Restless Dead (Harry Grimm Book 5), David Gatward [best books to read non fiction TXT] 📗

even more whisky, before setting the place on fire. As evil plans go, it wasn’t a bad one. Ruth was lucky to survive her supposed suicide.’

‘I understand that it doesn’t feel right though,’ Firbank said. ‘Sort of unfinished, because there’s no arrest, no trial, nothing. Just a broken family.’

Harry nodded, had nothing to say, took another mouthful of his beer. ‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.

‘At The Herriot,’ Firbank said. ‘You spoke so highly of it, so I thought, why not?’

‘Watch the breakfasts though,’ Harry said. ‘They’re terrifying.’

Firbank pulled something from a bag she had resting to one side on the floor.

‘Here,’ she said, sliding a plain brown envelope across the table towards Harry. ‘Various bits and bobs to sign, to make it all official. Assuming you’re still decided, that is?’

‘I am,’ Harry said, reaching out for the envelope.

‘And Ben?’

‘He’s fine about it,’ Harry said. ‘Happier, I think, now that the decision is made. Bit of stability, you know?’

‘Everyone needs it,’ Firbank said, then she reached for her gin and tonic and finished what was left, before getting to her feet.

‘For what it’s worth,’ she said, looking down at Harry, ‘I think this is possibly one of the best decisions you’ve ever made.’

‘You’re only saying that because you’ll miss me.’

‘I will, Harry,’ Firbank said, ‘but not necessarily for all the right reasons.’

Harry wasn’t exactly sure what the DSup meant by that.

‘Any plans for the weekend?’ Firbank asked, picking up her bag.

‘Matt’s taking Ben caving,’ Harry said. ‘So, I’ll be waiting for them in the car with a good book and a flask of something hot and sweet.’

Firbank laughed. ‘A book? What has happened to you, Grimm?’

‘Wensleydale,’ Harry said with a smile.

Then Firbank was gone and Harry was alone with his beer.

For the next few minutes, as he finished his drink, Harry did his best to avoid thinking about everything that had happened over at Black Moss House, but it wasn’t easy. It had all ended up just too messy, really, but then it had been a strange one from the off, hadn’t it? And he was fairly sure that from this point forward, if there was any hint of an investigation involving anything supernatural, he’d be doing his best to convince Detective Superintendent Swift to take it on instead.

Standing up, Harry finished his pint and made his way over to the door, pushing his way out into the Friday evening air. The day was finishing off cold, with ice in the wind, and Harry turned into it to head home. As he did so, his phone buzzed in his pocket, as he’d put it on silent while chatting to his soon to be ex Detective Superintendent. He answered it without looking at the number.

‘Grimm?’

‘Harry, it’s Jim.’

‘It’s Friday evening,’ Harry said. ‘You do know that, don’t you? You’re not even on duty!’

‘I know,’ Jim said, ‘but I didn’t know who else to call.’

Harry heard then the worry in the PCSO’s voice. ‘Jim?’ he said. ‘What’s up? What’s happened?’

‘It’s Neil,’ Jim said.

‘Neil?’ Harry said. ‘What about him? What’s happened?’

‘He’s dead.’

And Harry’s Friday night swirled about him as, at the end of the line, he heard Jim start to cry.

DCI HARRY GRIMM RETURNS IN …

Death’s Requiem

Author’s Note

The dales are hauntingly beautiful and will stay with you long after you leave. Even now, over thirty years later, I can still walk the same paths and lanes in my mind, and the fresh, crisp air of an April morning will easily send me back to the footpath that leads through the fields from Hawes to Gayle, which I would tread every Sunday afternoon with my brother, as we walked to Sunday School.

So, why a ghost story? Well, I saw my first ghost when I was fifteen. I was doing my Saturday job of mowing the lawn at The Old Rectory in Epworth, a house famous for its own haunting in the 1700s. The day was bright and warm and I was plugged into my headphones listening to the KISS album, Crazy Nights. As I mowed long strips into the huge lawn I looked up to see, standing under an enormous tree, a figure in a black suit and black hat, hands crossed in front of his body, looking at me. I looked up again, the figure was gone. I turned the mower off, leaving it in the middle of the lawn, and went home, returning later that day to finish it. But I was always wary of the place afterwards. I saw my second ghost when I worked at Marrick Priory, over in Swaledale. I was 18, living in a static caravan on site. I woke up one night to find the caravan lit with light and standing inside was a woman in a corseted dress, hair pulled up behind her head. I’ve had other similar experiences, too, but as to an explanation? That I cannot provide.

The story here is from one I remembered from living in the dales (and I even checked up on it with an old friend to make sure!) I didn’t want it to be just a ghost story, but more an exploration of what grief and stress can do to the mind and how we react to it. Whether I’ve achieved that is for you to decide, but I certainly had a lot of fun writing it.

The house exists, under a different name, and once again I wanted the dales to be as much a character in the story as the people you get to meet in these pages. Cotter Force is a sight to behold, and well worth the walk, and when you happen upon it, it is hard to believe that such a place can exist and is not so famous as to have a ticket booth and a car park! But then, that’s the beauty of it, I think, that it is a hidden