Broken Fall: A D.I. Harland novella by Fergus McNeill Read Free Book Online Page A

same number. Perhaps it was the restaurant?
    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