by John Dean
‘Yes, but surely the—’
‘Harold has made his views clear enough,’ interrupted Jack Harris, stepping forward and fixing the television reporter with a stare. ‘Don’t you agree, Miss Landy?’
The reporter wondered whether or not to argue but something in the inspector’s expression suggested it was a poor idea. She had had enough run-ins with Harris down the years to labour the point. All the journalists covering the area had similar tales to tell after bruising encounters with the inspector and she did not want to provoke a confrontation, certainly not at such a solemn occasion. And certainly not with Jack Harris.
‘Of course,’ she said and walked back to her colleagues, shaking her head at them.
Harold Leach murmured his appreciation to the inspector then moved over to talk to others.
‘What was that about?’ asked Barnett, walking up to Harris. ‘Elaine Landy looks pretty naffed off.’
‘That Harold does not wish to talk about his wartime experiences is a true measure of the man,’ said the inspector.
‘Rob Mackey seems keen enough,’ said Barnett as he watched him warmly greeting the television crew.
‘Also, I would suggest, a measure of the man.’
‘For what is supposed to be such a proud occasion, there does not seem to be much goodwill around,’ said Butterfield.
‘That’s what I have been trying to tell folks for weeks,’ said Harris. ‘Talking of goodwill, there’s Barry Gough. I wondered if he’d turn up.’
A battered red Ford Escort had pulled up in the car park. When the driver emerged, it was a man in his early twenties, lank haired, sallow faced and wearing a scuffed parka. He reached into the back of the vehicle and produced a placard bearing, in scrawled large black letters, the words ‘War is Wrong’.
‘Do you want me to sort him out?’ asked Butterfield.
‘Yeah, go on. Oh, and do it before Mackey realizes that he’s here. Tell him to sod off and protest somewhere else.’
‘I’ll try to find slightly more diplomatic phrasing, shall I?’
‘That was the diplomatic version,’ said Harris, watching her walk across the green towards the protestor.
Roger Barnett fell into step alongside her.
‘Thought you might need a hand,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time we have had to move Barry on and he can get a bit spiky. A bit of experience can come in handy in these kind of situations, I always find.’
‘I think I can cope.’
‘I’m sure you can, pet.’ He blocked Gough’s way. ‘I do hope you had not planned on disrupting this afternoon’s ceremony, Barry.’
‘It’s a free country.’
‘It’s only free because of the sacrifice made by the men we are here to honour.’
‘Rhetoric,’ snorted Gough. ‘You all spout the same garbage. That why the magistrate banned me from the market square this Sunday? If you ask me, some of these …’
‘Will you keep your voice down?’ said Butterfield.
‘I have every right to protest against the evils of war.’
A number of people shook their heads in disapproval and Butterfield noticed that Rob Mackey was now glaring balefully in their direction.
‘Like I said it’s a free …’ continued Gough but his voice tailed off as Barnett crouched by the front of the Escort and tapped one of the tyres. ‘Here, what you doing?’
‘Looks like the tread might be beneath the legal limit.’ Barnett walked round to the other side of the car and made a big show of examining it. ‘Ooh, this one’s a bit iffy as well. Could cause a nasty accident, that could. I might have to seize the car, son.’
‘You can’t do that! You are just trying to …’
‘Of course, were you to get yourself off to Kwik Fit, I might be able to turn a blind eye to it this time.’ Barnett gave him a mock-courteous smile. ‘There’s one in Levton Bridge. Behind the church.’
Gough opened his mouth as if to remonstrate but something in Barnett’s expression made him change his mind and he stalked angrily back to the Escort.
‘Bleeding disgrace,’ he said in a loud voice as he got into the car and started the engine. ‘It’s a police state, that’s what it is.’
‘See,’ said Barnett to Butterfield, as the officers watched him edge the vehicle out of the car park and drive out of the village, its driver still muttering angrily to himself, ‘a bit of experience goes a long way. That was a little trick I learned down in Roxham. Got to know how to handle these kind of situations, Alison.’
Butterfield glowered at him but said nothing as they returned to the gathering just as Henry Maitlin began to speak.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said as he surveyed the brooding skies, ‘I think we had better make a start. As chairman of the district branch of the British Legion, it is my privilege to welcome you to this solemn occasion. I am delighted to see so many of our military representatives present, including our dear friend Harold Leach. As I am sure many of you will know, Harold has not been well so it is a pleasure to see him up and about. This event is as much about those who are still with us as it is those who have departed. Is that not right, Rob?’
Maitlin glanced at Mackey, who nodded quickly in agreement when he noticed everyone staring at him. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, ‘yes, indeed, Henry.’
‘Perhaps, given that the rain seems to be almost upon us, you would like to do the honours now, Rob? After all, without your generosity it would not have been possible.’
‘Indeed so,’ said Mackey, stepping forward and looking round the crowd. ‘Some uncharitable people have suggested that I only provided the money for this memorial to honour my father but that is not the case. There are other names on this memorial. My father was proud of being born in Chapel Hill and often said it was a terrible oversight that it did not have its own memorial. I am delighted to put that right.’
Some among the gathering nodded in agreement and Mackey stretched out a hand to remove the covering, the blue material sliding smoothly down the side of the stone memorial to reveal the carved names beneath the words ‘To Honour the Dead’. As the applause died away and people started to shake Mackey’s hand, even Jack Harris looked impressed. The inspector’s attention was distracted by a familiar figure stalking down one of the streets and onto the green.
‘No show without Punch,’ he murmured.
‘Punch could be the word,’ said Barnett. ‘She’s off her rocker, that one.’
Esther Morritt pushed her way angrily through the crowd and walked up to Rob Mackey. After reading the inscription on the memorial, she turned to him, fire in her eyes.
‘Honour,’ she said dismissively. ‘What honour did my son receive? You tell me that, Rob?’
‘I hardly think that this is the right time. Besides, I have said everything I want to say to you, you mad old bitch.’
‘How dare you!’ she exclaimed furiously then noticed the coroner standing next to Harris and Barnett. ‘You’re all in it together, the lot of you. You should all be ashamed of yourselves. My son was a soldier, just like your father, Rob, and he deserv—’
‘Well, not quite like my father. My father died a hero in the service of his country.’ Mackey gave her a sly look. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Esther, but didn’t your son get himself pissed up then fall over? The only courage he exhibited was the stuff he was throwing down his neck. Hardly likely to get the Military Cross for that, was he now?’
‘How dare you say such things!’ said Esther furiously, raising her hand.
‘No you don’t,’ said Harris, gripping her arm.
Watching from a few feet away, Butterfield wondered if Esther Morritt would wrench her hand free and strike the inspector – and, as always happened when such incidents occurred, the constable wondered how her boss would respond if she did. Esther struggled for a few moments before lowering her hand.
‘Just go home, love,’ said Harris, his voice softer now. ‘Please, Esther. It’s for the best. Believe me, the last
thing I want to do is arrest you. Not on a day like today.’
Esther looked at him for a few moments, glanced at the gathering watching the confrontation in silence and nodded meekly as the strength seemed to drain from her. She turned and walked wordlessly across the green, the crowd parting to let her through, the television crew following her with the cameraman filming her and Elaine Landy thrusting a microphone into her face.
‘I want that woman arrested!’ said Mackey furiously, deliberately loud enough and in Esther’s direction. ‘She’s crazy! Off! Her! Head!’
He turned round but Jack Harris was already halfway towards the Land Rover and did not even acknowledge the comment as he strode across the grass. Butterfield glanced at Mackey, seemed about to say something then thought better of it, and followed her inspector to the vehicle. Watching them go, Roger Barnett walked over to stand next to Mackey.
‘You need to watch your step, sunbeam,’ said the sergeant in a low voice. ‘The DCI would love nothing more than to arrest you.’
Rob Mackey said nothing as the Land Rover headed out of the village and the rain swept in low and hard across the valley.
CHAPTER FIVE
The rain had died away and darkness had long since deepened over the northern hills when the black car drove slowly back into Chapel Hill, the driver extinguishing its lights as it entered the village. Having parked up behind the bus shelter on the far side of the green, he and his accomplice got out and stood for a few moments, listening to the sounds of the night. More used to the city and its restless noises, they found themselves unnerved by a silence punctuated only by the plaintive sound of sheep high up on the hills and the distant hooting of a tawny owl in one of the copses that lined the valley.
‘Let’s get this done,’ said the driver.
‘If you’re sure,’ said Ronny.
‘I’m sure.’
Without speaking further, the two men walked across the green, picking their way carefully through the darkness until they reached the street on the southern edge of the village and worked their way up along the tree-line at the rear of the cottages, illuminating their way with torches. Halfway up the slope, their feet slipping on the slicked grass, they hesitated as they heard the sound of Levton Bridge’s town clock striking midnight, each mournful toll carried on the night air. Dave looked at the nearby cottage, which was shrouded in darkness.
‘That the one?’ whispered Ronny, noticing the gesture.
‘Yeah, that’s it. He must be asleep by now. Come on, let’s risk it.’
The men clicked off their torches, climbed over the low wall and walked across the back garden. Once at the cottage, the passenger produced a jemmy and quietly, quickly, expertly, forced the back door allowing the men to enter the house. Hesitating for a few moments in the cramped kitchen, they listened for anything that might suggest that the occupant had detected their presence but all they heard was the settling of old timbers and a clock ticking on the living-room mantelpiece. They walked into the musty hallway. Upstairs, the old man stirred in bed and his eyes snapped open. For a few moments, he struggled to remember where he was or what had woken him. Hearing nothing, he closed his eyes again. Which was when he heard the creak on the stairs.
Out on the green, a figure emerged from the shadows and spent a few moments surveying the car behind the bus shelter before approaching the new war memorial.
Three hours later, with the village once more deserted, a door opened in one of the cottages and a man wearing a uniform stepped out on to the street. An employee of a delivery company, he was up early to drive down to Cheshire to pick up a package and bring it back to a bank in Roxham. He walked briskly down the street and across the green, illuminating his way with a flashlight. As he passed the war memorial, something glistened and he looked closer.
‘Bloody kids,’ he murmured with a shake of the head. ‘There’ll be hell to pay for that.’
He wondered whether or not to phone the police but a glance at the luminous dial of his watch made him decide against it; he was already on a tight deadline if the bank was to get its package by 9.30 a.m. The last thing he wanted was to be delayed making statements to the police. Feeling slightly guilty, but telling himself that someone else would report the vandalism, he walked across to his van in the village car park, fished his key fob from his pocket and unlocked the door. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of a figure on the far side of the green.
‘Hey!’ shouted the delivery driver but when he looked closer the figure had gone.
‘Bloody imagination,’ muttered the driver, tossing his lunch box into the passenger seat.
Within a few moments, his van was heading in the direction of Levton Bridge, its headlights carving a way through the night as peace returned once more to Chapel Hill.
CHAPTER SIX
Jack Harris had always believed that if you carried hell around within you, and he had plenty of reason to hold the statement to be correct, the same must surely be true of heaven. Not usually a man given to such whimsy, the inspector did experience occasional moments of reflection when away from his police duties and so it was that he found himself pondering the idea next morning as he stood at the summit of the hill. Surveying the misty moorland vista stretching away before him, dogs sitting at his feet and panting after their exertions, Harris was wrapped in silent contemplation as he appreciated his day off.
Taking the time owed to him from a protracted aggravated burglary inquiry the previous month had been a spur-of-the-moment decision the previous evening. After returning to Levton Bridge following the ceremony in Chapel Hill, the inspector had been summoned by Curtis. The divisional commander had just come back from a meeting with the chief constable at headquarters in Roxham at which had been outlined the need to cut overtime due to the force’s financial difficulties. As the smallest force in England, money had always been a concern and all the senior officers realized that cutbacks were the preferable alternative to a merger with one of its larger neighbours. For that reason, Harris had offered only token resistance in the meeting with Curtis and returned to the CID squad room to announce that he would be taking the following day off.
Such freedom was the reason why Jack Harris had, some years earlier, left his post as a detective inspector with Greater Manchester Police to head north to Levton Bridge. Colleagues in Manchester had struggled to understand the reasoning behind his departure; everyone knew that, having joined GMP after a decade-long military career, Harris had been on the promotional fast-track, his superiors having identified his single-minded approach as something worth nurturing as long as his fiery temper could be kept in check. The decision to give it all up for a rural backwater astonished many and he soon grew weary of trying to explain it.
For the inspector’s part, returning home had not been an easy decision either. He knew from his childhood that the valley was full of people like Esther Morritt with horizons narrowed by the hills that ringed their communities. Harris could understand why they felt like that; he had always cherished the isolating effect of the hills, eagerly grasping the opportunities they had afforded a young man out for adventure. As a teenager, he had spent many hours roaming the moors, always with a dog at his feet, scrabbling up scree slopes and traversing boggy land to pursue his passion for wildlife, spending hours watching the birds that survived in the unforgiving landscape, the ravens and the buzzards, the lapwings and the curlews. Eventually, reluctantly, the young Harris had acknowledged the need to explore beyond his own horizon and left the valley to travel the world with the Military. The hills had waited patiently for him, though, and when the time was right, had called him back. He always knew they would.
It was shortly before 9.30 and the inspector had been walking for the best part of two hours, having left home with the moors still shrouded in the final vestiges of night. Home was a tumbledown cottage halfway up a nearby hill, largely obscured from the winding road below by a fold in the landscape. With light only just streaking the sky, he had ushered the
dogs into the back of the Land Rover and edged the vehicle down the twisted path until it met the main road. After passing through Chapel Hill, not even casting a glance at the memorial, he had parked in a woodland clearing a mile from the village and set off to walk. Now, he stood and breathed in the sharp chill of the November morning.
Glancing to his left, he noticed the gable end of a large house poking through the treetops. He scowled. This was Laurel House and Harris did not wish his peace to be disturbed by thoughts of Rob Mackey, a man he had loathed like few others since an incident the previous year. As the force’s part-time wildlife liaison officer, the inspector had been called in to investigate the shooting of a buzzard on a moor close to where Mackey bred pheasants. Harris had convinced himself that Mackey was responsible. The men exchanged angry words several times during the inquiry and Mackey lodged a complaint with the district commander. Curtis, as ever irked by the inspector’s passion for wildlife at what the commander saw as the expense of more important investigations, demanded that his DCI call off the inquiry. The incident still rankled with Harris.
‘Come on, boys,’ said Harris with a click of the tongue to the dogs as he strode down the hill in the opposite direction to the house. ‘We don’t want him ruining our day out.’
As Jack Harris was turning his back on Laurel House, Rob Mackey was sitting in his kitchen, deep in thought as he nursed a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. His reverie was disturbed by the ringing of his mobile phone, which was lying on the table. For a few moments, Mackey watched the light on the screen but he did not reach out immediately. Such exquisite torture, he thought, just like it had been with the letter. Wanting to know yet not wanting to know. And knowing anyway. After the phone had rung six times, he sighed and put the phone to his ear.
‘We need to meet before I go back,’ said the voice on the other end. ‘There’s something you need to know.’
Matty Gallagher stood in the middle of the green in Chapel Hill and stared bleakly at the defaced war memorial, the letters ‘DIS’ having been scrawled in bright red paint in front of the word ‘Honour’.
