Jim and Matt both pulled out their notebooks.
‘Right,’ Harry said, ‘names, occupations, times in and out, okay? And as soon as people start arriving, Jim, you take over as Scene Guard. Matt, you get to come up and start using that fancy new detective qualification you’re so proud of.’
Matt and Jim both gave firm nods which helped Harry feel a little confident that things were in control. Then he turned away and headed up the field, muttering to himself, ‘Now let’s go and see what this doctor has to say for himself, shall we?’
In this distance, Harry spotted the doctor. He was standing on the right side of the police cordon tape, which was at least something, Harry thought.
As Harry drew close, the man turned to meet him. He was tall, Harry noticed, taller than himself by a couple of inches, and altogether exceptionally neat. He was dressed well, inasmuch as he was wearing a pair of good leather shoes, and the kind of trouser, shirt and jacket combo Harry only ever saw in the expensive clothing catalogues which were sometimes pushed through the door to his flat back in Bristol. He looked fit, too, not bulked up, but wiry, like a runner or a climber, his clothes fitting him well enough in places to show that beneath them lay muscle. He was also not only clean shaven but completely bald. As to his age, Harry wasn’t so sure, but he’d have put him at around fifty, though it was the kind of fifty that he could only ever dream of achieving himself, because Harry figured that when he hit fifty, he would do so with all the weight and care of an out of control articulated truck and make a right proper mess of it.
‘Michael Smith,’ the man said, placing a worn leather doctor’s bag onto the ground. ‘I’m the local doctor. Well, one of them. My colleague is back at the surgery.’
Harry reached out with his right hand, expecting a handshake, only to see that the doctor had done the same, only with his left hand instead.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘an old wrist injury! And there’s nothing worse than a limp handshake, am I right?’
Harry couldn’t agree more and swapped hands. The doctor’s grip was strong, the smile warm and genuine, and the accent clearly one that said more about where the man had been educated than where he had grown up.
‘Grimm,’ Harry said.
‘Yes, it is rather,’ the doctor agreed. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything quite like it if I’m honest.’
Harry smiled. ‘No, sorry, I mean that’s me, Harry Grimm.’
Harry saw a fleeting look of disbelief flicker across the doctor’s face, which then broke into realisation.
‘Really? Goodness, I thought that was just someone having me on when I first heard it, your name, I mean.’
‘A face like mine usually has the opposite effect,’ Harry said.
‘IED?’
Harry gave a surprised nod.
‘I was army reserve for a while,’ the doctor said. ‘Did a couple of tours.’
‘Para,’ Harry said. ‘Long time ago now.’ He gestured at the body just away from them both on the other side of the tape. ‘Don’t think we need you to confirm that he’s dead, do you?’
‘No, not really,’ said the doctor. ‘Hell of a way to go, though. Any idea what happened?’
Harry declined answering the question, thinking it best to keep any ideas to himself and his team only. Not that he really had any, but sometimes just pretending that he might have was enough to keep people on their toes. Instead, he asked, ‘Who called you?’
‘Nicholas Ellis,’ the doctor said. ‘Sounded in a real panic so I rushed up here. Didn’t tell me what I was going to find, though, just that there had been an accident. I thought he would be here. I didn’t expect all of this. You know, you, as in the police.’
‘Nicholas Ellis?’ Harry said, then realised who the doctor was talking about. ‘Oh, right, Little Nick, or whatever he’s called.’
‘Where is he?’
‘No idea,’ Harry said. ‘Buggered off. So, you knew the deceased?’
‘Of course,’ the doctor said. ‘Comes with the job. I know everyone just about.’
‘And what was he like?’
‘John Capstick?’ The doctor stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and took a long slow breath. ‘Accident prone,’ he said at last. ‘Always knocking and cutting himself or ending up in and accident and emergency and getting a cast or stitches. And he had his own problems.’
‘How so?’
‘Patient confidentiality,’ the doctor said. ‘Can’t really say any more, I’m afraid.’
‘He’s dead,’ Harry said.
‘My oath isn’t,’ the doctor replied.
Harry looked at the doctor and saw that behind the warm smile was a harder edge. Professional.
‘When did you last see him?’ Harry asked.
The doctor glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I need to head off. Got a full day of appointments. It’s always busy on a Monday. People seem to save up their aches and pains over the weekend!’
‘I’d like to have a chat later,’ Harry said. ‘If that’s okay?’
‘Stop by the surgery,’ the doctor said, turning to head off back down the field towards Matt and Jim.
‘Before you go,’ Harry said, ‘I need you to keep what you’ve seen to yourself for now.’
‘Of course,’ the doctor said, pausing mid-stride.
‘This is, as you can see, a crime scene,’ Harry explained. ‘You shouldn’t even be here. And right now the last thing I need is for anything to get out about what’s happened. Not until we actually know what happened, if you know what I mean.’
‘It’s not me you should be concerned about,’ the doctor said.
Harry realised immediately what the doctor was referring to. Or, to be more exact, to whom. ‘Nick? He’s a problem?’
The doctor gave a nod. ‘Loves a rumour. And if he can spread it nice and thin, he will.’
‘Bollocks,’ Harry said.
‘Very much so,’ said the doctor. ‘Perhaps see you later, then?’
Harry waved the doctor off, calling for him to speak with Matt and Jim before leaving, and get signed off the site, then swung around again to look at
