with an undetected head injury later. The memory of hearing the motorbike before he fell came to him, and he recalled seeing Lee Nothers near the fish and chip shop.

Was anyone even following that up? he asked himself. A canal barge glided past him, leisurely beating his walking pace. He would have to be the one who looked into Lee Nothers’ abduction, wouldn’t he?

On approaching the service lane behind the fish and chip shop, he stepped into the loading area near its wheelie bins. The biker must’ve picked up Lee Nothers here, Henry realised. He searched the area for any clues but didn’t find anything to suggest a motorbike had been there. Peering up at the fish and chip shop’s back wall, he saw a CCTV camera positioned just below its guttering. Its black lens stared right back at him.

“Ah…” Henry said to himself. “Looks like we’re getting somewhere.”

There were fewer customers in the fish and chip shop when Henry walked back in. The bloodstain on the floor had been mopped up, and a yellow ‘wet floor’ sign took its place. Henry waited until the customers had been served before he approached the counter.

Ken, the fish and chip shop owner, double-blinked when he saw Henry.

“A fish butty with extra vinegar,” Henry said, hoping it’d fill him up for the rest of the day. “And that CCTV camera you have around the back; can I assume it works?”

Ken’s strained expression suggested he struggled to make sense of him. “Erm… yes. It works. We had trouble with vandals… Why?”

“Get me that fish butty, and I’ll explain.”

Ken was reluctant at first, but after Henry explained he was working with the police on a murder inquiry, he relented and prepared the sandwich. He asked an employee to serve the next customer who walked in and let Henry around the side of the counter. The detective paid for his sandwich and took a bite out of it. The bread was fresh, the butter melted, and the battered fish very vinegary.

Henry ate his sandwich as Ken led him into a back room. A small desk was in the corner with an old computer on it. The room’s walls held shelves filled with sacks of potatoes, bottles of pop, and packs of blue kitchen roll. Henry explained the situation as vaguely as he could, while making it sound urgent enough for Ken to care.

Ken leant over the desk and clicked on the computer. He quickly found the CCTV footage and rewound it. By that time, Henry had finished his sandwich. He helped himself to a sheet of kitchen roll from the shelves and wiped his fingers and mouth.

“Here…” Ken said. “An hour ago. There’s not much there.”

Henry leant over the desk to look at the screen. A motorbike was in shot at the bottom of the screen, parked near the back wall of the fish and chip shop. Dropping the kitchen roll in the bin, Henry instructed Ken to skip forwards.

“I want to see who drives that motorbike,” Henry said, before adding, “The swine is probably wearing a helmet, though.”

“I doubt it,” Ken said. “Look. There’s a helmet hanging off the handlebar.”

He was correct, and Henry leant closer to the screen, peering at the black helmet. Henry felt a twinge of excitement. They were going to see the identity of the biker.

Lee Nothers rushed out the alleyway, and glanced over his shoulder, no doubt watching Henry slip and fall.

Not his finest moment, Henry admitted to himself.

Lee strolled up to the motorbike, put the black helmet on, and jumped onto the seat. He fumbled with the bike’s clutch and throttled the engine, and his motorcycle lurched forwards, smashing into two wheelie bins outside the fish shop, which both toppled over. After correcting himself, he sped off out of frame.

Henry closed his mouth, which had gaped open, and fumbled his phone out of his pocket.

“Play that again,” he said breathlessly. “And pause when the bike’s in shot.”

Ken sighed but obliged.

Henry found the video of the biker who’d broken into his house that morning on his phone. Pausing the frame, he peered at the yellow number plate, barely visible on his phone’s screen.

“Right. I’ve got it,” Ken said.

The motorbike Lee was driving outside the fish and chip shop was on the computer screen. However, its registration plate wasn’t in shot.

“Blood and sand,” Henry said. “Can you not see his bike’s registration number?”

Ken shrugged and reversed through the footage and rewatched it all. He shook his head. “Sorry, you only see half of the bike.”

Henry cursed under his breath.

“Is that all you wanted to see? That lad getting on his bike?” Ken asked, sounding perplexed and confused, as if Henry really was deranged and needed help.

“The police will need that footage,” Henry said, and then he called Hargreaves, who picked up straightaway. “Lee Nothers hasn’t been kidnapped at all. He’s the bloody biker.”

“You what?” she asked.

“CCTV footage at the fish and chip shop confirms it.”

“You’re joking?! Wait, are you back at the bloody fish and chip shop?”

“You’d best instruct Wiltshire’s lot to find and apprehend Lee Nothers as soon as possible because, if he’s the biker, he’s probably got Roy Parker held up somewhere and is about to do away with him.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Henry left the fish and chip shop, to the evident relief of Ken, who’d promised to send a copy of the CCTV footage to Hargreaves’ email address. Stepping gingerly over the sheet of ice where he’d fallen earlier, Henry walked along the alleyway and into the service lane behind the row of shops where the motorbike had been parked. The lane led back into the centre of Skipton and, from there, Lee Nothers could have gone anywhere.

“Bugger,” Henry said to himself, his breath forming a cloud.

He headed back to the front of the shop, and while walking down the alleyway, thought he could make out a bloodstain on the brick wall where his forehead had made contact. He got back into this Skoda, started the engine, turned the heaters on full blast, and kept his coat and gloves on as he pulled his car out of the parking spot.

Henry thought the streets were busy for a wintry Friday afternoon and then realised it was market day. Stalls lined the cobbled spaces in front of the shops on the high street. A large number of shoppers had braved the cold, Henry noted as he drove slowly past, looking at the market on both sides of him. The shoppers were wrapped up in thick coats, wearing bobble hats and gloves. They didn’t seem to be buying much, going by the few plastic bags they were carrying.

Henry spotted a CCTV camera high up on the top of a street light. The camera’s lens watched the traffic going around the roundabout just in front of Skipton Castle. Henry pulled into the side of the road near the entry to the roundabout, upsetting shoppers waiting to cross the busy street. He ignored their angry looks and called Hargreaves.

“Any news on Lee Nothers?” he asked.

Hargreaves sounded like she was in a car, rally-driving somewhere. “North Yorkshire are looking for him.”

“Still?” Henry sighed in desperation. “Bloody hell, what are they playing at?! Lee Nothers could be Maxwell Birchwood’s killer and the one who shot up my bedroom last night.”

“I know that, Henry. But we’re in Skipton, another county, and we have to play by their rules. Didn’t you tell me that yesterday?”

Henry grumbled. “Aye, I did.” He shook his head and peered up at the CCTV camera on the street light. “This isn’t bloody good enough, Hargreaves.”

“Henry… what do you want me to say? If it were up to me, I’d call Murphy and get him to play the ‘I’m a deputy superintendent’ card, and force North Yorkshire to sort their shit out, but–”

“Well, why don’t you do that?”

“You what?”

“North Yorkshire are pissing us about. One bloke’s dead, a young lad’s been murdered, and a journalist, whose death will no doubt cause a stir, might be about to go the same way. Meanwhile North Yorkshire police are sitting around drinking tea.”

The line went silent. “Good point.”

Henry felt a pang of satisfaction before queasiness came over him. “Don’t tell Murphy I asked for his help.”

Hargreaves chuckled. “My lips are sealed.”

She hung up.

Henry wondered what he’d just pushed into motion. Murphy would kick up a fuss and push North Yorkshire into helping them more effectively, as kicking up fusses and coercing people into doing things were two things Murphy was good at, but Henry didn’t like having to stoop to Murphy’s level or asking for his help.

A beeping car horn forced Henry out of his thoughts, and he realised he had parked badly at a busy roundabout in the centre of Skipton Market. He ignored the line of cars stuck behind him and the pedestrians forced to walk around the front of his vehicle, and wondered which direction Lee Nothers had taken. Had he returned to his little terraced house nearby in Skipton? Unlikely. Even Lee would have the brains to know not to go there.

Had he headed up to Gargrave or somewhere else? Henry was unsure. Did Lee Nothers have any links up there? In fact, Henry didn’t know much about the lad – other than that he was armed, on a motorbike, and wanted to keep a low profile because he might have a hostage in tow. Where would Lee Nothers choose to keep a low profile? It’d have to be some place he’d be familiar with – somewhere he wouldn’t be spotted.

Henry had an idea and hoped Lee really was as stupid as he looked. Starting his engine, Henry manoeuvred his vehicle out of its illegal parking space and entered the roundabout, taking the exit towards Addingham.

* * *

Henry didn’t drive through the centre of Addingham; instead, he took the bypass until he reached the Birchwood estate on Ilkley Road, then turned onto the winding country lane, climbing up the hillside towards the wild moors above. Grey clouds now covered the once-bright winter’s sun, and the fields beyond the drystone walls were a muddy white from a previous snowfall.

Henry pulled up outside old Fred Sowerby’s farm and peered at the ramshackle farmhouse and outbuildings. He quickly noticed the police tape wrapped around the corrugated-iron shed that had contained Fred Sowerby’s weapons. They’d probably all been confiscated, Henry thought, feeling a tinge of sympathy for the old man. He didn’t see anything else out of place. No sign of Fred Sowerby or his dog. Or Lee’s motorbike.

Henry got out of his car and opened an old wooden gate and entered the farmyard. But for the wind, it was silent. The dog that had barked yesterday was long gone. He walked towards the farmhouse’s front porch and looked through the front windows and saw nothing moving inside. Jesus, he thought, had Lee Nothers killed old Fred and his dog? He tried to put the thought out of his mind. Lee surely couldn’t be that bloodthirsty.

He knocked on the front door and waited. No response.

Henry walked the periphery of the house, peering through windows, and then started looking at the outbuildings. The white-and-blue police tape that covered the shed’s door quivered in the wind. Henry didn’t bother looking inside. There was a large stone barn opposite, so Henry walked towards it.

The concrete ground here was thick with white frost, and Henry walked carefully as he approached the old barn. The barn’s grey Yorkshire stone had weathered centuries of cold winters and wet summers, and the roof’s ridge was stooped in the middle. The wood in the arched double-doors had rotted and the paintwork had peeled. Henry also noticed they were unlocked and one door hung ajar.

He stopped a metre away from the entrance. The hair on his neck went up, alerting him to danger lurking inside. He took his phone from his pocket and gripped it. If he wanted help, he’d better call Hargreaves now. That was if his hunch was correct. He hoped he was wrong; that he was just being a silly old man who’d gotten the wrong end of the stick.

While wondering what to do, his phone rang in his hand, nearly sending his heart into seizure.

He answered it abruptly and stepped back from the barn’s door.

“What?” he whispered.

It was Hargreaves. “You were right. Murphy played bloody hell and North Yorkshire have tracked down Lee’s motorbike. It was last seen leaving Skipton an hour ago.”

Henry moved gingerly over the frosty ground towards the old shed that had contained the firearms. A part of him wished the weapons hadn’t been confiscated so he could grab one.

“Henry? Did you hear me?”

“Lee wasn’t… by any chance heading over… to Addingham?” he asked breathlessly.

“Aye. How did you know? A camera spotted him heading towards Ilkley, but we haven’t picked him up there yet.”

Henry took cover behind the shed’s corrugated iron wall. “I think he’s at Fred Sowerby’s farm.”

“You what? How do you know that?”

“I’m up there now. He used to work here, didn’t he? Thing is, there’s no sign of Fred anywhere. It’s deathly silent.”

“That old bloke’s still in custody and his dog’s in the kennels – it bit an officer.”

“There wouldn’t be any guns left around here, would there?” Henry asked, peering at the silver padlock on the shed’s door.

“No… I don’t think so… He might still have the shotguns he has licences for inside. Why?”

Henry noticed the rotten barn door creak open, and he didn’t get a chance to answer before a shot was fired. The bullet punctured a burning hole in the corrugated-iron sheeting above his head.

Henry dived on the floor. “Get an armed response unit up here now!” Henry hissed at Hargreaves.

He crawled to the farmhouse, keeping his head low, until he reached the front porch and was out of the gunman’s view. Heaving heavy breaths of icy cold air, he leant his back against the farmhouse’s brickwork and glanced over at the gate and his car, both clearly visible from Lee Nothers’ position at the barn’s entrance.

“Oh, my giddy aunt,” he huffed. “How the hell am I going to get out of this?”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Henry stood with his back to the farmhouse’s facade, staring at his Skoda parked ten feet away. He’d calmed his breathing, mostly in an attempt to keep the noise down. He didn’t want to encourage Lee to leave his position at the barn, walk over, and put a bullet in his head.

The thought made Henry breathe heavily again, and he decided he’d best do something about his situation.

His phone rang in his hand, startling him a moment, and he answered. “Yes?”

It was DI Barnes. “Henry. Armed response are on their way, but they’ll be fifteen minutes. Tell me what’s happening.”

“Fifteen minutes? I might be dead by the time they arrive.”

“Henry, focus. What’s happening?”

“I’m at Fred Sowerby’s farm taking cover from gunfire.”

“And it’s Lee Nothers?”

Henry went to answer, and then realised he’d not actually seen his attacker. “I believe it is.”

“What do you mean?”

Henry didn’t answer her. Instead, he turned his phone’s camera on – stuck it around the corner – and snapped a photo.

More gun shots cackled, hitting the brickwork next to him. Out of panic, he dropped his phone on the ground, then quickly knelt down to pick it up.

With shaking hands, he studied the picture he’d just taken. In the blurred photograph, Lee Nothers stood at the barn door, aiming a pistol in the camera’s direction.

“It’s him,” Henry said to Barnes, who’d been shouting his name in the meantime.

“Jesus. Are you alright?”

“Aye.” Henry looked about him. He couldn’t escape his position without becoming an easy target, especially as he had to waddle cautiously over the frozen yard. He then looked behind him at Fred Sowerby’s front door.

“Listen,” he said to Barnes. “I might have to break into the farmhouse. Old Fred might have a weapon inside, or I can at least barricade myself in there until help arrives.”

“Alright, fine. We can justify it considering the circumstances, just don’t cause too much damage…”

Henry ignored her, picked up a loose rock from the front step, and smashed the door’s window. He then used the rock to knock away the remaining glass from around the window frame. Stepping back to assess how he’d climb through, his boot knocked something metal onto the ground. Realising there had been a spare key hidden under the rock, he quickly grabbed it, unlocked the door, and rushed inside.

“I’m in,” he told Barnes.

The dusty hallway was freezing, almost as cold as his own house. It’d been tidied up slightly since he’d last been in there. Maybe the police had done it.

“Stay out of harm’s way,” Barnes said. “Help is coming–”

Henry ended the call as he needed to focus. If Lee Nothers had an ounce of intelligence, he’d have walked into the farmhouse and ended this already. Luckily for Henry, he didn’t.

He went into Fred’s study, where the paperwork remained untouched on the desk, piled high. To Henry’s relief, the old shotguns were still on the wall above the fireplace. He took one that looked less than a hundred years old and tried to recall his firearm training from forty years ago. He checked that the safety was on and pulled the lever near the trigger guard, opening both barrels. They were squeaky clean. Fred must polish them regularly, he thought. He searched the dresser drawers, which were jammed up with dusty paperwork, until he found a box of ammunition. He took six shells. After loading two of them into the barrels, he closed the shotgun, making sure the lock clicked. He kept the safety on as he didn’t want to blow his toes off while sneaking around.

He felt braver – now the odds had been evened – and went into the kitchen where he could look out at the barn. The kitchen still smelt of week-old rubbish as he dashed towards the window above the sink to look outside. No sign of Lee Nothers. The barn’s doors were fully open now, and inside, Henry could see the motorbike.

If Lee wasn’t in the barn, he must be coming for him.

He then felt someone standing behind him and, spinning around, he shoved the shotgun into empty space.

No one but Henry was in the kitchen.

Suddenly he heard broken glass being crunched in the hallway, and Henry ducked behind the long kitchen table, pointing his shotgun at the doorway.

He held his breath. His heart pumped at an unhealthy speed, his lungs burned with exertion, and his head pounded with each quickened heartbeat. If Lee Nothers didn’t kill him, maybe his own body would.

He saw a figure enter the study, and he quietened his mind. He only had six shells, of which two were loaded into the shotgun. It’d take him a good minute to reload. Giving Lee Nothers plenty of time to shoot him.

A chair was pushed over in the study, and Lee Nothers swore under his breath. He then came out of the study, crossed the hallway, and headed up the staircase. Floorboards above Henry creaked and groaned as Lee searched for him upstairs.

Maybe he should get out now, Henry thought. But he decided against it. His knees might not like him crouching behind the kitchen table, but he felt it was the safest place for him, with his shotgun pointed at the door.

He couldn’t kill Lee, though. He needed information from him. With this in mind, he lowered the shotgun’s barrels a little, so the blast would take out Lee’s legs. Maybe there wouldn’t be any need for violence? Maybe Henry could talk Lee out of it, get him to calm down and surrender?

Lee bounded down the steps and then remained in the hallway, out of Henry’s sight.

“Lee!” Henry shouted.

After a panicked silence, Lee approached the kitchen door, aiming his pistol.

“Freeze!” Henry said from his hiding space behind the kitchen table. His shotgun now had the safety off. “Don’t bloody move, or I’ll blow your legs off.”

Lee blinked his big blue eyes and tilted his head to the side. The PPK shook in his hand, although still pointed at Henry.

“Drop the gun!” Henry said, putting his finger around the shotgun’s trigger.

Lee’s upper lip twitched. His eyes darted between Henry’s weapon and the one in his own shaking hand.

“Put that bloody gun down.” Henry feared his words weren’t getting through to him. “I will shoot you.”

Lee lowered the gun a few inches. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”

“You were hiding from the police?”

Lee nodded.

“Did you murder Ben Lloyd?”

Lee’s pale face cracked. His eyes reddened with tears. “He… he was getting too much… I had to…”

“It’s alright, lad,” Henry said, his finger still on the trigger. “Listen, drop that gun, and we can talk like adults. How about that?”

Lee seemed to be listening.

“We can have a cup of tea. Do you know where old Fred keeps his kettle?”

Lee looked around the messy kitchen and nodded.

“Right, place that handgun on the kitchen table and step away from it. Then we’ll have a chat and sort things out.”

Lee stared at the gun in his hand, as if for the first time becoming aware he was holding it. “I’m not a bad person. I’ve just… It wasn’t really me who did it.”

“Did you kill Maxwell Birchwood?”

Lee looked worriedly at Henry and shook his head.

“But you killed Ben Lloyd, and then you kidnapped Roy Parker?”

Lee scrunched up his face. “Who?”

“You know. The journalist? You also tried to kill me.”

Lee nodded. “Just now. I’m sorry–”

“No. Last night. You came to my house on that motorbike?”

Lee shook his head, still with the look of confusion on his face. “No… that wasn’t me… that might’ve been–”

The thunderous roar startled both of them. “ARMED POLICE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”

More roars and heavy boots pounded on the floorboards in the hallway. The howling and shouting deafened Henry, and he went to cover his ears. As he did, he watched Lee spin around and point the PPK at the kitchen door, just as an armed officer in full combat gear stormed in.

Before anyone could blink, the officer fired his assault rifle.

Lee fell onto his back. Henry stared at his blood-speckled face in horror. The lad’s eyes registered pain for an instant, before slipping away into oblivion.

“ARMED POLICE! DROP YOUR WEAPON! DROP YOUR WEAPON!”

The officer was now on Henry, pointing his smoking assault rifle in his face.

Henry dropped the shotgun and stuck both hands in the air.

“The lad had surrendered,” Henry said. “I’d got him talking. He had surrendered!” But his words were lost through the subsequent shouting, scuffling, and slamming.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Henry had to wait to speak with a senior detective before he was allowed to leave the scene. A red blanket from the back of a police van had been found and wrapped around him, but he was still shivering. It wasn’t just the cold, but shock.

The wintry afternoon was sliding into dusk already, and several police cars were parked in Fred Sowerby’s farmyard. SOCO officers, in their white plastic suits, entered the farmhouse carrying their equipment.

Henry’s ears were still ringing from the gunshots and shouting, and he welcomed the calm wind of the moors that rustled the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His headache had eased before all the gunfire and running; but now it was back with a vengeance.

He remained near the gate a few feet away from his Skoda, which had been impossible to get to a few moments ago. Uniformed police searched the barn, and Henry listened to one of them reporting their findings to a sergeant standing near the old shed.

Roy Parker hadn’t been found on the farm, and it looked like Lee Nothers had planned to camp out in the barn, as evidenced by a carrier bag full of shopping, which included bottles of water, Scotch eggs, and sandwiches.

How long Lee had intended to stay on the farm, no one would ever know. The motorbike was found in the barn and wasn’t the one reported stolen by Lucy Birchwood. The two police officers had no idea how he’d come by it.

Another car turned up and parked on the country lane. Henry watched DCI Acton enter through the gate and mustered up the energy to deal with him.

Acton gave Henry a look of fatigued disappointment and walked past him to talk to the uniformed sergeant. Henry knew Acton had the right to be annoyed with him, seeing as he’d tracked down a fugitive without notifying the police beforehand and then played a major role in getting him killed. Also, Henry had been a victim of the perpetrator and shouldn’t be involved in this investigation at all. Not to mention, as a retired gentleman in his mid-sixties, he should be at his cottage, minding his own business and tending to his garden.

He didn’t have much of a garden, he realised. Maybe he could plant some roses in his backyard; perhaps, in the corner that caught the sun all day?

Acton approached him, wearing his large navy Crombie coat, his short, dark hair hardly moved in the bitterly cold wind. “So?”

Henry nodded. “It’s a bit of a mess-up, I admit.”

“You saw Lee Nothers in Skipton, Hargreaves said?”

“I did. I watched the CCTV footage that showed him getting on the motorbike.”

Acton scrunched up his face and observed the police activity taking place around him. “How did you know he’d be here?”

“I didn’t. I just thought… Well, he was a simple lad, and probably would hide out somewhere safe and that he knew well. And he’d worked here, so…”

Acton turned to look at the barn. “He was setting up camp in there. He had a motorbike, but it wasn’t the same one you saw outside your house.”

Henry nodded.

“What did Lee say before he was shot? Did he admit to the murders?”

“Only Ben Lloyd’s. He didn’t admit to Maxwell Birchwood’s murder, nor did he admit to kidnapping Roy Parker.”

Acton swore.

“He seemed to know who killed Maxwell, but the truth worried him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly that. He seemed to know who killed Maxwell but was too frightened to say.”

Acton grunted. “I’m not liking where this is going.”

“Why?”

“We’ve been looking into Maxwell’s emails, and it he had a secret account that had been communicating with a known email address linked to organised crime.”

“You think Maxwell was a gangster?”

Acton raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”

“Well, I’ve heard about his dodgy dealings but not organised crime…” Henry shook his head. “It just doesn’t ring true.”

Acton scrunched up his face. “What about Roy? Did Lee say anything about him?”

“He didn’t know who he was, so I doubt he was involved in his kidnapping.”

“Was Lee the one that attacked you last night?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t seem to know much about that, either.”

“And you didn’t ask him when you had the chance?”

“Well, after the inspector of the firearms squad fired four high-powered rounds into Lee’s torso, he wasn’t able to tell me much.”

Acton scrunched up his face again, exhaling noisily through his nostrils. “This is a bloody joke.”

“I’d almost got him to surrender his weapon and give himself up. He was talking…” Henry shook his head, as he feared he might get emotional if he continued.

Acton glanced away from him and sighed. “It’s a bloody pain in the arse that Lee’s dead, but I can’t go berating the firearms squad, can I? They were ordered to protect you, and they did.”

Henry didn’t say anything.

A gust blew between them, and the police tape covering the shed’s door rustled.

Acton sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as though he had a headache to rival Henry’s.

“Okay. So…” Acton straightened up. “We’ve closed one murder. Ben Lloyd’s.”

“Aye. Lee admitted to killing him. He said Ben was ‘getting too much’. Whatever that meant.”

Acton narrowed his eyes, deep in thought. “So, we’ve got Maxwell’s murder to solve, the attempted murder on you, and we also have a kidnapping to sort out.” He looked at his silver watch. “And I’ve got a press conference for another case in the two hours’ time.”

“Another case?” Henry huffed. “This is nonsense. Can’t they put a dedicated detective chief inspector on a case like this?”

Acton half-laughed. “Chance would be a fine thing. It’d make my life easier if they would. But this is what happens when there’s more crime than detectives.”

“It’s insane. You wouldn’t have had this in my day.”

“Aye, but in your day they’d beat confessions out of people and plant evidence.”

“Eh! I never saw the like.”

“Come off it, I was a young constable in the early 2000s, I know what I saw.”

“Maybe in Manchester, but not over here.”

“The officers in God’s Own County were beyond reproach, weren’t they?” Acton smirked and then seemingly decided not to push Henry any further. “It is what it is, that’s all I’m saying. Harping on about the ‘good old days’ won’t solve anything.”

Henry mumbled a response.

Acton looked out beyond the gate. “Ah, she’s here to take you home, I think.”

“Who?”

Henry turned to see Jean getting out of her small white Fiat car. She surveyed the bustling crime scene and then spotted Henry and waved.

“What’s she doing here?”

“Hargreaves said she’s the only one who’ll keep you out of harm’s way.”

“You what?”

Acton glared at him. “Listen. Everything you touch, every crime scene you enter, risks becoming inadmissible in court. If the defence finds out I let a retired old copper – who’s also a victim of the same perpetrator – anywhere near this case, the whole thing could be kicked out of court. Do you want the bastard who did this to get away with it?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, leave it to us.”

Henry scoffed. “To you, a bloody part-timer? The lot of you have proven yourselves inadequate. All the leads so far in this case have come from me. Your lot couldn’t find the killer even if he filmed himself committing the crime and posted it on social media. Well, saying that, all you’re bloody good at these days is getting phones and analysing them. That’s detective work today, isn’t it? Snooping around on social media and hacking phones.”

Acton wasn’t impressed. “Finished?”

Henry wanted to say more. The shock, terror, fatigue, and anger were overpowering his inhibitions. But he bit his tongue and nodded his head.

Acton nodded and waved Jean over. “Take him to yours. He has a head injury that needs checking, and he’s been shot at, literally.”

Jean opened the gate and rushed to Henry. With one hand over her mouth, she used the other to touch Henry’s forehead. “What in the world has happened?”

“Get away with you,” Henry said, ducking away from her hand.

“The head injury might be messing with his mood,” Acton said.

“No. What’s messing with my mood is police incompetence and a killer that tried to kill me last night, who’s still out there, and you’re too bone idle to find him!”

Jean was shocked by Henry’s outburst. “Henry! Calm down.”

“Don’t you bloody start,” Henry said to her.

She looked hurt for an instant, and then gave him a steely glare. “Henry Ward, watch what you say to me. I’m here out of kindness and sympathy, two things that can be worn out pretty damn quick.”

Henry bit his tongue again. What was wrong with him? he wondered. He rarely let his anger get the better of him.

“Now, get in the car,” Jean continued, “and I’ll take you to Airedale Hospital so they can check you over.”

“Don’t worry about your Skoda,” Acton said. “I’ll get an officer to leave it at your house.”

Henry remained where he was, considering an act of defiance.

Jean must’ve picked up on it, and said, “Henry, get into the car, please.”

Being spoken to like a young child – or more accurately, a demented old man – made Henry want to kick off even more. But instead, he feigned docility and admitted to himself the possibility that his head injury had destabilised his emotions. There was also the small fact that he’d nearly died twice in twenty-four hours.

He looked at Acton one last time, who gave him a hard stare, and then passed through the gate, heading towards Jean’s vehicle. He heard her apologising to Acton, who didn’t want to hear it and thanked her for dealing with Henry.

As if he were the problem here, and not the killer who was on the loose and had kidnapped Roy Parker – who was facing death.

Henry got into Jean’s car, which smelt of vanilla air freshener, and sighed. He was freezing cold, and his fingers were numb. His chest was still tight, as though the shock still had him in its clutches.

Jean got into the driving seat, maintaining her headteacher persona. “We’re going to the hospital to have that head wound dealt with. And then you’re doing nothing but sitting on the settee for the rest of the day.”

Henry sighed and didn’t respond, and a part of him thought he needed a rest. After being on the go for nearly two days, he was at his wits’ end, and from experience, he knew he couldn’t solve cases when he was extremely tired like this.

Maybe after a few hours’ rest, things would look clearer. Because right now, they didn’t make a lot of sense.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Henry waited in A & E for four hours before a nurse called his name. Jean had managed to get him seen more quickly by creating a fuss and insisting Henry’s ‘serious’ head injury be looked at ‘immediately’.

Henry was taken to a cubicle and asked to sit on the end of a hospital bed, after taking off his coat and unzipping the fleece jacket underneath. Jean had been asked to remain in the waiting area, seeing as she wasn’t family. A request to which she reluctantly agreed.

The cubicle curtains were closed, and a few moments later a junior doctor strolled in. He wore a long white coat with a name badge identifying him as Dr Bryan Aire. He looked as deathly tired as Henry, with three-day stubble on his pale face and bloodshot eyes. Lord knows how long he’d been on duty, Henry thought.

Dr Aire shone a pen torch into Henry’s eyes and muttered to himself. He made notes on a form, ticked a box, and then chewed the end of his biro.

“You appear to be fine,” he said, taking the pen out of his mouth. “Have you fainted or passed out since you hit your head?”

Henry reluctantly nodded. “In the fish and chip shop.”

“I bet that scared a few people.” The doctor fingered the wound on Henry’s forehead with latex-gloved hands. “This might need stitches.”

Henry winced as the doctor squeezed the edges of the cut, causing a sharp pain.

“Still got a headache?” the doctor asked.

“Aye. It went earlier, but it’s come back.”

“Have you been getting rest after you fell over?”

“Not really. I was shot at, if you must know.”

Dr Aire narrowed his eyes, unsure if Henry was winding him up.

“No, really, I was,” Henry said.

The doctor still didn’t believe him. “I’m sorry, but what do you mean?”

“Call West Yorkshire Police and ask Detective Chief Inspector Acton. He’ll tell you the truth.”

“Well, Dr Aire said, giving him the benefit of the doubt, “it’s better to get rest after a head injury to avoid causing your brain too much stress. It needs to heal.”

“Aye. I thought that might be the case.”

Dr Aire lifted up Henry’s fleece sleeve and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm, then took a reading.

“Your bloody pressure’s very high.”

“I’m not surprised. Like I’ve said, I’ve been shot at. And someone broke into my house last night and nearly killed me. Well, I wasn’t there, luckily. I was next door… The dog was in there, though. She got a right bloody shock.”

Satisfied with the blood pressure reading, Dr Aire removed the cuff before looking at Henry and frowning. He went silent for a few moments. “What day is it today?” he eventually asked.

“Today? It’s Friday, 19 January.”

“And who’s the Prime Minister?”

Henry huffed. “Rishi Sunak, unfortunately.”

“And how old are you?”

“Look, Doctor, you might think that fall knocked the sense out of me, but it hasn’t. I am actually telling you the truth here. Someone has tried to kill me twice in the last twenty-four hours.”

“And who has been trying to kill you?” the doctor asked, as if he was playing along with Henry’s delusion.

“Look, go fetch Jean from the waiting area if you don’t believe me.” Henry pointed to the narrow gap in the cubicle curtains.

Dr Aire clearly didn’t want to bring Jean into the mix; probably assuming it’d be more trouble than it was worth.

“No, it’s okay. I believe you.” The doctor’s words weren’t convincing. “I’m not sure, legally, if I’m allowed to let you out of here if someone means to cause you harm. Do you know who it is? Is it a carer who’s trying to hurt you?”

“A carer? You cheeky sod.” Henry shook his head. “It’s someone linked to Maxwell Birchwood. Have you heard of him?”

“The property developer?”

Henry nodded.

“Wasn’t he killed recently?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“So, whoever killed him is trying to harm you?”

“Exactly.”

Dr Aire tapped his finger against his stubbled chin and narrowed his tired eyes, studying Henry.

“I’m former police,” Henry said defensively. “I got involved with the investigation, and I found out something that put me at risk.”

“Really? Like what?”

Henry was about to tell him but stopped himself. “I don’t think I can say.”

“Oh well, I suppose I don’t blame you… if telling people could put you in danger.” The doctor scribbled down notes on a form. “You’ll need to get that head wound stitched up.”

“How long will that take?”

He checked his watched. “I don’t know.”

“What if I just left it?”

The doctor peered at his wound. “It’ll get infected, and then you’ll have to come back here to get the pus in the abscess drained.”

Henry decided to wait.

The doctor went to leave but hovered around the cubicle curtain. “This Birchwood thing…”

“Aye?”

“Did he have a wife?”

“He did. She’s very cut up about it. Last time I saw her, she was dosed up on Valium.”

“And children?”

“Two daughters.”

The doctor shook his head slowly. “Poor them. It must be hard to lose a father like that.”

“Aye, it is…”

Henry recalled seeing Maxwell’s daughters the previous day. Both had been upset, traumatised even, by what had happened. Victoria had been in a state, but Whitney… Well, she hadn’t seemed as upset as her sister. In fact, she’d appeared to have been shocked by something on her phone.

Henry narrowed his eyes as he wondered what she had been looking at. Had Whitney come across something linked to her father’s murder on social media?

“Doctor, how long will it take to get these stitches put in?”

Dr Aire checked the old digital watch on his wrist. “About an hour? Why?”

“Can you do it more quickly? I think I have a better idea who killed Maxwell Birchwood.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The stitches didn’t hurt as much as Henry had feared – thanks to a local anaesthetic – and when he was allowed to go, he left the cubicle and found Jean in the waiting room, reading a paperback thriller. She hadn’t brought the book with her, so Henry assumed she must have bought it from the small newsagents near the hospital entrance. The chairs surrounding her were occupied with patients waiting to be seen, and the corridors hustled and bustled with activity.

Jean looked up from her book. “Oh, you’re finished?”

He nodded. “Listen, I know you mean well…”

She frowned and closed her book. “But?”

“I’m getting a clearer idea of what happened with the Birchwood murder.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”

“I need a lift to Maxwell Birchwood’s house–”

“Oh no, Henry! You’ve been shot at. You’ve hit your head. The police won’t have you hanging around anymore – and now you want to go and bother a grieving family?”

Henry saw her point, but he was close to solving this case. “Listen, I know I might come across as a busybody old man–”

“Might?”

He ignored her. “But, if I solve this case and make sure the murderer faces justice, wouldn’t that be better for the family? The police – I mean – they’re completely overwhelmed. It’ll take them weeks, maybe months, before they get this sorted, if they manage to. But me…” He pressed his thumb against his chest. “I think I’ve nearly cracked it.”

Jean wasn’t convinced. “Has the doctor said you can go?”

He nodded and pointed at his stitched-up wound.

“Well, let’s head to the car. I’m sick of being in here, anyway.”

They left the waiting area and stepped out into a cold January night. The lack of cloud cover made it even chillier, but Henry, at least, could gaze up at the stars in the clear night’s sky.

They got into Jean’s white Fiat. “Even if I thought it was a good idea,” she said as she reversed out of her parking space, “I can’t take you to the Birchwoods’ house. Noel’s coming over for a drink to discuss the project.”

“Oh, right?” Henry said, rolling his eyes.

He wished he could sit in his own living room with Tessa and mind his own business.

“He’ll be over in half an hour, and then I’ll cook tea. I was thinking chicken Kyiv.”

“That’d be lovely,” he said, absent-mindedly.

While staring out into the darkness that rolled past his window, he recalled Maxwell Birchwood’s children. The doctor had been onto something there, Henry thought, even if he hadn’t been aware of it. He recalled the look of fear in Whitney’s eyes at something she’d seen on her phone. Could the police examine her phone? They could, but not without reason. Doing so might suggest they thought Whitney was involved in her father’s murder. Henry knew the police wouldn’t want to go down that road unless there was some evidence to back them up.

Well, Henry realised, taking his phone from his pocket. His only other option was to follow up the other possibility that Whitney had been contacted by an internet troll. Henry recalled the one Hargreaves had found and took his phone from his coat pocket and sent her a text:

Quick question: yesterday you mentioned an internet troll based in Addingham. Could you track him down?

He saw she had read his message but had decided not to answer.

* * *

When they arrived back in Addingham, Henry gawped at the police tape covering his busted front door. The entrance had been secured with a temporary lock attached to a chunk of wood nailed to his door. A police patrol car sat outside the house, with one officer keeping guard.

Henry felt a pang of despair. His house appeared mortally wounded, its lights out and its front door broken and boarded up. The boiler was dead and needed replacing. His bed and mattress had acquired bullet holes – in fact, Henry bet they had been taken by the police so the bullets could be analysed. He hoped he could claim it all on insurance but doubted it would be possible.

Jean noticed him staring wistfully at his house. “It’s alright. We’ll get it sorted in a few days.”

“Aye,” Henry said, wishing he could step inside.

At least his Skoda had been returned, which was parked outside Jean’s house.

Tessa was pleased to see Henry when he entered Jean’s living room. The little wire fox terrier wagged her tail and barked as soon as he stepped through the front door. He knelt down and patted her head while she licked his cheeks – as if she’d not seen him in months when it’d only been fourteen hours.

Jean picked up Henry’s car keys from the doormat, and handed them to Henry.

“I’ve taken Tessa for a walk,” she said, heading into the kitchen. “So, she’s done her business.”

Henry thanked her and realised that he had a lot to thank her for. If Jean hadn’t been there, he didn’t know what he’d have done. He’d be stuck in a bed and breakfast for starters, which would have costed even more money. And he had no idea what he’d have done with Tessa, seeing as the B & B didn’t allow dogs.

He went to the kitchen with the intent of thanking Jean for everything when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

It was a text message from Hargreaves:

I can’t talk to you.

Henry groaned, his heartfelt thanks for Jean already forgotten.

But his phone buzzed again.

Look at Birchwood Properties’ social media account. You’ll quickly find it.

Henry decided he would do just that after a shower and a cup of tea.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

After a warm shower, where Henry had done his best to avoid getting water into the wound on his forehead, he changed his clothes and took a seat on Jean’s sofa downstairs.

She brought him a cup of tea and asked if he wanted any food before dinner.

“No, thanks,” he said.

“Noel’s on his way around. We’ll stay in the kitchen, and then I’ll cook us the Kyivs. It’ll be late if you don’t mind?”

Henry looked at the time and saw it was nearly 7 p.m. “That’s fine, don’t worry,” he said, smiling.

When she’d gone, he sipped his tea and opened up the web browser on his phone. He navigated to the most popular social media site he could think of and searched for Birchwood Properties. His search came up with the official channel, which was filled with videos, photos, and press releases. As Henry scrolled through them, he realised there was a social media post for each day leading up to the previous one – the day when Maxwell was killed.

There hadn’t been anything since then. Not even a statement about Maxwell’s passing. Henry didn’t know what to think of it.

He selected the most recent post, an image of a nearly finished detached house on the Ilkley Road Estate in Addingham. There were no windows and the garden around it was just mud, but next to the image was a mock-up of what the final thing would look like: a modern, fairly well-designed family home.

The caption read:

We’re nearly ready to make your property dreams come true.

Henry grunted and looked through the post’s comments. Most of them were derisive; however, a few showed interest in the house.

Then Henry spotted the troll account:

Your houses are as shit as you are, you corrupt bastard. I hope you burn in hell.

The message contained so much vitriol, Henry was taken aback for a moment.

Someone else must’ve felt the same, as they’d replied to the comment with:

Steady on, he’s only building houses.

The troll had replied with:

Learn the facts, you ignorant prick. Maxwell’s a ****.

Henry grimaced at the use of the word.

He went to click on the internet troll’s social media profile when a knock on Jean’s front door stirred him out of the digital world.

“That’ll be Noel,” Jean said, rushing from the kitchen to the front door.

She opened the door and Noel Cleeves stepped inside, wearing his navy pea coat. His presence once again dominated the room. He explained how the cold outside had worsened, but that he could handle it, considering he’d nearly lost his toes to frostbite while hiking up a Munro in Scotland. Jean smiled and nodded along as she took his coat from him. Underneath, he wore a knitted lime-green cardigan over burgundy trousers. Henry felt dizzy looking at the uncoordinated outfit.

It took Noel a few moments to notice Henry was even there, and when he did, his eyes bulged. “Crikey, what happened to you? Have you been in the wars?”

Henry instinctively touched the stitches on his forehead. “I slipped,” he said, not wanting to say anything else.

“Henry’s had a rough day,” Jean said.

“It looks like you have, old chap,” Noel said, simpering at him. “And what’s happened to your house? Why have the police been there?”

“Well,” Jean answered for him, “someone tried to injure Henry last night. Luckily, they didn’t know he was staying here.”

“Really?” Noel asked, shaking his head. “Someone broke into your little cottage next door, to what, try and kill you?”

Henry nodded. “They didn’t succeed, though.”

“Well, obviously…” Noel lost some of his joviality. “What a horrible thing to happen in our village. It’s all linked to Birchwood’s demise, I suspect?”

Henry didn’t reply and instead returned to look at his phone.

“Come on, then,” Jean said, leading Noel into the kitchen. “Let’s have our meeting.”

Noel nodded. “Yes, let’s. With any hope, we can get all those houses on the Ilkley Road Estate demolished.”

Henry’s ears pricked up. “Excuse me?”

“Yes. I spoke to my solicitor today. He thinks it’s possible – considering the death of Maxwell Birchwood – that they won’t contest our complaint about the houses.”

“Right,” Henry said. “So why would they demolish them?”

“Well, my solicitor said Birchwood will be too occupied with what’s going on in Gargrave. Have you heard about that?”

Henry frowned. “No, what’s gone on over there?”

“It’s a huge scandal. My solicitor just found out today but, apparently, it’s been going on for months. All the construction has been halted due to there being lead in the ground. It could bankrupt the whole company.” Noel couldn’t contain his glee and clapped his hands.

“Oh,” Jean said, sharing a look with Henry. “Fancy that?”

Noel then became deadly serious. “That’s why we must act swiftly, Jean. If Birchwood goes bust before we get them to demolish the houses in Addingham, they’ll leave them just as they are, blighting our landscape for years to come.”

“Well, you wouldn’t want that, would you, Noel?” Henry said, putting on his best faux concern.

Noel raised an eyebrow. “You’re quite right. I wouldn’t want to stare at half-finished crappy houses for the next decade.”

“I bet,” Henry concurred.

He glanced at the phone in his hand. The internet troll’s social media profile was on its screen. Its profile picture was of some moors covered in pink and purple heather and lush green grasses. Henry recognised the area immediately. And if he needed any extra proof, the name of the account gave it away.

Jean managed to get Noel to walk into the kitchen, and Henry rose out of his seat, phone still in hand.

“Have you ever heard of a social media profile called Appleby-21?”

Noel turned slowly around to look at him, while Jean remained at the kitchen table, looking confused.

“Excuse me?” Noel said, pretending he’d misheard Henry.

“Do you have a social media account under the name of Appleby-21?”

Noel shook his head. “No, I hardly use the internet.”

“Well, why’s the profile picture a photo of Addingham Moor?”

“I don’t know. That doesn’t mean it’s me.”

Henry walked to Jean and passed her his phone. “Here, Jean, you’ve seen the view from his window. Do you recognise this?”

Jean glared at Henry then took his phone. After glimpsing the profile picture on Henry’s screen, her eyes widened.

“Erm,” she said, hating herself for having to agree with Henry. “I believe that is the view from your window, isn’t it, Noel?”

“I’ve no idea what the hell you’re on about!” Noel said through gritted teeth.

“Look at it,” Jean said, passing him the phone.

Noel batted it away. “If you won’t help me, Jean, then I’ll be leaving.”

“Here, one second,” Henry said, with his hands on his hips and wearing his sternest expression. “You’ve been posting hate-filled messages onto the Birchwood Properties account every day for the past several years.”

Noel ignored him and walked out of the kitchen.

“Would you leave him alone,” Jean snapped at Henry. “If he said it’s not him–”

“But it is you, isn’t it, Noel?” Henry said. “All the police need to do is obtain your IP address, and they can prove it.”

Standing in the middle of the living room, Noel spun around and growled at Henry. “So what if it’s bloody me! It’s not illegal to call someone a bastard, is it?”

“Well, it might be classed as harassment if you do it every single day for years on end. Anyway, I think ‘bastard’ is the nicest word you used for him.”

Noel looked around the living room. “Where’s my bloody coat.”

Jean tiptoed to the coat hooks by the door to remove Noel’s coat.

Snatching it from her, Noel put it on. “Well, Jean, if this is the company you keep, bloody amateur sleuths and busybodies, then you can keep your help to yourself.”

“Noel, don’t be–”

“Here,” Henry said, “before you storm out, why don’t you answer another question?”

“How about I don’t,” Noel retorted.

“Have you ever messaged Maxwell’s daughters?”

Noel snorted. “What do you think I am? A pervert?”

“Have you ever sent them abuse? Did you send them any yesterday?”

Noel shook his head in irritation and looked at Jean. “He’s bloody mental, this man. Where did you find him?”

“Answer me, Appleby-21!” Henry shouted.

Noel exhaled. “I’ve never contacted anyone like that and never will. Especially not grieving girls. Jean, I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure…” He went to the door and slammed it on his way out.

A moment’s silence fell over Jean’s living room. Tessa, sitting by the gas fire, knew better than to disturb it and just stared at Henry.

“Right,” Jean said, after a few deep breaths. “Perhaps you should go find somewhere else to stay for the night, Henry.”

Henry frowned. “You what?”

“Try the bed and breakfast or the pub; in fact, I don’t care. Just be gone when I come back downstairs.”

“Erm…” Henry looked at Tessa. “They don’t welcome dogs at the B & B.”

“Oh, she’s fine. She knows how to behave around people. She can stay. You on the other hand…” She glanced at the door, and with tear-rimmed eyes, held her head up at the ceiling and stormed upstairs.

Henry took a deep breath and looked at Tessa. “Well, I could’ve probably handled that better.”

In return, Tessa gave him a look that said, ‘Yes, you bloody well could’ve done!’

Chapter Forty

Henry sat in the driving seat of his Skoda in the cold, with the engine off, and no heating on. Car headlights slowly passed by on Main Street as Henry scrolled through hotels on his phone. The B & B in Addingham was closed for a post-Christmas holiday and would open in February. There was an inn in Ilkley, but due to renovation work, four of its six rooms were unavailable – and the other two were booked out. There were other options, but Henry’s stomach turned when he saw the prices.

He started to worry. Although he couldn’t feel the cold yet, due to the adrenaline and stress from arguing with Jean, he knew the freezing conditions meant he couldn’t sleep in his car. Not if he wanted to survive the night. Maybe he could call Hargreaves and Barnes, but both seemed to be avoiding him. Besides, he had no idea where they lived.

It was nearly 9 p.m., and the police car that had been stationed outside his cottage had long departed. Clearly, guarding his property was now less of a priority. The thought came to him about sleeping in his own home, but that would cause so many issues, especially if he was caught. DCI Acton might be forced to press charges against him for tampering with a crime scene.

“Well, Henry, you’re in a right bloody mess,” he said to himself, looking at his tired eyes in the rear-view mirror.

He could drive over to Noel Cleeve’s manor house and apologise for what he’d said, in an attempt to make it right with Jean. But then Henry wondered why he should, when all he had done was call Noel out as an internet troll. Besides, Henry thought, he hadn’t meant to imply anything by asking Noel if he’d contacted Maxwell’s daughters. He didn’t think he was a sex pest or anything. He’d only wanted to know if Noel had sent Whitney a message the previous day that could explain why she’d looked so worried.

That would suggest Whitney had seen something else, which meant her phone better be looked at. Henry would have to tell Hargreaves or Barnes about his suspicions.

He pulled up Barnes’s number on his phone but didn’t ring it. Was she really going to ignore what was happening to him? He was effectively homeless, had received a serious knock to the head, been shot at, and now he’d almost ended a very good friendship with a woman who cared about him. All in the aid of interfering in a live investigation that the police no longer wanted his help with.

Sighing, he dropped his phone on the passenger seat and stared at the quiet Main Street, which was lit up by a few street lamps. He really was becoming his father, he thought. A lonely old man no one wanted to visit or speak to. Look at what happened this Christmas, he thought. Neither of his two children had bothered to see him. His daughter, Carol, hadn’t sent him a message in years. He had two grandchildren through her that he never saw.

Exhaling, he started to feel rotten about himself. He recalled a Christmas in the early 1990s, when his ex-wife, Pat, had tried to make Henry invite his own father for Christmas dinner, to which Henry had said, “I couldn’t think of anything worse. And he doesn’t want to be here, anyway. He’s happier by himself.”

“Well, maybe he wasn’t,” Henry now said aloud, still glaring at himself in his rear-view mirror.

How had he ended up like his father? He hadn’t even noticed it happening; it had just crept up on him until one day, he was a lonely old man in a run-down house that people avoided. Was that his future? Was he to end up like Fred Sowerby? An elderly man holed up on the moors, avoiding the world down below?

Well, what if it was? he asked himself. That wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to a person, was it?

But Henry shook his head. No, he wanted to be there for his family, help people, do the right thing by them.

He picked up his phone from his passenger seat and saw Barnes’s number, but he ignored it. Instead, he scrolled down to Carol’s number and, after taking a breath, called it.

“The number you have dialled has not been recognised,” came the automated message.

Henry frowned, double-checked the number, and dialled again; getting the same recording. Carol must have changed her number and never told him.

He grunted and tried to hold back the tide of memories he had of her childhood, sitting through her gymnastic competitions; and applauding her when she did her summersaults; making her snort with laughter at the dinner table after telling a joke Pat had thought too rude for children; holding baby Carol for the first time in that hospital ward in Leeds. Her wrapped up in blankets and smelling of sweet milk, and Henry looking into her brown eyes and feeling that nothing would be the same again – he was a father now and had to do everything right by her.

Had he failed at that?

He cleared his throat. “Silly old fool,” he said to himself. “You’re getting emotional.”

His phone, still in his hand, buzzed. It was Murphy’s number.

Henry closed the vault door on his emotions, cleared his throat again, and answered. “Detective Superintendent Murphy, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh. That’s a shame,” Murphy said.

“What is?”

“I must’ve misread the report. I believed you’d been shot dead; I couldn’t believe my luck.”

“No, still very much alive,” Henry said, looking about his cold car interior outside his run-down house. “Just about.”

“We need a word, you and I.”

“Oh, is that not what we’re having now?”

“Not over the phone. Meet me in Ilkley?”

“Now?”

“Aye, get your slippers off, get out of your dressing gown, and meet me on Ilkley Moor.”

“But I’ve just made some cocoa and I’m about to watch a film.”

“Don’t mess me about, Ward. Meet me in twenty minutes, and don’t make me wait.”

Murphy hung up, and Henry stared at his phone for a moment. What does that old toerag want? But before he started the engine, he searched for his son’s number and dialled.

Dean answered after a few rings. Henry heard a television in the background.

“Hi, Dad, are you alright?” His son sounded slightly panicked.

“I’m fine, son,” Henry said. “Listen, thanks for that Christmas card, it was very nice. How are my grandkids?”

“Erm… fine. You’re welcome, Dad. The kids are fine. They’re in bed.” Dean hesitated. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, listen. I’ve been thinking. I know we’ve not seen each other a lot, but I’d like that to change. I don’t have that long on this earth…” He forced a laugh to calm his emotions. “I’d love to come down and visit, if that’s okay?”

Dean sounded confused. “Why, yeah. Of course, we’d be happy to have you stay a few days.”

“I’d like that, son.” Henry paused. “And Carol, I realise she’s changed her number.”

“Has she? Oh, yeah. I think she did years ago.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Fine, I think.”

“Listen, could you send me her new number?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’d like to see her, too. If she’ll meet me. Where is she now?”

“Well, she’s in London,” Dean said it as if Henry should have known.

“London?” Henry had no idea she’d moved down there. Last he’d heard she was in Liverpool.

“But yeah, I can send you her number. She’s mellowed out over the years; I think she’d be happy to see you.”

“Great. Thanks, son, and I’ll be in touch about coming over to yours. I’ve not been to Nottingham in years.”

“Oh, we’ve moved as well, Dad. We’re now down in Bristol. I had to move for work.”

Henry baulked. How did he not know where his own children were living? “Right, I’ve not been to Bristol either.”

After a quick chat, Henry said he’d have to go, as he didn’t want to keep Murphy waiting. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your TV programme. Thanks for answering my call, Dean.”

“Why wouldn’t I, Dad? It’s good to hear from you. Look after yourself.”

Henry nodded. “You, too.”

He stared at his phone, smiling to himself, and then the text message came through with Carol’s number. But he couldn’t call her now. He’d be late for his meeting with Murphy, and he couldn’t keep the old man waiting.

Chapter Forty-One

Henry pulled into the car park on the top of the moor near the Cow and Calf rocks. There was only one other vehicle parked on the gravel, with the dark wintry wilderness behind it.

Reversing his Skoda next to the Audi, Henry looked at its driver, and recognised Murphy’s bulldog-like grimace. Murphy turned on his dome light, so Henry could see his face more clearly. Behind him, orange lights glimmered in the valley below. Only a hundred yards away was the Cow and Calf Hotel; pale light poured out of its tall windows. Henry knew the hotel well, after dealing with a case there last year.

Murphy wound down his window, and Henry did the same, lowering his passenger one, which was the closest to his old partner. A gust of icy wind blew through the gap, and Henry shoved his hands in his fleece pockets.

“You’re five minutes late,” Murphy said, pointing at the Rolex sticking out from under his expensive coat sleeve.

“What do you want?” Henry asked. He spoke loudly so his voice would carry in the wind.

“This Birchwood case,” Murphy said, pulling a look of distaste. “It’s becoming a problem.”

“I bet it is. It could suck in a lot of the great and good around here – politicians, councillors, business people, banks – if Birchwood’s company goes under. Not to mention there’s still a journalist being held hostage out there.”

Murphy’s beady eyes took in Henry. “Well, losing a journalist might not be such a bad thing.” He sniggered. “I hear you’ve been looking into this?”

“I have, aye.”

“Well, just to let you know, I’ve been tolerating it.”

“You’ve been tolerating me?”

Murphy grimaced again. “I don’t like you getting involved in anything, you know that, but I have to admit, you do have your uses.”

“That’s odd. I remember re-applying for the police last year and being told you wouldn’t have me back. What was it you said? I was too corrupt.”

“You bloody are. There was an investigation based on accusations of impropriety before you left the force, if you remember.”

“The results of that investigation were never fully known.”

“They were. I’ve seen the report.”

“What report–?”

Murphy stuck his hands up. “Shut it! I can’t be arsed arguing about the past. It’s bloody done with. Look, I’ve tolerated you on this case because I thought you might spot something my other detectives wouldn’t.”

Henry bit his tongue. He wanted to continue arguing about how he’d been kicked off the force. He was sure Murphy had manipulated things behind the scenes to create the bogus investigation, which had destroyed his career and lead to his forced retirement. But he wanted to know what Murphy was up to right now. The old swine was always up to something.

“So, you let me carry out my own investigation into the Birchwood murder?” Henry asked.

Murphy nodded. “Aye. That’s why Hargreaves has been helping you out, but I hear they’re now treating you like a leper.”

“You could say that.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate, as you seem to have been making progress.”

“I was. I solved one murder, Ben Lloyd’s, and I located Lee Nothers, who’s now deceased, thanks to your trigger-happy armed response unit.”

“They’re good lads, those lot. Hearts of gold.”

“I bet. Then I was told to get out of Acton’s way.”

Murphy inhaled through his large nostrils. “DCI Acton? He’s alright. A bit perfunctory. Not brilliant enough to get much higher so he’s not much of a threat – hence not really on my radar.”

“He might do a better job if he investigated one crime at a time.”

Murphy guffawed. “Aye. Wouldn’t they all, but that’s not possible. We have to do what we can with the resources we have.”

“Or you can rely on retired detectives to fill in the gaps.”

Murphy smirked. “Well, that’s not such a bad idea now that you mention it. It’s free, for a start, as you’re so desperate to get back on the force you’ll do it without payment. And as long as no one learns about it, and a real detective can claim your work as theirs, then the courts can’t make much of a fuss about it. Not that they have the bandwidth to worry about such concerns.”

“Wouldn’t that be playing with the truth?”

Murphy shrugged. “Do you want to help us solve murders or not?”

Henry frowned. “What is this? The last time you caught me getting involved in a case, you threatened to bang me up.”

“But that was before I realised you could be of some use to me.”

“Ah, that’s it. You want me in your back pocket. I’ll investigate cases for you on the sly, helping you look good.”

Murphy grinned. “Something like that. West Yorkshire’s chief constable is still in post, but her grip on power is weakening, and there are rumours she’s looking to pack it in soon. And, what with the upcoming change of government, who seem more interested in funding police, they might be looking for a tough no-nonsense detective superintendent to run the show.”

“God help us if that happens.”

“So, this arrangement of ours will be temporary.”

“What arrangement?”

“You are free to do what you want, talk to whomever, ask for whatever from my detectives – well, only Hargreaves at this stage – as long as you get results for me.”

“What do I get in return?”

“You get to live out your dream, being back on the force, throw your weight around a bit – within reason. I know how much you loved doing that.”

“But I won’t have a job? It won’t be official?”

“No…” Murphy pulled a face as if letting Henry back on the force would be undesirable. “I can’t let you return. I can’t afford to, literally, but what I can say is, if you have any expenses, minor ones, I might have the budget to cover them.”

“I need a new front door for starters, and you can pay for my boiler.”

Murphy narrowed his eyes as he quickly calculated the expected costs. “The door we’ll pay for, but not your bloody boiler. I don’t think the fella shot that, did he?”

“And you can buy me a new bed, as my current one has bullet holes in it. And I want it all sorted by tomorrow afternoon for when I move back in.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Aye. Tomorrow.”

Murphy met Henry’s cold stare. “I want a result on this Birchwood case first. That’s your first challenge. Solve Birchwood, and there’ll be cases for the foreseeable.”

“I’ll sort out the Birchwood case tomorrow morning. All I need is a sit-down with Birchwood’s family at their home, and a few other things.”

“Like what?”

“CCTV footage of the Birchwoods’ house over the last few days, a trawl through that secret email account Maxwell used to contact the organised crime gang–”

“There’s not much in those messages,” Murphy interrupted. “Most of them are in code. Maxwell wasn’t stupid enough to leave anything incriminating.”

“Well, I’d like to see them, nonetheless. I also want Whitney Birchwood’s phone analysed.”

“The youngest daughter?”

“She might be involved.”

Murphy sighed. “I can’t get just her phone checked; it’ll look suspicious. We’ll have to do all of them – the whole family.”

“And do it overnight, I want the results by tomorrow morning when I meet them.”

Murphy glowered at Henry. “Alright. But you better have a result by lunchtime.”

“I will.” Henry then glanced past Murphy’s car at the hotel in the near distance, on the edge of the hill. “And I need a hotel room for tonight.”

“Jesus H Christ, what more do you want? Blood?”

“No…” Henry then thought of something else. “Oh yes, ask Hargreaves to do a check on Noel Cleeves.”

“Who’s he?”

“An internet troll. He might be involved.”

“Alright. But that’s it. I’m going to go before you give me a sodding shopping list.” Murphy started his Audi’s engine.

“And this deal better last after this Birchwood murder,” Henry said.

Murphy grinned. “Don’t you trust me, Henry?” He rolled up his window before Henry could reply in the negative, and accelerated out of his parking space, kicking up gravel.

“Bloody arsehole,” Henry said under his breath, and then he set his sights on the hotel opposite and drove towards its car park.

Chapter Forty-Two

Henry opened the netted curtains and looked out his hotel room window. The sky was still clear and a brilliant deep blue. A harsh wind blew the limp trees that hung bowed along the moorside, shaking their bare branches, and disturbing the dead heather on the ground.

He’d had a peaceful night in a king-size bed, the biggest the hotel had to offer, an expense he hoped Murphy’s police budget would cover, and he hadn’t gotten out of bed until after 9 a.m., as he’d not had his alarm clock next to him. His body ached from the previous day’s exertions, and the disrupted night’s sleep he’d had the night before. The wound on his forehead was sore, but his headache was long gone. He dressed in the clothes he’d worn the previous evening, as he’d not taken anything with him from Jean’s, and headed downstairs for a late breakfast.

He took a table in the nearly deserted restaurant on the ground floor. A lonely barman stood behind an old Victorian-style bar lined with beer pumps, and Henry ordered a full English breakfast with extra baked beans and black pudding.

He’d received lots of emails and text messages throughout the night from Hargreaves, who’d been completing the tasks Henry had told Murphy to give her. Henry read through them all while eating his breakfast and sipping black coffee. The local TV news played to the empty restaurant, but there were no details about Maxwell Birchwood or Gargrave on it. After he’d read all of Hargreaves’ emails, he knew he had enough for his meeting with the Birchwoods. It had been planned for 11 a.m., and both DCI Acton and DI Barnes were unaware it was happening. Probably for the best, Henry thought. He finished his full English and then pushed the plate away from him, regretting he’d asked for so much.

As he digested, he considered the arrangement he and Murphy had struck the night before. Well, the arrangement Murphy had offered, and Henry had gladly accepted. Would it really last beyond this case? Well, Henry knew enough to know that, eventually, Murphy would drop him quickly without warning or reason.

As that was just how Murphy operated.

Why go into a partnership with him then? They’d been partners before, and it had descended into vile acrimony that had lasted for decades and could never be healed.

But Henry knew his answer. He drained his cup of coffee, fully aware that Murphy had given him a chance to became semi-legitimate. If he got to the bottom of the Birchwood murder, he’d be allowed to work on more cases, and he was now pretty sure who killed Maxwell Birchwood.

The coded emails Maxwell had sent to the organised crime gang were easy enough to decipher. While he agreed with Murphy’s opinion that there wasn’t anything too incriminating, there was enough to suggest he was on the right track. Whitney’s phone records had confirmed the rest. There were still a few things of which he wasn’t certain, but he hoped they would come out of the woodwork when he spoke to the Birchwood family later.

Henry pulled out his phone to see if he’d received any more messages while he’d been eating. There were none, but he noticed the text message from his son bearing Carol’s number. He could always call her later, he said to himself, but something in his gut – either indigestion or guilt – caused him to dial the number straightaway, before he could talk himself out of it.

She sounded older than he remembered when she answered, and he realised that she must be in her early forties now. Her voice reminded him of her mother.

“Hello?” she asked.

Henry froze for a moment. He feared this would end up turning into a shouting match.

“Hello?” Carol asked again.

“Carol,” Henry said, short of breath. “It’s your dad.”

The silence on the other end scared Henry.

“Hello?” Henry asked.

“Dad?” Carol said.

“Aye, I thought I’d ring to see how you’re doing.”

“Well, fine.”

“Listen, do you have time for a quick chat?”

“Erm… Yes, of course?”

Henry smiled and let out a sigh. “Excellent, how are my grandkids doing?”

* * *

The Birchwood Mansion was even more impressive in the morning light. The lawns which had been covered with ice the previous day were green once again, thanks to the winter sunlight shining on them. The glass in the wrought-iron conservatory gleamed. Henry had been told that was where their meeting was taking place.

He parked next to the entrance to the underground garage, and as he got out his car, he spotted the CCTV camera that watched the driveway. Just then, Hargreaves turned up in her car and got out, looking fairly fresh for someone who’d worked throughout the night. She gave Henry a curt nod that almost verged on conveying respect.

“Thanks for your hard work last night,” Henry said as he approached her.

“It’s alright. I forced two detective constables to do the lion’s share of it.” She carried a large leather briefcase, from which she pulled out a plastic file containing printouts. “The search on Noel Cleeves you asked for. He looks fairly clean, but I’ve only checked what was publicly available. I’ve passed him onto Cyber Crime and should hear back in a week. How do you think he’s linked to this?”

“I’m not exactly sure he is.” Henry grunted his thanks as he took the file from her. “I just have my suspicions.”

“Well, I’ll let you know when Cyber gets back to me.” She then took out another file and passed it to Henry.

“And what’s this?” he asked, flicking through the wad of paper.

“We located Lee and Ben’s phones on Sowerby’s farm after the shoot-out, and I had them analysed. Their private messages make for interesting reading.” She took in a deep breath as she looked at the grey stone facade of the Birchwood Mansion. “Let’s hope you’re right. You’ve only got thirty minutes with the family and if you don’t point a finger at someone, they’ll cause a right fuss… and will very likely try to get me fired.”

Henry flicked through the phone messages she’d given him and then glanced up at the early twentieth-century house. “Don’t worry. I think I know what happened here.” He held out the files to her and shook them. “Haven’t you worked it out yet?”

“I might’ve done. But I’m not sure you’re right. We don’t have Maxwell’s phone to corroborate it all.”

“Aye,” Henry said, taking a breath. “I suspect that’s at the bottom of the Leeds and Liverpool Canal. Anyway, let’s go find out if I’m right, shall we?”

DS Forrester met them at the front door and lead them through the hallway and into the conservatory. The family were seated around a long glass table, where coffee and orange juice had been laid out.

Lucy Birchwood sat at the head of the table. She wore thick designer sunglasses and a white suit jacket over a black shirt. Her cheeks were dry from tears, but she appeared to be struggling to keep herself together. Chris Harper was in the seat beside her, wearing a black suit that fitted his athletic frame. He gave Henry and Hargreaves a dismissive glance before asking if Lucy was okay, to which she nodded and gulped.

Victoria, sitting near her mother, helped herself to a glass of orange juice. Her dark hair was in a ponytail, and she too wore black and white, a dark cardigan over a white shirt. Whitney was sitting across the table from her and, unlike her sister, wore a bright-red jumper. Her pale-blonde hair fell around her shoulders and half-covered her face. Her scarlet-red jumper made her stand out. An odd choice, Henry thought, as he took the chair at the foot of the table. Hargreaves sat next to him and leant over to serve herself some coffee. She didn’t offer Henry any.

DS Forrester stepped towards the family. “These are the two detectives who wish to speak to you,” she said apologetically.

“Let’s make this quick,” Chris said. He’d grabbed hold of Lucy’s hand and squeezed it.

Forrester looked at Henry to start.

“Well,” Henry said, “I’d like to thank you for letting us speak to you.”

Victoria concentrated on her glass of orange juice, which she didn’t sip, while Whitney stared at the tabletop.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions,” he said.

“When can we get our phones back?” Lucy asked.

Henry glanced at Hargreaves.

“You’ll get them back later today,” Hargreaves said.

Lucy wasn’t happy with her reply. “You even took Chris’s phone. Chris isn’t even family.”

“It’s normal procedure to look at the phones of the victim’s loved one, Mrs Birchwood,” Henry lied.

Chris leant forwards. “Well, I spoke to my friend in Leeds who’s a lawyer. He says the police can’t look at people’s phones unless they suspect them of doing something–”

“Do you think we killed Maxwell?” Lucy asked.

“Well,” Henry said, “firstly, we can look at your phones if you give us permission, and you all did last night when you signed the necessary paperwork. Secondly, I don’t think any of you killed Maxwell.”

Victoria and Whitney both stared at Henry.

“That’s good news,” Lucy said, through a croaky voice.

“Well, not exactly.” Henry looked to Hargreaves, who pulled a sheet of paper from her briefcase. “Here we have Whitney’s phone records,” he said, “and we can see she was in regular contact with Lee Nothers.”

Whitney’s eyes bulged.

“We’ve seen enough to know they were romantically involved.” Henry turned to Whitney and smiled. “Weren’t you?”

Whitney only stared back at him, showing no emotion.

Lucy cleared her throat. “Who’s this Lee person?”

“Someone who organised the assassination of Maxwell Birchwood, with the involvement of Whitney Birchwood here.”

Victoria gasped and stared at her sister, while Lucy jumped out of her seat, eyeballing Henry.

“How dare you!” she shouted. “Accusing my daughter of killing her own–”

Henry glared back at Lucy. “She didn’t kill him; did you, Whitney?” Henry looked at the daughter. “Ben Lloyd did. We’ve seen the messages on your phone, despite you doing your best to delete them, so you may as well come clean.”

Tears crept down Whitney’s pale cheeks as she stared ahead at her sister, who was shaking her head.

“Did you?” Victoria asked, glaring at her sister through red eyes. “You did, didn’t you?”

The two sisters shared a look, then Victoria jumped out of her chair and tried to climb across the table. She flung her arms out towards her sister, ready to scratch her. “You murdered him! You! My own bloody sister!”

Whitney fell out of her chair to get away from Victoria. Lucy shouted at her children while Chris went to pull Victoria off the table, and when they’d all settled down, Henry continued.

“We have phone records of you messaging Lee Nothers after you met him in a bar in Ilkley.”

Whitney remained near the brick wall of the house with her arms wrapped around her chest.

“You’d been together since the summer, when, I understand, you finished sixth form.”

Whitney gave the slightest of nods.

“Then, around Christmas, your father found out about you two. He learnt why you wanted to take a gap year and why you wanted to go to the university in Leeds. But your father thought you could do better than a hopeless farmhand, and he told you to break up with him.”

Whitney wiped her cheek.

“And that’s when you spoke to Lee about ‘scaring’ your father. You thought he might get the message if Lee showed him how ‘big a man’ he was.”

Victoria shook her head. “So, that thick prick you were sleeping with killed our dad?”

Lucy kept a hand over her mouth and remained silent as she stared at her daughters.

Whitney shook her head. “I didn’t…” She wept. “I just wanted Dad to know he could respect Lee.”

“But,” Henry continued, “unfortunately, Lee mentioned his plan to Ben Lloyd – his partner in crime – who saw an opportunity to make some money. They planned to blackmail your father instead.”

“How do you know that?” Lucy asked.

“We’ve checked Lee and Ben’s phones. It’s all there.” Henry lifted up the thick file containing the phone messages.

Whitney wiped her eyes. “I didn’t like Ben. He was a creep.”

“They’d contacted Maxwell Birchwood a few days before his murder, and do you know what they used to blackmail him?”

Whitney closed her eyes and lowered her head in disgrace.

Lucy tilted her head, anticipating what Henry was about to say.

“The intimate images you had sent Lee while you were together, Whitney. Ben threatened to make them public – put them all over social media – unless Maxwell paid him and Lee fifty thousand pounds. Seeing as your father wasn’t one to be bullied, he contacted some people he knew in the criminal world through a secret email account. He asked them to put the fear of God into Ben and Lee.”

Lucy took off her sunglasses and, with red eyes, stared at Henry.

“And in retaliation for having Ben and Lee beaten up,” Henry continued, “Ben waited in ambush to get your dad while he was out jogging with a handgun they’d stolen months before. They knew where to find him based on information you gave.”

Whitney fell into the wall behind her and covered herself with her hands. “I didn’t think they’d hurt him. I thought they’d just scare him.”

“Why?” Chis asked. “Why did they kill Maxwell?”

“They must’ve seen him as a threat, so they killed him,” Henry said, “and seeing as Whitney would inherit some of his fortune, Ben must’ve realised he had a new blackmail target.”

As Whitney wept loudly, DS Forrester went to her side and hugged her.

“Where are these people?” Lucy asked, through a shaky voice.

“Dead. Both of them. Lee murdered Ben as he thought he was getting out of hand; and Lee was shot dead by police yesterday.”

“Well, good riddance to both of them,” Lucy said, nearly spitting the words.

Chris shook his head. “So, none of this was linked to Birchwood Properties?”

Henry glanced at Hargreaves who pulled another sheet of paper out of her briefcase and passed it to him.

“You can tell us, Chris,” he said. “Is this you leaving here on a motorbike yesterday? You were spotted by the camera outside the garage door.”

Chris didn’t look at the photograph Henry showed him. “No.”

“You see,” Henry said, scrutinising the photograph in his hand, “someone piggybacked onto this sad little affair to clear up a scandal.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lucy suspiciously.

“Well, with Maxwell dead, someone noticed that one of the motorbikes in the garage had been nicked. That person correctly assumed it had been stolen by the killer and saw an opportunity to cover up the Gargrave incident.”

Chris and Lucy shared a glance.

“So, Chris,” Henry repeated, “is this you on the motorbike leaving this house yesterday and did you drive to Skipton?”

Chris turned away from the table to look out the pane of glass behind him. Staring at the front lawn outside, he thought for a while, before saying, “No. I didn’t go near a motorbike yesterday.”

“Chris?” Henry said, trying to get his attention.

Chris instead looked at Lucy. “Are you going to tell them?”

She glared at him for a moment, and then seemed to give in. She collapsed into her chair and put her sunglasses back on with shaking hands. “I couldn’t let everything be ruined. The whole business. Our lives. This house.”

Henry hadn’t seen this coming and coughed into his hand. “I’m sorry – so you, Mrs Birchwood; it’s you on this bike?” He squinted at the photograph in his hand.

“I couldn’t let everything go to ruin. What would there be left for us? We could lose this house. Lose everything Maxwell worked for. That bloody Gargrave project would be the end of us.”

“Are both of you bloody insane?!” Victoria shouted, glaring at her mother and sister.

“Where’s Roy Parker?” Henry asked Lucy. “You are aware he’s been kidnapped. Is he alive?”

She nodded, and then shrugged. “He might be.”

“Where is he?”

She grabbed her forehead. “I found out where he lived. Went to his house. I spoke to him. He said he wouldn’t tell anyone about Gargrave, but I didn’t believe him. So I… I made him come with me.”

“How?”

She pouted. “Maxwell kept a handgun in the house.”

Hargreaves leant forwards. “What? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Because he shouldn’t have had it, and I knew it wasn’t used to kill him. He kept it in a safe in his study and no one had touched it but him.”

“Is it there now?” Henry asked.

She glared at him. “Yes.”

“If we have it checked, will we learn that you fired two shots into my mattress two nights ago?”

Victoria gasped again, covering her mouth with her hands.

Lucy’s eyes weren’t visible behind her sunglasses, but Henry thought she was staring wistfully into space.

“Mrs Birchwood, did you break into my house last night and shoot my bed?”

She shrugged. “I’d taken a lot of pills… I learnt your address. I thought you were asleep. One can’t see much in the dark with a biker helmet on–”

“How did you find out where I lived?” Henry asked.

Lucy looked to Chris. He threw his hands up. “I had no idea she was going to do anything like that. I got it from a contact in the police.”

“So, that’s attempted murder and kidnapping with intent to do harm. Any other crimes you’d like to admit to, Mrs Birchwood?”

She shook her head slowly. “I was doing it for us. My girls. Otherwise, we’d be ruined.”

Henry tutted. “You do know it’s futile now, Mrs Birchwood? The whole of Yorkshire knows about that lead under the Gargrave site.”

She was visibly ruffled and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Have you harmed Roy Parker?” Henry asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Henry and Hargreaves looked at each other.

“Where is he, Mrs Birchwood?” Hargreaves asked.

When no answer came, Henry looked around the conservatory. “Is he in this house?”

Lucy let out a mad-sounding laugh. “I’d never let that fat rat in here.”

Hargreaves rose out of her chair. “Bloody tell us where he is, now!”

Lucy pouted and turned to face the window.

Henry’s brain quickly ran through the possibilities, but he had no idea where Lucy could be keeping Roy. It would have to be somewhere close where she could reach him easily but that also wasn’t accessed by others.

Henry clicked his fingers. “He’s in a house on the Ilkley Road Estate, isn’t he?”

Lucy sneered.

Henry turned to Hargreaves. “I’ll let you make the necessary arrests, while I head over to Addingham.”

Hargreaves nodded and tapped Henry’s arm. “Aye. I will do. Go bloody find him.”

Henry gave the shattered family one last look, and shook his head. “I’m sorry for the lot of you. I really am.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Henry found Roy Parker tied to a plastic chair on the ground floor of a half-finished detached house in the centre of the Ilkley Road Estate. The windows hadn’t been put in and the house lacked central heating. Henry feared for the journalist’s safety.

He stepped into the empty, carpetless living room, and rushed over to Roy who’d been left by the exposed opening near the patio doors. Roy’s head had tilted to one side, and he didn’t appear to be breathing.

Henry grabbed his shoulders and noticed he was breathing shallowly. He quickly stirred him awake.

Roy opened his eyes and squinted at him. A blanket was wrapped around his thick coat, so at least he’d had some protection from the elements.

“You realised it was her…” Roy whispered.

Henry nodded. “Aye, I realised it was her.”

“I didn’t think anyone would.” Roy smiled through cracked lips. “You’re not such a bad copper.” He coughed.

“Thanks, and, by the way,” Henry said, “that favour I owe you, consider it done.”

* * *

As Murphy had agreed, Henry’s cottage had a new door fitted by the afternoon, this one a bright white that didn’t go with the rest of the house, but Henry didn’t complain. Neither did he complain that the plastic sheeting used to wrap his new double bed had been left in his front yard, waiting to be disposed of. When Henry entered his house, he saw the boiler man finishing up.

Tom handed Henry a paper booklet. “Instructions for the new boiler,” he said.

As Henry took it from him, Tom gripped onto it, his eyes wide with fear. “I don’t know who your mate was who rang first thing this morning, but he said if I didn’t get this sorted today, he’d do his best put me out of business.”

Henry tried to chuckle away the tension. “Oh, him? He’s just an old colleague in the police. Just ignore him. His bark’s worse than his bite. Thanks for your help, though, Tom.”

Tom nodded. “He also insisted you’re paying for the boiler and not him.”

Henry nodded. “Oh, aye. That does sound like something he’d say. Cash or cheque?”

* * *

After inspecting his new bed and mattress, which had been set up in his bedroom, smelling of new furniture and glue, Henry decided he’d better face the music next door. Jean answered his knock on the door with a grim expression and didn’t say hello.

Henry nodded a greeting to her.

“I heard them putting on the new door,” she said, looking over at the front of his house.

“They have,” Henry said. “Look… I’m very sorry for last night.”

Jean folded her arms. “For what exactly?”

“For offending Noel, accusing him of being involved in the murder, and for not showing my appreciation for everything you’ve done for me. I mean… I am very, very sorry, Jean.”

Jean narrowed her eyes then looked past him to watch the light traffic on Main Street.

“I’ll just take Tessa, and then we’ll be on our way.”

Jean stepped to the side, and Tessa bounded over to him, barking a greeting. He patted her head. He then noticed her curly hair felt softer than usual. “Have you brushed her?” He caught a sweet smell emanating from her fur. “And shampooed her?”

“She smelt of dog, what did you expect me to do?”

Henry shook his head in disbelief, but then realised that Tessa didn’t appear to mind. He took the lead Jean handed him and attached it to Tessa’s collar.

“Well, we’ll be off. Thanks for everything. And again, I can only apologise for yesterday.”

He had pulled Tessa down then front steps when Jean asked, “I heard the lunchtime news just now. They’ve charged people in connection to Birchwood’s murder.”

“I know,” he said, turning back to her. “I helped hand out the charges.”

“Well…” She paused, as if considering her words carefully. “Why don’t I put the kettle on so you can tell me all about it?”

Henry smiled and nodded. “Alright. I’d like that.”

“Was it really you who worked it all out?”

“Do you really think Acton and Barnes could’ve worked it out by themselves?”

“Probably, if you hadn’t got in their way.”

“Eh!” Henry said, walking Tessa back up the front steps. “I didn’t get in their way. They asked me to help this time.”

“You always say that. Here, after you’ve told me what happened, you can carry on telling me how much you appreciate me.”

Henry snorted. “Crikey! Is that my punishment?”

When Henry and Tessa were back inside her house, Jean shut her front door behind them.

The End

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