‘Anything else?’ Harry asked.
Jim shook his head.
‘Matt?’
Matt looked thoughtful, rubbed his chin to emphasise the fact that he was thinking, and then said, ‘I’ll be honest, I’m with Jim. This doesn’t look right.’
Harry took a step back to get a moment alone with his thoughts and looked at the countryside lying around them. It was, like the rest of the dales, utterly beautiful. Moorlands and rolling hills, crags and ancient walls, all lay before him. History was here, the land farmed in much the same way now as it had been for centuries, families stretching back generations. The cool air, rich with the scents of fern and heather from the moors, brought with it the faintest tang from the sheep that lived on this land, and their haunting bleats and calls gave the place life. Far off, he heard the rumble of low flying aircraft, vehicles navigating the lanes. And in the very centre of this, just a step or two away from his own feet, death had come and in as violent a form as he had ever seen. It was a scene so utterly incongruous to its surroundings that Harry just shook his head and sighed.
‘Here,’ Harry said, pulling something out of his pocket and handing it to Matt. ‘Best make this official then.’
Matt looked at the roll of crime scene tape now in his hands. ‘Not sure there’s enough, Boss,’ he said. ‘I’m half tempted to just cordon off the whole field.’
Jim’s phone rang. ‘Liz?’ he said.
When the brief call ended, Jim looked over to Harry and Matt.
‘It’s Nick,’ Jim said.
‘What is?’ Harry asked.
‘He’s done a runner.’
Chapter Six
Having left Matt up in the field to not only secure the area, but set himself up as the Scene Guard to log everyone moving on and off the site, and with the crime scene team on their way, Harry and Jim headed back to the farm to see what had happened and to check on Liz. Harry had also demanded that anyone and everyone heading to the crime scene was to meet at the farmhouse first and be directed from there. It would save people getting lost and ending up traipsing through fields at random in some kind of gruesome treasure hunt. It was a formality for sure, but it still had to be done. There was certainly no need for an ambulance, and with the state of the body, Harry half wondered if shovels and a couple of strong plastic bin bags would be more useful than a stretcher for moving it. The coroner had been called, and the pathologist, Rebecca Sowerby, and Harry was very much looking forward to seeing her again, in much the same way as he looked forward to having root canal surgery. They hadn’t exactly hit it off last time they’d met, so he was quite pleased that she would have a less than pleasant time with the body, though Harry wondered how a pathologist would ever be able to class a day as pleasant, up to their armpits in the decaying remains of someone else. Horses for courses though.
At the farmhouse, Harry saw first-hand what Jim had been getting at with regards to the deceased not being the best of farmers. As they’d approached it from the road in Jim’s vehicle, he’d been put in mind of the kind of set used for horror films involving stupid backpacking teenagers and cannibalistic hicks. Horror wasn’t exactly Harry’s thing, having seen more than enough in his real life to spend his free time watching the fantasy equivalent, but he had a feeling that were Tobe Hooper with them right then, the man would have been chomping at the bit to get back into showbusiness and do a Texas Chainsaw Massacre reboot.
‘What a shit tip,’ Harry said, as they bounced into the yard in the Land Rover, leaving the road and its smooth, clean surface behind, to be replaced by a mismatch of cobbles, rubble and patches of crumbling tarmac, all well hidden beneath a blanket of undulating muck and mire. Liz’s motorbike was propped up on its stand to one side.
‘The man had no pride,’ Jim said, pulling them to a stop and heaving the handbrake. He then looked at Harry’s feet and shook his head.
‘What?’ Harry asked.
‘Still not bought any, then?’ Jim asked, shaking his head, as though disappointed in the behaviour of a child.
Harry said nothing and clambered out, his shoes sinking deep into the stink. He’d been putting off buying some proper farmer style wellington boots, because buying them added a sense of permanency to his life in the dales that he wasn’t quite ready to accept. But with something indescribably awful now creeping over the lip of his shoes and onto his socks, he made a mental note to get a pair as soon as they were back in Hawes.
Harry looked around the yard. ‘I can’t believe I’m asking this, but which building is the actual house?’
It was, from where they were standing, impossible to tell which of the buildings that surrounded the yard was the one which was lived in. Harry had been in some rough places, but this was like stepping back in time. There was a mean Victorian dread to the place, as though at any point people in rags would stumble from one of the chewed, rotting doors, their feet bare, their starving mouths begging for food.
Jim gave a nod to their left with his head and said, ‘Follow me.’
At the other side of the yard, having negotiated some angry chickens and even angrier dogs, Harry followed Jim through a scuffed, muck-covered door and into a room which clearly served as a living room, kitchen, and dining area. Liz was there to meet them.
‘I’d make you a mug of tea,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think any of us want to risk it.’
A quick scan of the room had Harry inclined to agree. Every surface was covered, not
