Free To Die Alone by John Dean

like the man. After showing them the piece of paper, and receiving blank looks, Harris started to dial the number.
    ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ said Gallagher dubiously. ‘I mean, what if it’s—?’
    Harris waved the protest away and listened for only a fleeting moment then hurriedly hit the cancel button. He looked at the piece of paper in bemusement.
    ‘Now why,’ he asked softly, ‘would a man who wasn’t even late with his gas bill, have the phone number of Gerry Radford?’
    ‘Who he?’ asked Gallagher.
    ‘One of Manchester gangland’s finest. He and I go way back.’
    ‘Brilliant,’ breathed Butterfield, eyes gleaming as they always did when Jack Harris talked about his experiences with major league criminals: it was, the young detective had always thought, what you joined the police for.
    ‘So,’ asked Harris thoughtfully, ‘on whose side was Trevor Meredith, do we reckon?’

CHAPTER EIGHT
    The two farmers in the pick-up saw the black car’s lights cutting through the night long before the vehicle came into view. Still sitting in the passenger seat, Harry Galbraith reached for his notebook in the glove compartment.
    ‘About ruddy time,’ he said. ‘Thought we weren’t going to see owt tonight. Have a look at its registration number as it goes past, lad.’
    As the car finally appeared round the corner, its headlights illuminated the pick-up truck, dazzling the farmers for a few seconds. The vehicle came to a halt thirty metres away.
    ‘Do you think they saw us?’ asked Soames anxiously.
    The car’s headlights went out.
    ‘I reckon that answers yer question,’ said Harry.
    ‘I told you we shouldn’t have done this without the polis.’
    Harry Galbraith did not reply but his look betrayed his own anxiety. Two men got out of the car and started to walk towards the pick-up. Their shapes in the gloom suggested to the farmers that both were heavily built. The strangers took up stations either side of the vehicle and the one on the passenger side, a shaven-headed man, put his head down to the window as Harry Galbraith struggled frantically to wind it up.
    ‘And what might you be doing here?’ asked the man in a quiet voice as he placed a hand on the window to prevent it being wound any further.
    ‘We’re from Levton Bridge Farmwatch,’ replied Harry, trying to sound calm. ‘We’re working with the polis.’
    ‘Are you now?’ The man gave a thin smile. ‘And what exactly do you do for the police?’
    ‘We take the registration numbers of vehicles passing through the valley and pass them on,’ said Harry.
    ‘And why would you do that?’
    ‘We’re trying to stop rural crime.’
    ‘Well there’s a thing,’ said the man, glancing across the roof at his friend with a grin that revealed yellowing teeth. ‘Ain’t that public spirited?’
    The other man made no reply.
    ‘Well now,’ said the shaven-headed man, looking back into the car, his voice suddenly hard-edged. ‘It seems that we have a problem because myself and my business associate here would rather that you did not report our registration number to the police.’
    ‘All cars get reported,’ said Harry pompously, gaining in confidence a little and ignoring his friend’s gestures to say nothing. ‘You ain’t got nothing to worry about if you ain’t up to no bother.’
    ‘Which is unfortunate,’ said the man, ‘because we are.’
    Harry stared at him, unsure as to what to say. The shaven-headed man took advantage of his confusion, reached into the car and grabbed the farmer’s notebook.
    ‘ ’Ere,’ said Harry, ‘give that back!’
    The man’s reply was to snap out a fist which caught the old man on the side of the face. As Harry reeled in shock, Soames glanced out of his window and saw a flash of metal as a knife appeared in the accomplice’s hand.
    ‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaimed, turned on the pick-up’s engine and slammed the vehicle into gear.
    The pick-up lurched forward, sending the two