Broken Fall: A D.I. Harland novella Read Free Page B

experience it wasn’t ball games you had to worry about; it was what the kids got up to
instead
that became a problem.
    The main entrance was sheltered by a broad porch, and he paused for a moment, leaning forward to study the stainless steel panel with its array of tiny metal buttons, an engraved number beside each one. He traced his finger across until he located 73, then pushed it and waited. After a short delay, there was a crackle from a hidden speaker grille and a woman’s voice said, ‘Yes?’
    ‘Detective Inspector Harland, Avon and Somerset Police …’
    A loud buzzer cut him off before he could say anything further, and the safety-glass door beside him rattled as the lock snapped open.
    Inside, the lobby was bare, and the air tasted of pine bleach, kindling memories of early mornings in the corridors when he was still at school. The lift shuddered as it climbed to the seventh floor, the metal doors eventually sliding open to reveal a featureless hallway with a linoleum floor. He found number 73, and knocked. She opened the door almost immediately; mid thirties, with large, sad eyes.
    ‘Tracey Miller?’ He held up his warrant card but she was already standing back, beckoning him forward.
    ‘Yeah, that’s me.’ Athletic, with dyed-blond hair scraped back into a ponytail, she was wearing a standard blue tunic top with the care agency logo embroidered in white. He followed her through to a spacious living room that was light and airy, settling himself into a comfortable armchair while she took the sofa opposite.
    ‘You heard about Albert Errington?’ He watched her shoulders stiffen slightly, and when she nodded it seemed to be with some effort.
    ‘Agency rang me this morning, just as I was leaving for work.’ She clasped her hands, her voice thick with emotion. ‘Poor old Albie.’
    ‘Albie?’
    ‘Yeah, nobody called him Albert. He wouldn’t have it – said it reminded him of his mum, telling him off when he was a kid. “Call me Albie,” he’d say, “then I know I’m not in trouble.”’ She looked up and managed a sad little smile. ‘Sorry, d’you want a cup of tea or anything?’
    While she was in the kitchen, Harland’s eye swept across the room. It was very feminine, tastefully decorated in pale, coordinated colours. There were plenty of photos – individually framed and grouped together on the wall – with lots of smiling friends, but no obvious signs of a significant other. Maybe that was why the interior seemed so consistent; it was the choice of one mind, not the compromise of two. Idly, he wondered how she filled her spare time if she wasn’t in a relationship; he dreaded the emptiness of evenings and weekends since the loss of his wife.
    ‘Here you go.’ Tracey walked back into the room, carrying two pastel-coloured mugs.
    ‘Thanks.’ Harland took his drink with a polite smile and watched her carefully as she sat down. Still wrestling with her emotions … or wrestling with something
.
He decided to start out with an easy question, just to get her talking. ‘So, what sort of things did you help Albert with?’
    Tracey looked at him over the top of her mug.
    ‘It was just his meals and a bit of housework,’ she sighed. ‘Two visits a day – half-hour mid-morning, half-hour at teatime …’ Her eyes glistened as she looked up to a clock on the shelf, then she shook her head sadly. ‘I’d be over there now, if … well, you know.’
    ‘Sorry,’ Harland murmured. ‘I appreciate this must be difficult for you.’
    ‘It’s not my first death,’ Tracey shrugged. ‘Occupational hazard in my job.’
    ‘Mine too.’ He gave her a sympathetic little smile, but quietly determined to find out just how many other people had died in Tracey’s care. ‘Did he manage all right on his own? Generally, I mean?’
    ‘Yeah, he was mostly okay.’ She paused, her brow crinkling into a frown as she considered. ‘A little difficulty walking, and he found it uncomfortable to stand