strike you as odd?’ said Harris.
‘You know what this place does to people.’
‘Yeah,’ said Gallagher with a sly smile. ‘Half of them get nose bleeds going to Roxham. I pass them sprawled out on the roadside when I drive home. It’s a truly pitiful sight. I stop to help them but what can you do?’
Harris looked as if he was about to remonstrate with his sergeant: Gallagher’s disparaging comments about life in the hills had often been known to irritate people. Harris knew this only too well, having fielded several complaints from irate townsfolk and eventually, following acerbic comments from Supt Curtis, the inspector had found himself warning his sergeant to be more sensitive – but only half-heartedly. Jack Harris appreciated from personal experience how claustrophobic life could be in the division’s hill communities.
Escaping such realities was the reason that, as a young man, Harris had joined the army, to leave behind bad influences and to explore the world beyond the dark horizon of the North Pennines. Even when he left the army after more than a decade’s service, Harris had opted to start his police career to the south, in Manchester, rather than return to Levton Bridge. Eventually, however, the pull of the hills had proved too strong, as he had always known it would, and he had applied for a transfer to his home town. For all his powerful desire to return, Jack Harris had not done so without reservations: he knew that a place where everyone knew everyone’s business could be wearing. Which was why he did not challenge Gallagher’s comment now.
‘Surely,’ said Harris, suddenly aware that the others were looking at him for some kind of response, ‘we must be able to find something. What about his CV, there must be something in there?’
‘What CV?’ asked Butterfield. ‘I went through every file at the dog sanctuary and there isn’t any sign of a CV. His personnel docket in the filing cabinet was empty. No letters, no reports, no nothing. It’s like Trevor Meredith did not exist before he came to Levton Bridge.’
‘Yeah,’ said Gallagher, holding up a sheet of paper. ‘We know how much he paid the gas board but we know virtually nothing about Trevor Meredith the man.’
‘What do we know about the girlfriend? She pop out of thin air as well?’
‘No, there’s plenty on Jasmine Riley,’ said Gallagher, glancing down at his notes. ‘She lived with her mum in Chester while she trained as a legal clerk. Left home when she got a job in Levton Bridge, working at the solicitors in the market-place. Arrived a couple of months after Meredith turfed up.’
‘Now there’s a coincidence. She knew Meredith before she came here?’
‘Seems not,’ said Butterfield. ‘The staff at the sanctuary reckon that they met at a party. They had been together ever since.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Gallagher, glancing round the room. ‘Her mum said they were going to get married next Spring. Jasmine moved in here not long ago.’
Harris walked over to the window again.
‘So,’ he said, ‘if they were making all those plans, why on earth were they getting out this morning in such a hurry? And why were they travelling separately?’
‘Your guess,’ shrugged Gallagher.
Harris walked back over to the bookcase and reached out for the volume he had been studying earlier: a history of blood sports.
‘I keep coming back to the dog fighting,’ he said. ‘I’ve got this idea that Trevor Meredith decided to do a bit of freelance investigation.’
‘Well, he was damned foolhardy if he was,’ said Gallagher. ‘Those guys can be pretty mean. They’d kill you as easy as….’
The sergeant’s voice tailed off.
‘Indeed,’ said Harris.
Idly, the inspector flicked through the book, giving an exclamation when a piece of paper fluttered on to the floor. Reaching down, he turned it over and read the mobile phone number written on it in what he assumed to be Meredith’s hand, neat and tidy
‘You know what this place does to people.’
‘Yeah,’ said Gallagher with a sly smile. ‘Half of them get nose bleeds going to Roxham. I pass them sprawled out on the roadside when I drive home. It’s a truly pitiful sight. I stop to help them but what can you do?’
Harris looked as if he was about to remonstrate with his sergeant: Gallagher’s disparaging comments about life in the hills had often been known to irritate people. Harris knew this only too well, having fielded several complaints from irate townsfolk and eventually, following acerbic comments from Supt Curtis, the inspector had found himself warning his sergeant to be more sensitive – but only half-heartedly. Jack Harris appreciated from personal experience how claustrophobic life could be in the division’s hill communities.
Escaping such realities was the reason that, as a young man, Harris had joined the army, to leave behind bad influences and to explore the world beyond the dark horizon of the North Pennines. Even when he left the army after more than a decade’s service, Harris had opted to start his police career to the south, in Manchester, rather than return to Levton Bridge. Eventually, however, the pull of the hills had proved too strong, as he had always known it would, and he had applied for a transfer to his home town. For all his powerful desire to return, Jack Harris had not done so without reservations: he knew that a place where everyone knew everyone’s business could be wearing. Which was why he did not challenge Gallagher’s comment now.
‘Surely,’ said Harris, suddenly aware that the others were looking at him for some kind of response, ‘we must be able to find something. What about his CV, there must be something in there?’
‘What CV?’ asked Butterfield. ‘I went through every file at the dog sanctuary and there isn’t any sign of a CV. His personnel docket in the filing cabinet was empty. No letters, no reports, no nothing. It’s like Trevor Meredith did not exist before he came to Levton Bridge.’
‘Yeah,’ said Gallagher, holding up a sheet of paper. ‘We know how much he paid the gas board but we know virtually nothing about Trevor Meredith the man.’
‘What do we know about the girlfriend? She pop out of thin air as well?’
‘No, there’s plenty on Jasmine Riley,’ said Gallagher, glancing down at his notes. ‘She lived with her mum in Chester while she trained as a legal clerk. Left home when she got a job in Levton Bridge, working at the solicitors in the market-place. Arrived a couple of months after Meredith turfed up.’
‘Now there’s a coincidence. She knew Meredith before she came here?’
‘Seems not,’ said Butterfield. ‘The staff at the sanctuary reckon that they met at a party. They had been together ever since.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded Gallagher, glancing round the room. ‘Her mum said they were going to get married next Spring. Jasmine moved in here not long ago.’
Harris walked over to the window again.
‘So,’ he said, ‘if they were making all those plans, why on earth were they getting out this morning in such a hurry? And why were they travelling separately?’
‘Your guess,’ shrugged Gallagher.
Harris walked back over to the bookcase and reached out for the volume he had been studying earlier: a history of blood sports.
‘I keep coming back to the dog fighting,’ he said. ‘I’ve got this idea that Trevor Meredith decided to do a bit of freelance investigation.’
‘Well, he was damned foolhardy if he was,’ said Gallagher. ‘Those guys can be pretty mean. They’d kill you as easy as….’
The sergeant’s voice tailed off.
‘Indeed,’ said Harris.
Idly, the inspector flicked through the book, giving an exclamation when a piece of paper fluttered on to the floor. Reaching down, he turned it over and read the mobile phone number written on it in what he assumed to be Meredith’s hand, neat and tidy
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