to that Gallagher chap.’
‘Relax,’ said Galbraith, reaching into a glove compartment and producing a radio. ‘We’ve got this if we need them. Which reminds me, we better have a codename for tonight. How about something—?’
‘I’d still feel better if—’
‘Don’t fret,’ said Galbraith, noticing his friend’s increasingly anxious expression. He unscrewed the lid from the flask. ‘Tea?’
Three miles further down the road, back towards Levton Bridge, the lights of a black saloon car cut through the darkness.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Nothing!’ exclaimed Matty Gallagher, glancing across the living room from the bureau he had been searching. ‘We’ve been through this place with a fine-tooth comb and there is absolutely nothing to suggest why anyone would want to kill Trevor Meredith.’
Jack Harris, crouching by a bookcase in the corner of the room, did not reply. It was shortly before 10 p.m. and the detectives were in the small cottage on the edge of Levton Bridge which had been Meredith’s home for a decade. The house was like the man, tidy and unremarkable, and the officers had been searching it for the best part of an hour, speaking little as they went through drawers and files, seeking something which would cast light on Trevor Meredith’s death. As their labours continued to prove fruitless, the sergeant had grown increasingly frustrated.
‘I mean,’ he said, holding up a sheet of paper in disgust, ‘he’s not even behind with his gas bill. It’d be easier to see why someone would want to murder Mother Teresa.’
‘She local then?’ asked Harris, not looking up.
‘You know the new Indian on the corner of Wesley Street? She works in the kitchens. Cooks a mean rogan josh, I can tell you.’
Gallagher grinned with delight at his quip then sighed as Jack Harris gave no sign that he had heard.
‘Wasted,’ said the sergeant gloomily, ‘that’s what I am.’
Harris said nothing but, looking down so that Gallagher could not see his face in the shadows behind the sofa, he allowed himself a smile.
‘Talking of the Indian,’ said the sergeant, looking up at the clock above the fireplace. ‘if we get finished here in time, I quite fancy a curry and they open late on a Monday night. You on for that?’
Again Harris did not reply. Gallagher sighed – he knew the answer anyway. The sergeant returned to his inspection of the bureau but could not concentrate: kept thinking about his favourite curry house back in London. A little back street job. Nothing to look at from the outside but chapatis to die for. Matty Gallagher sighed: God, he’d tried, he thought, he really had tried to settle in the North, but in recent weeks he had found himself thinking more and more about the old places. With an effort, he dragged his mind back to the task in hand.
‘I tell you something weird,’ he said, looking round the room. ‘It’s been bugging me ever since we got here. There is nothing of the man.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, think of a normal house. There’d be pictures for a start – parents’ golden wedding anniversary, grandkids, being presented with the golf trophy, that sort of thing. I bet even you’ve got pictures around your gaff, the day you and Scoot got married, that kind of thing.’
The inspector chuckled and glanced across at Scoot, who was sitting in a corner watching the two men work. Then the inspector looked at the pictures on the wall: two nondescript prints of landscapes which could hang in any house in the country. He wondered why he had not noticed the absence of the personal touch himself and looked approvingly at his sergeant.
‘What’s more,’ said Gallagher, flicking through some papers on the bureau. ‘There’s nothing here either. We’ve got a little desk like this at home and it’s crammed with personal things, but this guy? It’s like he’s a non-person.’
Both officers looked up as a forensics officer clumped down the stairs and entered the
‘Relax,’ said Galbraith, reaching into a glove compartment and producing a radio. ‘We’ve got this if we need them. Which reminds me, we better have a codename for tonight. How about something—?’
‘I’d still feel better if—’
‘Don’t fret,’ said Galbraith, noticing his friend’s increasingly anxious expression. He unscrewed the lid from the flask. ‘Tea?’
Three miles further down the road, back towards Levton Bridge, the lights of a black saloon car cut through the darkness.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Nothing!’ exclaimed Matty Gallagher, glancing across the living room from the bureau he had been searching. ‘We’ve been through this place with a fine-tooth comb and there is absolutely nothing to suggest why anyone would want to kill Trevor Meredith.’
Jack Harris, crouching by a bookcase in the corner of the room, did not reply. It was shortly before 10 p.m. and the detectives were in the small cottage on the edge of Levton Bridge which had been Meredith’s home for a decade. The house was like the man, tidy and unremarkable, and the officers had been searching it for the best part of an hour, speaking little as they went through drawers and files, seeking something which would cast light on Trevor Meredith’s death. As their labours continued to prove fruitless, the sergeant had grown increasingly frustrated.
‘I mean,’ he said, holding up a sheet of paper in disgust, ‘he’s not even behind with his gas bill. It’d be easier to see why someone would want to murder Mother Teresa.’
‘She local then?’ asked Harris, not looking up.
‘You know the new Indian on the corner of Wesley Street? She works in the kitchens. Cooks a mean rogan josh, I can tell you.’
Gallagher grinned with delight at his quip then sighed as Jack Harris gave no sign that he had heard.
‘Wasted,’ said the sergeant gloomily, ‘that’s what I am.’
Harris said nothing but, looking down so that Gallagher could not see his face in the shadows behind the sofa, he allowed himself a smile.
‘Talking of the Indian,’ said the sergeant, looking up at the clock above the fireplace. ‘if we get finished here in time, I quite fancy a curry and they open late on a Monday night. You on for that?’
Again Harris did not reply. Gallagher sighed – he knew the answer anyway. The sergeant returned to his inspection of the bureau but could not concentrate: kept thinking about his favourite curry house back in London. A little back street job. Nothing to look at from the outside but chapatis to die for. Matty Gallagher sighed: God, he’d tried, he thought, he really had tried to settle in the North, but in recent weeks he had found himself thinking more and more about the old places. With an effort, he dragged his mind back to the task in hand.
‘I tell you something weird,’ he said, looking round the room. ‘It’s been bugging me ever since we got here. There is nothing of the man.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, think of a normal house. There’d be pictures for a start – parents’ golden wedding anniversary, grandkids, being presented with the golf trophy, that sort of thing. I bet even you’ve got pictures around your gaff, the day you and Scoot got married, that kind of thing.’
The inspector chuckled and glanced across at Scoot, who was sitting in a corner watching the two men work. Then the inspector looked at the pictures on the wall: two nondescript prints of landscapes which could hang in any house in the country. He wondered why he had not noticed the absence of the personal touch himself and looked approvingly at his sergeant.
‘What’s more,’ said Gallagher, flicking through some papers on the bureau. ‘There’s nothing here either. We’ve got a little desk like this at home and it’s crammed with personal things, but this guy? It’s like he’s a non-person.’
Both officers looked up as a forensics officer clumped down the stairs and entered the
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