Shooting Season: A DCI Harry Grimm Novel Read online

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or this just gets worse,’ the bald man said.

  Harry rose to his feet, his shadow casting darkness over the men that Hell itself would be proud of.

  ‘It’s already worse,’ Harry said. ‘For you. For him.’ Harry jabbed a finger at the beard. ‘You, stand up.’

  The man climbed to his feet. Harry spun him around and snapped his wrists together with a plastic cable tie, then toppled him onto the leather sofa. He used another plastic tie on the man’s ankles.

  ‘Now you,’ Harry said.

  The bald man hesitated, so Harry grabbed him, flipped him over onto his chest, and tied his wrists and ankles together just the same.

  ‘You’re dead! Both of you!’ the beard cried out, trying to sit back up on the sofa. ‘You and your brother!’

  ‘You know, I don’t think we are,’ Harry said. ‘Now, why don’t you make yourself comfortable, and I’ll just give the old plod a call.’

  As Harry made to leave the room, the bald man shouted, ‘You can’t do this!’

  ‘And yet, here we are,’ Harry said, then left the room and wandered back outside.

  On the way back to his vehicle, Harry punched in a call. Detective Superintendent Alice Firbank answered.

  ‘Can I assume that no one was injured terribly?’

  ‘Yes, you can, Ma’am,’ Harry replied. ‘We just had a little talk, that’s all.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Send a car to the address. They’re not going anywhere. And whoever does turn up, let them know that there are weapons on the premises. Not that they’re much use, seeing as I dismantled them, but worth knowing anyway.’

  ‘So, were you right? That your father’s supposed olive branch was anything but?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes,’ Harry replied. ‘Apparently, he wants to meet up. Face to face.’

  ‘This is not an excuse for you to go all Lone Ranger on me,’ Firbank said.

  Harry laughed. ‘The Lone Ranger? Aren’t you a bit young for that reference?’

  ‘You know full well what I mean,’ Firbank said. ‘If you go ahead with this–’

  ‘I will, of course, only do so with backup,’ Harry said.

  ‘Is that a promise, Grimm?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  ‘Hope to die?’

  ‘Not yet, Ma’am,’ Harry said. ‘Not yet. And things are sorted with Ben, as discussed?’

  ‘They are,’ Firbank said. ‘If you’re still happy with the arrangement.’

  ‘I am,’ Harry said. ‘Very.’

  Phone call over, Harry climbed back into his vehicle, then watched as blue lights filled the night sky and two patrol cars came to a quick stop outside the house containing the two men. Then he flicked the engine into life, pulled out onto the road, and turned around to head back to Wensleydale.

  Chapter Two

  Charlie Baker was having the best time of his life, thank you very much, so he turned up the music, dropped a gear, and accelerated hard, zipping past a grey-haired couple in a non-descript car the colour of a fading bruise. His own transport, a Porsche 911, which he’d had sprayed the same colour as his favourite ski boots—sort of a light metallic blue with a hint of fluffy cloud—gobbled up the road ahead like a hungry teenager in front of a burger and chips.

  As Thursdays went, this one was rather special, not least because he was spending it trying to get over another mid-week bender at Groucho’s, still his favourite club in London. At his age, he was pretty sure he should know better. But he didn’t. And anyway, after that awful review in the press of his new book, The Hunt, which wasn’t even out till tomorrow, he’d needed a few drinks, so what did it matter?

  Charlie had been on the road now for a good four hours, but that had included a very necessary stop at a motorway service to stock up on Red Bull and chocolate, essential supplies for any journey. London was a long way away now, and he was no longer on motorways or dual carriageways. Instead, he was on country lanes and very much enjoying the chance to really see what the car could do. He’d had it for six months now, but London wasn’t the best place to see how a car could perform. It impressed people, yes, but that was about it. These Yorkshire roads, though, Charlie thought, were absolutely fantastic!

  This trip hadn’t been his idea, but he wasn’t complaining. It had actually made complete sense, not just because he needed to get away for a while anyway, but also because as book launches went, this was a doozy! A week in the dales at an exclusive pheasant shoot, all because the first few chapters of his new book, The Hunt, were set there? Marvellous! Throw in a few events with some fans and the press, plus the chance to actually use a shotgun on some of those round clay things that flew through the air, and the whole thing became quite a delight.

  Bless Adam, his editor and go-to for pretty much everything when it came to his books, for sorting it all out. Whatever would he do without him? His personal assistant, Chris Eghart, had helped Adam as well, but she was still learning the ropes, so probably best to not give her too much credit yet. She needed to earn that and she hadn’t yet.

  Ahead, and having just checked his reflection in the mirror and adjusted his Baker Boy hat so that it was sufficiently jaunty, Charlie saw a sign for Constable Burton. As he drove through it, he thought how it was not so much a village, as a small collection of traditional dales houses clearly shoved together for the singular purpose of looking very nice on postcards. And that name, he thought, wouldn’t it make a wonderful character in a book? Perhaps his next . . . Constable Burton, his body found in the river, drowned! No, drowned and shot! Yes, that would be fun, wouldn’t it? Drowned and shot! Ha! Perhaps he died twice? Perhaps there were two killers? He’d have to talk to Adam though, see what he thought of it. He always knew best. Only then would he discuss an idea with his literary agent, Anna James.

  Driving on, Charlie came upon a rather more bustling place called Leyburn. So far, his journey through the dales had been pretty, yes, but as yet he’d not seen any of the famous promised hills and vales. Leyburn looked like a nice place to stroll around and find somewhere to enjoy a coffee and a nice pastry or perhaps a chocolate brownie, but he could come back another day. For now, he kept on, through the large marketplace, took a left at the junction, then headed down a hill and onwards, deeper into Wensleydale.

  It was at this point that Charlie started to see the promise of the dales starting to deliver as, a couple of miles later, and having passed over the wide and calm River Ure at Wensley, he witnessed the gradual revealing of hills in the distance. Proper ones! They were a fair way off yet, true, but that was easy enough to sort. Charlie grinned and put the Porsche to good use once again, the thrum of the engine as he accelerated making him grin like an excited boy.

  As another dales village sped past, its stone and slate houses the pale grey of a chill winter’s sky, the road became ever more interesting, weaving itself under trees and up and down hills, twisting and turning through shadows and sudden puddles of sunlight, and passing on his right at one point, something that looked rather like an old temple. It peered eerily out at the world from behind a high wall, its dark dome barely visible under a canopy of black branches, thin claws reaching out from the trunks of ancient trees.

  Dear God, it is beautiful here, Charlie thought, leaning forwards a little over his steering wheel to look closer still at the beauty that now surrounded him. Yes, he was a London boy, always had been, from the day he’d shipped himself there for a three-year degree in film studies, widely regarded as the most useless of all subjects for seeking employment after graduation.

  He loved the city life, the way the place was never really asleep. To Charlie, it was as though he’d moved to the most exciting place on earth, a city the world looked up to with envy. It had history, it had life, it had a heartbeat so strong that when he took himself to bed, he imagined he could hear it, in the distant call of late-night traffic, or the rumble of the underground trains as they sped about beneath him in sub
terranean darkness, their tunnels like arteries.

  But this place, well, it was something else. He’d never known or even thought about how there could be so many different shades of green. Wherever he looked, it changed, lights and darks, and yet still green.

  Charlie found himself wondering if he was starting to get old. Yes, that’s probably it, he thought, but it was no bad thing. He was forty-seven, so not exactly ancient, but then again, hardly a party-hard student. A few years ago, the idea of spending a week in Yorkshire would have had him guffaw in derision. The mere idea of something so mundane, so rural, would not have been a thing he would have wanted to spend his time doing, or indeed, tell other people he was doing.

  Now though? Well, right now, he was rather taken with the idea of seeing if he could find an estate agent, if only to see what the market was like right now. It would be rather quaint, too, wouldn’t it, to have a little cottage in the dales to escape to? he pondered. A great little bolt-hole for intimate parties with just a few friends even. What a wonderful idea! And what a lovely thing to do tomorrow, he then thought. Yes, he was busy, but still . . .

  With this thought in mind, Charlie pulled off the road beside a gate, through which he could see actual real sheep enjoying the lush pasture they called home, pulled out his phone, and flicked through his contacts until he landed on the number for Chris, his PA. Barely a single ring after tapping on her number, she answered.

  ‘Hi, Charlie!’

  ‘Chris! How are you?’ Charlie said, his voice as friendly and convivial as it could ever be. He knew exactly how to coat his words in honey. ‘Is Anna darling with you?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Chris replied, ‘because she’s driving!’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ Charlie said, pretending to have forgotten that his PA was driving up with his literary agent. He just wasn’t that good at small talk if he wasn’t in the mood. Like now. ‘Where are you?’ he asked, suddenly all business, his tone sharp, the honey wiped off in a heartbeat.

  ‘Just a minute, I’ll ask Anna . . . We’re in Leyburn. Looks quaint.’

  ‘Just a minute?’ Charlie snapped back. ‘Don’t you mean now? By which I mean immediately?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I meant,’ Chris said.

  Charlie could hear the stress in Chris’ voice, and he liked that. ‘Well, why didn’t you say that? Now, is there an estate agent?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘An estate agent?’ Charlie asked, trying to not sound too impatient, but really, how could this be so difficult to understand? ‘You know, somewhere that sells houses? An estate agent?’

  ‘Probably,’ Chris replied. ‘I’ve not seen one, but we’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you have a quick look for me?’ Charlie suggested.

  ‘What now? I’m not sure that there’s time, really.’

  ‘Yes, now! Of course, now! Why the bloody hell would I ask you to do it if I didn’t mean now?’

  Charlie pulled himself away from his phone and swore loudly once again, then had it back to his ear.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Have you found one? An estate agent, remember? Or have you forgotten already? Dear God, Chris, you’re my PA!’

  ‘Look, we’re just parking up,’ Chris explained, and Charlie could hear the strain in her voice, but that was good, because it meant he was keeping her on her toes. ‘It’s quite busy.’

  ‘Well, when you’ve stopped faffing about,’ Charlie said, ‘could you perhaps find an estate agent or two, please, and pop in to see what kind of properties are on the market at the moment? If it’s not too much trouble?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Chris replied. ‘It’s no trouble, not at all. Anything specific?’

  ‘Well, I’m hardly going to be looking for a farm, am I, dear?’ Charlie snapped back. ‘Use your bloody initiative!’

  There was a pause from Chris’ side of the conversation.

  ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ Charlie prompted, before knocking his phone on the dashboard as if at the door to a house that no one was answering despite the bell being rung. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yes, yes, we’re parked now,’ Chris said, and Charlie heard the flustering in her voice. ‘I’ll see what I can find.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Charlie said, his voice back to its cheerful, friendly tone, sweet and accommodating. ‘Thank you so much! See you soon, yes?’

  He didn’t give Chris a chance to answer and hung up.

  Sitting back in his seat, Charlie allowed himself to dream for a moment, imagining himself picking up the keys to a delightful little cottage, perhaps lighting a fire, that kind of thing. It was certainly an exciting idea. Writers were supposed to have little retreats, weren’t they? Sheds. Except he didn’t have a garden, what with him living in a rather exclusive apartment. There was a communal garden, yes, but he was pretty sure that erecting a shed would be frowned upon. Not that he would want to anyway. Why anyone would want to spend any time at all in a small, cold, draughty shed was beyond him. A cottage, though? Now that, he could absolutely do.

  Readying himself to set off on the final few miles of his journey, Charlie was a little annoyed when his phone rang.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’ he answered, assuming it was Chris.

  ‘Hi, Charlie. How’s the journey going?’

  Charlie rubbed his eyes, weary already of this interruption.

  ‘Adam! Are you there already? At the lodge?’

  ‘I arrived a couple of hours ago,’ Adam replied, and Charlie was pretty sure he heard a hint of annoyance in his old friend’s voice. How long had they known each other now? Nearly thirty years? Was it really that long? He had a lot to thank Adam for, that was true, but not this phone call.

  ‘Is this an important call?’ Charlie asked. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘No,’ Adam replied. ‘I was just checking everything was okay, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, everything is absolutely okay,’ Charlie replied. ‘Tickety-boo, actually. I’ve just asked Chris to pop into an estate agent for me. I think it would be rather nice to own a little place up here, don’t you? A sort of writer’s escape!’

  ‘A writer’s escape?’ Adam asked, and Charlie picked up a note of sarcasm in his friend and employee’s voice.

  ‘Yes,’ Charlie replied. ‘A writer’s escape. A retreat if you will. And what’s so amusing about that, then?’

  ‘Nothing, no nothing at all,’ Adam replied. ‘It’s a great idea.’

  ‘It’s what writers do, isn’t it? Successful ones? I’m not having a shed. What would I do with such a thing? I would never use it, assuming I had somewhere to put it, which I don’t. But a cottage would be a joy, don’t you agree? And I’d definitely use one, wouldn’t I? And you could use it, too, obviously.’

  ‘Yes, it would be nice,’ Adam said. ‘Very much so, I’m sure.’

  ‘Nice? Is that all you have to say about it? I thought you of all people would be more excited, more understanding!’

  ‘No, it’s a great idea,’ Adam said. ‘Really. I mean it. So, when will you be here?’

  ‘I’d probably be there now if people didn’t keep interrupting me with phone calls.’

  Adam said nothing.

  ‘I’m assuming you’ve arranged dinner for this evening?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Adam said. ‘I’ve booked us a professional chef. Should be fun.’

  ‘Sounds a delight!’

  ‘Well, I thought it would be good to eat well before we get into the launch events tomorrow, and the clay shoot.’

  ‘Yes, about all of that,’ Charlie said, his thoughts of spending a day looking at possible property purchases now dashed. ‘Well, whatever it is we have on tomorrow. Are they sure it’s so very important?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Adam said. ‘It’s why we’re here at all.’

  ‘What, even the one in the bookshop?’

  ‘Vital,’ Adam said. ‘It’s a ticketed event, lots of fans. Surely, you�
�re not thinking of cancelling?’

  Charlie paused. It was exactly what he was thinking.

  ‘Could you do it for me?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’

  ‘But you know the books better than anyone—’

  ‘That’s not the point!’ Adam cut back. ‘You’re the author! It’s supposed to be your book! It’s why we came here in the first place! It’s you the fans want to see! I’m not employed to be your face as well as your—’

  ‘Editor,’ Charlie cut in. ‘As well as my editor, is what you were about to say.’

  ‘Yes, of course, it was,’ Adam said.

  Charlie sighed. Sometimes, life really did get in the way of him enjoying himself.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No,’ Adam said.

  Charlie hung up before Adam had a chance to say anything else disappointing. Then, after tossing his phone into the passenger footwell, he slipped the gearstick into first and kicked the accelerator hard, wheel-spinning the Porsche into the remaining miles of his journey. The sheep, startled by the sound of it and the grit spraying into the air, bolted away and up into the far end of the field. Charlie didn’t notice.

  Chapter Three

  Harry, mug of tea in hand, was relaxing in the main room at the Hawes Community Centre, which was used by him and the rest of the team. He’d come to the conclusion, over the past few months, that the dales population drank more tea than any other libation, non-alcoholic or otherwise. He’d been more of a coffee drinker when he’d arrived nearly four months ago, but that had somehow given way to this new addiction. He took a gulp, sending the hot liquid down his throat, and leaned back just a bit further in his chair, a crack from his back making it even more satisfying.

  After the moderate excitement of the night before, which had included a rather long journey there and back again in his Rav4, Thursday had, so far, been delightfully uneventful. This was a quiet day in the dales, the kind of day where people happily went about their business, and no one did anything really stupid to ruin it.