‘Never heard of him,’ the man said. ‘You must be here about Capstick, am I right?’
Harry was a little taken aback. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Capstick. Dead I reckon. Up in t’ field, like. Couldn’t happen to a nicer man, I’ll tell you that for nowt.’
Harry gave a nod, hearing the thick slice of disdain in the man’s voice. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s about Mr Capstick.’
The dog growled again. God, the thing was massive. Harry could see that it clearly had Rotweiller in there somewhere, which would be reason enough for the size of thing’s head: it was more bear than hound. But it wasn’t a pure bred, and Harry guessed that whatever else was mixed up in the genes was also probably huge, hungry and originally designed to scare off humans. Or eat them. Perhaps both.
‘About bloody time, if you ask me,’ the man said. ‘Not that I wish ill on anyone, like, but Capstick was a nasty old bugger.’
Harry asked, ‘Can we go inside, please? I have some questions.’
‘I bet you bloody well do,’ the man said. ‘And I’ll probably have a few of my own.’
And with that, the man made for Harry with such speed and intent that Harry only just managed to step out of the way in time as he made his way up to the front door.
‘Best you come in for a brew,’ the man said, then he pointed ahead, down the hall, towards an open door. ‘Through there. I’ll join you in a minute. And don’t mind the dog. He’ll only bite if I tell him to.’
The dog stared up at Harry, the look in its eyes not exactly convincing him that it gave a stuff about what the man did or didn’t tell it to do, and wouldn’t just eat him anyway, just for the fun of it.
‘What’s it called?’ Harry asked, following the man and his dog into his house. ‘The dog?’
‘Steve,’ the man said, and with that, he walked off, disappearing with the hound into the darkness beyond.
Chapter Ten
Harry walked down the hall and on through the door to find himself in a large kitchen which had clearly not been decorated since the 1970s, even down to the lurid wallpaper.
A door slammed shut somewhere else in the house and Harry was just staring out of the window, which sat above the sink, when the man entered the room.
‘Unusual,’ Harry said.
‘What is?’
‘Steve,’ Harry said. ‘As a dog’s name, I mean.’
‘Is it?’ the man replied. ‘It’s a name, isn’t it? And it’s not some stupid bollocks like Fleck or Fly or whatever else folk seem to want to call their dogs. Wife wanted to call him Tiny, but I was having none of that, like. Steve? It’s a proper name, isn’t it? Tiny! I ask you! I mean, you’ve seen him. He’s huge! So why would I call him Tiny? I wouldn’t, would I?’
Harry shook his head pretty sure there was no arguing with the man. ‘Is your wife home?’
‘Out,’ the man said. ‘Put the kettle on, then! Tea won’t brew itself, you know.’
Before Harry knew what he was doing, he had filled the kettle and switched it on.
‘Biscuits are up there,’ the man said, pointing at a cupboard, ‘teabags are on the side by the teapot. Milk’s in the fridge.’
The man sat down at the large dining table, which took up the centre of the room. Harry, with little option now but to just go with the flow and make the tea, grabbed the biscuits and, by sheer luck, opened the cupboard with mugs in it, removing two and placing them by the kettle.
Once the tea was made, Harry sat down at the table, opposite the man. ‘Here you go,’ he said, handing a mug over. ‘Hope it’s drinkable.’
The man stared suspiciously into the mug, then took a lengthy slurp, the sound of it as loud as water draining down a plug hole.
‘Well, looks like you make a decent brew, so that’s something,’ he said. ‘I’d heard southerners liked it all weak and flavoured with almond milk or whatever other kind of nonsense you can get now instead of actual real proper milk.’
Harry took a sip from his own, nibbled a biscuit. ‘The accent gave me away, then?’
‘Just a bit,’ the man said.
‘I didn’t catch your name,’ Harry replied.
‘Well, you wouldn’t have, because I didn’t give it, did I?’ The man blew at his tea, then took a gulp. ‘I don’t go around handing out money to strangers, so why would I give my name out as well?’
Harry was sure there was logic in there somewhere, but he didn’t have time to look for it. ‘Well, we’re not strangers now, are we?’
The man harrumphed. ‘I suppose not. Name’s Dinsdale. Bill Dinsdale.’
‘So, Bill,’ Harry began, ‘can I ask why you were having a look at us from here with your binoculars?’
‘I haven’t got any binoculars,’ Bill said.
‘The sun caught the lens,’ Harry explained. ‘I spotted it from the field. You were looking out from one of the windows upstairs.’
‘That bit’s true, but I wasn’t using binoculars. Don’t have any. Do I look like someone who goes sight-seeing and bird watching? Do I bollocks, like!’
Harry took another sip, if only to try and gather his thoughts. Bill here was certainly an interesting character to deal with. Harry had the impression the man wasn’t about to offer any information up without it being prised from him first. ‘So, can I ask why you were looking out over the field?’
‘I used my scope,’ Bill said, ignoring Harry’s question. Then he stood up, grabbed some keys from a hook on the wall, and disappeared through the kitchen door, only to return a minute or so later with a rifle, on top of which was sat the kind of scope that Harry figured any sniper would be proud to own.
‘You looked at us through that?’ Harry asked.
‘Don’t worry, it wasn’t loaded,’ Bill said, his words curling around a
