To Honour the Dead

by John Dean

  ‘Yes, well, I’ll remember that. Excellent advice, sir,’ said Harris, glancing at his watch. ‘Gosh, is that the time? Got to be off. Don’t want to be late.’

  Curtis glowered as the inspector headed out of the front door, dogs following in his wake. The commander noticed Des Lomax grinning from behind the counter, scowled and walked back up the stairs, at the top of which he was almost sent flying by a rushing Alison Butterfield.

  ‘Watch where you’re going, young lady!’ exclaimed Curtis, grabbing for the handrail.

  ‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir,’ said the constable and walked down the remainder of the steps.

  Lomax grinned as she quickened her stride once she was in the reception area.

  ‘How’s the love life, young ’un?’ he asked.

  ‘None of your business,’ she retorted as she struggled into her coat; they always had the same exchange.

  ‘I’m always available, you know.’

  ‘In your dreams,’ said Butterfield, heading for the front door. ‘Besides, I’m going out with someone.’

  ‘Really?’ Lomax looked at her with interest. ‘A rival, eh? Anyone I know?’

  ‘Like I said, it’s none of your business.’ Butterfield turned and pointed a finger at him. ‘And I don’t expect this to go round the station, right?’

  The officer gave her his best innocent look as she disappeared out of the front door and down the steps. Who, he thought, as he picked up the phone, should he tell first?

  Jack Harris had already backed the Land Rover onto the road when Butterfield appeared. Once she had clambered into the passenger seat, he guided the vehicle through Levton Bridge’s outskirts and out onto the valley road, the town’s narrow streets soon giving way to dry-stone walls and steep wooded slopes.

  ‘No need to look like that,’ said Harris, as Butterfield sat in gloomy silence beside him. ‘You might find this afternoon an education.’

  ‘About what? I know you’re into this kind of thing but they don’t really do it for me.’ Butterfield realized how it must have sounded so added quickly, in what she hoped was a more respectful tone, ‘I mean, I know we should honour their sacrifice and all that but …’ Her voice tailed off. It just sounded lame.

  ‘How many times have I told you to think these things through?’

  ‘I said that we should respect their sacrifice and what they did for …’

  ‘This isn’t about honouring a bunch of dead soldiers, Constable.’

  ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘There’s a lot more going on.’

  ‘There is?’

  ‘Certainly things a good detective should be aware of.’ Noticing her bemused expression, he sighed. ‘What do I keep saying, Constable?’

  Butterfield thought for a few moments. ‘Always read the situation?’ she hazarded.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But what’s to read?’

  ‘There’s always something, Constable. What do we know about this afternoon?’

  ‘Just that it’s the unveiling of a war memorial.’

  ‘A good detective never uses the word just. What else?’

  ‘That Rob Mackey paid for it in memory of his father.’

  ‘Well, in theory, it’s in memory of all the Chapel Hill villagers who fell in battle but I imagine our dear Robert would much prefer your interpretation.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have thought there’d be that many of them to commemorate.’

  ‘More than you might think,’ said Harris, negotiating the Land Rover round a tight bend. ‘Three from the Great War, two from the Second. Then, of course, there’s Rob’s father. I take it you know about the Mackeys?’

  ‘I know you detest Rob.’

  ‘That’s besides the point.’ Harris seemed irritated by the comment. ‘What else?’

  ‘Rob deals in antiques, doesn’t he?’ Butterfield trailed her hand over the back of the seat and Scoot and Archie competed for the chance to lick it first. She chuckled. ‘Daft as a brush, both of them.’

  ‘Yeah, they are,’ said Harris, grinning, irritation momentarily banished. Now his voice was more even. Not friendly, though; Jack Harris’s voice was rarely friendly. ‘And Rob’s father, what do you know about the venerated George?’

  ‘That he was killed in the Falklands. The sarge reckons he was a hero.’

  ‘Well, it rather depends if you believe in heroes but yes’ – Harris nodded as the valley opened up to reveal the slate-grey roofs of Chapel Hill in the distance – ‘yes, he was. He was a captain in the Paras who led his men on an assault on an Argentinian position above Port Stanley. Several of them were wounded but he kept going. Took it single-handed. Trouble was, another group of Argies heard the shooting and came rushing up the hill, all guns blazing. George fought them off as well but was hit in the stomach….’

  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.

  ‘Did he die immediately?’ asked Butterfield, trying to sound interested. Talk of military derring-do had never excited her imagination.

  ‘Took him a day and half,’ said Harris, slowing the vehicle to a halt to let a tractor edge past. ‘I’ve seen a man die of a stomach wound. George Mackey must have been in agony. He was posthumously awarded the Military Cross.’

  ‘Brave man.’ It seemed the right thing to say.

  Her disinterest in such matters had its roots in her upbringing as a farmer’s daughter. Born and brought up in the valley, Alison Butterfield had never felt a strong connection with the military life. Her world, and that of her father and her grandfather, had always revolved around the Pennines’ changing seasons. When the local newspaper ran the occasional story about lads in Afghanistan, it seemed too remote to be relevant. Even when a Levton Bridge man had been shot dead by insurgents in Helmand the year before, it had not really registered, although Butterfield remembered the coffin draped with a Union Jack being carried into the parish church for the funeral. Had she been moved by the scene? She tried to remember.

  As Harris waved at the tractor driver and started the Land Rover moving again, a thought struck the constable.

  ‘Did you win any medals?’ she asked. ‘I mean, when you were in the army?’

  ‘The odd one.’

  Butterfield waited for him to elaborate but he didn’t. He never did. For a moment there was silence in the vehicle. It was broken by Harris.

  ‘I take it you know that Rob Mackey tried to follow his father into the army?’ he said. ‘When he was a young man? Rejected on health grounds?’

  ‘Is it relevant?’

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you? Everything is relevant. You never know when these snippets of information will come in handy.’

  ‘Right.’

  Butterfield stared out of the window at the sheep grazing in the fields. Sometimes, she thought, sometimes she wished that she had taken up her father’s offer to help run the farm. But not often.

  ‘And because I do take notice,’ continued Harris, ‘I know that this afternoon is really all about Rob Mackey. He’s an arrogant so-and-so. Just like his father.’

  ‘But George was a war hero.’

  ‘Doesn’t make him a good man,’ said Harris as the road started to dip towards the village and they saw a smal
l group of people gathered round the memorial, still covered in its blue sheet. ‘Nor is Rob for that matter. If you ask me, being rejected by the army hurt his pride. Today is the next best thing. Reflected glory.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ protested Butterfield, ‘that’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it? Is it really?’ There was an edge to the inspector’s voice. ‘Surely you must have noticed that George Mackey has more decorations than a bleeding Christmas tree? His name is already on the war memorial in Levton Bridge market place, there’s a plaque on the library because he once borrowed a book there or something, there’s one on their house, big thing with a military crest, and unless I am much mistaken, there’s one on the pavilion in the park after Rob paid for its refurbishment. Now this.’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘What’s more,’ said Harris, bringing the Land Rover to a halt in the village car park, ‘I happen to know that the parish council suggested Rob do the unveiling at the weekend. They thought Remembrance Sunday was the ideal time to do it but, no, he wanted it on its own. Wanted the limelight all to himself. And all for the sake of three days.’

  ‘I bet he was hacked off when he heard it was the same day as the inquest then,’ said Butterfield, unclipping her seat belt.

  ‘The best laid plans, eh?’ said Harris as he cut the engine. ‘Pity about that.’

  ‘Do you think Esther Morritt will turn up?’ asked Butterfield as she got out of the vehicle and glanced towards the rows of cottages. ‘She lives in the village, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Finally,’ said Harris, gesturing for the dogs to remain in the back.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Finally you’re thinking the thing through. The inquest is unlikely to have persuaded her that Rob Mackey did not kill her son. That’s why they’re here.’ Harris nodded at the television van that had just pulled up alongside the van. ‘Hoping that she puts on a show.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Now those guys, on the other hand,’ said the inspector, switching his attention to the elderly war veterans gathering on the green, ‘you’d never hear them demanding a statue in their memory. Quite the opposite.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘What’s more,’ said Harris, tossing his Barbour jacket into the back seat of the Land Rover and locking the vehicle, ‘doesn’t it strike you as odd that last night someone tried to torch the British Legion pavilion? I mean, ahead of today’s events?’

  ‘Uniform seem convinced that it was kids.’ Butterfield caught sight of Barnett talking to a couple of veterans. ‘Roger reckoned it was hardly even worth logging.’

  ‘Roger always says it’s kids. Means he doesn’t have to do anything about it. However, that’s the third time the place has been attacked. Windows smashed three weeks ago and someone tried to kick the door in two weeks before that. Jesus, am I the only one who thinks something weird is going on? Come on, let’s get this over with.’

  The inspector sighed; he hated ceremonies. Self-consciously, he tried to do up the top button of his shirt. It took him several seconds – Jack Harris was a big man – but eventually he managed it, wincing at the discomfort.

  ‘Do I look OK?’ he asked.

  ‘You look lovely, guv.’

  ‘Come on then,’ grunted Harris. As he started walking towards the gathering, he noticed the scruffy figure of Lenny Portland loitering on the edge of the green. ‘Not sure the presence of our local tea leaf fits in with Rob Mackey’s world view. What’s he doing here, I wonder?’

  ‘Doesn’t his aunt live in one of the cottages?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You never know when these snippets of information will come in handy.’ Butterfield noticed his look with alarm and wondered if she had overstepped the mark. It was always difficult to predict how Jack Harris would react so she added quickly, ‘Sorry, guv, er, sir.’

  ‘I should think so,’ said Harris but there was a twinkle in his eye. ‘Cheeky basket.’

  Butterfield laughed with relief. Harris gave the slightest of smiles; he loved the effect that his unpredictability had on people. The detectives walked over to the memorial where a bored-looking Rob Mackey was being engaged in conversation by Henry Maitlin, who had changed into grey slacks, a blazer on which were pinned several medals and a beret. Standing with them, Roger Barnett tried to appear interested in what the coroner had to say and greeted the arrival of the detectives with relief.

  ‘Ah, Chief Inspector,’ said Maitlin, ‘I was just saying how fitting it is that a man of your background should represent the constabulary at such an occasion as this.’

  ‘I guess it does seem appropriate,’ said Harris as the men shook hands.

  ‘I take it that awful woman won’t be trying to disrupt this event as well?’ said Mackey. He appeared irked by the inspector’s presence and did not offer his hand to the detective.

  ‘That awful woman,’ said Harris, ‘is a law to herself.’

  ‘And there was me thinking that you were the law around here. It seems I was wrong.’

  As Harris glowered at Mackey, Roger Barnett winked at Butterfield and the constable tried not to smile. The inspector could not pursue his conversation with Mackey further, however, because there was a murmuring in the crowd as everyone turned to survey an elderly man’s slow procession down one of the streets, supported on the arm of a young dark-haired woman.

  ‘If you want to talk about heroes,’ said Harris to Butterfield, ‘that’s what one looks like.’

  Still standing in the lay-by above Chapel Hill, the two men looked down on the gathering in the village. Noticing movement in one of the streets, the driver focused his binoculars on the white-haired man and the young woman walking slowly down one of the pavements.

  ‘That’s my boy,’ he murmured.

  ‘Leach?’

  ‘I reckon so. Recognize him from that film.’

  ‘Has he got it, Dave?’ asked the passenger, reaching for the driver’s binoculars. ‘Has he got it with him?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s got it all right,’ said the driver, producing a mobile phone from his pocket, dialling a number and lifting the device to his ear. ‘You better still be interested.’

  ‘I am,’ said the voice on the other end. ‘When you going to do it?’

  ‘The village is pretty busy There’s more people than we expected for this war memorial thing. And there’s some bird with him.’

  ‘Don’t worry about her. She doesn’t live with him. He’ll be on his own tonight.’

  ‘Nevertheless, maybe we should leave it for a day or two. Let things calm …’

  ‘My customer is most insistent, David. His buyer is due to fly out tomorrow night and he wants to take it with him.’

  ‘Yes but …’

  ‘Just do it. If you can’t, I’ll get someone who can.’

  The phone went dead.

  ‘We doing it, Dave?’ asked the accomplice.

  ‘Yeah.’ Before the driver could elaborate further, he noticed one of the figures on the green turn and look up towards them. He ducked beneath the wall. ‘Get down.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Harris.’

  ‘Did he see us?’ The accomplice sounded frightened as they hid behind the wall.

  ‘Not sure.’ Keeping low, the driver edged over to the car. ‘Let’s get out of here, Ronny. Last thing we want is that bastard snooping around.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed the accomplice, ‘I’ve have had enough of Jack Harris to last me a lifetime.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Butterfield, noticing Harris staring intently up at the valley road.

  ‘Not sure. Thought I saw something.’

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ said Butterfield, following his gaze.

  ‘Must be my imagination. Maybe Esther Morritt has turned us all paranoid,’ said Harris, turning back to the gathering. Hearing an engine start up, he turned again and watched the black car roof disappearing above the line of the dry-stone wall, adding thoughtfully, ‘Or perhaps no
t.’

  ‘I don’t know much about medals,’ said the constable, returning her attention to Harold Leach, who had reached the green to be surrounded by war veterans, ‘but I know a Victoria Cross when I see one.’

  ‘He won it in North Africa. Shot in the head but still managed to carry his sergeant a mile and a half to safety under heavy fire. God knows how they both survived. Didn’t you see the documentary about him?’

  ‘What documentary?’

  ‘Channel 4 a few weeks ago. They told the story of four VC winners and Harold was one of them.’

  ‘Who’s the girl with him?’

  ‘His granddaughter Maggie.’ The gathering parted in respectful silence as the frail old man spotted Harris and walked over to the detective. The inspector extended a hand of welcome. ‘Harold, how are you, my friend?’

  It seemed to Butterfield that it was the first time in days that she had heard warmth in the inspector’s voice.

  ‘All the better for seeing you, Hawk,’ beamed the veteran as they shook hands. Although his appearance was frail, the voice was strong and assured.

  Butterfield stared at Harold Leach with fresh respect; everyone knew that only those very close to Jack Harris were permitted to call him Hawk. The female television reporter walked over to them.

  ‘I wonder, Mr Leach,’ she said, ‘could we do an interview with you?’

  ‘With me, my dear? Why on earth would you wish to do that?’

  ‘To get your take on today’s event.’

  ‘I am sorry but this afternoon is about the men of Chapel Hill, not me.’

  ‘Yes, but you live in the village as well,’ said the girl, ‘and you are the area’s only VC winner. A real live war hero. And you did do that documentary. It’s not as if you are a stranger to the camera, now, is it?’

  ‘I can’t help feeling that was a mistake,’ said Harold unhappily.

  ‘Nevertheless …’

  Harold glanced at Maggie for support.

  ‘I don’t think my grandfather feels it would be right,’ said the granddaughter.