To Honour the Dead

by John Dean

  ‘Bastard,’ snarled Barnett and turned to give chase only to be blocked by Matty Gallagher, whose intervention allowed Butterfield to race past both of them.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ snarled Barnett as he bundled the detective sergeant aside.

  ‘I think you’ve done enough for one day,’ said Gallagher angrily.

  Barnett brushed past him and Gallagher turned to watch him struggling to catch up with the fleet-footed young constable as she closed in on Portland before launching a rugby tackle which sent him crashing to the ground. Gallagher winced as he heard Portland’s head crack against the tarmac. Ignoring Portland’s pained protests, Butterfield subdued the struggling thief and cuffed his arms behind his back. She turned to survey the approaching Barnett, who had blood dripping from his battered nose and staining his tunic.

  ‘Sometimes,’ she said, grinning, ‘a bit of youth comes in really handy in these situations. What do you reckon, Roger?’

  Barnett said nothing but dabbed his nose. Matty Gallagher smiled as he walked up to join them. He did not care that Roger Barnett saw the gesture.

  ‘I take it you know exactly what it is?’ asked Esther Morritt as Harris continued to study the sheet of paper.

  ‘It appears to be some form of ledger. Items sold.’

  ‘Why so coy, Inspector? Surely you can see that some of them are medals?’

  ‘OK, Esther, yes, medals. Three of them, it would seem.’

  ‘And look at the last date, Inspector. Three days before my son died. It grieves me to say it because I doted on the boy but I think Philip was in league with Rob Mackey. I think that Philip might have been handling medals for him.’ Esther hesitated. ‘Maybe even stolen ones.’

  ‘Perhaps stealing them himself,’ said Harris, looking at her. ‘Is that possible, do you think, Esther? Was your son stealing medals?’

  ‘It’s a big leap of logic, Inspector.’

  ‘It’s all a big leap of logic.’ Harris tapped the piece of paper. ‘For a start, this does not mention Rob Mackey’s name. It doesn’t mention your son, for that matter. This could have been written by anyone. It could even have been faked. Perhaps by someone with a reason to blacken the name of Rob Mackey.’

  ‘Why would I do that? And if I was going to fake something to implicate Rob Mackey, do you not think that I would have put his name on it somewhere?’

  ‘Maybe but …’

  ‘One thing is for certain, it’s Philip’s handwriting. See how he gets the “a” the wrong way round? He always did that. Right from when he was in primary school. Used to drive his teachers crazy. I can supply other examples of his writing.’

  ‘Even if …’

  ‘Do you want to know what I think?’ She did not wait to hear the answer. Her words came quickly now and brooked no interruption. Nor did the inspector try to halt the flow. ‘I think Philip grew sick of selling those things, what with being in the army and everything. He was a good boy and I think he knew that he had done wrong. I think he was ashamed and tried to get out. I think Philip told Mackey and Mackey killed him to stop him saying anything.’

  She paused, her energies temporarily spent. Harris seized his opportunity.

  ‘Now who’s doing the big leap of logic, Esther?’ he said. ‘I cannot see how it links Mackey to the murder of Harold Leach.’

  ‘Ah, but what if Mackey thought he had got away with it? He may well have thought that when he saw the way you all dismissed my comments out of hand. Might not a VC have tempted him?’

  ‘You seem to have thought this through very thoroughly, Esther.’

  ‘You do a lot of thinking when you are on your own, Inspector.’

  Matty Gallagher stood on the edge of the road and watched the departure of Roger Barnett’s vehicle, bound for Levton Bridge with Butterfield and Lenny Portland in the back. As it disappeared round the bend, Gallagher heard a guttural sound behind him and turned to see the service bus rumble forward, belching black smoke out of its exhaust. The detective sergeant waved at the driver, who did not reciprocate, then returned to his own vehicle. As he lowered himself into the passenger seat, a Range Rover drove past, hardly slowing as it squeezed through the narrow gap between the detective’s car and the stone wall, clipping his wing mirror as it did so.

  ‘Hey!’ shouted the sergeant, getting out again to remonstrate and noticing that the driver was a grim-faced Rob Mackey.

  Deep in thought, Gallagher stood in the middle of the road again, watching as the Range Rover disappeared round the bend. What had that expression been on Mackey’s face? he asked himself. Uneasiness? Anxiety? No, thought the sergeant, no, it was stronger than that. The look on Rob Mackey’s face had been one of fear. Gallagher toyed with going after him but decided against it. After all, he decided, as he got back into his car, what would he say?

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was a troubled Jack Harris who emerged from Esther Morritt’s cottage and started to walk down the street as the gloom began to descend on the village. The inspector’s disquiet had been triggered because, although he did not generally believe in certainties – he had seen too much for such fanciful notions – he had nevertheless always believed that on the night of his death, Philip Morritt drank too much and hit his head. Harris had heard Esther’s protestations and her wild accusations – he could not avoid them even if he wanted to, no one in the valley could – but at no point had he doubted that Matty Gallagher had got it right. It had been, in the inspector’s opinion, a well-run investigation; Harris would have expected nothing less from an officer whose abilities he had grown to respect in the two years since the sergeant had arrived in the valley.

  Besides, thought Harris, nodding at the uniformed officer standing at the front door to Harold Leach’s cottage as he walked into the hallway, the coroner had agreed that Gallagher had come to the right conclusion. Even the notoriously hard-to-please Curtis had concurred. Open and shut case, everyone said, and Harris had seen no reason to disagree. But now this, thought Harris, as he walked into the front room and gloomily surveyed the overturned furniture, now this….

  ‘Sir,’ said a voice and the inspector turned as one of the forensics officers walked into the room behind him.

  ‘Anything?’ asked Harris hopefully. ‘Believe me, anything will do.’

  ‘Something that does not quite make sense, I am afraid.’

  ‘I don’t need any more mysteries. Curtis will be here in a few minutes and he’ll have a haemorrhage if I don’t have anything.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What’s the mystery then?’

  ‘Your mate in GMP reckons there might be two of them, right?’

  ‘We haven’t got anything definite to link Forrest and Michaels to this job as yet, but yes. It’s certainly their MO. Why?’

  ‘We think there may have been three. See, we bagged a lot of fibres but when we cross-checked with the old man’s clothes, that leaves us with three garments unaccounted for. Jumpers, most like. Sorry, but you’ve got someone else in here.’

  ‘Where’d you find them?’

  ‘All in the bedroom. Two close to the body, the third snagged on the edge of the old feller’s chest of drawers. We’ll see what the lab comes up with.’

  ‘You finished then?’ said Harris, glancing at the metal case in his hand.

  ‘Not much more we can do here.’

  ‘Thanks for your efforts, Charlie.’

  ‘Make sure you get him,’ said the forensics man. ‘The old feller didn’t deserve this. Not after what he did.’

  Harris nodded and listened to the officers departing the cottage. When they had gone, silence settled on the darkening little room and the detective stood in silence, letting the atmosphere of the cottage wash over him as he appreciated being alone for the first time since his walk across the moor that morning. Harris liked being alone, always had, helped him think, and he glanced around at the disturbed furniture, trying to get a clear picture of the intruders at work. Trying to put Ronny Michaels in the
place. Was this his style? Harris recalled visiting the coshed lorry driver in hospital after the M62 job and gave a slight nod. He recalled Leckie’s account of the old man done over in Manchester and all for a medal. Yes, thought Harris, he could see Ronny Michaels in this place. As the silence lengthened, the inspector closed his eyes but all he could see was the face of Harold Leach.

  ‘We’ll get him, my old friend,’ murmured Harris. ‘I promise.’

  ‘I imagine you will,’ said a woman’s voice.

  The inspector started and turned to see Harold Leach’s granddaughter standing in the doorway. Her eyes were red from crying.

  ‘Maggie,’ he said. ‘You startled me.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘They told me you were working out of the area.’

  ‘I was running a seminar in Birmingham. A couple of traffic officers brought me up.’ Maggie looked at the scene of devastation and shook her head. ‘What a mess. He was such a tidy man, Inspector. He would have hated this.’

  She reached into her handbag for a handkerchief with which she dabbed her eyes.

  ‘He did not deserve to die like this,’ she added. ‘Really, he didn’t.’

  ‘No, he didn’t, love.’

  ‘He was such a sweet old man,’ she said, sitting on the sofa. ‘Never harmed anyone.’

  ‘Except in war.’ For a moment, Harris wondered if she would object to the comment but she did not appear to.

  ‘Let’s just say he told me that he never harmed anyone then,’ she said with a slight smile. ‘Six years in the army and he did not kill anyone. Can you believe that?’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘You were in the army. Did you ever kill anyone?’

  ‘I think you will find that it is something soldiers do not talk about.’

  ‘I guess I just have to take my grandfather’s word for it then.’ She looked at the photographs on the wall. ‘Too late to ask him now.’

  There was an awkward silence, broken by Harris.

  ‘I am really sorry about what has happened here, I really am,’ he said.

  ‘I heard you promise him,’ she said with a slight smile. ‘My grandfather would have appreciated that, Inspector.’

  ‘Least I can do.’

  ‘Your sergeant, Gallagher I think his name was, he said on the phone that I might have to identify my grandfather’s body? Is he here?’

  ‘We thought it best to remove him as quickly as we could. You know what people are like round here.’

  ‘There’s still a few hanging around outside.’ She nodded. ‘And that TV reporter tried to collar me again. She was most insistent but I told her to leave me alone. So where is he? Where is my grandfather?’

  ‘The General at Roxham. We’ll have to take you down there. Sorry about this, it’s never a pleasant thing to have to do.’

  ‘No need to apologize, Inspector. I had to do the same for my grandmother. Fifty-nine years they’d been married, can you believe that? Got married just after the war. She was a nurse. They met somewhere in North Africa. He did tell me the name of the place but I forget it now.’

  ‘Sidi Omar.’

  ‘That’s it.’ She smiled at him. ‘Harold had a lot of time for you, Jack. He said you were one of the good guys.’

  ‘Right.’ Harris stood in silence for a few moments; he never knew what to say in such situations. He walked over to stare at the picture of Harold wearing his VC. ‘I am really sorry, Maggie, but I do have to ask some questions before we take you down to Roxham.’

  ‘I understand. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Had Harold had trouble?’

  ‘Trouble?’ She looked surprised. ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘You know, anyone trying to take things from him?’

  ‘Things?’

  ‘His medals. His VC.’

  ‘Is that what this is about?’ she asked.

  ‘We think so.’

  ‘That thing!’ she exclaimed, surprising the inspector with her vehemence. ‘I told him not to keep it in the house. I said he should keep it in a safe deposit box down the bank but he would not have any of it. Couldn’t believe that anyone would take it from him. Said people respected what it meant too much for that.’

  ‘You didn’t agree, clearly. Why?’

  ‘I knew it was valuable. There’d been offers.’

  Harris walked over to sit next to her on the sofa. ‘Offers?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, a couple of years ago. Two in six months. Memorabilia dealers, offering to buy it. They said a VC would fetch a good price. He had another one a few weeks ago as well, after that blessed documentary came out.’

  ‘You did not approve of it?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I told him, I said that it could only draw attention to him but he just could not see it. They’re so naïve, old folks, aren’t they?’

  ‘They can be, yes. These approaches, do you have any names?’

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Clearly, he refused to sell.’

  ‘Of course he did. Wouldn’t have been parted from the thing for all the tea in China.’ She smiled. ‘That was his favourite phrase.’

  ‘Did they come back, any of these guys? Particularly the most recent one?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. And no, before you ask, I do not have their descriptions. My grandfather’s sight was pretty poor.’ She gave the inspector a sad look. ‘We suggested that he should go into a home but he refused.’

  ‘Were there any other incidents? Break-ins? There’s nothing in our records to suggest there was.’

  ‘The odd scallywag round the door over the years. Remember that bloke pretending to be from the gas board?’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Maybe it was before you came back. My grandfather hit him with his walking stick. Broke the bloke’s nose. There was a piece in the paper about it.’ She chuckled. ‘“Handy Harold” the headline called him. Once a fighter, always a fighter, I guess.’

  Harris thought of the body lying in the mortuary.

  ‘So it would seem,’ he said.

  Ten minutes later, he strode towards his Land Rover where he opened the rear of the vehicle to release the dogs, watching them as they headed off onto the green, sniffing their way across the damp grass. The inspector turned as he heard a car drive into the village, its headlights cutting through the gathering gloom and illuminating the swirling flecks of rain. Harris smiled a welcome as Gallagher got out and walked over to the inspector.

  ‘Uniform are taking Maggie down to Roxham,’ said Harris. ‘How did you find her?’

  ‘Wonders of the internet. She runs her own training company and was doing a seminar for a load of shop-girls.’

  ‘Good work,’ said Harris, walking round to the back of the Land Rover and bringing out two bowls and a tin of dog food.

  ‘No, really, I’ve already eaten,’ said Gallagher. ‘Had a sandwich from the bakery in Levton Bridge. Mind, I suspect a bowl of Pedigree Chum would be tastier than their cheese and ham.’

  ‘Funny man,’ said Harris and together they headed for the mobile incident room parked nearby.

  Seeing them go, the dogs ran over to the vehicle, Scoot leading the way with Archie struggling and scrabbling his way up the steps.

  ‘Daft bugger,’ said Harris, noticing the dog’s difficulties and affectionately dragging him up by his collar as he threatened to slip back, tongue sticking out with his exertions.

  ‘Not the most athletic specimen, is he?’ said Gallagher, watching Harris fill the bowls and place them on the floor. ‘Mind, not sure that Curtis will like the idea of them being …’

  The sergeant held up his hands as he saw the inspector’s expression.

  ‘OK, I know,’ said Gallagher. ‘I know, your problem.’

  ‘I like to think,’ said Harris, sitting down at one of the tables, ‘that our beloved commander is everybody’s problem. It’s one of my driving motivations in life. So, you got Lenny Portland then?’

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nbsp; ‘Roger Barnett did his Jack Regan stuff. There’s a huge skid mark on the road,’ said the sergeant, walking over to the sink. ‘That guy really is a tosser, you know. Could have really hurt someone with his antics this afternoon. There was no need for it. It was only a clapped-out service bus, for God’s sake.’

  ‘He’s a loose cannon, Matty lad.’ Harris ruffled Scoot’s head as the dog wandered over, having wolfed down his tea. ‘Likes the uniform too much, if you ask me. Thinks he’s a law to his own.’

  Gallagher paused. Having seen the way Harris went about his policing, what the sergeant really wanted to say was ‘kettle or pot?’ but he decided against it. Instead, with the kettle in question in his hand, he turned to face the inspector.

  ‘Tea?’ he said.

  ‘Aye, go on. So where’s Portland now?’

  ‘Butterfield took him through to Levton Bridge.’

  ‘He say anything?’

  ‘Not unless you count questioning Barnett’s parentage.’

  ‘I thought he’d be more hacked off that Butterfield damn near fractured his skull.’

  ‘Oddly enough, no. He seems to have a soft spot for Alison. I reckon he fancies her.’ He grinned. ‘Hey, perhaps he’s her fancy man?’

  ‘Somehow I think not.’

  ‘You want her to interview him anyway?’

  ‘No, I’ll do it later. We’ve got something else to think about first.’ Harris hesitated. ‘I am not sure that you are going to like what I am about to say, Matty lad.’

  ‘Oh?’ Gallagher turned round, box of teabags in hand. ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘I’ve just been with Esther,’ said Harris, lowering his voice even though they were alone in the vehicle. ‘She reckons that Mackey could be behind the murder of Harold Leach.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’

  ‘Might not be as daft as it sounds.’

  ‘Surely you didn’t actually listen to any of her claptrap?’ exclaimed Gallagher, aghast. ‘I thought we had established that the woman is off her rocker? You’ll be telling me that she shot President Kennedy next! She the old woman on the grassy knoll then?’