Harry made to leave, then something that had been said earlier about Nick resurfaced. He looked over at Liz. ‘You said he deals a bit?’
Liz gave a nod.
‘So I’m assuming there’s somewhere around here folk go for a fly smoke, am I right?’
‘Down by the beck,’ Liz said. ‘You know, the path between Gayle and Hawes? Why?’
‘Might go for a little stroll later,’ Harry said. ‘You never know.’
It was a longshot, but he was happy to take it.
Harry left the office then, striding out into the evening with the purpose of a man who’s energy has gone, but he still wasn’t home, and the only thing moving him at all was the promise of a comfy sofa, a pizza, and a beer.
Chapter Thirteen
Harry’s evening was a restless one, his mind caught between concerns for his brother, and pent up rage at their dad resurfacing, and the start of a case which already looked like it was going to be a pain in the arse. Right now, the whole thing was much like starting a jigsaw puzzle without any idea what the final picture was supposed to be, Harry thought. What they had so far didn’t make much if any sense, but somewhere someone knew something, and Harry had to have faith in his team that they would get moving on it the following day.
Having grabbed a Pizza from the Spar in Hawes marketplace, along with some essential items, like bread and milk, and some none essential items, like a few beers and a couple of chocolate eclairs that had pretty much screamed at him to buy them, Harry had headed to his new flat, very much aware that his fare for the evening was in no way going to help his weight loss. But he didn’t care. He was tired. He was hungry. And that was all there was to it.
Later, with the food demolished, along with a couple of beers, Harry found himself channel-surfing and getting increasingly annoyed with either dropping in on programmes already part way through, or into yet more adverts. There was only so much he could take of people buying things at antiques fares to sell at other antiques fares, of gameshows and cookery, and of sodding celebrities famous for being on programmes about being famous for being on programmes about being famous. Which was when he remembered what Liz had said about the beck being a place used for sneaking a toke on a fat reefer. So, with all the energy he could muster, which wasn’t much at all, Harry headed out to get some fresh air and hopefully a fresh perspective on what had happened that day.
The path he took was an ancient one. It slunk out of the middle of Hawes, just up a little hill from the cobbles which rode past Cockett’s Butchers. It was a thing of old flagstones stitched into the earth, the path pinned into place by stone styles, which allowed walkers through, but kept the sheep where they were meant to be. The path was, Harry thought, perhaps some ancient lifeline, no doubt having seen centuries of lives flowing along it between the two places of Hawes and Gayle. That evening, though, it was quiet, and Harry meandered along, working as best as he could to clear his mind and just relax a little.
Harry stopped.
For a moment, he wasn’t sure why, but something had brought him up sharp. He stood statue still, focusing, even though it was the last thing he actually wanted to do.
Then he caught it, just on the edge of wind slipping around him, a scent drifting up from his left, the slope which led down to Gayle beck, a babbling brook with rocks carved in to scalloped waves by thousands of years of moorland-born water dancing across them.
The smell was one Harry was used to catching back home on the streets of Bristol: pot, cannabis, weed, whatever you wanted to call it. Back there, it wasn’t exactly smoked openly in public, more that there was just so much of it about, being enjoyed on balconies, in parks, in gardens, that you just couldn’t get away from it. But here, it seemed a little out of place, and although Harry was pretty sure he that he wasn’t in the best frame of mind to go and have a word with someone sparking up a fat reefer, he knew there might be a slim chance of a lead on the so far highly elusive Little Nick. And anyway, deep down, he knew he couldn’t let it lie, the sweet, perfumed scent of the stuff taking him years back, to his brother, and to what had sent him even more off the rails than he had already been, to finally land him behind bars.
Down by the beck, Harry spotted a group of teenagers. They were sitting in a semi-circle on its edge, four girls, three boys. Two of the girls had their feet in the no doubt cold water. Standing in the middle of the group was a gangly looking teenager. Whatever he was talking about, it certainly required lots of arm movements, Harry noticed, as the boy laughed then pulled his left hand to his mouth, a few seconds later sending out a fat, grey plume of smoke.
Harry walked towards the group and when the boy in the middle of them spotted him, he raised a hand as a non-committal attempt at a greeting.
The rest of the group, seeing their friend pause his jigging around, turned to stare.
‘Evening,’ Harry said, bringing himself to a halt barely a metre away from the group.
No one spoke, just stared.
‘Been out long?’
Still nothing.
The boy in the middle took another draw of the joint then exhaled theatrically, blowing the smoke up into the air.
‘Something up, mate?’ the boy said.
‘I’m not your mate,’ Harry said, a little more gruffly
