Broken Fall: A D.I. Harland novella (3 page)

‘Detective Inspector Harland, Avon and Somerset Police …’

A loud buzzer cut him off before he could say anything further, and the safety-glass door beside him rattled as the lock snapped open.

Inside, the lobby was bare, and the air tasted of pine bleach, kindling memories of early mornings in the corridors when he was still at school. The lift shuddered as it climbed to the seventh floor, the metal doors eventually sliding open to reveal a featureless hallway with a linoleum floor. He found number 73, and knocked. She opened the door almost immediately; mid thirties, with large, sad eyes.

‘Tracey Miller?’ He held up his warrant card but she was already standing back, beckoning him forward.

‘Yeah, that’s me.’ Athletic, with dyed-blond hair scraped back into a ponytail, she was wearing a standard blue tunic top with the care agency logo embroidered in white. He followed her through to a spacious living room that was light and airy, settling himself into a comfortable armchair while she took the sofa opposite.

‘You heard about Albert Errington?’ He watched her shoulders stiffen slightly, and when she nodded it seemed to be with some effort.

‘Agency rang me this morning, just as I was leaving for work.’ She clasped her hands, her voice thick with emotion. ‘Poor old Albie.’

‘Albie?’

‘Yeah, nobody called him Albert. He wouldn’t have it – said it reminded him of his mum, telling him off when he was a kid. “Call me Albie,” he’d say, “then I know I’m not in trouble.”’ She looked up and managed a sad little smile. ‘Sorry, d’you want a cup of tea or anything?’

While she was in the kitchen, Harland’s eye swept across the room. It was very feminine, tastefully decorated in pale, coordinated colours. There were plenty of photos – individually framed and grouped together on the wall – with lots of smiling friends, but no obvious signs of a significant other. Maybe that was why the interior seemed so consistent; it was the choice of one mind, not the compromise of two. Idly, he wondered how she filled her spare time if she wasn’t in a relationship; he dreaded the emptiness of evenings and weekends since the loss of his wife.

‘Here you go.’ Tracey walked back into the room, carrying two pastel-coloured mugs.

‘Thanks.’ Harland took his drink with a polite smile and watched her carefully as she sat down. Still wrestling with her emotions … or wrestling with something
.
He decided to start out with an easy question, just to get her talking. ‘So, what sort of things did you help Albert with?’

Tracey looked at him over the top of her mug.

‘It was just his meals and a bit of housework,’ she sighed. ‘Two visits a day – half-hour mid-morning, half-hour at teatime …’ Her eyes glistened as she looked up to a clock on the shelf, then she shook her head sadly. ‘I’d be over there now, if … well, you know.’

‘Sorry,’ Harland murmured. ‘I appreciate this must be difficult for you.’

‘It’s not my first death,’ Tracey shrugged. ‘Occupational hazard in my job.’

‘Mine too.’ He gave her a sympathetic little smile, but quietly determined to find out just how many other people had died in Tracey’s care. ‘Did he manage all right on his own? Generally, I mean?’

‘Yeah, he was mostly okay.’ She paused, her brow crinkling into a frown as she considered. ‘A little difficulty walking, and he found it uncomfortable to stand for long periods … but he was all right.’

Harland sat back in his chair. She seemed calm, happy enough to talk … it was time to steer the conversation on to other people, and see who she mentioned. ‘Do you think he ever got lonely living there?’

Tracey’s expression softened and she looked down into her mug.

‘Maybe a little, yes. But he never complained. Said you had to make the best of what you had, ’cause there was plenty folk with less.’

Harland smiled, despite himself.

‘Did he get many visitors?’ he asked. ‘Friends, neighbours, that sort of thing?’

Tracey thought for a moment, then shook her head.

‘There was a lady next door;
used
to pop in quite a lot … but she moved. There’s a younger couple there now, and they keep to themselves, pretty much.’

‘What about family?’

‘Well, his wife died a few years ago,’ Tracey replied, then brightened a little. ‘His daughter pops in quite often – evenings, weekends, whenever she can.’

‘His daughter …’ Harland consulted his notebook. ‘That would be Jenny, yes?’

‘That’s right.’ Tracey nodded. ‘There’s a son too – Richard – but he doesn’t come round very often.’

‘They weren’t close?’ He spoke as though it was a throwaway comment, but watched her reaction closely.

‘Not really, no,’ Tracey murmured, shaking her head thoughtfully. ‘They didn’t speak that much.’

Harland took a sip of his tea, then balanced the mug carefully on his knee.

‘So when did you see Albie last?’

‘It would have been just after six thirty yesterday,’ she replied. ‘I was running a bit late from a previous call.’

‘And you were there to sort out his evening meal?’

‘Yeah, he liked a hot dinner. He could probably manage it himself, but standing at the cooker was tiring for him, you know?’

‘I understand.’ Harland nodded. He had wondered if she might make an issue of Albie’s frailty – underline the idea that his death was an accident, divert suspicion away from herself – but she was doing the opposite. There was even a faint note of pride in the way she spoke about the old man. ‘So after you gave him his meal, how did he seem?’

‘He was fine, far as I could see.’ And now, for the first time, she became a little defensive. ‘I would never have left him on his own, not if I thought he was unwell.’

‘Of course not,’ Harland reassured her. ‘And I wasn’t suggesting anything, it’s just … these are the kind of questions we’ve got to ask.’

Tracey ran a finger round the rim of her mug, then shrugged.

‘I suppose,’ she murmured.

Harland took a sip of tea, to give her a moment, then continued carefully.

‘Do you know what time you left him?’ he asked.

‘Seven … maybe five past.’

‘And he was in a good mood when you left?’

‘Yeah, fine.’ Tracey frowned at him. ‘He certainly didn’t top himself if that’s what you mean.’

‘That’s … good to know.’ Harland nodded, making a show of writing something in his notebook, readying himself for the crucial next question. He glanced up. ‘Was he expecting any visitors? Anyone dropping round to see him?’

‘No, nothing like that. Far as I know he’d just watch telly or read, ’til he was ready for bed –’ She broke off, her expression darkening. ‘Why? What are you getting at?’

‘Sorry?’ Harland adopted an innocent tone but he knew the penny had dropped.

‘What happened to him?’ she pressed. ‘It was an accident, wasn’t it?’

He looked down for a moment, pointedly ignoring her questions.

‘Where were you, yesterday evening?’

‘Here.’ She sounded upset now, her knuckles whitening as she tensed up. ‘I had one call after Albie, then I came home. Why?’

‘Can anyone confirm that?’

She stared at him for a long moment, then turned away, shaking her head.

‘No. No one will
confirm
anything.’

An uncomfortable silence filled the room.

Harland shifted in his seat, then sighed.

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘But it’s like I said; there are certain things that we
have
to ask.’

He held her gaze for a moment, until her scowl softened and she turned her eyes towards the window.

‘He was just a sweet old man,’ she said, sadly. ‘Who’d want to hurt him?’

Harland bowed his head and nodded to himself. That was what he had to find out.

Back in the car, he pulled the door shut and sat with the engine off for a moment, thinking. Then, taking out his phone, he called Linwood.

‘Hello, Jack?’

‘Sir?’

‘Do me a favour and have a look at Errington’s carer, Tracey Miller. I want to know details of anyone else who died while in her care. Check the last three … no, the last
five
years. And be discreet.’

‘Got it,’ Linwood answered. ‘You think she did him in?’

‘I’d like to be sure she didn’t,’ Harland mused. ‘By the way, did you get an address for Errington’s daughter?’

‘Jenny Kendrick, yes … hang on …’

Harland placed his notebook on his knee, pen hovering ready.

‘It’s somewhere over in Portishead,’ Linwood told him, stalling as he shuffled noisily through some papers. ‘A place called Wetlands something …’

Harland blinked, lowering his pen.

‘Wetlands Lane?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, that’s the one.’ Linwood sounded surprised. ‘You know it?’

‘Oh yes.’ Harland nodded to himself. ‘Until a couple of weeks ago, that was right in the middle of my patch.’

It felt strange being back in Portishead again, as if the last few weeks weren’t real and he hadn’t transferred to Bristol after all. He certainly hadn’t thought he’d miss the place, but there was an odd sense of comfort as he reprised his old commute and drove through the familiar streets – home away from home.

Wetlands Lane followed a gentle slope towards the south of the town – lined with a mix of different houses, many built in the seventies by the look of them. Harland parked a few doors further down and walked back up the hill, pausing on the pavement for a moment. It was a modest semi-detached house, neither large nor expensive, but with a well-tended garden that showed care, especially compared to the place next door. There was a small car on the driveway, with a sticker in the window that read ‘0-60 … Eventually’. Smiling, he made his way round it to the front step and rang the bell.

The door was red with an inset window, hand-decorated to give the impression of stained glass. Through it, he saw movement and then the door was opened by a woman in her forties with short blond hair – attractive, in her way, though he knew he wasn’t seeing her at her best. Behind the angular-framed glasses, her eyes were red and her faced looked tired. She was barefoot, wearing a crumpled pale-blue blouse and grey trousers.

‘Jennifer Kendrick?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded briefly, then lifted a hand to her mouth, as though to ward off further tears.

‘I’m Inspector Harland from Avon and Somerset Police.’ He held up his identification. ‘Would it be all right if I came in?’

‘Sorry, what am I thinking …’ She stood back and beckoned him forward. ‘Please.’

The entrance hallway was simply decorated – contemporary colours and some French art deco posters in slender frames. In one corner, a pair of anoraks hung from an old-fashioned coat stand.

‘I’m all over the place just now,’ Jenny told him, as she ushered him along the hall. ‘I can’t seem to … take it all in.’

‘I’m sorry to be bothering you,’ Harland told her.

He followed her through into the living room where she adopted a brave face, taking a deep breath to banish her troubles and gesturing for him to sit down on the sofa.

‘Now,’ she said, as though remembering her manners, ‘can I offer you anything to drink? We have tea, coffee, lemonade …’

Harland settled himself on the sofa.

‘Nothing just now, thanks.’
Just now.
Implying that he might be here for a while. He watched her closely to see if that might make her uneasy, but she gave no reaction, just sank down into her chair and reached absently for a box of tissues lying on the coffee table. Everything in the room was neat and well presented, except her. She looked dishevelled; he guessed she was wearing last night’s clothes, and hadn’t slept yet.

‘So, how can I help you?’ she asked, then looked at him, apologetically. ‘I’m
so
sorry, I’ve forgotten your name …’

‘Inspector Harland.’

‘Of course, yes.’ She gave him a weak smile. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. It’s just knocked me for six; I don’t seem to be able to think straight …’

‘Probably the shock.’ Harland nodded, absently brushing his thumb across the smooth surface of the wedding ring he still wore. He understood about loss.

‘Yes,’ Jenny murmured. ‘That must be it, I suppose.’

There was a large photograph on the wall, showing Jenny with a bearded man, surrounded by confetti.

‘You live here with your husband?’ he asked.

‘That’s right …’ She glanced towards the photo and smiled. ‘Paul.’

‘And is he at work just now?’

‘What? Oh, I see … no, he’s in America at the moment. Some stupid work convention … of all the times for him to be away …’

She looked as though she might be about to cry again, but it was an opportunity to move the discussion on to family and Harland took it.

‘At least Richard and Amanda aren’t too far away,’ he said.

Jenny stared into space for a moment, then looked at him and nodded sadly.

‘Yes, of course. They drove over last night. Richie didn’t want to say on the phone but I knew from his voice that it was something bad …’ Her voice faltered and she reached for another tissue. ‘I’d only just got in, and when he rang I
saw
there was a missed call but I didn’t realise it was from the Help Line people.’

Harland drew her back a bit.

‘You were out last night?’

‘It was Carol’s birthday,’ Jenny explained. ‘She’s a friend from work, and a group of us went out for a meal in Weston.’

Behind his calm expression, Harland found himself wondering about timings and alibis. Weston-Super-Mare was just over half an hour from here, and maybe the same from Albie’s place in Bristol. He’d have to press her for more details, but he could see that Jenny was upset. He decided to do it as kindly as he could; take an interest, rather than interrogate her.

‘You went straight from work?’

‘We went for a drink first, then on for a meal.’

‘Did you go anywhere nice?’ he smiled.

‘Clessidra Vuota, down by the seafront … it was lovely, and we had a really great night.’

Harland noted down the name.

‘What time were you there until?’ he asked, hoping she wouldn’t be disturbed by the question, but thankfully she didn’t seem to pick up on what he was asking her.