Broken Fall: A D.I. Harland novella (4 page)

‘I don’t know … quite late, I suppose. They were closing up as we left.’

‘Did you drive back?’

‘Oh no.’ Jenny shook her head firmly. ‘I was drinking, but my friend Helen lives in Avonmouth and she offered to drop us off.’

‘Us?’ Harland queried her.

‘My other friend, Elaine,’ Jenny explained. ‘She works with us too. Lives down by the marina.’

Harland scribbled the names down.

‘Got it, thanks.’ He leafed back a couple of pages in his notebook, then looked up. ‘So your brother Richard called you … around the time you got home?’

‘That’s right. Amanda drove him over here.’

‘Do you remember what time that was?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know. They went to Dad’s first, then came over here …’

Jenny shrugged her shoulders. She seemed to be holding it together; time to take the discussion into more difficult areas.

‘How had your father been recently?’

Jenny leaned forward in her chair, shaking her head unhappily.

‘That’s just it,’ she protested. ‘He’d been fine. Absolutely
fine
. Maybe that’s why it’s come as such a shock.’

Harland nodded sympathetically.

‘When did you last speak to him?’ he asked.

‘I went over there last weekend …’ Jenny replied. ‘Sunday I think … yes, because that was the day Paul flew out. Oh, and Dad phoned me on Sunday night to ask me to pick up a book for him.’

‘And he sounded okay?’

‘Absolutely …’ She paused. ‘Why?’

‘It’s just one of those things we have to do,’ he told her. ‘Asking questions, getting a picture of how everything was …’

He spoke casually – almost apologetically – before smoothing into his next query.

‘Do you know if he had many visitors?’

Jenny frowned to herself.

‘I don’t think so,’ she replied. ‘He had the carers, obviously, but apart from that it was mostly just me.’

‘So he wouldn’t have been expecting anyone?’ Harland said it quickly, before she had too much time to think about the line of questioning. ‘Last night, I mean.’

‘No …’ Jenny blinked, leaning back into her chair. ‘I’m sorry, but is this … well,
usual
? I mean, it was an accident so …’

She was staring at him now, her expression hovering on the edge of new distress, willing him to confirm that it
was
an accident.

‘I’m sorry, these formalities
can
seem a bit much.’ He answered carefully, offering her the most reassuring smile he could muster. He really didn’t want her jumping to conclusions, getting herself worked up, or muddying the waters with phone calls to the rest of the family. ‘I hope I haven’t upset you.’

‘No, no …’ She looked relieved by the idea that his questions were just
formalities
, perhaps even a little embarrassed. ‘You’re just doing your job. I’m being silly …’

‘Not silly,’ Harland gently corrected her. She seemed so exposed, sitting there, huddled over the tissue box. ‘Losing someone you care about … it’s hard.’

She glanced up at him, her eyes bright with tears, and for one dreadful moment he felt she was staring deep into him, seeing his own grief. He looked away.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Thanks for understanding.’

Harland nodded to himself, his eyes hunting round the room.

‘Is there anyone who could stay with you?’ he asked. ‘Until your husband gets back?’

Jenny frowned.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘I suppose I
could
call Elaine. It’d only be for this evening, Paul’s back tomorrow.’

Harland leaned back into the sofa, his face a careful mask of reassurance. It was interesting that she hadn’t considered Richard and Amanda, though perhaps theirs wasn’t a close-knit family. He was never quite sure about siblings – it was one of the blind spots that came of being an only child – but he’d certainly taken some small comfort in the grief he’d shared with his wife’s family when she had died.

‘Inspector?’

Her voice snapped him back from his private darkness.

‘I’m sorry,’ he acknowledged her. ‘I was just … thinking.’

‘Of course.’ She watched him for a moment, then glanced towards the doorway. ‘Are you sure I can’t offer you anything to drink?’

He turned to her, ready to refuse, but something in her expression persuaded him to relent.

‘Maybe a coffee,’ he said. ‘But only if you’re making one anyway.’

‘It’s no trouble.’ She brightened, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll go and put the kettle on.’

As she padded through to the kitchen, Harland took a moment to study the room. It seemed to be furnished with more love than money – home-made cushions cheering up the slightly worn easy chairs; little snapshots and knick-knacks surrounding a supermarket-brand TV. And the car in the driveway had been far from new. He frowned to himself. Jenny
seemed
genuine, and he wanted to feel sympathy for her, but glancing round the room, he felt a flicker of unease.

Albie’s house was quite a bit larger than this, and it was in an extremely desirable part of Bristol. He wondered how much it would sell for … half a million, at least … a
lot
of money, even when it was divided between two children.

‘How do you take your coffee?’ Jenny called through from the kitchen.

‘Just black, thanks,’ he replied. Even half of that house would easily pay off any mortgage on this one.

Leaning up against the arm of the sofa, he sighed. Sometimes he hated that cynical, suspicious sixth-sense, but he’d learned never to ignore it. And right now, however much he wanted to sympathise with Jenny, he knew his first responsibility was to Albie.

‘Here we are.’ Jenny walked in with two mugs and set one down on the table in front of him. ‘I never realised that so much checking went into this sort of inquiry. So many questions …’

Harland reached forward and lifted the mug, his eyes fixed on her.

‘I’m always very thorough,’ he said softly.

He knew he’d have to make good on his promise to visit Richard and Amanda. Their place was on the way back from Portishead, so there was really no excuse, but he wasn’t keen to listen to more of Richard’s bluster. He decided to call on them unannounced; with luck, they might be out and he could defer the conversation until tomorrow.

Driving along the dual carriageway, he could see the Avon Gorge ahead of him, the distant lines of the Clifton Bridge framing an expanse of blue sky between steep slopes of leafy green on the left, and the crowded ridge of terraces and townhouses. It was a familiar sight, but today his eye was drawn to the right-hand slope, down between the sandstone and the multi-coloured gables.

One of those rooftops belonged to Albie’s house.

Crossing the water, he took the off-ramp that swept round and down on to Spike Island. On his left, he passed the footbridge that led across the harbour inlet to the bottom of Granby Hill; a moment later, he was on the road that followed the disused railway line along the bank of the river.

Richard and Amanda’s turning was along here somewhere. Five minutes in the car, or a ten-minute walk … they really didn’t live far from Albie at all.

Canada Way was in one of the tidy apartment developments that had sprung up along the gentrified harbour shore. Harland drove slowly, his thoughtful gaze taking in the courtyards, the walled gardens, and the tree-lined walkways with long views down to the water. There was money round here.

He found an empty parking bay and pulled in. Killing the engine, he glanced back along the street, noting the adjacent cars were all newer than his. It was exactly the sort of place he’d expect people like Richard and his wife to live.

He consulted his notebook for the address, then got out and went in search of 8 Peudam Court. It was tucked away beside the pergola that marked the end of the block, with a line of plain paving slabs bisecting a tiny square of lawn. Harland walked up to the doorstep and rang the bell. While he waited, he looked back over his shoulder, noting the sleek black Audi in the number 8 bay behind him.

The door opened and he turned around to find Amanda looking at him, saw the brief flicker of recognition before her face settled into a polite smile.

‘Detective Harland,’ she greeted him. ‘Please, come in.’

He stepped into a tight entrance lobby, dim after the sunlight outside, then followed her down a short hallway, noting her light, floral perfume as he walked in her wake.

‘Through here,’ she said, leading him into the living room. It was smaller than he’d expected, with light spilling in from the French windows that looked out on to a tiny patio, secluded by tall hedges. A pair of elegant two-seater sofas faced each other across a polished coffee table, and a large TV screen was mounted on the wall above the marble fireplace. Harland noted the two glasses of wine on the table, and maintained his smile despite knowing the answer to his first question.

‘Is your husband home?’

‘He’s upstairs.’ Amanda smiled. ‘He’ll be down in a minute.’

She gestured for Harland to sit, watching him as he eased down on to the sofa, then asked, ‘Can I offer you a glass of wine? Or a coffee, if you’re on duty?’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

She nodded, then took her place on the sofa opposite him.

‘Poor Albert,’ she said, softly. ‘It’s come as a terrible shock. I’m afraid Richard’s taken it quite badly.’

‘Yes?’ Harland leaned forward, but before she could elaborate, her eyes flickered towards the door. He heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs.

‘It’s Detective Harland,’ Amanda called out, and the rhythm of the footsteps faltered slightly. ‘We’re in the lounge.’

Harland got to his feet as Richard entered the room, offering his hand, which the large man shook without enthusiasm.

‘You’re the fellow from last night.’ It sounded as much an accusation as a question.

‘That’s right,’ Harland replied, waiting for Richard to slump down on to the sofa before he sat down himself. ‘I just wanted to stop by and see if you’re both all right … and maybe ask you a few questions about your father, if you feel up to it?’

‘Questions?’ Richard scowled. ‘What do you mean? Surely
I
should be the one asking questions.’

‘Of course,’ Harland interjected. ‘If there’s anything that I can answer for you?’

He stared expectantly at Richard, who frowned back at him.

‘I think we were wondering …’ Amanda looked at her husband, then addressed Harland. ‘… how poor Albert died. I understand he had a fall?’

‘Down the stairs,’ Richard added, hesitantly.

Harland took a breath, then gently nodded.

‘Your father
was
found at the foot of the stairs,’ he explained. ‘And the preliminaries suggest that he died from injuries sustained in the fall.’

Richard’s face hardened and he gave a brief nod.

‘He didn’t suffer, did he?’ Amanda had her hand on her husband’s arm.

Harland weighed up the best way to answer her.

‘In these situations, death is usually instantaneous,’ he said. It was what they wanted to hear, and his reply seemed to settle them a little. ‘I hope that’s some comfort.’

Amanda patted Richard’s arm.

‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’ she asked.

‘At this stage …’ Harland spread his palms apologetically.

‘Stage?’ Richard sat up. ‘He fell, and that’s that. I don’t see what you gain by wasting everyone’s time.’

‘He’s just doing his job,’ Amanda said, softly.

‘I’m sorry.’ Harland leaned forward. ‘If you’d rather I came back at a better time …’

Richard looked up, then shook his head.

‘No, no …’ He glanced at Amanda, then sighed. ‘Better get it over and done with.’

‘Thank you.’ Harland took out his notebook, and set it on his knee, ignoring it for the moment. He needed to get them talking first. Better to start with her, move on to him when he had calmed down a bit. He met Amanda’s eye, then affected a sudden frown.

‘I’m sorry … I don’t actually know what either of you do …’

‘Oh.’ Amanda seemed to brighten a little. ‘I’m the artistic director for the Avon Choral Society.’ She shook her head in false modesty. ‘It’s a voluntary thing, for the most part, but we put on several concerts each year, and we’ve done a lot for some very deserving causes.’

‘That must be very rewarding,’ Harland feigned as much interest as he could. Everyone loved to talk about themselves, and so many people defined themselves by what they did. ‘Is it classical music? Contemporary?’

‘Classical, for the most part, though we’ve recently done a few pieces by a wonderful local composer,’ Amanda explained. ‘There’s often greater interest in the more … established pieces, but some of the new music is quite beautiful.’

‘I imagine so …’ He could see Richard becoming restless in his seat and, sure enough, the large man took advantage of the pause to chime in.

‘My firm arranges staff provision for the medical sector,’ he said.

‘You have your own firm?’ Harland asked, raising an eyebrow as though the idea might impress him.

‘Established for fifteen years,’ Richard stated with some pride. ‘We specialise in senior nursing staff and healthcare middle management for local authorities.’

‘You built the business up yourself?’

‘That’s right.’ Richard sounded more comfortable talking now. ‘If you want something badly enough, you need to get off your behind and make it happen.’

‘And it’s all going well?’

‘Yes,’ the big man nodded. ‘Not as lucrative as it used to be, of course.
Wretched
austerity. Ten years ago you could skim as much profit as you liked from the NHS …’ He shook his head slightly, a tone of regret entering his voice. ‘… but the bastards are more careful with their money these days. Everyone’s had to adapt, I suppose.’

Harland suppressed his rising dislike, changing tack now that they were talking more freely.

‘And what about your father?’ he asked. ‘What did he do before he retired?’

‘My father was a civil engineer,’ Richard told him. ‘He oversaw much of the harbour redevelopment, back in the eighties.’

‘Really?’ Harland sat up, genuinely interested this time. The various pieces of seafaring memorabilia in Albie’s house suddenly made more sense. ‘It must have been quite something to know him.’