Death on High (The Lakeland Murders) Page 10

  Ian Mann forced himself to stay in the house all that evening, and not to keep looking out of the window. Brockbank was on one of the Subaru message-boards, and they chatted about the hound trail on Saturday. Mann said he was still on for it. A couple of the other lads told them to get a room if they couldn’t stay on-thread, and Mann logged off. He was wondering if he could keep two undercover operations going at the same time. And what if Gorham was right, and there was a king-pin behind Brockbank, maybe he was involved with Spedding too. Maybe it was Spedding himself, although Mann seriously doubted that. But Mann was learning not to think too far ahead, and to try to play what was in front of him. It had worked so far, and he reckoned if he kept it all together for another few weeks he’d probably help get a decent result. Then he got changed and went for a long run. It always cleared his head.

  As soon as he got back he knew that something was wrong. The front door wasn’t closed properly; he could see the reflection of the lock plate in the streetlight. Mann slowed down, but didn’t break stride. When he reached the door he pushed it gently, and went in fast. The lights were off, and he left them that way. If he was going to catch anyone they’d be upstairs, so he ran up the stairs, roaring as he did so. He hadn’t heard himself make that sound in years, and the last time he did there were a dozen or more mates around him.

  But when he’d checked the two bedrooms and come back downstairs he quickly confirmed that his visitors were long gone. They’d been surprisingly tidy, but there was no doubt that he was intended to know that he’d had a caller, and that his house had been watched. He got his toolbox, and fixed the front door as well as he could, then bolted it after. Then he checked to see if they’d found where he’d hidden his Blackberry and Warrant card. They hadn’t, or at least he didn’t think they had. He wondered about getting them finger-printed when he was next in Kendal, but decided against. He was almost sure that they were exactly as he’d left them.

  Friday, 1st March

  Hall woke especially early. He’d been dreaming that he was at a wedding, he wasn’t sure whose, and the tables were all covered in water. The plates were floating about, and he thought he remembered petals in the water too. By recent standards it wasn’t bad at all, but as he surfaced he found himself wondering whose wedding it had been.

  He showered, dressed, and read his email before breakfast. He wasn’t surprised to read Mann’s brief, understated email saying that his house had been broken into. There was nothing from DEFRA about anyone enquiring about Ray Turner, so maybe Spedding hadn’t bought Ray’s story. Hall started to feel tense. He was de-briefing Ray at 9am, and he intended to drive north and meet Mann later.

  Hall did what he usually did in these situations. He left the kids asleep and headed straight to work. It was just before 7am and the sky was lightening in the east. When he walked in to the office he saw that Jane was already there, and he wasn’t surprised when she knocked on his office door five minutes later. She was carrying two teas, which he took as a good sign.

  ‘I hear it’s all been happening with Ian.’

  ‘Blimey, news travels fast in here. I wish the same could be said of my expenses. But yes, Ian’s place got turned over last night. I’m a bit worried that’s Spedding’s rumbled him, or maybe Ray, or maybe both of them. But maybe he’s just being careful. I just don’t know.’

  ‘Ian can take care of himself boss.’

  ‘I know that Jane, but my job is to manage the risk. And I’ll tell you one thing, if I’m not happy I’m going to call this off, and to hell with Gorham and Robinson and the lot of them. If we had more money we could just do an old fashioned target-and-surveillance operation on cowboys like Brockbank and Spedding, instead of all this cloak and dagger nonsense. When you get down to it, I’ve got a friend and colleague who’s out there with no proper protection, and all to save a few quid.’

  Jane looked taken aback, and Hall noticed. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit stressed this morning. I shouldn’t sound off at you. Anyway, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it Andy. I wanted to tell you what happened when I talked to Ed Willis.’

  ‘I thought you did. You’re like a greyhound in the slips. So can I safely assume that he confirmed that Tony Harrison was playing away?’

  ‘You can. He doesn’t know who with, but it sounds fairly recent and fairly intense.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Lots of texting, phone calls at work. That sort of stuff.’

  ‘Blimey Jane, you are the last of the great romantics. So you’re saying that the middle-aged aren’t allowed strong feelings, are you?’

  ‘I’m nearly middle-aged boss.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ She smiled, and Hall felt a bit better.

  ‘So now that we do have at least a possible motive for murder, do we make it official?’ Jane asked.

  Hall knew that the correct answer was no.

  ‘Yes. As of now. Open a case file today please, get a formal statement off Ed Willis, and then we’ll start looking at both Tony and Vicky. Maybe get some of the background checks in motion today if you can.’

  ‘What about Robinson? Won’t he go ape-shit?’

  ‘Oh yes, he’s going to be furious, but he can’t do a thing when you raise the file. If he kicks up I’ll ask him if he wants to give me a statement confirming what he told me originally. That should shut him up.’

  ‘So you think that Vicky might have pushed Tony?’

  ‘Of course not. But what I think isn’t at issue here, nor what you think either, come to that.’

  ‘Well I think she did it.’

  Hall smiled. ‘So you keep saying Jane. Tell you what, give me an update early next week and we can take it from there. If Robinson hasn’t got me out with the PCSOs on dog-dirt patrol our next move will probably be to chat to Vicky again. Let’s see what she knew about this other woman.’

  ‘And you’ll do that alone, will you boss? Over a bottle of wine maybe.’

  Hall smiled again. He deserved it. ‘Very funny. No, we’ll do it together. All right?’

  ‘Fine boss. I’ll get on to it right now.’

  ‘I bet you will Jane. I bet you will.’

  Hall spent the rest of the day talking to Ray, meeting with Mann, updating Gorham and Robinson by email and talking to DEFRA. Sure enough they had taken a call for Ray Turner, first thing that morning, and that made Hall feel much better. Ray phoned the number Spedding had left, and left a voicemail for him. Spedding hadn’t called back, and Hall doubted he ever would.

  So by the time he turned off his computer that night Hall was much more confident that Ian was secure, and was actually infiltrating both of the target groups successfully. That should earn him a few Brownie points with Robinson, but Hall found himself caring less and less about what Robinson thought. His sole concern was that Ian was not at risk, and the more he thought about it the more sure he became that he wasn’t, at least for now. Because Mann’s house had been turned over hours before Spedding or one of his boys had called DEFRA, and why even bother doing that if they already knew that Ian was a cop?

  Saturday, 2nd March

  Ian Mann hadn’t slept well, and he cursed himself for his stupidity as he stood in the shower. If Spedding knew that he was a copper, and that Ray was one too, then there’s no way that he’d do anything about it. He wouldn’t torch the house, or have Dixon attacked in the street. Spedding was a working criminal, and he’d do everything he could to keep out of the Police’s way. So all he had to do, if he did know that Mann was a cop, was to say something to Mann when they next met in the pub, and that would be the end of it. And in any case, all the signs were that Spedding had swallowed Mann’s story hook, line and sinker.

  Mann did his food shopping in the morning, found his binoculars and his old flat cap when he got back to the house, and set off for Kentmere. The day was cold and overcast, but it could have been worse. He fancied a drive, so he came off the motorway at Penrith, and drove down the west bank of Ul
lswater, and then on over Kirkstone. He always enjoyed it when there weren’t too many dawdling tourists about, and he wound his window down so he could hear the exhaust noise bouncing back off the dry stone walls.

  He drove slowly up Kentmere, and eventually caught sight of the cars and vans parked in a field off to one side, up near the head of the valley. He could hear the mud being thrown up by his wheels as he drove on to the trail field, and thought that he’d have to clean the car the next day. He wasn’t alarmed at the prospect. Mann parked next to an old pick up, and as soon as he turned his engine off he could hear the dogs barking in the back.

  He was looking forward to the trail, but was slightly nervous about being recognised. But he hadn’t shaved for days, and with his cap pulled down he hoped he’d be OK. If the worst came to the worst he’d have to just try to brazen it out, and hope that Brockbank would buy a claim of mistaken identity. But Mann very much doubted that he would.

  He grabbed his binoculars, slung them round his neck and got out of the car. He walked around the field, watching the bookies set up their chalk boards, and some of the owners walking their dogs. Cars and vans were still coming in to the field pretty regularly, and a few minutes later Mann caught sight of Brockbank arriving in his dad’s old Land Rover. He was on his own.

  Mann strolled over to the Landie, and waited for Brockbank to get out.

  ‘Bring back memories?’ asked Brockbank.

  ‘It hasn’t changed at all. The sound of the dogs, the smell of the aniseed, this landscape, even the people. It couldn’t be anywhere else in the world, could it?’

  Brockbank smiled. ‘That’s why I love it so much. It’s just something for us locals, it’s not for the tourists and the rich offcomers, it’s for us. They put sheepdog trials on telly years ago, but they’ve never tried it with this.’

  ‘So you’ll be having a flutter?’ asked Mann.

  ‘Not today. I’ll just be looking at which hounds look in form, and what their handlers have to say. It’d be too risky to take a punt today.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘Don’t let me put you off. By the way, I’ve got something for you.’

  Brockbank passed over an envelope, and Mann slipped it into his pocket.

  ‘You not going to count it?’

  ‘I still trust you.’

  Brockbank grinned. ‘See you in a bit. I need to see a man about a dog.’

  Mann watched the handlers preparing for the start, taking off the hounds’ coats. The dogs were all baying, straining and jumping, ready for the off. The spectators were mainly over by the bookies’ ring, and quite a few bets were being placed by the looks of it. Mann walked over and stood near the ring, and watched as the handlers lined up, holding their animals by the scruff of the neck. By now the barking had reached a crescendo, and then they were off, tearing across the field, over a dry stone wall and on up the fellside. The barking faded quickly, and soon the dogs were no more than white dots on the hillside.

  After just a few minutes the first dogs were right up on the tops, following the scent trail that had been laid a couple of hours before. They were visible most of the time, and Mann watched through his binoculars. But it didn’t make any difference, because one trail-hound looked exactly the same as the next to Mann.

  The bookies and the punters certainly knew better though, and they all were watching the dogs running along the ridge line. Odds were altered as the dogs ran, and money changed hands. Mann walked over to the burger van, and bought two teas. He carried one over to Brockbank, who was standing near the finish.

  ‘Cheers marrer’ said Brockbank. ‘They’ll not be long now.’

  The hounds were plunging off the hill now, and like four-legged fell runners they each chose their own route down. The handlers were getting their catch bowls ready, and when the hounds were still half a mile away the shouting started, with handlers and supporters calling out their dogs’ names and bashing the sides of the plastic feed tubs that they were holding out. One hound was well ahead of the rest, and it crossed the line before much of the field was even back over the final wall.

  ‘Excuse me while I collect my winnings’ said Brockbank, grinning.

  ‘I thought you weren’t betting today?’

  ‘Never believe a gambler Gary. Especially about betting.’

  Mann watched Brockbank collect his winnings, share a joke with a few of the older men standing in the bookies’ ring, and then start strolling back. Ian Mann was Kendal born and raised, but he knew that Brockbank was a different kind of local. He envied that different sense of belonging, but found himself wondering if it was a curse as much as blessing. Could Brockbank ever have gone away, as he had, or would he spend his whole life trying to live in a world that had changed beyond recognition? Would anyone even be hound trailing in another fifty years? Mann had his doubts.

  ‘You going to risk your winnings on the other races?’ he asked when Brockbank came back.

  ‘Nah, I’ll just watch, get an idea of form.’

  ‘That’s what you said the last time.’

  ‘I know, but this time I mean it. Honest. These hounds are just young ‘uns, so I don’t know how they’ll run.’

  They walked back to where the hounds were being lined up for the next race. The flag dropped, and they were away.

  ‘Any other work on the cards?’ asked Mann.

  ‘Day or night?’

  ‘Either. I’m not fussed.’

  ‘Might be a night shift coming up, but it would mean travelling.’

  ‘Abroad?’

  ‘In a way. Yorkshire.’

  Mann laughed.

  ‘Yeh, I’d be up for it.’

  ‘You don’t know what it is yet. You’re always so bloody keen, marrer.’

  Mann didn’t reply, but watched the hounds flying up the fellside. It started to spit with rain.

  ‘Tell you what’ said Brockbank, ‘I’ve got some people to talk to, but it’d be a bit of driving I expect. A wagon with some livestock on board. Can you drive a truck?’

  ‘Yeh, got my license in the military. Haven’t done it for a while, but I’m sure I’d be fine.’

  ‘I’m sure you would. Tell you what, how about we head for the pub after this race? I think my winnings would run to a pie and a pint.’

  Tuesday, 5th March

  ‘So how did Robinson take the news about the Hamilton enquiry?’ asked Jane, as they sat in Hall’s office reading through the background material on the couple that Jane had amassed so far. And amassed was the right word: there was page after page of the stuff.

  ‘He looked liked he’d just swallowed a wasp, and was now sucking a lemon.’

  Jane laughed, and Hall was pleased. He’d thought that up earlier, knowing that Jane would ask.

  ‘But he’s happy for us to develop the investigation?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say happy, but there’s really nothing he can do, is there? He’d have to declare an interest, and he’s not keen to do that at all.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘So you’ve set up a meeting with Vicky?’

  ‘Yes, after work again. She asked who’d be there, and when I told her that we both would be she suggested her house. Sorry about that.’

  Hall ignored the implication. He had no intention of getting caught out again. But he couldn’t help but smile. ‘OK, that’s good. Can you see anything in this lot that takes us anywhere? I’ve only skimmed it so far.’

  ‘Not really. She really doesn’t need the insurance payout by the looks of things, but it’s odd that we’re not picking up any texts or emails from this mystery woman on his phone or computers.’

  ‘Another mobile and a separate email account then?’ said Hall.

  ‘That’d be favourite, yes.’

  ‘I wonder why he was going to so much trouble’ said Hall thoughtfully. ‘In my experience people who are having affairs tend not to be so careful. It’s a kind of death-wish for their previous experience I think.’


  This time it was Jane who let the comment pass. She had a pretty good idea what Andy Hall’s experience was.

  Ian Mann signed on at eleven, and he didn’t enjoy the experience. Someone had obviously tried to make the Job Centre look and feel less municipal, but it hadn’t worked. He didn’t like the shuffling, and the low voices. Afterwards he went home, changed into his running gear, and was just about to try to get it all out of his system when he heard a knock at front door. It was one of Spedding’s boys, and though they hadn’t been introduced Mann already knew his name, Tom Rigg, and his form. He had no history of violence.

  ‘Joey says be in the pub in ten minutes.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  He didn’t bother to change again, and he walked into the pub exactly when required. Spedding nodded to him as Mann walked to the bar. He bought himself a pint and walked over to Spedding’s table. He gestured for Mann to sit down.

  ‘Your bloke Turner checks out.’

  Mann nodded and sipped his drink. He could get to like this drinking at lunchtime, if he wasn’t careful.

  ‘This is Tom, and this is Brian.’ Mann nodded a greeting.

  ‘So what you got on Turner then, eh? It takes some leverage to get the likes of him to go bent.’

  ‘We go back a long way.’

  ‘He said. Anyway, that’s your business. We’re here to talk about mine. Now, as it happens I might have a use for that paperwork soon, but first we got another little job on, and we could do with an extra pair of hands. You interested?’