by John Dean
‘Harris will not like this,’ said the sergeant gloomily. ‘It’s the last thing we need ahead of Remembrance Sunday.’
‘I reckon you’re right,’ said Alison Butterfield, emerging from behind the memorial. ‘There’s nothing round the back, Sarge. Just the stuff on the front.’
‘That’s bad enough, isn’t it?’ The sergeant was about to comment further when a thought struck him and he gave her a sly look, vandalism temporarily forgotten. ‘Hey, is it true that you have a new man in your life?’
‘Can’t a girl have any privacy around here?’ The constable seemed genuinely irritated as she walked over to him. She lowered her voice even though they were alone on the green. ‘I knew it was a mistake to tell Des Lomax. Might as well have put it on Twitter.’
‘Didn’t get it from Des. Not sure he even knows what Twitter is. No, I got it from one of the girls in the canteen. And she reckons she got it from Edith.’
‘Jesus Christ, don’t tell me that even the cleaner knows?’
‘’Fraid so, girl.’ He gave her an impish look. ‘Want to know where she got it from?’
Butterfield gave him a scathing look but said nothing.
‘Going to tell me who this feller is, then?’ asked Gallagher. ‘Some rough-neck farmer? I hope he takes his wellies off before he sha—’
‘Not that it is any of your business, but he’s not a farmer, no. He’s actually quite a civilized man.’
‘So he does take his—’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Matty, can we just concentrate on the job in hand?’ snapped Butterfield.
‘As you wish.’ The sergeant held up his hand in mock surrender. It had been a welcome distraction from the vandalism but his expression clouded over as he looked again at the memorial. ‘What a mess.’
‘You going to ring him then?’
‘I have this awful feeling that I may have to,’ sighed the sergeant, glancing at his watch. ‘Ten a.m. He’s probably on top of a hill by now, making eyes at a lesser spotted something or other. Not sure he’ll be best pleased about us ruining his day off.’
‘Us?’ said the constable, patting him on the shoulder and walking back towards the war memorial. ‘You’re the sergeant, you’re the one ringing him.’
‘Yeah, thanks for that.’
Hearing the sound of an engine, the sergeant turned to see a Range Rover pull up alongside the green and a furious Rob Mackey emerge from the driver’s door and stride towards the memorial.
‘Something tells me that this is going to be one of those days,’ sighed Gallagher. ‘Correction, another one of those days.’
By 10.15, Jack Harris and the dogs had dropped down onto the moor where, after walking for a few minutes, the inspector sat down on a rock and rummaged in his haversack for his flask of coffee and biscuits. The dogs sat in front of him, their eyes never leaving the packet of digestives. Harris flicked two biscuits through the air and watched the animals gulp them down.
‘Greedy bastards,’ he chuckled. His mobile phone rang. ‘Jesus, can’t a man get any peace?’
Harris fished the phone out of his Barbour jacket pocket and glanced down at the name on the screen. Gallagher.
‘Matty, lad,’ he said, ‘this had better be important. And I mean really important because this is my day off and if you think …’
‘Someone has vandalized the new war memorial at Chapel Hill.’
‘Vandalized? How?’
‘Painted red letters over it so that it reads “Dishonour”. Rob Mackey has already gone off on one. If you look up, you might just see him. He must be in orbit by now.’
‘And there was me thinking it was a buzzard,’ said Harris, glancing up at the leaden skies. ‘Where are you now? In the village?’
‘Yeah. Butterfield is using her womanly charms to persuade Mackey not to kick down Esther Morritt’s door. I keep telling him it’s more likely to be kids but he won’t listen.’
‘It’s too specific for kids,’ said Harris, tossing another couple of biscuits to the dogs. ‘I mean, they didn’t just slap the paint on, did they? There’s a very pointed message in there, if you ask me. Got to be aimed at Mackey.’
‘I guess so but it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s down to Esther, does it? Barry Gough was here yesterday, remember. Trying to waggle his placard about. According to Alison, he was really hacked off at the way he was kicked out of the village by Barnett.’
‘He’s a liability that man.’
‘He certainly riled Barry Gough. And Gough is just the type of crackerjack to do something this stupid.’
‘Not sure I would have said vandalism is his style,’ said Harris, taking a gulp of coffee. ‘Maybe you should have a quiet word with him, just to be sure, though. And Esther as well, for that matter. Be nice to think we could keep a lid on this.’
‘Which is why I rang you. Wondered if you fancied talking to her? Sensitive case and all that. There’ll be lots of media interest once word gets out and I’m hardly her favourite person at the moment so it might make more sense if …’
‘Good try, Matty lad,’ said Harris, standing up, scrunching up the biscuit packet and thrusting it into his bag, ‘but Esther Morritt is your problem. Call it a cultural exchange.’
‘Thought you’d say that,’ said the sergeant gloomily. ‘Think of me while you’re enjoying your hike then.’
‘How many times? I am walking, not hiking. People in stupid bobble hats, they hike.’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ said Gallagher and the phone went dead.
‘Bloody southerners,’ murmured Harris, reaching down to screw the lid back onto his flask.
Having finished his conversation with the inspector, Gallagher walked over to the memorial to join Butterfield, who was standing a few yards from the memorial, watching Rob Mackey as he stared with a thunderous expression at the paint.
‘You not calmed him down then?’ said the sergeant in a low voice.
‘Not sure he’ll listen to anyone, the mood he’s in. I just told him that you were in charge of the inquiry and that he should deal with you.’
‘Now where have I heard that before?’ murmured Gallagher.
The detectives’ attempts to keep the situation low-key were looking increasingly forlorn as a number of villagers started to gather round to watch the altercation.
‘I want that bloody woman arrested!’ said Mackey loudly, turning and striding towards them. ‘She’s a lunatic!’
‘That’s no way to talk about the constable,’ said Gallagher, hoping that the comment would ease the tension. It didn’t.
‘That woman is running a vendetta against me and all you can do is make jokes! You’ve done nothing to protect me from Esther Morritt’s rantings and ravings! And this … this …’ Mackey gestured angrily at the memorial. ‘This is an absolute disgrace.’
‘I agree with you,’ said Gallagher. ‘I just don’t think we should jump to conclusions.’
‘Yeah, come to think of it I did see that little tosspot Barry Gough trying to disrupt things yesterday,’ said Mackey, with a curl of the lip. ‘Should have lamped the little toerag when I had the chance.’
‘I heard you and he had a bust-up a couple of weeks ago. You do seem to have a remarkable gift for making friends, Mr Mackey.’
‘Well, what do you expect me to do? Him and his little mates were in the market place with those stupid placards. I told them what I thought of them and Gough, he gives me some backchat.’ Mackey looked at the memorial. ‘Mind, I still reckon this is down to Esther Morritt. I take it you are going to arrest her?’
‘We will have to …’
‘Because if you won’t, I will.’ Mackey gestured up to the street. ‘I’ll drag the crazy bitch down here by her hair.’
‘Will you please let us handle it?’ said Gallagher sternly, patience finally exhausted. ‘We will go and have a chat with—’
‘Chat … chat! It needs more than a chat!’ Mackey pointed at the memorial stone. ‘Five and a half thousand quid
that thing cost me! Five and a half thousand quid!’
‘That’s what they mean by a high price being paid,’ murmured Gallagher, his voice so low that Mackey was unable to make out the words.
‘What? What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’ Gallagher motioned for Butterfield to follow him across the green. Once the detectives were out of Mackey’s earshot, the sergeant added, ‘They’re off their rockers. All of them.’
‘That’s rough-necks for you.’
‘Yes, thank you, Constable,’ said Gallagher, shooting her a pained look. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with before Rob Mackey bursts a blood vessel.’
Half-way up the street, the sergeant glanced through the front-room window of one of the cottages and tensed.
‘Hello,’ he said quietly.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Butterfield. She watched him walked over and peer through the grimy glass. ‘What you seen?’
‘I hate to think.’
Butterfield leaned forward to look over his shoulder, struggling to make anything out through the film of dirt. It took a few moments for her eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness of the room.
‘That does not look good,’ she said quietly when they did.
Gallagher tried the front door but found it locked so the detectives jogged up the street, past Esther Morritt’s home and through the band of trees that took them round the top of the village and back down along the rear of the properties. Halfway down, they climbed over the low wall at the end of one of the gardens. Walking quickly up the path, they noticed that the back door had been forced.
‘Definitely not good,’ said the sergeant as the detectives stood for a few uneasy moments before he led the way into the cottage, through the narrow kitchen and into the gloomy hallway.
‘Hello! Anyone in? It’s the police!’ shouted the sergeant but there was no answer. He gestured at Butterfield. ‘Check the bedrooms, will you? I’ll take a look in the living room. Oh, and be careful. I don’t like the feel of this.’
As Butterfield headed quietly up the stairs, Matty Gallagher stood in the hall for a few moments, his heart pounding and his hands clammy. The sergeant had seen many scenarios like this during his time in London and already had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Such scenes had something that he had never been able to describe. Not a smell. Not even a feeling. It was, he concluded as he stood there, something about the silence. A heavy, oppressive silence. For a moment he was back in a terraced house in London, his first murder inquiry as a young officer. That house had the same silence that he felt now.
‘Bugger,’ said Gallagher.
Having composed himself, he walked into the living room and surveyed the devastation: drawers wrenched out of the dresser and discarded on the carpet, seat cushions hurled onto the floor and an upturned table lying amid the shards of a shattered vase. The sergeant’s gaze strayed to the photograph hanging on the wall. Gallagher stared into the face.
‘Well, if you’re going to pick a victim,’ he sighed, ‘you might as well pick a good one.’
‘Guv,’ came Butterfield’s voice from upstairs. It sounded flat.
Gallagher knew what she had found.
Jack Harris shouldered his haversack, trying to blot out what he had just been told by his sergeant. It was not easy and as he walked across the soggy moor, his thoughts grew darker, his mind constantly wandering back to the attack on the war memorial. It would, he knew, only serve to increase the tension in the valley. He recalled a seminar on rural policing that he attended shortly after returning to Levton Bridge. The officer giving the talk, who had been based in a similar upland division to the inspector’s, had said, ‘Where do you think my fear of crime is highest?’ One sergeant had said, ‘The housing estates in your towns?’ ‘Wrong,’ the officer had replied. ‘They are used to crime, see it most days. Sounds callous, I know, but it’s a fact of life, I am afraid. No, my biggest fear of crime is in my rural areas where nothing happens from one month to another.’ Noticing the puzzled expression on some of the officers’ faces, he had explained: ‘Why? Because when someone nicks a quad bike from a farm, the shockwaves ripple through all the communities for weeks. And you can multiply that tenfold when, God forbid, you get a murder. The place goes into meltdown, take it from me.’
God forbid you get a murder. Those words resonated now with Harris. He stopped walking as a thought struck him. Had he erred? Had they already seen a murder but not recognized it for what it was? Had he blindly backed Gallagher against Esther Morritt without properly considering all the options? Had her son really been the victim of an assault that night? Had he…?
‘No,’ he said, ‘Matty was spot on and there’s an end to it.’
Harris glanced down at the dogs, who were eyeing him expectantly. The inspector cursed under his breath. He hated it when work impinged on his walks.
‘Enough,’ he said. ‘We’re supposed to be on a day off.’
Harris could not be sure but it seemed that Scoot nodded in agreement. The inspector chuckled and had just started to walk again when his mobile phone rang. He took the phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. Gallagher, it said. Harris tensed.
‘What now?’ asked the inspector irritably into the phone. ‘Can’t you sort out a hot-head with a pot of paint without me?’
‘It’s not the graffiti that worries me,’ said the sergeant’s sombre voice. ‘I am afraid we got us a murder.’
God forbid.
‘Don’t tell me that someone has killed Esther Morritt?’
‘No such luck, guv.’ Gallagher hesitated. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I’m afraid the dead guy is your mate Harold Leach.’
Harris closed his eyes. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘He’s been done over good and proper. Didn’t have a chance, poor fellow. You coming down?’
‘I’m on my way.’
‘Quick as you can. There’s already quite a few media here – someone tipped them off about the vandalism – and they’re asking what’s happened at the cottage. That television reporter – Landy or whatever she’s called – she’s getting arsey about it.’
‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ said Harris, slipping his phone back into his pocket and looking down at his dogs.
‘Sorry, boys,’ he said. ‘Duty calls.’
The driver eased the dark vehicle into a parking place at the motorway service station and cut the engine.
‘What now?’ asked his passenger.
‘We wait.’ The driver noticed his friend’s worried expression. ‘Don’t worry about it, Ronny. There’s no way they can trace it back to us. We were careful. You know that. And we never meant to … I mean, the old bastard shouldn’t have …’
‘But he did, didn’t he, Dave? He did and we …’ He saw a man walking over to the car. ‘That him?’
‘That’s him, and he ain’t going to be happy about this. Not happy at all.’ Dave wound down the window.
‘You got it?’ asked the new arrival.
‘Yeah,’ said Dave, reaching over to open the glove compartment and producing a small brown paper package. ‘Look, there was a bit of a hitch.’
The man looked hard at him. ‘Hitch?’ he said. ‘What kind of a hitch?’
‘We just heard on the radio that the old guy is dead.’
‘Dead?’ The man leaned into the car and hissed, ‘How the hell did that happen?’
‘He was alive when we left him,’ said Dave defensively.
‘Well, he’s not bloody alive now, is he?’ The man got into the back of the car and leaned forward. ‘This changes everything. The thing will be red hot now. Every copper in the land will be after us.’
‘Not backing out, are you?’ said Dave, turning in his seat. ‘Because we’ve taken a huge risk for you and if you are …’
He did not finish the sentence but let the words hang in the heavy air inside the vehicle. Dave looked hard at the man, who appeared deep in thought.
‘Well?’ asked Da
ve after a few moments, holding up the package. ‘Are you taking it?’
‘Yeah,’ said the man, reaching forward for the package and handing over an envelope. ‘Yeah, I am. It’ll be out of the country by tonight. But there’ll be a lot of shit flying over this and if you even think of talking to Jack Harris and his people you know what it means for you.’
Dave tore open the envelope and looked at the bank notes.
‘I understand,’ he said.
‘Be sure you do,’ said the man, getting out of the car. ‘You just be sure you do. Harris will be all over this like a rash.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jack Harris and Matty Gallagher stood in the half-light of Harold Leach’s bedroom and stared in silence at the battered body lying on its back beside the bed. The old man’s face was heavily bloodstained and his jaw looked as if it had been broken. His left arm was twisted at a grotesque angle and his pyjama jacket was ripped in several places.
‘A fighter to the end,’ said Harris quietly.
‘No medals for this one, unfortunately.’
‘No indeed,’ said Harris. As he looked into the dead eyes of Harold Leach, the inspector shuddered, an unusual reaction for a man inured to murder. But then they were not usually friends.
‘You all right?’
‘Yeah.’ Harris walked over to the window and peered through the curtains. Having gone home to change hurriedly into a suit before he headed for the village, the inspector reached into his pocket and produced a red tie which he proceeded to put on while he surveyed the scene below. ‘So much for keeping things low key, eh?’
Gallagher joined him and for a few moments they stared down at the small crowd that had gathered outside the cottage. Butterfield and a uniformed constable were trying to keep order but without much success. Several people were crying and being comforted, others stood in grim-faced silence. On each face was etched the lines of shock. Harris remembered those words during the seminar and knew how they felt. He felt the same. The effect of the killing would be experienced for a long time, he imagined. God knows where it would end up, he thought.
