Harry remembered the Apache film and poison fitted in as the third death. ‘Anything else?’
‘No, of course there isn’t anything else!’ the pathologist snapped. ‘Except for another sodding eagle feather, as with the others. I’ve the autopsy to perform, and the place is being combed for evidence. As for the dog? It found nothing. So whoever it was that was here and attacked your doctor friend, well they pretty much upped and flew away.’
‘Well, thanks for that,’ Harry said. ‘I’m now more confused than ever.’
‘I think everyone would prefer it if you weren’t,’ came the reply and then the line fell quiet.
Harry dropped his phone into his pocket, baffled now, more than ever. So what had exactly happened at the house? He’d seen the doctor, the injury, the blood! But the blood spatter – or lack of it – didn’t lie. He needed coffee. And lots of it.
‘Harry?’
Jenny’s voice dragged Harry back into the moment.
‘Yes? What is it?’
Harry glanced over to the detective constable to see that she was standing with a man of around eighty years old, judging by the usual giveaway signs, such as the receding grey hair, stooped walk, all beige clothing, and a walking stick. But whereas the ravages of time were more than apparent on his body, the man’s eyes still burned with a ferocious youth, and they swept around to stare not just at Harry, but through him, seeking him out like the piercing beam of a searchlight.
‘Who’s in charge here?’ the old man asked.
‘I am,’ Harry said, a little stunned by the tone of the old man’s voice. ‘DCI Grimm.’
‘Oh, so that is actually your real name,’ the old man said with the faintest hint of a chuckle creasing up the corners of his mouth. ‘I thought someone was having me on.’
‘No, sadly not,’ Harry said. ‘Real name, and the face to go with it. Would you like to sit down and then DC Blades here will take your details.’
The man slipped further into the room, his steps careful and measured, and sat down in front of Jenny. ‘My name’s Allan,’ he said, ‘Allan Rawson. I’m eighty-one years old. And I’ve come to hand myself in.’
‘For what?’ Harry asked, the words the old man had just used causing his mind to grind to a halt, like he was trying to crunch a gearstick into the wrong gear. ‘What possible crime could you have committed?’
Harry wanted to laugh, regardless of how unprofessional it would seem.
‘What do you think?’ Allan said. ‘The murders of course!’
For Harry, time stalled, spluttered, then stopped completely. Had he really just heard correctly? This old man, who clearly had trouble walking, had honestly, truly, come in to confess to murder? It didn’t make sense! And there was a good reason for that, mainly the fact that it was total bollocks. It had to be! But they still had to hear him out, regardless. He’d dealt with time wasters before, people who were just a bit mad, or who wanted to make themselves sound notorious, usually a mix of both. Old Mr Allan Rawson wasn’t exactly ticking either of those boxes. Not yet, anyway.
‘So, you’re saying you’re here to confess,’ Harry said. ‘To murder. Are you sure about that? And about what you’re actually saying?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ Mr Rawson said. ‘Do you think I just came in here to waste your time and mine? It’s not like I’ve got much of the stuff left to waste, now, is it? Trust me, the older you get, the more valuable time is! So, shall we just get on with it?’
Harry looked over to Jenny, his left eyebrow well and truly raised.
‘We can’t really take a confession here,’ Harry explained. ‘This needs to be done properly, in Harrogate. It needs to be recorded, that kind of thing, I’m sure you understand.’
Mr Rawson bristled at this, pulling himself up nice and straight in his chair. ‘There’s been enough killing,’ he said. ‘I’ve decided it has to stop. And I’m going to confess here and now whether you like it or not!’
Harry held up a hand in an attempt to calm the old man down. ‘I’ll record it on my phone,’ he said, pulling it from a pocket to show Mr Rawson. Then, after a minute or two of fumbling with the thing to try and navigate the numerous screens and menus, so that he could actually do what he’d said, he gave up and looked over to Jenny.
‘Here,’ Jenny said, pulling out her own phone and quickly flipping through to the right screen to record what Mr Rawson wanted to say. ‘Just speak when you’re ready.’
Mr Rawson edged forward on his seat, shuffled a bit to get comfortable, then started to tell them all about what had happened in the winter of nineteen seventy-nine.
Chapter Thirty
‘We moved here, you see, in seventy-eight. It wasn’t for the work, a promotion, anything like that. Back then, the dales, well it wasn’t exactly a rich seam of employment begging to be mined, if you know what I mean. There was a bit of tourism, but really, it didn’t offer that much to anyone moving in. You either had to have a job you could do at home, or have a job that you were happy to travel miles to do. And I had the former, you see. I was a salesman, and a bloody good one, too. Paper of all things, if you can believe that. Made me more than enough to move us here and justify my time away on the road. But like I said, it’s not because of any of that. No, it was because of Sally.’
‘Sally?’ Harry asked. ‘And she was your wife?’
Mr Rawson shook his head and Harry saw the sadness in the movement, as though a weight was slowing it down. ‘My daughter,’ he sighed. She was a wonderful little girl, you know? The brightest eyes, and a laugh that could bring you back from a coma. God,
