Blood Sport: A Yorkshire Murder Mystery (DCI Harry Grimm Crime Thrillers 7)

  Blood Sport

  David J. Gatward

  Weirdstone Publishing

  By

  David J. Gatward

  Copyright © 2021 by David J. Gatward

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Author’s Note

  About David J. Gatward

  Also by David J. Gatward

  Grimm: nickname for a dour and forbidding individual,

  from Old High German grim [meaning] ‘stern’, ‘severe’.

  From a Germanic personal name, Grima, [meaning] ‘mask’.

  (www.ancestory.co.uk)

  To Aubrey Parsons,

  for bringing Harry’s story to life

  better than I could ever have imagined.

  Chapter One

  Sunk deep into the fell side, the barn was so much a part of the landscape that it was as though the surrounding hills had never known a time without it. There was a weight to the place, Harry noticed, the walls thick, the windows boarded in heavy, worn planks. Tufts of grass hung close around its flanks like they were seeking shelter and protection, and the bright gibbous moon gave the grey, slate roof an eerie shine.

  Harry, the now full-time Detective Chief Inspector for Wensleydale, approached the building with the care of a soldier approaching an enemy position, something he’d done a few good times in his pre-police days in the Paras. For some reason, he couldn’t shake the sensation that he was somehow being pulled towards the barn, as though the place was at the bottom of a pit and he was slipping ever closer. Not a good feeling, he thought. It felt ominous. And it wasn’t gravity that had hold of him, but more a creeping dread which reached out with invisible claws from the stone walls and dragged him forwards.

  Trudging on, Harry became acutely aware of the cool air, which still held onto spring’s promise, ignoring any sense of summer being just a few weeks away. On it, he could still taste the metallic, icy bite of winter, as though the season’s ghosts were breathing on him as he made his way onwards.

  ‘Anyway, I’m sorry I called you,’ said the man walking beside Harry, his huge frame moving with surprising grace. ‘Didn’t really know what else to do, like, so here we are.’

  ‘Not a problem, Dave,’ Harry said, doing his best to sound alert and awake at just gone two in the morning. He’d not even had time to throw a coffee down his neck, so it wasn’t exactly easy, and he finished speaking with a stifled yawn.

  ‘You’ve got me started now.’ Dave yawned. ‘Why is it that they’re contagious? Proper strange, really, isn’t it?’

  Harry had met Dave Calvert back on his first day in Hawes. He was a big man, bull-sized and powerful, but warm and friendly with it, and when he wasn’t working offshore, he seemed intent on acting like someone Harry had known for years. They’d shared numerous stories over a few ales in various pubs and the friendship had now moved on to Dave trying to persuade Harry to go with him either shooting or fly fishing.

  So far, Harry hadn’t taken him up on either offer. For a start, he’d handled plenty of guns in his time. As for fly fishing? Well, he just wasn’t convinced that he’d have the required degree of patience to stand thigh-deep in a river and slap the water for hours on end with a stick and a bit of string.

  Dave yawned again, the sound like that of a lion with a sore head. And more than loud enough to give warning to anyone in the barn Dave had brought him out here to investigate.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Dave said, covering his mouth a moment too late. ‘Used to be good at early mornings, but the older I get the less my body seems impressed with the whole idea.’

  ‘Need your beauty sleep, do you?’ Harry asked.

  ‘That’s rich, coming from you,’ Dave said.

  Harry laughed.

  ‘I don’t think any amount of sleep is ever going to make much difference to this face, do you?’

  Dave stopped and stared intently at Harry, whose face had been scarred terribly by an IED when he was back in the Paras and out in theatre in Afghanistan.

  ‘No, you’re right, probably not.’

  ‘Now then,’ Harry continued, ‘back to you telling me what you were doing out here in the first place at this ungodly hour.’

  ‘There’s a badger’s sett just ahead,’ Dave explained, ‘like I said. Just up there a bit and behind the barn. I’ve got a couple of those fancy wildlife cameras set up, you see. Bit of a hobby of mine, wildlife, that is. I know the farmer and he’s happy for me to come out and set them up.’

  ‘Wildlife cameras?’

  ‘You know, the ones with night vision and motion sensors and whatnot? They’re fantastic! There’s red squirrels up here, obviously, and I keep an eye on those, but I do love me some badgers.’

  ‘How do you mean, obviously?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Snaizeholme, it’s a red squirrel sanctuary,’ Dave said. ‘Cute little buggers they are. Difficult to find sometimes, seeing as they’re all camouflaged, but that’s the point really, isn’t it?’

  ‘Red squirrels are camouflaged?’

  ‘No, the cameras,’ Dave said. ‘Can’t have a wildlife camera that’s all obvious, can you?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ Harry said, fighting another yawn.

  ‘I’ve got some amazing footage of all kinds of stuff,’ Dave continued. ‘Did you know there’s otters now on the Ure?’

  ‘That’s the main river that runs through Wensleydale, right?’

  ‘It is,’ Dave said. ‘You’re really getting to know the area, aren’t you? I’m impressed. Anyway, they’re amazing creatures. Beautiful. I’ve caught foxes and deer as well, even in my own garden.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘I’ll show you some of it, if you fancy,’ Dave said. ‘You’ll be properly impressed, like, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Harry said, making a mental note to come up with an excuse if Dave ever invited him over for an evening of looking at animal videos.

  ‘Like I said,’ continued Dave, his voice rippling with almost boyish enthusiasm for the subject, ‘there’s badgers away and behind the barn a bit, just in among some trees. I’ve been keeping an eye on them. The cameras are good, but sometimes it’s nice to get out and to see them with my own two eyes, as it were. And I’ve got some fancy night vision binoculars as well. Cost me a few bob, like, but well worth it
.’

  ‘Not used anything like that since I was in the Paras,’ Harry said, a flood of memories suddenly crashing towards him. But he stepped to one side and let them rush past; now was not the time.

  They were close to the barn now and Harry saw that a large double door was stood open, swinging a little in the breeze. It was very clearly empty, but the squeal of the hinges only added to Harry’s growing sense of unease, and he noticed that the darkness beyond the door seemed to be of a thicker blackness than the night outside.

  ‘So, anyway,’ Dave said, ‘I was driving along the lane, like, and I saw headlights, which I assumed were just the farmer out and about.’

  ‘And it wasn’t?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Not a chance of it!’ Dave said, shaking his head. ‘Not unless his idea of a good time is to rag the bollocks off his truck through his own fields!’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Dave stopped.

  ‘The speed the driver was going? He was shifting. I mean, I’m assuming it was a he, but it could’ve been a woman, obviously.’

  ‘And where was this?’ Harry asked.

  Dave pointed back up the track.

  ‘I came round past the trees back up there, on our left, and I think my headlights must’ve spooked whoever it was. Because the next thing I know, bright lights are coming at me from this barn here. I pulled off the track quick, because there was no way they were stopping, and they just flew past like the devil himself was after them!’

  ‘Bit strange,’ Harry said. ‘And you’re sure it wasn’t the farmer?’

  ‘Positive,’ said Dave. ‘I gave him a call, just to check, in case it was an emergency or something, but it wasn’t him.’

  ‘So, you carried on to the barn.’

  ‘I did, but I walked, you see, so as not to disturb the wildlife. I know that was a bit pointless, after that idiot came haring out of there, all engine noise and bright lights, but it’s a habit I’ve got into.’

  ‘And that’s when you saw…’

  ‘Blood,’ Dave said, cutting in. ‘I know my way pretty well out here, but I still need a torch, like. I’ve got one of those red filters for it so that I don’t disturb any of the wildlife as I’m walking through.’

  ‘Very considerate,’ Harry said. ‘And the blood is inside the barn?’

  ‘I didn’t go all the way in,’ Dave said. ‘I saw it on the ground, just over there by the doors. It didn’t register at first, what I was looking at, but then there was that smell, you know?’

  ‘I do,’ Harry said. ‘All too well.’

  And then, with the barn now only a few steps away, and the gaping maw of the open doorway drawing them in, Harry caught the scent himself. He’d experienced it on the battlefield and at too many crime scenes to mention, but it was still an odour he’d never get used to and neither did he want to. If he ever became that desensitised to what he was doing, then it would be time to leave and find something else to do with his life. Though what, exactly, he hadn’t the faintest idea, so he generally avoided thinking about it.

  Harry swung his torch over to the barn, the sheer-edged beam of light cutting into the darkness beyond the door.

  ‘There it is,’ Dave said, the beam from his torch joining in.

  Harry said nothing, instead, focusing on what was now before them.

  Patches of red were visible on the ground in front of the barn, with some blood spatter on the door as well. To Harry, it looked as though something had been carried bleeding either into or out of the barn, but right now he wasn’t sure which. Perhaps it was both. He’d also noticed on their walk to the barn, along a rough track through fields, various fresh tyre marks, and these all came to a halt at the barn. Here the ground was scratched and scuffed up. From what Harry could tell, not from just the one vehicle Dave had seen, either, but a number of them. It looked as though they’d driven to the barn and then turned around to face the other way. Always sensible if you fancied you might need to make a quick getaway, Harry thought.

  ‘I think it’s best if you stay out here,’ Harry said, turning to Dave. ‘I need to see what’s what, and that’s my job rather than yours, if that’s okay.’

  ‘It is,’ Dave said. ‘But if you need me, just you give a shout and I’ll come running.’

  Harry turned from Dave and closed the distance between himself and the barn. The building was old, that much was obvious, from the weathered stone and slate roof to the tatty wooden shutters on the windows. There was a battered-looking aluminium ladder along one side of the barn, lying in the grass. Probably left by the farmer, Harry guessed.

  The blood was fresh, the wetness of it shining in the light of his torch, slick like oil. Dreading what lay at the end of it, but with no choice but to investigate further and find out, Harry pushed on into the barn.

  Inside, Harry caught numerous scents milling around him. The barn was an old place and had clearly seen its way through numerous generations of farmers, and Harry could smell that age now, seeping from the stone walls and the dirt floor. The light from his torch picked out a few crumbling bales of hay up against a wall, some knots of orange baler twine, tufts of sheep wool, an old wrench orange with rust, resting in a gap in the wall.

  Above him, Harry could see that the barn had once contained an upper floor, but it must have crumbled away decades ago, though remnants of the rafters still remained, jutting out like rotting teeth from the wall above, and at one end some of that ancient floor was still secured into the walls. The boards on the windows were cracked and worn but still strong enough to protect whatever was either stored here or taking shelter from the elements.

  Harry brought his torch back down to the ground and as he did so he caught the glint of something which sent his heart into his mouth, as two bright, wide eyes stared back at him from out of the dark.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  ‘What is it?’ Dave called. ‘You okay, Harry?’

  The eyes kept staring, then another pair opened next to them and Harry was astonished to find himself under the watchful glare of two owls. They seemed unconcerned by his presence and one of them let out the softest of calls. He swept his torch beam around and picked out another set of eyes, another owl sat high up in the roof of the barn that he’d missed when he’d first looked up.

  ‘Just some owls,’ Harry said. ‘Keeping a beady eye on me by the looks of things. Must’ve just come in. No way they’d have been here earlier, all things considered.’

  ‘There’s a few around and about,’ Dave said. ‘Beautiful creatures, aren’t they?’

  Harry said nothing, dragging the beam of his torch down to the barn’s floor, sweeping it slowly, left to right, waiting for it to rest on the source of all the blood. And when it did, he wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking at.

  ‘I think I’ve found what the blood’s from,’ Harry said.

  ‘It’s not a body is it?’ Dave said. ‘God, I hope it isn’t.’

  Harry shuffled closer. His first thought was one of relief, because what he was seeing could in no way be human. Yes, there was a lot of blood, and as to its size, it was easily more child than adult, but the main thing which struck Harry was that there was also an awful lot of fur. Which got Harry to wondering, what with Dave’s mention of foxes, if what he was looking at wasn’t actually a fresh kill. But of what?

  ‘Harry?’ Dave called. ‘You alright in there? What’ve you found?’

  Harry crouched down for a closer look. As he did so he noticed how scuffed the floor was, and how there was blood spatter everywhere. He saw footprints as well. Thinking back to the tyre tracks he’d spotted on their way in, and Dave’s encounter with a speeding vehicle, it was clear that the barn had very recently been more than a little busy.

  All at once, the bloody mess in front of him registered in Harry’s mind and he knew that he was staring at the remains of a dog. As to what breed it was he had no idea, but judging by the wounds, the amount of blood, the poor thing had died badly. And as Harry stared at
the ruined corpse, rage churned a storm in his gut, because this wasn’t the work of a fox, of that he was absolutely sure.

  Standing back up, taking in what he had already observed—the tyre tracks, the scuffed-up floor, the footprints, the remoteness of the location—Harry’s only conclusion was a bad one. Then, as he was about to leave, something caught his eye in amongst the blood and the fur. Harry fished around in a pocket for an evidence bag, then using an old biro lifted the thing out of the gore and slipped it into the bag.

  Back outside, Harry strode away from the barn to suck in some of the much needed fresh night air and ponder for a moment on just what the hell was wrong with humanity. Because what had happened in that barn was no accident. Harry knew that the dog had died as people had watched. Torn apart by another dog, he guessed, though he had been on cases where other animals, such as Dave’s favourite, the badger, had been involved.

  ‘You’re awful quiet,’ Dave said, coming over to stand with Harry. ‘I’m guessing that’s not a good sign. Though you’re a hard man to read at the best of times, if you don’t mind me saying so. A stare on you that could kill, and that’s on a good day.’

  ‘You were right to call me,’ Harry said, clenching and unclenching the hand not carrying the evidence bag, trying to squeeze out the anger he felt for those who had been party to what had gone on in that barn.

  ‘Well, that’s something, then.’