The last hundred metres or so Harry dug as deep as he could, upped his speed, and attempted to sprint. It wasn’t graceful, and the sound of his massive feet hammering against the road was considerably louder than Harry would have preferred, but he kept going, eventually pulling himself up to a breathless stop outside the Herriot.
Dizziness at the exertion sent Harry’s world a little too fuzzy round the edges and, after walking it off for a minute or so, he leaned against a wall, dropping his head forward, half wondering if he was about to throw up. But he didn’t, and that was something. Not an achievement as such, but definitely a relief.
Back in his hotel room, Harry stripped and showered, undecided as to whether it was better to stand under hot water, which was more pleasant but could easily make him pass out, or cold, which would cool him down and wake him up, but was ultimately little more than pure torture. A part of him rather fancied going for a swim in a nice cold river or lake. He’d done exactly that just a few weeks ago, in Lake Semerwater. And it was something he kept meaning to get around to doing again, his swimming gear kept in his car just in case, but time had raced ahead and he hadn’t since ventured back out into the cold embrace of the silvery water. In the end, he did a bit of both, finishing the shower with a cold blast that sent him dancing out of the cubicle to slam the big toe of his right foot into the leg of his bed.
‘Ah, you bastard!’ Harry hissed, dropping himself down onto the mattress to hug his foot, glad that today would see him move out of the hotel room and into something a little more accommodating, a small flat overlooking Hawes marketplace. Living in a hotel was nice for a while, but Harry had soon grown weary of it. And with no actual end in sight quite yet as to how long he was going to be up north, he’d pushed for better digs and they had been provided.
Half an hour later, Harry had his bags packed, and was down in the hotel restaurant for breakfast. And sitting in front of him on the table was another reason he absolutely had to get out: a full English breakfast, with tea and toast.
Wensleydale, Harry had quickly realised, was a place populated by people who placed food at the centre of just about everything. Breakfast was not something to be had in a rush, but a meal to be enjoyed. You couldn’t have a mug of tea or coffee on its own; it had to be served with cake. And cake, it seemed, if it was of the rich, moist fruity kind, had to be accompanied by cheese, no matter what time of day it was. And that was generally a slab of crumbly Wensleydale, made in the creamery just up the road between Hawes and Gayle. Teatime was dinnertime, or was it the other way round? Harry couldn’t remember, but what he did know was that if he had either meal out at one of the local pubs, then the food was cooked well and piled high, and positively demanded a pint or two of ale as an accompaniment.
With a shrug, Harry picked up his knife and fork, and tucked into the feast in front of him. It even came with a slice of fried bread, and he took great delight in shoving a piece of it into the yolk of his egg before stuffing it into his face.
This would be his last fried breakfast, Harry promised himself. He’d put on weight since driving north, and it was now time to reverse that before he didn’t so much walk as roll.
With breakfast finished and his mug of tea drained, Harry left the hotel and headed off into the day. He wasn’t really sure what lay before him and having had to deal with a murder in his first week, he’d been more than a little relieved that the following couple of weeks had been considerably more mundane. He’d made good use of them, getting to know the area, and was even on spoken good-morning terms with some of the locals as he walked up into the marketplace and across to the community office, which was also the home for the local police at this, the top end of the dale. The actual police station had closed over twenty years ago and with it had gone the provision of a local lock up. If anyone needed taking into custody, then it was an hour-long drive to Harrogate.
Having crossed the main road running through the centre of Hawes, Harry’s phone trilled into his day and it was up against his ear before he’d even had a chance to check the number buzzing in.
‘Grimm,’ Harry said.
Down the line, Harry heard crying.
Chapter Three
‘Ben?’
Even though the voice had said not a word, Harry recognised it immediately. The world around him dissolved and he was back down south, sitting across a table in a prison visitors’ room, staring at the sunken figure of his younger brother. Even though they were miles apart, he could see him clearly in his mind: a man broken by life, drowning in memories steeped in darkness. And all because of one man, their bastard of a father.
‘Harry,’ Ben said, his voice breaking as he spoke. ‘I . . . I . . .’
Instinct took over. Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, checked for his car keys. ‘Whatever it is, I’m on my way.’
Harry had no idea what he would tell the rest of the team, but right then he
