To Honour the Dead

by John Dean

  ‘Shoot.’

  A uniformed constable with Greater Manchester Police, Leckie was one of the inspector’s closest friends, the two men initially connecting some years previously through their love of wildlife. Even when Harris had moved north, they talked regularly on the phone because Leckie worked in force intelligence and the valley regularly witnessed crimes committed by criminals coming into the area from further south. Harris had already decided where to look for his killer.

  ‘I want to talk medals,’ said the inspector.

  ‘Don’t tell me someone has been stupid enough to award you one?’

  ‘Got a dead war hero on my hands.’

  ‘Ouch.’ There was a change in Leckie’s tone. More businesslike. ‘They’ll be coming out of the woodwork on that one. How can I help?’

  ‘Someone lifted this guy’s VC and I wondered if any of your lot might be in the frame for it? This job has big city stamped all over it and I really do need an early break. The media are all over this like a rash and my commander is already riding up the valley on a white horse.’

  ‘I’ll bet he is. Nothing stirs up folks like a dead war hero, especially one with a VC to his name. And we’re only three days away from Remembrance Sunday, don’t forget.’

  ‘Like I could forget it. The locals have already gone into meltdown, which is why I really do need to get the lid on this PDQ. I’ve got old folks worrying themselves sick that the Day of Judgment is upon us.’

  ‘Well, there’s certainly one or two down here like their memorabilia. Big black market in the stuff. Let me try something.’ Harris could hear Leckie tapping on his computer keyboard. ‘Thought I remembered something about it. There’s a bunch working out of Manchester. Did a ninety-one-year-old at the start of the year. Took his medals. Poor guy was in hospital for five weeks. Disturbed them in his bedroom in the middle of the night and had a go. Got his head banged off the edge of a table for his trouble.’

  ‘Sounds familiar. He dead?’

  ‘He’s in a home, by the looks of it. Suffered three strokes in hospital.’

  ‘Your lot get them?’

  ‘Got two guys for it. They’re inside awaiting trial.’ Harris heard more tapping. ‘The DI on the case – lad called Jamie Standish—’

  ‘He made DI, did he? Not surprised, mind, he always was a good officer. I was the one who made him sergeant, you know.’

  ‘Not the only thing you made, as I recall.’

  ‘Yes, well, we don’t talk about that, Graham.’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Anyway, moving on swiftly,’ said Leckie but Harris could hear in his voice that he was smiling, ‘it says here that the old guy might not be well enough to give evidence which means the case would collapse. They left precious little at the house. Bunch of pros, apparently.’

  ‘Pros don’t beat old men up, Graham. Not sure this helps me if he’s got them locked up, mind.’

  ‘Not so fast. According to this, Jamie reckons there were others involved. A nightclub doorman on his way home from work saw four people in a car near the old fellow’s house on the night it happened. Challenged them and they drove off. Looks like they came back later.’

  ‘Got any names on the two that got away?’

  ‘The ones we nicked stayed schtum, as you would expect, but Jamie says they have a couple of associates that fit the bill. David Forrest’s one. We reckon he was the driver. Name ring a bell?’

  ‘’Fraid not. What’s his story?’

  ‘Usual thing. Record as long as your arm. Robbery, assault, aggravated burglary … it goes on and on. This lad’s a real piece of work.’

  ‘What’s more, he has no respect for traffic law.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘I think our lot may have stopped him in Levton Bridge yesterday with a tail light out. Not that I’m very hopeful of that producing much. I’d put money on false ID. And the other guy?’

  ‘An old friend of yours, I think. One Ronald William Michaels. I seem to remember that you banged him up for doing lorries on the M62.’

  ‘I certainly did,’ said Harris, scowling as he glanced out of the window to see Elaine Landy interviewing a couple of villagers next to the war memorial. ‘Tried to make out that he was not a violent man but still managed to cosh an HGV driver. Where are they now? Do we know?’

  ‘Not been seen since the job. It says here that Standish reckons they left the city.’

  ‘Well, I have this awful feeling I know where they were last night,’ said Harris. ‘Can you send me something over on them, Graham? Mug shots would be nice.’

  ‘Consider it done, matey.’

  ‘Oh, can you check one more thing?’ said Harris. ‘No, forget I said it. It’s daft.’

  ‘Try me. I know you’re daft anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, but I really am flying a kite here. We’ve got a local tea-leaf, strictly small stuff. Bloke called Lenny Portland. He’s been hanging round the village where our old chap was murdered.’

  ‘Let me check,’ said Leckie and again there was a tapping sound. ‘Portland. Portland. No, nothing. Sorry about that, old son.’

  ‘Thanks for looking anyway. It was always going to be a long—’

  ‘Let me try something else.’ There was silence for a few moments then, ‘Well, well, that’s interesting.’

  Harris sat forward in his seat. ‘What is?’ he asked.

  ‘Seems like Ronny Michaels may indeed have an associate from your neck of the woods. There was an unknown face seen with him a couple of times last year and our lot followed him to the railway station where he bought a ticket for Roxham. That’s further down the valley from you, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s where you change if you want to get up to Levton Bridge.’

  ‘Thought you needed a time machine for that,’ said Leckie.

  ‘Yes, thanks for that, Graham. Did your lot get a decent look at the face?’

  ‘Not really. It didn’t fit in with any known associates so they lost interest.’

  ‘Well, I’m interested.’

  A few seconds later, Jack Harris was striding across the green towards Gallagher and Butterfield, who were standing watching the force mobile incident room parking up alongside the green.

  ‘Stop that bus,’ said the inspector to a startled Gallagher, pointing in the direction of Levton Bridge.

  ‘This isn’t the Chuckle Brothers,’ said the sergeant without thinking. And immediately regretted it.

  ‘Will you just stop that fucking bus?’ snapped the inspector.

  ‘Which bus?’ asked Gallagher, trying to sound serious.

  Harris looked at Butterfield. ‘The one the constable here let Lenny Portland get on,’ he said. ‘See, there may be more to our Mr Portland than meets the eye.’

  Gallagher and Butterfield exchanged dubious glances.

  ‘Are we talking about the same Lenny Portland?’ asked Gallagher.

  ‘For God’s sake, am I the only one who has worked out that we are investigating a murder here?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Gallagher hurriedly, ‘it’s just that Lenny Portland is small fry.’

  ‘But maybe his friends aren’t. Had you ever thought of that?’

  ‘On my way,’ said Gallagher, urgent now and turning to jog to his vehicle. After a few paces, he glanced back. ‘Oh, Esther Morritt wants to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Says she will only talk to you. Says you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘Well, she’ll have to wait,’ said Harris. ‘Just stop that bus then we can think about Esther Morritt.’

  ‘Says she knows who killed Harold Leach.’

  ‘And I wonder,’ said the inspector, ‘who she reckons did that then?’

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘I imagine you think that I am some kind of madwoman,’ said Esther Morritt, as she sat on the sofa in the gloomy front room of her cottage. She did not look at Harris but stared instead at the threadbare carpet.
>
  ‘I wouldn’t have said …’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Esther, finally looking at the inspector as he sat on a scruffy armchair, grubby cup and saucer balanced on his lap. ‘Everyone else thinks I’m mad. You ask your sergeant what he thinks about me. Why should you be any different?’

  ‘You have not exactly been acting rationally, have you?’ Harris took a sip of tea. ‘And there’s plenty of folks out there think you vandalized the memorial last night.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t.’ She seemed horrified at the thought. ‘There’s no way I would dishonour the memory of those men. That could have been Philip’s name up there.’

  ‘But that’s the point, isn’t it, Esther?’ He glanced at the photograph hanging on the wall. A young man in uniform. Sallow complexion, the remnants of acne, greasy hair. ‘It isn’t his name up there, is it? Like it or not, your son brought about his own death by drinking himself silly.’

  ‘Have you ever lost a child, Inspector?’ She looked at him intently.

  Harris shook his head. ‘Doesn’t change the facts, though, does it?’ he said.

  ‘You sound like Rob Mackey. That’s the kind of thing he’d say.’

  ‘Nevertheless, that’s what this has all been about, hasn’t it?’ Now it was the inspector’s turn to look intently at her. ‘You can’t face the fact that his father died a hero and gets his name on a memorial and that your son did not. I kind of side with Rob Mackey on this one, much as it galls me to say it.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ said Esther, eyes flashing with anger. ‘That man murdered my son! Why will no one listen to what I have to say?’

  ‘Because it just does not make sense,’ said Harris wearily. ‘Oh, give over, Esther, don’t give me the look. My sergeant examined every bit of evidence. It was a very thorough invest—’

  ‘He saw what he wanted to see. You have to believe me when I say he missed it.’

  ‘But missed what?’ said an exasperated inspector. ‘The medical evidence showed that Philip had drunk enough to knock out a bull elephant and that his injuries were consistent with a fall.’

  ‘I am not disputing that but I think that when my son was walking past Laurel House, what really happened is that Rob Mackey came out and attacked him then left him to die and came back later and pretended to …’

  ‘Yes, but the medical evidence simply does not support that, Esther. And Mackey’s wife swore blind that he did not leave their bed. She should know.’

  ‘A wife does not know everything.’

  ‘OK, I’ve heard enough.’ Harris drained his cup and stood up. ‘I have no intention of going over old ground, Esther. Next thing you’ll be telling me that Rob Mackey murdered Harold.’

  ‘That is exactly what I am telling you. And what’s more, I can prove it.’

  Matty Gallagher guided his car at speed along the narrow country road, struggling to keep the vehicle off the grass verge as it rocked and rolled. Sitting in the passenger seat, Alison Butterfield leaned forward eagerly, her eyes gleaming with the excitement of the chase.

  ‘You’re gaining on it!’ she said.

  ‘It is only a service bus,’ said Gallagher, steering sharply as they approached a bend. ‘It’s hardly Bullitt.’

  ‘You do have a look of Steve McQueen in the right light,’ said Butterfield as the vehicle careered round a tight bend. ‘I’ve always thought it. Mind you, he wasn’t going bald.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Constable.’ Gallagher glanced in his rear-view mirror to see it filled with a patrol car, siren blaring, headlights flashing. ‘It would seem that not everyone appreciates my driving, though.’

  As the patrol car overtook them, narrowly avoiding scraping along the dry-stone wall, the sergeant noted the grinning figure of Roger Barnett.

  ‘Flash git,’ said Butterfield.

  ‘Dangerous flash git,’ said Gallagher.

  Rob Mackey sat on a sofa in the living room at Laurel House with his eyes closed and his head throbbing. He had been there ever since arriving home following his angry confrontation with Harris outside the cottage in Chapel Hill. Mackey had known that it was a risk to demand that Harris arrest Esther Morritt, had known that it would only serve to infuriate the inspector, but it was all he could think of to buy him the time he needed to get his thoughts straight. He knew the time had come to act. The letter had changed everything and Mackey was sure that the police would be called in sometime. Maybe they already had been; maybe they were just waiting for their moment. Maybe the death Harold Leach had distracted them. But he knew it would not be for long. If not today, tomorrow….

  The silence of the room was disturbed by the sound of a police siren in the distance and Mackey snapped open his eyes and cursed. He knew that he should have fled the valley when the envelope arrived. He had wrestled with the idea at the time but family loyalty had kept him there, a strong feeling that he needed to see the unveiling of the memorial through, that he owed it to his father’s memory to complete the task. His father. Mackey sighed; what would his father think of what he had done? To honour the dead? The son had hardly honoured the father. Or his mother’s memory, for that matter. Dead from cancer within three years of her husband’s death. The thought came with a stab of guilt and Mackey listened as the sirens grew louder.

  He relaxed slightly as the emergency vehicle passed the house and the siren faded away into the direction of Levton Bridge. The moment did not last long, however, and he stood up. Mackey knew that Harris would come for him sooner or later. That’s what Roger Barnett was trying to tell him at the ceremony. Mackey walked over to the bureau, where he opened a drawer from which he extracted a pen and writing paper. He sat down.

  ‘Dear Liz and Bethany,’ he wrote. ‘I should have written this letter a long time ago. I am afraid that I have done something rather stupid….’

  ‘What on earth has Rob Mackey got to do with the murder of Harold Leach?’ asked Harris, looking dubiously at Esther but not sitting down. ‘You’re paranoid, woman, you really are.’

  ‘Do you know why Harold was killed, Inspector?’

  ‘I do not really think that it is any of your business.’

  ‘Was it for his VC?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, was it?’ She looked at him intently. ‘For the medal?’

  ‘Yes.’ Harris nodded, finally sitting down, something in her tone piquing his interest. ‘Yes, we think it probably was.’

  ‘Then whoever took it will have to sell it somewhere, I imagine.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘I believe the criminal fraternity refers to the practice as fencing, do they not?’

  ‘They do but I am still …’

  ‘So you will presumably be asking yourself who around here deals in war memorabilia?’

  ‘That would certainly be one line of inquiry but no one that I am aware of—’

  ‘Rob Mackey does.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Esther!’ exclaimed Harris, standing up again. ‘I have more important things to do than listen to you trying to rope Rob Mackey into everything that happens. For a start, as far as I know he deals in antique furniture. To the best of my knowledge, he has no interest in medals.’

  ‘Ah, but he does,’ said Esther as the detective headed for the door. ‘He may not advertise the fact but he does.’

  ‘Even if he did …’ said Harris, pausing with his hand on the door knob. Despite himself, he found himself intrigued at what she was saying. He returned to the armchair and gave her a wry look. She had him hooked and they both knew it and, in that moment, for the first time, Harris found himself experiencing the stirrings of respect for Esther Morritt. ‘OK, let’s assume that I agree it’s interesting. Just means I’m covering my back. Everyone knows you don’t like the man. You’ve accused him of every crime under the sun and there is no evidence of—’

  ‘What if I had evidence?’

  ‘You haven’t produced it so far.’

  ‘So far.’

  She walked over to the dresser and
produced a beige folder from which she removed a sheet of white paper. She handed it to Harris.

  ‘I only found it yesterday,’ she said. Her voice trembled slightly. ‘After the inquest. It was the first time I could bring myself to look through Philip’s things. I had no idea it was there.’

  Harris scanned the scrawled handwriting in silence.

  ‘I was going to contact you about it this morning,’ she continued, ‘then poor Harold was found and I did not have the chance. At first I thought it just linked Mackey to the death of my son but it does cast an interesting light on Harold’s murder as well. Does it not?’

  ‘Possibly.’ He tried to make the reply sound noncommittal.

  ‘I take it you realize what it is?’

  Jack Harris nodded.

  ‘It is,’ he said, looking at her with a half smile on his face, ‘what the likes of me would call evidence, Esther.’

  ‘I think it probably is, Inspector.’ She did not seek to conceal the look of triumph on her face. ‘I think it probably is.’

  Having left Gallagher and Butterfield behind, Roger Barnett flung his car into another corner, passed the bus at speed, slammed his foot on the brake and slewed the police vehicle to a juddering halt across the road. As the startled bus driver jammed his foot on the brake, the sergeant leapt from his car and ran towards the vehicle.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you are doing, Roger?’ exclaimed the driver angrily as Barnett clambered up the steps of the bus. ‘You could have got us all killed!’

  ‘Lenny Portland!’ said Barnett, ignoring the comment and pointing down the bus towards his quarry. ‘Come here!’

  Matty Gallagher brought his car to a halt behind the bus and looked aghast at the skid marks showing where the vehicle had skidded to a halt.

  ‘Come on,’ said the detective sergeant, wrenching open his door. ‘God knows what Rambo will do in this mood.’

  He and Butterfield ran down the side of the bus. As they did so, Gallagher glanced up and noticed the frightened face of Lenny Portland staring back at him out of the grimy window. The sight of Gallagher seemed to galvanize Portland into action and he disappeared from view. As the detectives reached the front of the bus, Barnett staggered down the stairs, cursing and clutching his bloodied nose, followed by Lenny Portland who barged past him. Portland evaded Gallagher’s grasp and started to run down the road.