by John Dean
The man stumbled in the darkness and pitched forward. He did not feel what had hit him; at first he did not even know that he had been hit. Mind reeling, confused images swirling before his eyes, he sunk to his knees. He slowly turned his head, trying desperately to focus on the spinning world around him, trying to make sense of what had happened. Vision blurred, body now racked with jagged pain, he tried to stand up but his legs buckled and he staggered forward once more, this time to lie still and silent on the cold ground. Looking up, he saw a face staring down at him and heard a voice echoing as if from afar. The voice fell silent and the face receded into the distance as the darkness closed in. The man was alone and he felt cold. He knew in that moment that he was dying. After that, he saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. His was to sleep for ever. It was down to others to honour his memory.
‘So,’ said the coroner, ‘all the evidence confirms that Mr Morritt had consumed a considerable amount of alcohol that night and there is no doubt in my mind that in his inebriated state, he slipped and fell, striking his head on the ground and sustaining the injury that was eventually to prove fatal.’
The coroner paused for dramatic effect. Gallagher stared up at the window again, Esther Morritt dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief and Rob Mackey glanced at his watch.
‘God, he does milk it,’ murmured Harris.
One or two people glanced at the chief inspector and Gallagher gave a little shake of the head without realizing he had done it. Despite having worked with the inspector for almost two years, he still struggled with his ways.
‘I find then,’ said Henry Maitlin, ‘that I must return a verdict of misadventure and I so do. I thank you for your attendance. This hearing is at an end.’
‘Thank God for that,’ said Harris quietly to his sergeant. ‘Man gets pissed and falls over. How long does it take to work that one out?’
There was a general murmuring as people started to stand up. Rob Mackey walked swiftly from the room.
‘He’s got the right idea,’ said Harris. ‘Come on, Matty lad, let’s get out of here before the barn-pot woman collars us.’
Gallagher nodded and, as the officers pushed their way through the people and out into the corridor, he glanced back to see Philip Morritt’s mother remonstrating with the coroner. The sergeant followed Harris out into the market place. Ignoring the waiting television camera crew, the detectives sidled along the side of the building and walked briskly past the row of shops and tearooms. As they turned the corner, a black saloon headed down the hill. The detectives watched it pass the Victorian house that had served as Levton Bridge’s police station for as long as anyone could remember. When the car reached the crossroads, it slowed with just one brake light showing then turned right onto the road which led out of town.
‘By, I’m glad that hearing’s over,’ said Gallagher. ‘What do you make of what happened back there?’
‘I told you how it would go. It was the only verdict the old buffer could possibly have brought in. He always does as he’s told, does Henry. Not sure he needed three hours to do it, mind.’
‘Can’t disagree with that.’ Gallagher glanced round and groaned as Esther Morritt appeared, walking swiftly towards them with a determined expression on her face. ‘Not that everyone will agree, mind.’
‘Her kind never do.’
‘She’s just upset, I guess. Maybe she will calm down now that the inquest has …’
‘Sergeant Gallagher!’ shouted Esther Morritt.
‘Yeah, perhaps you’re right,’ said Harris slyly as the detectives stopped walking. ‘That sounds like a woman who has rediscovered her sense of perspective.’
Gallagher shot him a pained look then turned back to face the furious woman.
‘Esther …’
‘Don’t you Esther me,’ she said, jabbing a finger at the sergeant. ‘What went on in there was a disgrace. An absolute dis—’
‘We have been over this a thousand times,’ said Gallagher wearily. ‘Like the coroner said, we have to …’
‘You’re all in it together. I’m not stupid.’ Now she jabbed a finger at the inspector. ‘And you, you should know better than to let a man like this investigate what happened to my son.’
‘A man like what?’ asked Harris innocently.
‘He doesn’t understand our ways. Neither does that man Barnett.’
‘Oh, come on, Esther,’ said the inspector, in the kind of voice he would normally reserve for a small child, assuming that he was minded to talk to one, and he never was, ‘DC Gallagher is a perfectly competent officer and Roger Barnett’s from Roxham, for God’s sake. Like it or not, this inquiry was conducted properly.’
‘Rubbish! My son had just joined the army. Why would he throw it all away?’ She turned on her heel and stalked back towards the market place. ‘This is not over. Not by a long chalk.’
‘Bloody small-town mentality!’ exclaimed Gallagher when she was out of earshot and the officers had started walking again. ‘It’s not as if London is the end of the world! Besides, I live in Roxham as well, for God’s sake!’
Harris listened with amusement. Although the sergeant’s attitude to the valley could be irritating at times, the inspector could not help but agree. It was the claustrophobic nature of small-town mentality that had driven a teenage Jack Harris from the valley in the first place, and it was what made him think twice about coming back two decades later.
‘And what’s more …’ continued Gallagher as the officers reached the police station.
They climbed the stairs to the first floor where Gallagher turned right towards to the CID squad room, still chuntering, and a grinning Harris went left to his office where his dogs leapt to their feet and bounded across the room, tails wagging furiously. Harris beamed at the reception from Scoot the black Labrador and the detective’s more recent acquisition from the local animal sanctuary, a scruffy Collie by the name of Archie. Never a great one for people, the inspector loved dogs. He also loved the fact that Philip Curtis tried to ban him from taking them into the police station when he first became divisional commander, only to be forced by staff protests to reverse the decision.
Having glanced at the reports on his desk, the inspector was about to replace the documents when something caught his attention and he peered closer. Study completed, Jack Harris headed out into the corridor.
CHAPTER THREE
Having pointedly refused to acknowledge the journalists gathered outside Levton Bridge court house, Rob Mackey went home after the inquest, edging his Range Rover up the tree-lined drive, tyres crunching on the gravel. Having parked outside Laurel House and cut the engine, he sat for a few moments, acutely conscious that his palms were sweaty and his heart was racing. Something, he assumed it to be fear, told him that this would be the day. After all, there was no way it could have stayed a secret for ever. Calming down, he tried to rationalize the situation. Perhaps he had got away with it, after all. He had been very careful; they both had.
Feeling slightly better, and with his heart-rate slowing, Rob Mackey got out and walked over to the house. Unlocking the front door – his wife was at work and his eighteen-year-old daughter at college in Roxham – he stooped to pick up the post from the doormat. Flicking through the bills, he stopped when he reached a white envelope. Rob Mackey knew what was in it. Waiting for its arrival had become a way of life and he had grown accustomed to the sharp twisting in his stomach every time he heard the postman’s boots crunching on the gravel. And yet in a strange way, and one Rob Mackey did not understand, he wanted to savour the moment so he turned the envelope over and over in his hands. No, he thought, as he walked slowly through to the kitchen, savour was not the right word. He was not sure how to describe the feeling as he flicked the switch on the kettle, sat down at the table and stared at the envelope, which he had propped up against the toast rack. Perhaps the sensation he was experiencing was relief. Yes, perhaps that was it. Relief that the waiting was over.
After a few m
oments, he reached for the paper knife and slit open the envelope with exaggerated care. Out dropped a piece of paper. Mackey picked it up off the table and scanned it.
‘And so it begins,’ he said softly. He walked over to the boiling kettle. ‘Or finishes.’
Followed by his dogs, Jack Harris strode along to the CID room where Matty Gallagher was standing by the window, watching the television crew approaching the police station. The sergeant noted that light rain had started to fall and was glistening on the camera. Next to him stood Alison Butterfield, a young blonde detective constable in a smart black suit.
‘Matty reckons it was a bit tasty at the inquest,’ said Butterfield as the inspector walked into the room. She reached down to stroke the dogs as they milled around her legs. ‘Esther Morritt going off on one again.’
‘As predicted,’ said Harris, sitting down at one of the desks, the chair creaking under his weight.
‘She had a go at me earlier this week,’ said Butterfield, nodding.
‘She’s had a go at everyone,’ commented Gallagher gloomily, still looking down into the street. ‘Telly look like they want a chat about it, guv. That reporter bird, Landy or whatever she’s called, she’s with them. They’re on the front steps. You going to talk to them?’
‘I told Curtis to do it.’
‘Told?’ said Gallagher, raising an eyebrow.
‘Suggested that it was more suited to his interpersonal communications skills,’ said Harris with the ghost of a smile. He tipped back in the chair, placed his feet on the desk and glanced at Butterfield. ‘All quiet then?’
‘Some old dear got her handbag lifted from the Co-op. Not sure if we’ll get it back. Or if it’s lost in the first place. Nobody remembers anything happening and the staff don’t reckon any of our locals have been in. Lenny Portland was at the inquest so that rules him out. It’ll probably turn up on her kitchen table.’
‘You’re probably right. That all?’
‘Traffic reckon all they’ve done is ticketed some guy for driving with a tail light out. Got him just as he came into town on the moor road.’
‘Yeah, we saw him. Anything else?’
‘Sir?’
‘Anything off the overnight log?’
‘No. Dead as the proverbial.’
Matty Gallagher turned his attention away from the television crew and to the conversation, marvelling, as usual, at the way Butterfield failed to read the signs with the inspector. The sergeant wondered whether to intervene – he had, after all, seen the entry on the log as well and realized that Harris would ask about it. Gallagher decided against it. The girl had to learn sometime. Besides, this was more fun.
‘The British Legion bowls pavilion?’ said Harris, an edge to his voice. ‘Someone tried to set fire to it last night.’
‘Oh, yeah, that.’ The constable’s tone was dismissive.
Gallagher closed his eyes. They never learn, he thought.
‘Is that all you can say?’ asked Harris.
‘I talked to Katie Jarvis about. She reckons it was kids. There’s always teenagers mucking about in the park. She and Roger Barnett found some empty cider cans.’
‘And if it wasn’t kids?’
‘Roger Barnett reckons—’
‘Roger Barnett,’ snorted Harris. ‘How many times have I told you about Roger Barnett? Right, since you reckon it’s so quiet, you can accompany me to Chapel Hill.’
‘What, for that memorial ceremony?’ protested Butterfield. It felt like a punishment; she was just not sure for what. ‘Do I have to?’
‘Call it your civic duty. I’ll meet you out the front when Curtis has finished boring the arse off the telly guys.’
Butterfield waited for the inspector and his dogs to leave the room then scowled.
‘And don’t look like that,’ said the DCI’s voice from the corridor. ‘It’s not becoming for a young woman.’
‘How does he know?’ asked Butterfield, looking at Gallagher. ‘I mean, how the hell does he know?’
‘Yeah, you’re normally so enthusiastic about these kind of things,’ said Gallagher. ‘Surely the fact that someone had tried to torch the British Legion pavilion set some kind of alarm bells ringing, for God’s sake? You’ve heard him banging on for the past few weeks. He’s talked about nothing else. He’s driving the girls in control bonkers.’
Butterfield shrugged, gathered her belongings and left the room.
‘Will she never learn?’ said Gallagher. He turned round to the empty office. ‘Jesus, talking to myself now.’
Resuming his survey of events at the front of the police station, he watched as the uniformed figure of Superintendent Curtis walked down the steps. From his vantage point, the sergeant could see the drizzle glistening on the commander’s balding head. Him and me both, Gallagher thought; must be the stress of working with Jack Harris. The sergeant noticed Curtis frown as he saw the inspector’s white Land Rover parked by the front door. Everyone in the station had lost count of the number of times the commander had issued memos ordering staff to park in the yard. Harris had ignored them all, arguing that he’d always parked at the front and nothing was going to change that. Not even Philip Curtis. Especially not Philip Curtis. Gallagher grinned at the commander’s irritation but quickly wiped the smile from his face as the superintendent looked up at the CID office window. Ducking back into the room, Gallagher chuckled. Sometimes, small-town mentality could be fun, he thought. Only sometimes, mind.
As he returned to his desk, the sergeant’s mobile rang. He glanced down at the name on the screen. Harris.
‘Now I wonder what he wants?’ murmured the sergeant, taking the call.
‘Got a little job for you, Matty lad,’ said the inspector. ‘Constable Butterfield might not think it’s important but I want you to find out everything we know about the attempted arson on the British Legion pavilion last night.’
‘Ahead of you but not really sure there’s much more to tell.’
‘Well, check again.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Humour me,’ said the inspector and the phone went dead.
The drizzle had started to fall in Chapel Hill as well when the black saloon car entered the village and came to a halt alongside the green. For a few moments, the two occupants surveyed the bandy-legged man in overalls who balanced precariously on a stepladder as he rearranged the blue covering over the stone war memorial. The driver perused the rest of the village, his eyes taking in every detail. Like so many of the communities strung out along the main road through the valley, Chapel Hill was small, its slate-grey cottages crammed into half a dozen terraced streets, each one of which gave way to steep, wooded slopes. Many of the houses had a tired appearance and there had once been a corner shop but it had long since been boarded up, as had the derelict Methodist chapel at the top of the village.
‘What a dump,’ said the driver.
‘Which one is it, Dave?’
‘Halfway up.’ The driver gestured to the street on the southern edge of the village. ‘The one with the blue door, apparently.’
‘We definitely doing it tonight then?’ Ronny nodded at the man working on the memorial then at the bunting strung across the streets. ‘I mean, what with all this going off and the—’
‘We do it tonight.’ The driver’s voice brooked no argument. Noticing his accomplice’s anxious expression, his demeanour softened. ‘Will you stop worrying about it, Ronny. They’re all old gadgies live here, they’ll all be in bed with a mug of Horlicks by eight after all this excitement. Besides, yer man wants it as quick as possible.’
‘I guess,’ said Ronny, but he did not sound convinced.
The driver glanced in his rear-view mirror as a vehicle emerged round a bend at the top of the hill, followed by two more, all of which started to make their way down into the village.
‘Time to make ourselves scarce,’ he said and slipped the car into gear.
Having left the village and parked in the lay-by above Ch
apel Hill, the two men got out of the vehicle and looked back down towards the houses. The driver reached onto the back seat and produced binoculars through which he surveyed with interest the cars pulling up and the people beginning to assemble on the green, many of them white-haired men in blazers adorned by strings of medals.
‘Honouring their dead,’ he said. ‘How appropriate.’
CHAPTER FOUR
It was shortly before one when Jack Harris emerged from the reception interview room where he had taken refuge while he waited for Curtis to conclude his press conference on the front steps. As the commander had fielded the journalists’ questions, Harris had sat with his feet on the desk and his eyes closed, a faint smile playing on his lips. The dogs lay under the table. When the inspector heard the conference come to an end, he swung his legs down, walked over to the door and opened it slightly, peering cautiously out into the reception area. The grey-haired officer behind the counter noticed him.
‘Don’t worry, Hawk, he’s gone,’ he said. ‘You in his bad books again?’
‘Usually am, Des,’ said Harris, slipping on his Barbour jacket and gesturing for the dogs to wait for him at the front door. ‘Which way did his highness go?’
‘Upstairs. Looking for you, I think.’
‘Time to go in the other direction then,’ said Harris and walked towards the door.
‘Not trying to avoid me, I hope,’ said a voice.
The inspector sighed and turned to see the commander heading back down the stairs.
‘Of course not,’ said Harris. ‘As if I would. How can I help, sir?’
‘I was just checking you were OK for the ceremony?’
‘Just on my way there now. Will that be all, sir?’
Curtis looked irritated; he hated it when Harris pretended to be deferential. Both men knew that the inspector did not mean it. In many ways, Curtis preferred the bad-tempered version of the detective.
‘Just behave yourself,’ grunted the commander. ‘Henry Maitlin asked for you specially, remember. You and Rob Mackey may not get on but just bear in mind that this is no time for antag—’
