by John Dean
‘Sorry, Matty,’ said the officer without looking up, ‘it’s like the other one. The paint is the type you could get anywhere.’
‘You’re right, I’m afraid. After Chapel Hill, we checked the local hardware stores and they’d all sold loads of the stuff. I never realized the sodding colour was so popular.’
‘Looks like the type my missus used in our downstairs loo.’ The forensics officer finally looked up. ‘Having a dump in a bright red loo, I tell you, it’s not exactly conducive. Especially if you’ve had jalfrezi the night before. The colour is quite re—’
‘Yeah, thanks for sharing that. Very useful.’
‘Anything to oblige,’ said the forensics officer, grinning. ‘I’ll try to match a sample with Chapel Hill but even if we do I’m not sure where it gets us.’
‘I hate to think what kind of sample you’re referring to. God knows we need something, though. All the sales were cash so there’s no record. Billy over in Porteous Street did remember selling a pot to the vicar last year. Perhaps I should arrest him.’
‘Stop him preaching those criminally long sermons.’
‘Quite the wit, aren’t we? It’s like an audience with Max Miller.’
‘Who?’ said the forensics officer, scraping at the memorial.
‘Never mind. Unfortunately, no one can remember Esther Morritt buying paint.’
‘She still your favourite then?’ asked the forensics officer, straightening up and stepping back from the memorial.
‘She’s the only one with a good enough reason to hate Rob Mackey.’
‘There’s plenty of people with reason to hate Rob Mackey. I don’t blame them. He’s an arrogant so and so.’ The officer noticed Butterfield and James Larch walking across the market place. ‘Hey, is it true that he has been dobbing young Alison?’
‘How the…?’
‘Never mind how, is it true?’
‘’Fraid so but I wouldn’t mention it to her – well, not unless you fancy keeping your testicles in a box.’
‘Point taken. Mind, she’s better than that, way better than that.’ The forensics officer returned his attention to the memorial. ‘That’s assuming that this is about Rob Mackey, of course. I mean, there’s plenty more names on here.’
‘We’re not getting far with them, though. Apart from Mackey’s father, they died at least sixty years ago.’ Gallagher leaned forward towards the memorial. ‘I mean, this one was killed in 1914. Who the hell could hang on to a grudge that long? Not even Harris could do that.’
‘Not so sure, Matty.’ The forensics man clicked shut his case. ‘I heard your governor bawled out Roger Barnett last night. And they have known each other for twenty-odd years. Anyhoo, can’t do much more here. It rained in the early hours so there’s very little to go on.’
‘OK, thanks, Brian,’ said Gallagher, watching him walk across the market place and nod at Butterfield and Larch as he passed them. As the detectives neared him, the sergeant asked: ‘Anything?’
‘Nothing,’ said Butterfield. ‘We checked with the pub landlords. None of them heard or saw anything last night.’
‘We checked if Portland stayed in the boozer last night,’ added Larch. ‘The landlord of the Duck reckoned he was kaylied.’
Before the officers could reply, they were approached by a worried-looking Henry Maitlin, who stood and shook his head as he surveyed the vandalized war memorial.
‘Terrible, absolutely terrible,’ he said. He lowered his voice. ‘Listen, keep this under your hats for the moment but we’re thinking of calling off tomorrow’s ceremony.’
‘Harris reckoned you might suggest that,’ said Gallagher. ‘The governor reckons this town should honour its dead whatever the risks.’
‘But it’s too big a risk, Matthew. Think of the shame it would bring on Levton Bridge if something happened.’
‘Let’s not be too hasty.’ Gallagher lowered his voice. ‘Between you and me, we’re going to lift Esther now.’
‘About time. That woman has caused more than enough trouble.’
‘But what if it’s not her?’ asked Butterfield when Maitlin had gone. ‘What if the dishonour does not relate to the Mackeys at all? And I am not saying that because I was going out with Rob.’
‘Was?’ said the sergeant.
‘Not sure we’ve got much of a future after all this.’
‘You’re probably right. Maybe you’ve got a point about the Mackeys, though. Could be nothing to do with them. If Esther’s in the clear, we’ll lift Barry Gough, rattle his cage.’
‘What about the British Legion?’ said Larch, looking across to where Maitlin was deep in conversation with an elderly man. ‘Remember what Harris has been banging on about? Those other incidents? What if the Legion is the target?’
‘Who on earth would have a grudge against a load of old codgers?’ said Gallagher as the officers started walking across the market place. ‘We got a secret Nazi cell operating in Levton Bridge?’
Larch shrugged. ‘Folks are funny, Sarge.’
‘Best get looking then,’ said Gallagher, glancing up at the town clock as it struck ten. ‘Because by my reckoning we have twenty-five hours to stop the Remembrance ceremony being wrecked. In the meantime, we’ll go and nick Esther Morritt.’
‘We?’ said Butterfield, noticing that the sergeant was looking at her.
‘Yeah, you’re going with me. I’m not facing the mad old baggage myself and that’s final.’
Sitting on the bed in his motel room, Rob Mackey stared at the Ceefax story on the television screen. He had read it three times.
Police in Manchester last night arrested two men in connection with the murder of ninety-three-year-old war veteran Harold Leach, a holder of the Victoria Cross.
Officers from Greater Manchester Police, working with colleagues from the North West Force, arrested the men after a raid on a pub in east Manchester.
The men have been charged with the murder of Mr Leach, from the North Pennines village of Chapel Hill. Detective Chief Inspector Jack Harris, the officer leading the investigation into Mr Leach’s death, said both men would appear before magistrates in Levton Bridge later today.
Detective Inspector Jamie Standish, of Greater Manchester Police, said the men had also been charged in connection with a robbery on a ninety-one-year-old man in the city earlier this year.
Rob Mackey picked up his bag and left the room.
‘Run, rabbit, run,’ he murmured.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jack Harris and Gillian Roberts left their hotel and drove the short distance to the Sale Street industrial estate. Pulling the Land Rover up outside a run-down workshop, they saw that Jamie Standish was already waiting.
‘He looks cheerful,’ said Roberts.
Harris said nothing and the Levton Bridge officers got out of the vehicle and walked up to the building.
‘You got it?’ said Harris to Standish.
Standish fished in his jacket pocket and produced a document which he handed to the inspector.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Took a bit of hard talking, I can tell you. Frankly, I felt a right dick and if the super hadn’t—’
‘You got it anyway.’ Harris nodded to the door, which bore no sign. ‘You want to do the honours? It is in your patch, after all.’
‘Nice of you to remember,’ murmured Standish. ‘And no, I do not want to do the honours. This is a wild-goose chase and when it goes tits up you can handle the flak. Like I keep telling you, our intelligence hasn’t turned up anything to suggest that this place is anything other than legit. Surely you are not suggesting that your mate Leckie has missed something?’
‘No one’s perfect,’ said Harris, knocking on the door. He winked at Roberts. ‘I have even heard suggestions that I may be a flawed human being. Besides, I’ve got a feeling about this one.’
‘And you don’t argue with his instincts,’ said Roberts, glancing at Standish. ‘Rule number one of working with Jack Harris. You should know that,
Jamie.’
‘I’ve had enough of his instincts, thank you.’ Harris gave a slight smile and knocked again, louder this time. After a couple of minutes, the door was opened by a man, whose eyes widened when he saw them.
‘Jesus,’ he said weakly.
‘Morning, Barry,’ said Harris cheerfully, walking past Barry Gough before he could protest. ‘What a surprise to see you here. How’s it going in the world of double standards? This where you make your placards then?’
Gough leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the officers had already pushed their way through the interior door that led into the dimly lit workshop.
‘Hey!’ shouted Gough, following them into the room. ‘You can’t …’
‘Actually we can,’ said Harris, holding the warrant up. ‘Well, well, what do we have here then?’
The detectives looked at three young men standing by a series of wooden crates and eyeing the officers uneasily.
‘What’s this then, Barry?’ asked Harris, turning round to Gough. ‘You getting into the mail order business?’
‘It’s nothing, Harris. Just …’
‘Just a bit of war memorabilia, I imagine,’ said the inspector, walking over to the pile of boxes. His path was barred by one of the other men but a hard look cleared the way. ‘And what would I find if I opened one of these then?’
‘Nowt much,’ mumbled the man, taking a couple of steps backwards.
‘Yeah,’ said Gough, trying to appear calm but coming over as nervous. ‘Cap badges, uniforms, that kind of thing. We’re not doing anything wrong. This is all legit.’
‘Don’t you think it’s weird that a man who protests about the evils of war should also be making money from selling this kind of stuff?’ asked Roberts.
‘So if I’m guilty of anything it’s double standards.’ Gough pointed to the door. ‘It ain’t against the law, lady. Now get out. You ain’t got no right …’
‘Your favourite phrase,’ said Harris with a thin smile, holding up the document, ‘but this is a warrant to search this place. We always like to do things by the book, as you know.’
The comment was not lost on Standish, who frowned but said nothing.
‘But we ain’t done nothing wrong,’ protested one of the men, gesturing to Standish. ‘You ask him – he’s bought stuff from us. For his boy. For a school project or something.’
Harris glanced at Standish, waiting for a response, but the detective inspector did not say anything, preferring to look away. Harris walked over to a table and picked up a screwdriver before prising open the lid to one of the crates to reveal carefully folded uniforms.
‘See,’ said Gough, reaching over to close the lid. ‘Ain’t nothing illegal. Now get out before I—’
‘’Fraid I can’t do that, Barry. I’m a suspicious bugger.’ Harris lifted the uniforms out of the crate and produced an army-issue revolver. ‘This legal as well?’
Harris gave a smile as he glanced at the amazed Standish, whose eyes seemed magnetically drawn to the weapon. Even Gillian Roberts looked surprised.
‘That’s one hell of a school project your lad was doing, Jamie,’ said Harris.
Barry Gough seemed rooted to the ground but the other three men started to run towards the door, one of them knocking over a startled Standish as they fled. Getting quickly back to his feet, the DI gave chase, followed by Harris. Gough made as if to follow them but found his way blocked by the resolute form of Gillian Roberts.
‘Not worth it, Barry,’ she said. ‘Besides, where would you run? It’s a long way back to Levton Bridge.’
For a moment, the detective inspector thought that he was going to strike out at her but, after considering his predicament for a few moments, Gough gave a shrug and held out his hands to be cuffed.
‘Not sure there’s any need for that, Barry,’ said Roberts. ‘Just stand there and don’t try any funny business.’
Out in the lobby, one of the fleeing men wrenched open the door only to be grabbed by Jack Harris, who whirled him round by his shoulder. The man gave a cry and lashed out with his fist, the blow catching Harris on the side of the face. With a grunt the inspector fell against the wall and all three men burst out into the morning sunshine to be confronted by the sight of several uniformed officers standing and chatting next to a police van. Within moments, and after a brief struggle, two of the men were apprehended. Having seen them marched back into the building, glum looks on their faces, Standish turned to see the man who had struck Harris running away with the inspector closing rapidly on him. Standish cursed and set off after them.
Harris caught up with the man a little further down the road, grabbing at his jacket and sending him sprawling on the tarmac. The man leapt back to his feet and swung another punch at the inspector who, this time, swayed inside it. Standish slowed to a walk as Harris closed in on his quarry.
‘Come on, son,’ said Harris, holding out a hand. ‘This does not make sense. Give it up, eh? We don’t want anyone else hurt, do we?’
The man hesitated; he had drawn blood with his punch and both Harris and Standish could see the fear in his eyes. Harris took a step closer. Standish held his breath. The man nodded and allowed Harris to slip on the handcuffs and walk his suspect back towards Standish.
‘See,’ said Harris, ‘you think you know someone.’
Standish gave a rueful smile. ‘Guess it’s possible to make a mistake,’ he said.
‘Guess it is,’ said Harris. He gave the slightest of nods. ‘Me included, Jamie.’
Standish nodded and the three men walked back into the workshop where Harris approached the crates again. Roberts gave Standish a quizzical look as she nodded in the direction of the uniformed officers.
‘I thought you said there wasn’t any need for back-up?’ she said. ‘We wouldn’t find anything? The warrant was a waste of time? School project blah blah.’
Standish gave her a rueful look. ‘Are all Levton Bridge detectives arsey gits?’ he asked.
‘Pretty much. So, you going to explain the back-up then?’
‘Your governor may be infuriating but, like you said, if there is one thing I learned about him when he was down here, it was not to doubt his instincts.’
‘Wise words, Jamie,’ said Roberts. She looked at what Harris had produced from the crate. ‘Oh, will you look at that? It’s like Christmas come early.’
Harris had produced several more revolvers. He reached in again and pulled out a machine gun.
‘Jesus Christ,’ murmured Standish, walking over to the chief inspector. He glanced at Harris. ‘Proper little arsenal, isn’t it? We looking at calling in the anti-terrorism boys, Jack?’
‘Could be.’
‘It’s nothing like that,’ said Gough quickly; he had gone pale. ‘Besides, it’s deactivated. And it’s not new. Dates from 1954.’
‘Not sure anyone standing at the wrong end of the barrel would appreciate the distinction,’ said Harris. ‘Besides, do you know how easy it is to deactivate a gun, Barry?’
Gough looked bleakly at him.
‘Thought so,’ said Harris.
He prised open the lid of the next crate. Again, he removed some uniforms then brought out a small box, opening the lid and holding it up so that the others could see.
‘Medals,’ said Roberts. ‘Now there’s interesting. Where might you have got them from, I wonder, Barry?’
‘Not from Harold Leach,’ said Gough quickly.
‘Then who?’ said Harris with an edge to his voice. ‘Some other veteran who regarded them as among his most precious possessions?’
Gough gave them a sick look. Harris placed the box down on the nearby table and leaned further into the crate.
‘Get out,’ he said quietly. He gestured to the others. There was urgency in his voice now. ‘Get your people out of here, Jamie. Get everyone out of here.’
‘Why, what’s…?’
Standish’s voice tailed away as the inspector held up a hand grena
de.
The smartly dressed businessman had just cleared Customs at Los Angeles Airport when the two plain-clothes police officers approached him.
‘Grover Randall?’ said one of them.
‘Yes.’
‘Come with me, please, sir.’
They took him into an airless room where they began to search his bags.
‘They have already been checked,’ said Randall.
‘We are aware of that, sir,’ said the officer and continued searching, eventually holding up a small paper package, watched by a perspiring Randall. ‘And what might this be?’
‘A present for my wife,’ said Randall but it didn’t sound convincing.
‘She like war memorabilia, does she?’ said the officer, unwrapping the package and holding up a Victoria Cross.
Gallagher and Butterfield were driving past the front door of Laurel House when they saw a woman standing on the roadside and frantically waving her arms.
‘That’s Liz Mackey,’ said Gallagher, bringing the vehicle to a halt. ‘Wonder what’s happened now?’
‘I’ll stay in the car.’
‘She doesn’t know it’s you been dobbing her husband.’
She shot him a beseeching look. ‘Please, Matty, let me stay in the car.’
Gallagher nodded. ‘This time. And this time only,’ he said as he got out of the car. ‘Liz, what’s the problem? You heard from Rob?’
‘Forget that bastard,’ she said angrily. ‘Follow me, I’ll show you.’
Butterfield watched as they disappeared down the tree-lined drive. The constable already knew that there were rumours in the police station that she was the other woman in Rob Mackey’s life. She had seen the looks, heard the whispering in corridors. Butterfield knew that it was only a matter of time before the news made its way beyond the police-station walls. The valley had never kept secrets. Things always leaked out. Sometimes, she thought as she sat there, there was a great appeal to the idea of working in the city. A place where no one knew your name and your secrets remained secrets because no one cared. As she waited for Gallagher to return, Butterfield sighed and wished that no one cared about her.