him?’
‘That’s him, and he ain’t going to be happy about this. Not happy at all.’ Dave wound down the window.
‘You got it?’ asked the new arrival.
‘Yeah,’ said Dave, reaching over to open the glove compartment and producing a small brown paper package. ‘Look, there was a bit of a hitch.’
The man looked hard at him. ‘Hitch?’ he said. ‘What kind of a hitch?’
‘We just heard on the radio that the old guy is dead.’
‘Dead?’ The man leaned into the car and hissed, ‘How the hell did that happen?’
‘He was alive when we left him,’ said Dave defensively.
‘Well, he’s not bloody alive now, is he?’ The man got intothe back of the car and leaned forward. ‘This changes everything. The thing will be red hot now. Every copper in the land will be after us.’
‘Not backing out, are you?’ said Dave, turning in his seat. ‘Because we’ve taken a huge risk for you and if you are …’
He did not finish the sentence but let the words hang in the heavy air inside the vehicle. Dave looked hard at the man, who appeared deep in thought.
‘Well?’ asked Dave after a few moments, holding up the package. ‘Are you taking it?’
‘Yeah,’ said the man, reaching forward for the package and handing over an envelope. ‘Yeah, I am. It’ll be out of the country by tonight. But there’ll be a lot of shit flying over this and if you even think of talking to Jack Harris and his people you know what it means for you.’
Dave tore open the envelope and looked at the bank notes.
‘I understand,’ he said.
‘Be sure you do,’ said the man, getting out of the car. ‘You just be sure you do. Harris will be all over this like a rash.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
J ack Harris and Matty Gallagher stood in the half-light of Harold Leach’s bedroom and stared in silence at the battered body lying on its back beside the bed. The old man’s face was heavily bloodstained and his jaw looked as if it had been broken. His left arm was twisted at a grotesque angle and his pyjama jacket was ripped in several places.
‘A fighter to the end,’ said Harris quietly.
‘No medals for this one, unfortunately.’
‘No indeed,’ said Harris. As he looked into the dead eyes of Harold Leach, the inspector shuddered, an unusual reaction for a man inured to murder. But then they were not usually friends.
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah.’ Harris walked over to the window and peered through the curtains. Having gone home to change hurriedly into a suit before he headed for the village, the inspector reached into his pocket and produced a red tie which he proceeded to put on while he surveyed the scene below. ‘So much for keeping things low key, eh?’
Gallagher joined him and for a few moments they stared down at the small crowd that had gathered outside the cottage. Butterfield and a uniformed constable were trying to keep order but without much success. Several people were crying and being comforted, others stood in grim-faced silence. On each face was etched the lines of shock. Harrisremembered those words during the seminar and knew how they felt. He felt the same. The effect of the killing would be experienced for a long time, he imagined. God knows where it would end up, he thought.
Gallagher watched the inspector struggling with his tie. I wonder, the sergeant asked himself, how long it will be before he says that he told us so? He helped his boss straighten his tie.
‘Thank you,’ said the inspector. ‘All fingers and thumbs today.’
‘You sure you’re all right?’
‘Yeah, just a bit shaken up, you know.’ The inspector looked over to the body. ‘Harold was a good friend. Someone I admired.’
‘I know.’
‘I knew something like this would happen.’
‘I know that as well.’
Harris nodded. ‘Yeah, I guess you do,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘I guess I have banged on about it.’
‘Perhaps we should have shown more respect for your instincts.’ Gallagher looked at the
‘That’s him, and he ain’t going to be happy about this. Not happy at all.’ Dave wound down the window.
‘You got it?’ asked the new arrival.
‘Yeah,’ said Dave, reaching over to open the glove compartment and producing a small brown paper package. ‘Look, there was a bit of a hitch.’
The man looked hard at him. ‘Hitch?’ he said. ‘What kind of a hitch?’
‘We just heard on the radio that the old guy is dead.’
‘Dead?’ The man leaned into the car and hissed, ‘How the hell did that happen?’
‘He was alive when we left him,’ said Dave defensively.
‘Well, he’s not bloody alive now, is he?’ The man got intothe back of the car and leaned forward. ‘This changes everything. The thing will be red hot now. Every copper in the land will be after us.’
‘Not backing out, are you?’ said Dave, turning in his seat. ‘Because we’ve taken a huge risk for you and if you are …’
He did not finish the sentence but let the words hang in the heavy air inside the vehicle. Dave looked hard at the man, who appeared deep in thought.
‘Well?’ asked Dave after a few moments, holding up the package. ‘Are you taking it?’
‘Yeah,’ said the man, reaching forward for the package and handing over an envelope. ‘Yeah, I am. It’ll be out of the country by tonight. But there’ll be a lot of shit flying over this and if you even think of talking to Jack Harris and his people you know what it means for you.’
Dave tore open the envelope and looked at the bank notes.
‘I understand,’ he said.
‘Be sure you do,’ said the man, getting out of the car. ‘You just be sure you do. Harris will be all over this like a rash.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
J ack Harris and Matty Gallagher stood in the half-light of Harold Leach’s bedroom and stared in silence at the battered body lying on its back beside the bed. The old man’s face was heavily bloodstained and his jaw looked as if it had been broken. His left arm was twisted at a grotesque angle and his pyjama jacket was ripped in several places.
‘A fighter to the end,’ said Harris quietly.
‘No medals for this one, unfortunately.’
‘No indeed,’ said Harris. As he looked into the dead eyes of Harold Leach, the inspector shuddered, an unusual reaction for a man inured to murder. But then they were not usually friends.
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah.’ Harris walked over to the window and peered through the curtains. Having gone home to change hurriedly into a suit before he headed for the village, the inspector reached into his pocket and produced a red tie which he proceeded to put on while he surveyed the scene below. ‘So much for keeping things low key, eh?’
Gallagher joined him and for a few moments they stared down at the small crowd that had gathered outside the cottage. Butterfield and a uniformed constable were trying to keep order but without much success. Several people were crying and being comforted, others stood in grim-faced silence. On each face was etched the lines of shock. Harrisremembered those words during the seminar and knew how they felt. He felt the same. The effect of the killing would be experienced for a long time, he imagined. God knows where it would end up, he thought.
Gallagher watched the inspector struggling with his tie. I wonder, the sergeant asked himself, how long it will be before he says that he told us so? He helped his boss straighten his tie.
‘Thank you,’ said the inspector. ‘All fingers and thumbs today.’
‘You sure you’re all right?’
‘Yeah, just a bit shaken up, you know.’ The inspector looked over to the body. ‘Harold was a good friend. Someone I admired.’
‘I know.’
‘I knew something like this would happen.’
‘I know that as well.’
Harris nodded. ‘Yeah, I guess you do,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘I guess I have banged on about it.’
‘Perhaps we should have shown more respect for your instincts.’ Gallagher looked at the
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