Wonderful Character-Driven Mystery Series (3) by Ric Brady Takes Readers to Yorkshire into the Moors and Various Small Towns!

 “You can try to leave your past behind, but sometimes it won’t let you.”

The saleswoman, Pauline Oats, returned to her seat behind the desk while the radio in the corner played love songs from the eighties. The low-level office lighting brightened the gloom of the night outside. Pauline looked at Henry who was standing in front of her desk. “I don’t know what I can tell you,” she said. “You don’t know who Elisa is?” Henry asked. Jean was standing behind him, watching proceedings. “Of course, I do. But not that much,” the woman said, visibly pained at having to discuss personal information about her boss to strangers. “So, you don’t know anything about Mr Rhodes’ personal life?” She sighed. “I know a little bit. I’ve been for drinks up at the house. I know Sofia.” “What do you think of her?” She shrugged. “Alright.” “Is that all?” She scoffed. “She’s my boss’s wife, what do you want me to say?” Henry suspected she wanted to say more about Sofia and none of it would be good. “Have you noticed anything unusual over the past few days?” She shook her head. “Apart from you two? No. I’ve not noticed anything.” Then she bit her lower lip and glanced at the desk opposite hers. Carlton Rhodes’ nameplate was on it. “He’s been a bit uptight, recently.” “In what way?” She frowned as she tried to articulate her thoughts. “Just a bit irritable. Like something’s been playing on his mind.” “Since when?” She shrugged. “Beginning of the week. I thought he’d fallen out with Sofia.” “Does that happen often?” “Not really. He’s smitten with her.” Henry noted some disappointment in her voice. “So, since the beginning of the week he’s been irritable and you’re not sure why?” She didn’t respond, she just watched him. “Has anyone called up recently? Anyone who sounded foreign?” he asked. “You’ll have to narrow that down. We have a lot of international clients.” “Anyone Spanish?” She seemed to consider it then shook her head. “I don’t know. I speak to people on the phone all day long, but I wouldn’t be able to say if they were Spanish or not.” “Anyone visited the office?” “We don’t normally get people visiting us here.” Henry stared out the window at the twilight and saw the car park. “No unusual behaviour?” She shook her head. “Not this week. Oh. Hang on.” She scrunched up her lips as she thought of something. “Yesterday, he was out most of the morning. He came back in completely stressed.” “Where did he go?” She moved the computer mouse and bent down to look at her screen. “He had me cancel a meeting with a big client…” She moved her head closer to the calendar on the screen. “Yes. Mr Pritchard was cancelled.” “And you don’t know where he went?” She shook her head. “He just had me cancel Mr Pritchard but didn’t tell me why. He just said, ‘something’s come up’.” “Does that happen a lot?” “No. Well, not with that client. He’s one of our biggest.” “You think he went out to meet someone else, instead?” She shrugged as if she couldn’t say either way. “He was out for a few hours.” “When did he come back?” “Before lunch. He didn’t want anything, though; as I normally go fetch him his sandwich.” She set her jaw and said, “Anyway. I think I’ve told you enough, don’t you?” Henry glanced at Jean who’d been listening in. She stepped towards the desk. “This is about a missing eight-year-old, you know?” The woman nodded. “I’ve gathered that.” “Well, what you can tell us could save her life.” The woman looked at them both as an idea seemed to come to her mind. “Is Elisa even missing or is this some sick game?” “She’s definitely missing, believe us,” Henry said. “Then why are you asking me these questions and not the police?” “Because we’re several steps ahead of them,” Henry said. 

Henry and Jean got back to the car. It was no longer raining but spitting, and Henry started the engine so he could turn on the heating and warm up. “Well, that went better than expected,” he said to Jean. Jean stared at the office, which was still lit up, through the windscreen. “She was very protective of him.” “Aye. She’s enamoured with him,” Henry said. “I don’t think it’s that. I think she’s in love with the idea of him.” Henry scoffed. “Same thing, isn’t it?” He played through the conversation he’d had with the woman in his mind. Carlton had been on edge since the weekend, and the previous day he’d gone off to meet someone. Could he have met Antonio Torres? Henry wouldn’t be able to prove that unless Carlton confirmed it or he could find some other proof, like CCTV footage, which he doubted. Then something came back to him from what the babysitter had told him: there’d been an atmosphere when she’d turned up to the Rhodeses’ house that morning, and she thought the couple had been arguing. What had they argued about? “What do you make of it all?” he asked Jean. She sighed. “Something’s gone on between Carlton Rhodes and Antonio, but I’m not sure what. Sofia was aware of something, but how much she knew I’m not sure.” She bit her lip as she thought about it, then shrugged. “I don’t know. Sofia will have to tell us.” Henry looked over the flat roof of the office building at the darkness beyond, to where Ilkley Moor would be in the foggy night. “Do you think she’s out there?” “Elisa?” Jean also stared at the dark sky. “I hope for her sake she isn’t. I suspect she’s with the father, and that he’s holding her somewhere.” “One of the abandoned buildings, perhaps?” “You mentioned that inside the office, but I’m not sure there are many buildings like that on Ilkley Moor.” “There might be a few old barns and outhouses up there,” Henry said, pretty sure he’d seen such buildings while out walking Tessa. “You think she could be in one of them?” Henry shrugged. “She might be, or she might be somewhere else.” Henry had been walking on those moorlands for the best part of his sixty-three years and had seen a couple of buildings that could fit the description. That was if Antonio and Elisa were still in the wilderness. Perhaps he’d driven her into Leeds or Bradford, or out of the area completely. Henry put the car into gear and reversed out of the parking spot. “Let’s go have a drive around on the tops.” “You want to drive around those hills right now?” she asked as if he’d lost his mind. “It’s dark, raining, and misty. What do you expect to see up there?” “I don’t know, but it might be worth the drive,” he said, turning out of the car park. * * * Henry drove up Cowpasture Road to get onto Ilkley Moor. He’d put the fog lights on, but they struggled to pierce through the grey cloud in front of them. “This doesn’t seem like such a good idea,” Jean said, folding her arms across her chest. “It’ll be fine,” he said as he drove over a cattle grid before accelerating up the hill. “What are you even looking for?” “Abandoned buildings,” Henry said, pushing his head forward in the hope that it’d allow him to see through the mist better. He had a gut feeling that he’d find something up there, but he wasn’t sure what. He was at the opposite end of the moorland from where he’d found that blood-covered hat. He wondered if he was just wasting time until he got the chance to speak with Sofia and her husband again – if Murphy and Hargreaves ever let him. Low cloud barraged the windscreen and sucked up the beams from the fog lights. Jean tutted. “Are you sure we should be up here in weather like this?” Henry ignored her and made it to the hotel at the top of the hill. Opposite were the Cow and Calf rocks – a local tourist attraction that he’d not visited for several years. He had no intention of visiting it that night but turned into its car park all the same. He pulled up next to a deep, water-filled hole in the gravel and left the full beams on so he could see a little out into the night. The fog was so dense he couldn’t see the town in the valley below. He couldn’t even make out the Cow and Calf rocks in the near distance. The lights from the hotel across the road were barely visible. “So, what’s your plan?” Jean asked. “I don’t know,” he admitted. He ignored her sigh and looked at the neighbouring parked cars. There weren’t many. One on the right side, and two on the other. He suspected some might belong to the people staying at the hotel, but then remembered it had its own car park. Unless it was so busy it was full, which he felt was unlikely in the middle of February. He peered at the stationary car at his side but couldn’t see much. “Here, open that glovebox and pass me the torch.” Jean did as he’d asked, but not without expressing her opinion. He ignored it and took his anorak from the back seat. “Don’t go outside,” she said, “you could trip and fall. You won’t be able to see a bloody thing.” He shook the torch in her face then slipped on the anorak as best he could while being seated. “I’ll be fine,” he said, before stepping outside. He pulled up his hood as the cold damp swirled around him, and he levelled the torch at the nearest car. It was a white Ford Focus, which appeared to be several years old. He walked towards it and made a note of its registration number, tapping the number into his phone. He shone his torch through the windscreen, lighting up its empty interior. The car was fairly spartan inside, apart from a pink sticker of a cartoon character on the back window. He peered into the back seats and saw a teddy bear. After a few moments, he felt there was nothing untoward about the Ford Focus and was about to head over to the other cars, when he spotted a mark on the driver’s door. A dent, about two inches long, next to its handle. The lock had also been removed. Henry straightened up and surveyed the misty car park. There was no one around him. All he could hear was the fine rain gently falling on the dead heather and long grass. He put on a latex glove and tried the door handle. It opened. He shone the torch near the steering wheel and saw that the plastic panel surrounding the ignition keyhole had been ripped off, and its wires were exposed. The car had been stolen, and Henry suspected he knew who nicked it. He took a step back and dialled Barnes’s number. When she picked up, he said, “I’m in the Cow and Calf car park on Ilkley Moor. I think I’ve found the car Antonio Torres has been driving.” “What do you mean?” Barnes asked. Henry suspected he was on speakerphone, as he heard Barnes’s car in the background. Henry turned to where the Cow and Calf rocks would normally be if they weren’t obscured by the murkiness. “I think he nicked a car and left it in the car park here. He was probably intending to take the girl and make it back here…” Henry trailed off mid-sentence. How would Antonio have taken Elisa from her house in Middleton, crossed town with her, without being seen, then walked up the moor? It didn’t seem likely. “Or he brought her here and then drove off in another car.” He spun around to take in the empty car park. “Hang on,” Barnes said. “So, you think he kidnapped her, drove her up to the Cow and Calf, and then fled in another car?” “Possibly,” Henry said. “Or this car might be a ruse.” “Right? So, he pretends he’s driven off when he hasn’t?” “Aye,” Henry said, sounding unsure of himself. He looked over at the faint lights coming from the hotel across the road. “What if it’s just a random stolen car that you’ve found,” Barnes asked, “and it has nothing to do with this bloke? Not all the crimes in Ilkley are connected.” Henry had to admit it was a possibility. “Aye, maybe you’re right,” he said. “Where are you, anyway?” “I’m nearly there. Murphy sent me over. Hey, I thought you were warned off this.” “I was.” “And it didn’t work?” “What do you think?” She sighed, and Henry could imagine her shaking her head. “When I get there I can’t be seen with you.” Henry scoffed. “What on earth for?” “Murphy doesn’t want you getting involved. Didn’t I just say that?” “Aye, but what’s that got to with anything?” She paused. “Don’t you know?” “Know what?” She cleared her throat. “Murphy’s an acting superintendent.” Henry took a few moments to process the news. “Right, so you really have to do as he says?” “Well, if I didn’t when he was a DI, I definitely do now. I have to stay in the old codger’s good books.” Then she added, “No offence.” “None taken,” he said, without much feeling. He wondered if this explained Murphy’s insistence that he stay away from the case. If he was an active superintendent, his position hadn’t been confirmed, and Murphy would be avoiding all risks so that he’d keep his new title. “So, how do I stay involved if Murphy doesn’t want it?” “You don’t. Tell me everything you know so far, then go home.” Henry scoffed. “You do know a girl’s been kidnapped by a suspected murderer?” “Yes, and I want to find her safe and sound as quickly as possible. I can’t do that if you don’t tell me everything you know.” “Alright. Well, let’s meet and I’ll tell you,” he said, looking in the direction of the hotel. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I can’t be seen with you.” “It’ll be quick. And I’ll tell you everything.” She sighed. “Where will you be?” “The hotel up here on the moor,” he said. “Couldn’t we meet in town?” “You’ll be closer to this abandoned stolen car if you come up here.” She exhaled an expletive and said she’d be there in ten minutes. Henry dashed back to his car with the intention of parking it across the road, as he didn’t think Jean would want to walk the several hundred metres to the hotel in this fog.

~~~

Ex-DCI Henry Ward had been forced out of his career as a police officer. There had been gossip/lies that had led to his retirement when the investigation was taking too long. And, even though an investigation had found that all that had been said was not true, he stayed--retired. Of course, since something similar had happened to me, I had great empathy for his continued interest in all the police activities that came into his area. I liked him immediately, but, even more, I enjoyed the writing style of the author, Ric Brady... It's the type of writing that this reader feels like she can just sit back and enjoy the story as presented... The scenic descriptions used through his books immediately draws interest, with me wondering exactly what the moor area might look like that is being described... so I found some really beautiful settings... But the books are set either in a colder or hotter period of time, so it's never an easy time to work a crime scene... And that is especially a problem in the first book I read, which was Missing on Ilkley Moor!

Henry has a wonderful animal friend, Tessa, who is at least in this book, the only close family he has. As with many parents he was always working the job when the children were growing, leaving their mother to almost be a single parent. Sometime along the way they had divorced, and it had been years since he has seen either of two children, both of whom now had children. He has grandchildren who he has never met! 

As the book begins, Henry and Tessa are out for their usual morning walk and, being the professional observer that Henry always was, he quickly moves to where Tessa is barking at something in the flowing creek. He pulls it out and realizes, though it has been in the water for some time, that it appeared to have blood on it. A pink hat, which looked like a child would wear--with blood! Henry immediately started looking around to try to find a little girl, possibly hurt, or worse...

Failing, he takes the cap to the police station and registers it as a possible lost child or even a kidnapping. He tried to talk with somebody but that wasn't to happen, so he went back out to keep looking...

News of the child is quickly spreading because the babysitter who had been watching her was very upset, realizing that somebody had sneaked into the home, past her and up the stairs to take the child from her bedroom! Soon, his next-door neighbor, Jean, becomes a better neighbor than ever before, as she learns of the child missing. As a former teacher, her heart immediately wanted to help...

But the thing was that when contact with the parents was made, they weren't very concerned and didn't want to make a fuss... After a number of contacts pressured the mother, she finally admitted that her daughter was safe, and with her real father...

Brady keeps teasing readers, giving them a little bit at a time, just enough to keep us reading... Nothing makes sense. If that hat was hers then she could have fallen and been seriously hurt on the Moor... But the parents had no idea how to contact the ex-husband???

He glanced down at Elisa’s smiling face on his iPad’s screen. She had dark hair that hung around her cheeks and was mostly hidden by the pink bobble hat on her head. He wished he’d not found anything on his walk that morning. He’d prefer to be left well out of this.

~~~

 How are we, as police officers, supposed to hold our heads high with numbers like that? Violent crime has essentially been legalized.” He shook his head as he heard his own words. “We’re stumbling through a category-seven hurricane of shit, with only a cocktail umbrella to protect us.”

Of course Henry had to bring the dog. He wouldn’t have heard the end of it otherwise. Tessa ran towards the grass, pulling Henry along behind her as he didn’t want her off her lead. They headed to Ilkley Park, following the path that cut through the central lawn. The River Wharfe was on one side, with a few bathers braving the possible sewage in the water, and the centre of Ilkley was on the other. The sun shone down, and Henry squinted at it as he pulled at the collar of his blue and white chequered shirt. It was going to be another hot day, he thought. He considered getting lunch at the riverside café near the car park after meeting Villers. He might even venture out and get an ice cream. It was definitely the weather for it. He spotted a lone figure sitting on a bench under a cherry blossom tree. As Tessa yanked him closer, he recognised the lonesome figure as Tim Villers. Tim stared blankly into the distance with a lit cigarette held close to his lips. He wasn’t smoking it. Instead, he just held it between his fingers as its smoke wafted into his face. He hadn’t aged much over the years, he’d done better than Henry, and could still pass for a Clark Kent. Though possibly a more mature one, Henry had to admit. Tim’s curly hair was still there, with locks hanging lazily over his forehead. Grey tinted his sideburns and was peppered throughout the rest of his curls. He glanced at Henry and tossed the unsmoked cigarette onto the walking path, stamping it out with his boot. He wore dark jeans that covered the tops of his leather boots and a dark-red T-shirt. While he wasn’t as in shape as he’d been fifteen years ago, he didn’t look bad for a man in his late forties. His beer gut was hardly noticeable. “Thanks for coming,” he said, huffing. He appeared to be in pain, wearing a disdainful expression, like he’d eaten something rotten. “No bother,” Henry said, guiding Tessa towards the bench so he could sit down. She sniffed at the half-burnt cigarette, and Henry tugged her away. “So, how are you doing?” Henry asked. Tim’s pained grimace didn’t lift. “How do you think?” Henry couldn’t begin to imagine, so he instead asked, “And the kids?” “Fine. Well, I’ve not told them yet. I’ve got to do that later today so they can announce Maureen’s name in the press.” “Ah,” Henry said, not envying him. “How are they getting on?” “Not bad,” Tim said, cheering up slightly. “Paul went to uni, now he’s an IT fella in Leeds. Siobhan is doing a master’s in Cambridge.” “Cambridge?” Henry repeated, impressed. “Aye.” Fatherly pride briefly replaced his suffering. “She got into Durham for her degree, missing out at Oxford, but Cambridge took her in for her master’s. Mathematics, if you can believe it. Just like her mum. Always had a head for numbers.” His blank stare returned, as did his grimace. “So, you’ll be expecting them back in Baildon?” He shook his head. “I moved seven years ago. Live here now.” “In Ilkley?” He nodded. “Remarried seven years ago.” He cleared his throat, as if he still wasn’t comfortable admitting he’d moved on from Maureen. “Listen. I know this Acton will be on at me.” “Have you heard from him?” “Not yet. But it’s a matter of time. I’m the desk sergeant at Otley station now. I know there’ve been uniforms all over the reservoir. I was organising it this morning, until I was told to get lost and take a personal day.” He huffed. “God knows if they’ll let me in tomorrow. This is just the beginning of it.” “Hang about, Villers. You know they can’t let you be anywhere near the investigation. We both know Acton will want to talk to you. You were her husband.” “I know,” he said, sounding as though he wished otherwise. “It’s just… I thought all that was over.” “Well, it’s not.” Tessa barked at Henry, wondering why they were sitting in the park when she wanted to run off and play. Giving in, he undid her lead and let her wander around while keeping an eye on her. “So, what’s this proof you have?” Henry asked, getting to the point of their meeting. “Proof?” Tim asked. “You said you knew why Maureen went to Swinfeld that day.” He nodded. “Aye.” He inhaled, filling his big chest. “I came across them when I was moving from Baildon.” “Come across what?” “Letters. Love letters.” Henry felt his eyebrow rise. “To whom?” “Her. Maureen.” “From whom?” He exhaled and patted his pockets, producing his cigarettes, a fresh packet with only one missing. The plastic casing still covered the lower half. “Gave up, did you?” Henry asked, nodding at the cigs. Tim caught himself opening the packet and then put it on the bench. “Aye. Four years ago. Karen doesn’t like me smoking. I thought they’d help with the stress, but…” “Who were they from?” Henry asked. “These love letters?” “I don’t know,” he said. “They were just signed ‘yours always’.” “Great,” Henry couldn’t help saying under his breath. “Where are they now?” Tim patted a supermarket carrier bag next to him. Henry fought the urge to grab it and read them there and then. “Where were they?” “Under her bedside cabinet. Taped under the bottom drawer. Karen spotted them when I picked them up.” His hand clutched the bag, scrunching the plastic. “I felt sick at first.” “You’d no idea she’d been unfaithful?” He shook his head. “None. I was too busy thinking about myself.” “What do you mean?” “Well, I’ve had my share of women wanting me to break my vows – and once or twice I did.” He bit his lower lip as if he regretted doing so. “I was just worried she’d find out about my indiscretions. I never thought she had her own to hide.” Henry didn’t comment. His own marriage had collapsed after years of silent misery, so he wasn’t one to judge. Glancing out at the park in front of them, he saw Tessa getting too close to a Labrador and whistled her over. When she’d strolled towards him, he said, “I’m not sure why you rang me about this.” “I want you to help.” “How? What can I do? I’m out of the game. Retired. All I’m good for now is watching test cricket and walking the dog.” Tim turned to him for the first time, locking his blue eyes onto Henry’s. “Bollocks. I’ve heard all about some geriatric PI pissing off the top brass. And I’m stationed at Otley, remember. Who do you think sent out uniforms to that shoot-out on the Chevin? All I could hear on the radio was people cursing your name.” Henry covered his mouth and faked a cough to hide his awkwardness. “I want you to do your own thing on the side and find out who really killed Maureen.” “Hang on. We don’t know it’s actually her they’ve found yet,” Henry said, trying to bring in some perspective. “Then why did they send me home?” He looked out towards the river. “It’s her.” “But I’ve been warned off already…” “How?” “I went to Swinfeld this morning and had a tête-à-tête with Acton.” “What do you make of him?” Henry shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m undecided.” “I’ve heard some shit about him, believe me.” “Aye, well. I’m not sure I’m going to be dipping my toes into this.” “Don’t bullshit me,” Tim said, raising his voice slightly. “I know you’ll have the case files at your house already. You’ll have spent the morning going through them.” Henry wore his best poker face. “You know, retired detectives have better things to do than read up on old cases.” “Aye, other detectives. But not you. Not The Bloodhound.” Henry bristled as he heard his old nickname. He thought it’d died along with his police career all those years ago. Tim leant forward. “I need help. I can’t do time for this. I’ve been a cop twenty-five years. If I go to prison – Armley or somewhere – I won’t last my sentence. They’re animals in there, and they’ll kill me eventually. And what about my kids? What about them? Maureen’s legacy?” Henry sensed the immense pressure Tim was putting himself under. The man’s big shoulders struggled under the weight of it all. Henry felt like patting his arm and telling him it’d be okay, only he wasn’t satisfied that Tim wasn’t involved somehow. Mystery love letters or not. He decided to be frank. “Look, I’m not sure what I can do. To be honest with you, and just between you and me, I normally have a detective on the inquiry who tells me what’s what. But I don’t have that this time. She’s not on the MIT.” “I know someone who’s involved,” Tim said, turning to him. His blue eyes had reddened, and tears had collected in the corners. “Right?” “She’s just been promoted and is working under Acton. She’s said she’ll keep an eye on things for me. I know she’ll help you.” Henry winced in anticipation. “What’s she called, this detective?” But he knew the name before Tim said it. “She’s called Hargreaves, and she’s now a detective sergeant.”

~~~

During a long drought, a local reservoir had uncovered part of a village that had been destroyed many years ago. People were visiting to actually see history of a village that had once existed. A dog walker had come and was the one who found the body of a woman. A woman who had disappeared years ago while Henry was still on the job and he'd had the case, which had gone cold...

Henry was very hesitant to get involved when his friend asked him. He was bound to be a suspect since they discovered the body of his wife, who everybody had thought had moved to Canada... It was that case  that he's never forgotten and, indeed, he had kept a copy of the file. But so many things had changed. For one, and very importantly, his ex-partner was now the big honcho of the police force and depending upon the case, he never knew whether he would be able to work along on any given case. There were two female officers who had been willing to have him tag along for some interviews, but they were never consistent because, of course, their boss may or may not be willing to have an old retiree working cases... Nevertheless, each of them, from one case to the next, will decide to work with Henry, as long as he is able to provide needed support they needed. And, given the shortage of funds for police--everywhere--Henry was normally the one who actually solved the case(s) which they, then, would get the public credit... So what else was new?

~~~

His dad had been the same. An independent-minded man who’d done fairly well in the army, considering he was a man who hated being told what to do. Henry was much the same, he realised, pouring hot water over a teabag. He’d not lasted as long in the police as he wanted for the same reason: he couldn’t stand being directed to do things by people he didn’t respect.

Henry left Roy in the pub to finish off the third drink he’d ordered. Crossing the icy road, he walked carefully over the frosty tarmac and headed into his front yard. His breath steamed in his face in the sub-zero temperatures. He found Tessa on the sofa, huddled up in a makeshift shelter constructed out of cushions and blankets. Henry suspected the construction was Jean’s handiwork and not the boiler man’s. He patted Tessa’s head, who barked at him for having left her in a cold house all day. Leaving his winter coat on, he entered his kitchen and turned on the light. There was a note left on his kitchen table in Jean’s handwriting: The boiler man’s coming back tomorrow. He turned the gas off. You should’ve said you had no heating. I’ve got my spare room ready. Henry sighed. He’d have to go around to hers, wouldn’t he? Looking at his now-useless gas oven, he realised he wouldn’t be able to heat anything for dinner either. What was stopping him from going over to Jean’s right now? He should be grateful he had someone willing to put him up for the night. He knew it wasn’t a logical reason, but one founded on fear. Fear of not being in control of his space and of being beholden to someone else. He turned on the kettle to make a cup of tea and realised he was too much of an independent person. That was his issue. His dad had been the same. An independent-minded man who’d done fairly well in the army, considering he was a man who hated being told what to do. Henry was much the same, he realised, pouring hot water over a teabag. He’d not lasted as long in the police as he wanted for the same reason: he couldn’t stand being directed to do things by people he didn’t respect. But his father’s independence became a hindrance. Henry’s mother had passed away in her late sixties, leaving his father alone in their home on the outskirts of Bradford. Henry’s father lived a solitary life in that house, never asking for nor wanting help, even when he dearly needed it. It was something Henry couldn’t understand at the time. “Why the bloody hell won’t he accept any help?” he’d ask his ex-wife, who would shrug in response. Though, thinking back on it, maybe his ex-wife suspected Henry would turn out just the same. A cranky old man living alone in a ramshackle house, refusing help even when he needed it. Like old farmer Sowerby, Henry thought, sipping his tea. He wasn’t doing well and could be facing firearms charges as a consequence of not asking someone for help. Maybe Fred Sowerby’s issue wasn’t that he hadn’t asked for help, but that the world beyond his farm had changed with the times, while he still lived in the pre-war farmhouse he’d been born in. It was nearly 7 p.m., and Henry reckoned Jean would be eating her dinner and probably had a plate waiting for him. He chucked the rest of his tea in the sink, and caught his reflection in the light of his kitchen window. His father’s eyes stared back at him, so much so that he felt a shiver. “I’m not you, Dad,” he said to the face. “Even if I have the tendency to be. I can choose to be different.” After placing the empty cup by the sink, he turned off the lights, and explained to Tessa that he’d be away for the night, which she didn’t appear to be too happy about. * * * Jean did have dinner ready, and wine was out on the table in her white-walled kitchen. Under-cabinet lighting illuminated the tidy worktop where the only signs of cooking were an empty pan on the stove and a baking tray left on the side. Speakers played 1970s soft rock while Jean explained she’d cooked salmon with new potatoes and green beans. “You’ve not brought that much with you?” she asked, looking him over and not seeing a bag. “I only live next door. Did you expect me to bring a suitcase?” “Well, I suppose not…” she said. They took their seats at the kitchen table, already laid out, and started eating. The food was warm, despite Henry thinking Jean had been waiting a while for him to arrive. She explained what the heating engineer had said to her. “I didn’t know who he was at first. I thought he might be a burglar or… Heaven forbid, the killer.” “Which killer?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ve dealt with so many, you could take your pick.” The salmon was succulent and well-seasoned, and Henry declined the offer of wine, which Jean seemed to have expected – as only one wine glass was on the table. “How’s it going with Birchwood’s murder?” Jean asked. “It’s progressing.” “Can you say anything about it?” Henry chewed a mouthful of new potatoes. “I can say things are getting… interesting.” “Oh? What have you found out?” “I can’t say–” “Why not?” She tilted her head in annoyance. “You don’t think that I’m going to tell anyone, do you?” “Well… you’ll be glad to know the police won’t be looking for the murderer in Addingham.” Jean drank some chilled Australian chardonnay. “Right?” “It seems to have been an issue Skipton-way that’s caused it all.” “Skipton? I didn’t know Birchwood did houses over there.” “Aye, he has them all over the county.” Henry took another mouthful of food. “Unless we’re missing the real reason why he’s been killed.” “So what’s happened up at Skipton?” Henry wasn’t sure how much he could divulge. “Let’s just say, things had gone a bit haywire at one of Birchwood’s estates, and he was in trouble.” “Which one?” Realising Henry wouldn’t tell her, Jean rolled her eyes. “Fine, keep it a secret. But at least tell me what you can.” “He bought loads of land that isn’t safe – don’t bother asking me why, as it’ll give the game away. But he only realised this after he’d started building on it.” Jean looked as though she was missing something. “If his properties weren’t any good and he was going to lose money, why kill him?” Henry went to answer but had nothing to say. She had a point. Why would the Gargrave project cause Maxwell’s death? “Well… maybe he owed people money.” “Like who? Gangsters?” Jane sipped her wine, shaking her head in disbelief. “I don’t think we have many of them living in Addingham and Ilkley,” she said sarcastically. “You never know,” he said, but he knew she had a point. The fact that the Gargrave Estate was in the process of failing didn’t explain why Birchwood had been killed. In fact, keeping the collapse of the project under wraps could be seen as a motive for murder, but that would put Birchwood as a suspect, not as the victim. A doorbell sounded, and Henry looked into Jean’s living room, slightly startled. “Oh, bugger!” Jean said, putting her knife and fork down. “He’s on time for a change.” “Who is?” She got up from the table, leaving her half-eaten dinner on its plate. “I thought you might want to talk to him, and I called him earlier, and then…” She shrugged, which Henry took to mean she’d forgotten. “It’s Noel Cleeves?” Henry asked. She nodded. “You said you wanted to talk to him.” “Well, great, I could do with finding out what he has to say for himself.” “Henry…” she said, with a warning tone and a mildly threatening glare. “Be nice to Noel. He’s a good man, and he has nothing to do with this.” “Alright. I just want to ask him a few questions.” “In a very nice manner, I hope. And without suggesting he’s paid someone to kill Maxwell Birchwood.” “Indeed.” Henry finished off the last of potatoes on his plate. “I’ll be as nice as I can with him. Kid gloves, and all that.”

~~~

A Shooter! And the first to be shot is a local developer of home estates, which often enraged the rich neighbors whose views from their windows were now facing sub-par housing... But as the investigation moved forward, it was Henry who would have been one of those shot! In a strange mix of circumstances, Henry had accepted his neighbor, Jean's, invitation to stay at her house because it was freezing outside and his heater had died at the very worst time of the year! And so, it was that night, while he was trying to fall asleep in a strange bed, that he heard a car and looked out Jean's window, to see a figure moving toward his house! And he watched as that individual broke into his front door and, in a few minutes, shots were heard from his bedroom! He had recorded the entire attempt to his murder!

For me, this was my favorite of the three. I wish I had time to move on and read the entire series, but time is moving too fast and I'm confident that Henry will be in top form as he closes out the series... Especially when we see that a possible relationship is forming with Jean and Henry. And it all came into Henry's mind as he participated at a dinner where a friend of Jean's had been invited to dine with the two of them. Jean, of course, thought she was helping by having him come to Henry for the questions he wanted answered, at least providing dinner. But, as the loud boisterous man entered the home and instantly found a companion, Jean, who obviously was enthralled with his personality, Henry found himself becoming angry and making a scene, challenging him... Jean's friend left; Jean asked Henry to leave. And as he drove around trying to find some place to sleep that night, he had to realize that he may have been jealous and that was why he had reacted... His thoughts turned to his age, which, really was not old, 65, unless that type of work affects the physical condition of police officers... But Christmas had just passed and he'd barely heard from his children--one card from his son... Henry began to realize that he could die alone, with only Tessa to discover his body... Before the end of the book, Henry had called both of his children and asked to come to visit... Before long, he had apologized to Jean and was welcomed back in her home to stay, at least until the new furnace was installed in his home and his front door had been replaced, together with a new mattress after his having been shot...by...the...shooter! All at the expense of the head honcho, who had suggested a deal for the future where he might "not" mind Henry helping on cases... Henry bargained for the cash to pay his bills even though he knew he'd never be paid for tagging along with the officers...

I admit, this was caught me totally off guard, although I did pick up on several clues but did not fully project who the shooter was. I loved it!

Take a trip to Yorkshire! Check out the beauty of the Moor! And, you just might meet Henry and Tessa as you take your first walk every morning... But don't be surprised if you wind up being involved as a witness in one or two murders while there...

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