Broken Fall: A D.I. Harland novella (6 page)

Tapping the screen, he lifted the phone to his ear and listened.

‘Hi, this is Mr Tedeschi, from Clessidra Vuota …’ Despite his name, the man had a strong, West-Country accent. ‘… listen, I’ve got to nip out for a couple of hours this afternoon, so maybe you could come by a bit later? Say, after four o’clock? Hope that’s all right.
Ciao
.’

Harland lowered the phone and glanced at the dashboard clock. It was just past noon; he might as well head back into Bristol, maybe just arrange for someone from Weston to collect the CCTV footage and send it over to CID. Bowing his head for a moment, he heard the first drops of rain on the roof – irregular at first, individual taps that steadily became more frequent until they merged into a seamless pattering. Cocooned in the dry, he listened to the sound of the shower, his mind going back over the conversation he’d just had.

Who had engaged Tracey?
Fiona thought it was one of the children, but which one?

On a whim, he opened his notebook, and flipped through the pages until he found Richard’s number. Tapping it into his phone, he gazed out through the rain-smeared glass as he listened to the distant ringing. There was a click, and Richard answered.

‘Hello?’

‘Mr Errington? It’s Detective Harland.’

‘Oh.’ Even over the phone, the souring of Richard’s tone was obvious. ‘What is it?’

Harland paused. He’d intended to ask straight out, but something warned him against it. There was no reason to put the man on his guard.

‘Sorry to trouble you, sir. I wanted to have a word with your wife.’

Amanda was more level headed. Better to ask her.

‘Well, she isn’t here,’ Richard told him. ‘Does her own thing during the day.’

‘Will she be home later?’

‘Probably about five or six o’clock. She has her – oh, what do you call it? – choral society this afternoon.’

‘Of course. Well, I’ll catch up with her later then.’

A wary note crept into Richard’s voice.

‘What do you want her for?’ he asked, abruptly.

‘Just confirming a couple of details.’ Harland moved smoothly past the question. ‘Anyway, I won’t keep you.’

‘Oh. Right then.’ Richard sounded rather at a loss. ‘Well, goodbye.’

‘’Bye.’

There was a click and the line went dead.

Harland sat for a moment, then leafed back a couple of pages in his notebook. Avon Choral Society, that was what Amanda had said. He quickly googled the address and nodded to himself. It wouldn’t take him that far out of his way, and it would be preferable to speak to her without her charming husband in earshot.

He leaned forward and started the engine.

The sky was clearing as he passed beneath the Clifton Suspension Bridge, and by the time he turned off Westbury Road, the sun was starting to break through. The hall that the Avon Choral Society rehearsed in was a bland 1960s building, tucked away behind a small, brown-brick church. Harland parked on the street and walked down the narrow drive that led between the church buildings and a neighbouring bowling green. As he approached the hall’s main entrance, he became aware of the singing, a harmony of voices that grew clearer as he pulled open one of the glass doors and stepped quietly inside. Treading softly, he moved across the small foyer and paused in the doorway, halted by the sudden swell of the music.

It was a large hall, high ceilinged, with a polished wooden floor. Beyond the many rows of empty chairs, a broad stage was filled with over thirty people. In front of them, a young man in a grey T-shirt and scruffy jeans stood with his back to the hall, his curly dark hair nodding in time with the rise and fall of the music.

Harland bowed his head, listening. In some ways it sounded like a hymn, but more poignant, more emotional. He’d never been particularly religious, especially since his wife Alice had died, but the measured interplay of the different voices touched something in him and he stood without moving until the final strains of the piece faded.

‘Okay, that was much,
much
better.’

Harland looked up to see the young man clapping appreciatively as he addressed the choir.

‘The ending was perfect. If we can go through it just one more time, I need the tenors to back off just a
little
during the first section, then build the feeling to give me everything on those final phrases.’

There was a murmur of assent from the assembled choir. The young man held up his hands.

‘Everyone ready? Here we go …’

At his gesture, the singing began once more.

From his position in the doorway, Harland noticed Amanda, off to one side in a seat at the end of the row. She was wearing a simple, tight grey sweater and jeans, her face rapt as she watched the stage. Following her gaze, he allowed himself to be drawn back into the music, watching the conductor and the choir. He was in no hurry.

The piece lasted several beautiful minutes, now soaring, now mournful, before its last delicate notes echoed round the hall.

‘Yes,
that
was it,’ the young man enthused. ‘You really made me feel it, right in here.’

He placed a hand over his heart, then turned and walked to the edge of the stage to beam down at Amanda.

‘Thank you for this,’ he grinned.

She smiled back at him, one hand rising to push her hair back from her neck.

‘It’s your music, Ben.’

‘I know but it’s an incredible feeling to hear the music you’ve written brought to life
properly
…’ He hugged himself excitedly. ‘Seriously, thank you.’

Amanda lowered her eyes demurely.

Ben turned to the choir, his arms wide.

‘And thank
you
all,’ he said, walking over to them. ‘Brilliant job, everyone. Just brilliant.’

As the room relaxed into movement and discussion, Harland started to work his way forward between the rows of chairs. Glancing over her shoulder, Amanda noticed him approaching, and rose to her feet, coming to meet him with a puzzled smile.

‘Detective Harland?’

‘I’m sorry to bother you here.’ He smiled, then gestured towards the stage. ‘Although, in a way, I’m glad I did. That was … beautiful.’

It was a clumsy compliment, but her face lit up and she inclined her head to one side, obviously pleased.

‘It
was
beautiful, wasn’t it?’ Grinning, she turned and walked over to the young man, who had climbed down from the stage and was sliding a sheaf of music scores into a battered old rucksack. Taking his arm, she pulled him forward. ‘Detective Harland, this is Ben Dawson. He composed the piece you just heard.’

‘
Composed
, as well as conducted?’ Harland raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed. ‘You’re an extremely talented man.’

Amanda’s eyes shone, while Ben gave a self-conscious shrug.

‘Thanks. I get such a kick out of hearing it …’ He grinned, and looked down. ‘Sounds way better when these guys sing it than it ever did in my head.’

‘Well, it was a pleasure to hear it.’

Ben smiled in acknowledgment, then glanced at Amanda who gave him a curt nod.

‘I guess … I should probably be going …’ he said, one hand reaching out awkwardly towards her, then dropping to his side.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ Amanda replied smoothly. She gave him a warm smile, then watched as he turned to gather up his bag. ‘Thank you, Ben.’

‘Good to meet you,’ Harland nodded, as the young man passed him with a cheerful wave and made his way to the door. He turned to find Amanda facing him, her gaze sharp and professional.

‘Well, Inspector?’

Harland stared at her, momentarily caught off balance.

‘Sorry?’

‘I assume you came to ask me something?’ she prompted him.

‘Yes, of course.’ He didn’t want to blunder in with the Tracey question – better to start with something else. ‘I wanted to know if you’d noticed any recent deterioration in your father-in-law’s health? Anything that might have given you cause for concern.’

Amanda’s face fell.

‘He seemed fine the last time we saw him,’ she said, then lowered her eyes. ‘Though I must admit, we hadn’t visited for quite a while.’

Harland nodded, as he thought about what she’d said. Was she feeling guilty, wishing she’d done more, wishing she’d spent more time with him? Or was he sensing guilt of his own. At least Amanda had an excuse – if her loyalties were to her husband, and Richard had somehow fallen out with Albie, that would put her in an awkward position.

He frowned, trying to remember how long it had been since he’d called his
own
father.

‘I suppose I came to feel that Albert would always be around,’ she continued, sadly. ‘But I guess you never know how long you’ve got.’

Harland looked at her and nodded. She was right, of course. He knew it better than most.

‘At least he was being well looked after,’ he mused. ‘Someone checking in on him every day.’

Amanda drew herself up a little.

‘Of course. Family is incredibly important to Richard.’ She shook her head. ‘That was one of the few things that he and Albert agreed on.’

‘Can’t have been easy for him, though. Making time for his own home life, the business, and an elderly parent …’ When he spoke again, he framed his words more as an observation than a question. ‘I guess it was Jenny who organised getting the care agency involved.’

‘Oh no, not
Jenny
.’ There was a faint note of scorn in Amanda’s voice. ‘No, Richard took charge of that sort of thing.’

Harland nodded calmly, giving no hint of his interest in what she’d said.

‘Well, he certainly picked a good agency,’ he observed. ‘And that carer woman seems to have been dedicated to her work.’

It was almost imperceptible, the merest flicker of something behind Amanda’s eyes, before her smile returned.

‘Yes,’ she said, lightly. ‘I gather Tracey always looked after him very well.’

‘That must have been a comfort …’ Harland trailed off, feeling the buzzing in his jacket once again. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out his phone, seeing Linwood’s name on the screen.

‘I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘I just need to …’

‘You don’t have to apologise to me,’ she assured him. ‘Please, go ahead.’

Harland turned away from her and lifted the phone to his ear, pacing slowly along the row of chairs.

‘Yes, Jack?’

‘I’ve found it, sir.’ Linwood sounded pleased with himself. ‘Albert’s will. It was in a pile of papers in his desk drawer.’

‘Good work,’ Harland smiled. ‘And does it say what we thought it would say?’

‘Not quite, sir.’

Harland paused, his hand on the back of a chair.

‘What do you mean,
not quite
?’

Pushing through the glass doors, Harland strode out into the car park, the phone pressed hard against his ear.

‘So it’s not an even split?’ he asked, fumbling a cigarette from the pack in his jacket pocket, then feeling for his lighter.

‘Absolutely not.’ Linwood’s voice sounded even more excited than usual.

‘Richard gets the money, but the house goes to Jenny.’

‘How much money are we talking about?’ Harland leaned forward, twisting his body to shield the flame from the wind, then he exhaled a breath of smoke. ‘Any bank statements, savings accounts, that sort of thing?’

‘Going through them now, sir. Albert kept everything neatly filed away in his desk.’

‘And?’

‘I haven’t finished yet,’ Linwood replied. ‘But it doesn’t look like a lot. Five or ten grand, maybe …’

‘While Jenny gets a house worth half a million,’ Harland mused. He snapped his lighter shut. ‘Sounds like Albert and Richard
really
didn’t get on.’

‘Might have made things iffy between Richard and Jenny, too,’ Linwood noted.

‘Indeed,’ Harland agreed. ‘It could explain the rather distant relationship between brother and sister … assuming their father
told
them.’

‘There’s one way to find out.’

‘There’s two,’ Harland corrected him. He began walking back down the side of the church towards the road. ‘Ask Richard, or ask Jenny. And I know which option I prefer.’

‘I can guess,’ Linwood chuckled. ‘Want me to keep looking through Albert’s stuff?’

‘Yes, let’s satisfy ourselves about how much Richard inherits,’ Harland said, thoughtfully. ‘I think I’ll pay his sister a visit, and we can regroup later on.’

‘I’ll crack on then.’

‘Thanks, Jack.’ He paused, then added, ‘Good work.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Harland ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. Glancing up at the front of the church, he took a long drag on his cigarette. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Albie’s murder was somehow about money, but the breakdown of the will wasn’t what he’d expected. Sighing out the smoke, he made his way across the church forecourt, waiting until he reached the street to grind the cigarette butt underfoot.

Back in the car, he started the engine and pulled on his seat belt. Checking the wing mirror before pulling out, a glimpse of a familiar face made him pause. He leaned forward, peering at the reflection … was that Ben?

The young composer was sitting at the wheel of a battered old Vauxhall Astra, parked on the opposite side of the road, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Harland watched him for a moment, then glanced thoughtfully back towards the hall. Smiling to himself, he put the car in gear and pulled away.

‘Can I get you another drink?’ Jenny asked.

Harland smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

She looked better today. The sadness was still there in her eyes, but she seemed calmer, less distracted. Dressed in a smart pair of jeans and a black cashmere top, her blond hair was neatly swept back. He’d noted the subtle shade of lipstick and the touch of eye make-up behind her glasses.

But of course, her husband was flying back from America today; that’s why she’d made the effort …
He felt a brief pang of loss, but forced it to the back of his mind.
Now wasn’t the time for thoughts like that.

He glanced down at his notebook, taking a breath, trying to focus on the conversation they’d been having, the build-up to the questions he
really
wanted to ask.