by John Dean
Gallagher watched the inspector struggling with his tie. I wonder, the sergeant asked himself, how long it will be before he says that he told us so? He helped his boss straighten his tie.
‘Thank you,’ said the inspector. ‘All fingers and thumbs today.’
‘You sure you’re all right?’
‘Yeah, just a bit shaken up, you know.’ The inspector looked over to the body. ‘Harold was a good friend. Someone I admired.’
‘I know.’
‘I knew something like this would happen.’
‘I know that as well.’
Harris nodded. ‘Yeah, I guess you do,’ he said with a slight smile. ‘I guess I have banged on about it.’
‘Perhaps we should have shown more respect for your instincts.’ Gallagher looked at the body. ‘After all, poor Harold is dead, is he not?’
‘He is indeed.’ The inspector glanced back out of the window and craned his neck to see further down the street, where he noticed more people arriving, recognizing one of them as a local newspaper reporter who appeared to be interviewing Roger Barnett as they walked.
‘Not sure Barnett agrees about keeping things low key,’ said Gallagher. ‘Another chance to get his name in the papers.’
‘The sooner we get Harold out of the village the better. The last thing we want is a bloody media circus.’
‘Might make more sense to get Roger Barnett out,’ said Gallagher. ‘Besides, not sure we can really avoid the media scrum. Dead war hero, brutal killing, the journos will absolutely love it. We had something similar when I was with the Met. Even had one of them trying to sneak in through the back of the house. Pretended to be the old guy’s nephew when we collared him. It’s such a noble profession.’
‘You’re probably right,’ sighed Harris. His gaze settled on the scruffy figure of Lenny Portland, loitering on the edge of the crowd and staring up intently at the cottage.
Noticing the detective watching him, Portland turned and walked quickly down the street, past Roger Barnett and out of the inspector’s view.
‘Now why is he here, I wonder?’ said Harris.
‘What you seen?’
‘Lenny Portland. Seems to keep turning up like the proverbial.’
‘This is way out of his league.’ The sergeant’s attention switched to the blonde television reporter conducting an interview with Henry Maitlin further down the street. ‘I hope they’ve got a lot of tape in that camera.’
Harris allowed himself a smile; as so often with the sergeant, his comment had eased the tension in the room.
‘So what have we got?’ he asked, turning back into the room. ‘Anyone see or hear anything last night?’
‘Neighbour heard some thuds around midnight.’
‘They not investigate?’
‘She’s eighty-seven.’
‘So?’
Gallagher was about to remonstrate with Harris but the inspector gave the slightest of smiles and the sergeant thought better of it; it was like he always said, you just never knew with the DCI.
‘The thuds must have been loud, mind,’ said the sergeant instead. ‘The old dear’s Mutt’n’ Jeff. Got to be robbery, hasn’t it? Forensics still can’t find his VC, and whoever did it left some of the other medals so it looks like they knew what they’d come for.’
‘It’s a high price for a bit of gun metal, Matty lad. You get to talk to Esther Morritt?’
‘Came across this on my way to see her. I reckoned that a bit of vandalism paled into insignificance so I …’
‘Might be worth it all the same. There’s been plenty going off in the last few days and a lot of it centres on Esther Morritt and her mouth.’
‘Yeah, but surely they’re unconnected?’ Gallagher gestured to the old man. ‘I mean … this is much more…?’
‘Can’t assume anything,’ said Harris, walking over to the door. ‘We ought to talk to Barry Gough as well.’
‘The anti-war guy?’ Gallagher was unable to conceal his incredulity this time. ‘That’s even more crazy than thinking that Lenny Portland might have been—’
‘Like I keep telling people,’ said the inspector as he headed down the stairs, ‘the way things have been going lately, anything is possible. Absolutely anything.’
‘Within reason,’ muttered Gallagher under his breath and followed him out of the room.
At the bottom of the stairs, the inspector walked into the living room and, after nodding at the forensics officers, looked at the picture of Harold Leach on the wall, medals pinned on his blazer, VC taking pride of place. Next to the picture were other framed photographs; Harold being introduced to the Queen at a royal garden party, Harold meeting the prime minister when he visited Levton Bridge, Harold with his grandchildren at a Christmas party. With a sigh, the DCI walked out into the hallway and into the street where he was confronted by the sight of Rob Mackey pushing his way through the crowd.
‘I hope you’re still going to talk to Esther Morritt,’ said Mackey, jabbing a finger at the inspector.
Gallagher, following Harris out of the house, shook his head when he heard the comment. There were plenty of things guaranteed to evoke a reaction from Jack Harris – most things, actually – but few bettered pointing a finger at him and demanding that he do something. What’s more, the sergeant knew – everybody in the valley knew – that there was bad blood between Harris and Mackey. Gallagher knew that was why Harris had been happy for him to handle the Philip Morritt case. Said he couldn’t trust himself to keep his temper with the man.
‘I asked you a question,’ said Mackey as Harris ignored him. ‘You had better not forget what the bitch did to my memorial stone just because some old guy has been done over.’
People in the crowd looked at Harris, waiting for the reaction. They were not to be disappointed. Seeing that the inspector’s fist was bunched, Gallagher held his breath and prepared to intervene.
‘Some old bloke?’ said the inspector. ‘Is that what he is to you – some old bloke?’
‘Yeah, well, it’s very sad and all that,’ said Mackey, the murmuring in the crowd making him realize that he had overstepped the mark, ‘but it does not mean that you should ignore your duty to—’
‘Do you know,’ said the DCI, walking forward so that his face was within inches of Mackey’s, ‘I have had just about enough of your whining voice. In fact, if I never heard it again, it would be too soon.’
‘Now hang on a minute, Harris….’
‘So might I suggest that you sod off out of this village before I rearrange your face?’ said Harris quietly.
Mackey stared in amazement at the inspector, looked as if he was about to retort but, on hearing the applause rippling round the gathering and noting the detective’s thunderous expression, thought better of it. He turned on his heel and stalked back down the street, furiously rebutting the television reporter’s attempts to interview him. Gallagher relaxed slightly. Harris noticed Butterfield staring at him.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘You got something to say, Constable?’
Butterfield shook her head meekly. ‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘Of course not.’
‘Good,’ said Harris, brushing past her and walking through the crowd, which parted respectfully to let him pass. ‘Right answer.’
‘It’s what’s called community policing,’ said Gallagher helpfully to the young constable as he walked past her.
Butterfield smiled weakly then turned her attention back to the crowd, which was pushing closer to the cottage again.
‘Come on, you lot,’ she said. ‘Step back.’
Gallagher caught up with Harris near the green. ‘You still want me to go see Esther Morritt?’ asked the sergeant, falling into step with the inspector.
‘No,’ said Harris with a half-smile, the irritation of a moment ago banished as quickly as it had flared. ‘I would have said that it pales into insignificance given what’s happened here. Wouldn’t you agree, Matty lad?’
Gallagher nodded. Sometimes J
ack Harris could be almost human, he thought. ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ he said.
‘Indeed.’
As they stepped onto the green, Henry Maitlin approached them; the officers could see that he was fighting back the tears.
‘A terrible business,’ he said, voice trembling. ‘And with Remembrance Sunday so close.’
‘Tragic,’ said Harris, nodding.
Maitlin looked at the inspector with moist eyes. ‘Have you any idea who did this, Jack?’ he asked. ‘I mean, what had he ever done to harm anyone?’
‘We think they were after his VC, Henry.’
‘Medals can fetch a lot on the black market if you’ve got the right buyer,’ said Gallagher.
‘Disgusting,’ said Maitlin and his voice was urgent now. ‘You have got to get whoever did this quickly, Jack. You know what people round here are like.’
‘I am afraid I do, Henry. What have you been hearing?’
‘I’ve already had several old dears from the village coming up to me saying they are frightened to sleep in their own homes tonight.’ Maitlin glanced across to where the young television reporter was watching as her cameraman filmed people heading into the street. ‘And when she interviewed me, that Landy girl asked me if I thought Chapel Hill was a safe place to live. I did not know what to say, Jack.’
‘Tell them they’ll be safe enough. This place will have officers on patrol all night. I’ll see to that.’
‘I’m not sure that will be enough. Folks are really scared.’
‘I’m sure it’s a one-off.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ Maitlin hesitated. ‘Don’t be too hard on Rob Mackey, Jack. I know you don’t like the man but he’s been very generous to the Legion. Even paid for the refurbishment of the pavilion. I don’t know what we would have done without him.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Harris bleakly as Maitlin headed off towards the cottages. The inspector looked at Gallagher as the men started walking again. ‘Do we really have nothing?’
‘Pretty much. Forensics reckon the place is clean. Whoever did this knew what they were doing. This feels like pros, it really does, and that means they have got to have come from outside.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ said Harris as they paused at the war memorial. He surveyed the graffiti then turned as Barnett approached. ‘Give me some good news, Roger.’
‘Might be able to do just that. That old bloke over there by the phone box, chap with the little dog? Well, he lives down the bottom of Tenter Street and reckons he was woken up by the sound of a car door sometime after midnight. Looked out of the bedroom window and saw a vehicle on the far side of the green. He says it disappeared towards Levton Bridge.’
‘He get a good description?’
‘His knowledge of cars stopped when the Morris Marina went out of production. However, he did notice that one of its brake lights was out.’
‘The one we saw yesterday,’ said Gallagher. ‘Didn’t Butterfield say that traffic had given it a ticket?’
‘She did indeed,’ said Harris as he headed off across the grass towards the car park. ‘Get on it, will you?’
‘Sure. Where will you be?’
‘Got to talk to an old friend.’
Roger Barnett looked quizzically at Gallagher. ‘An old friend?’
‘Leckie,’ said the detective sergeant, ‘it’ll be Leckie.’
‘Chief Inspector!’ called a woman as Harris reached his Land Rover.
The inspector turned to see the television reporter and her crew approaching.
‘Ah, Miss Landy,’ he said thinly, ‘taking a break from scaring the shit out of innocent old people, are we?’
‘I don’t think that’s a fair comment, Chief Inspector. After all, a man has been murdered here – can’t exactly exaggerate that, can I? Oh, don’t look like that, Jack, you know it’s true. Everyone seems to believe that the dead man is Harold Leach. Can you confirm that?’
‘We have not made a formal identification yet,’ said Harris, giving her a hard look, ‘but if it is him, that will be Harold Leach VC to you and me. Around here, young lady, we honour our dead. I suggest you do the same.’
‘Not sure they honoured Harold.’
Harris said nothing, turned and walked over to his vehicle. Standing not far away, on the edge of the green, Lenny Portland was watching the confrontation when his mobile phone rang. He fished it out of his parka pocket.
‘Yeah?’ he said.
‘It’s me,’ said a man’s voice. ‘You better not be responsible for what happened last night.’
‘It weren’t nothing to do with me. I wouldn’t do a thing like that.’
‘Well, someone did the old bastard over.’
‘I tell yer, it weren’t me that killed him. Got to go. Harris.’
Having unlocked the vehicle, the inspector had heard the phone ring and had turned to see Portland. Seeing the inspector walking towards him, Portland slipped the phone into his pocket and headed in the opposite direction.
‘Lenny!’ shouted the inspector.
Portland turned to face the detective and tried to sound calm.
‘Morning, Mr Harris,’ he said. ‘How can I help you?’
‘You can tell me what a tea-leaf like you is doing here for starters?’
‘It’s a free country.’
‘Been listening to Barry Gough, have you?’
‘Don’t know the man.’
‘So what are you doing in Chapel Hill, Lenny?’
‘Visiting me aunt.’
‘You and she must have a lot to talk about. That’s two days running you’ve been here. I saw you at the unveiling yesterday as well. She teaching you embroidery, perhaps?’
Portland looked bemused.
‘Never mind,’ said Harris. ‘You would not happen to know anything about what happened to Harold Leach, would you? Not got a sudden penchant for shiny things, have we?’
Portland’s eyes widened. ‘That ain’t nothing to do with me. Honest, Mr Harris. You know it ain’t my style.’
‘Yeah, maybe you’re right,’ agreed Harris, ‘but so help me, if I hear that you were tied up in this—’
‘You won’t, Mr Harris. Honest. I have too much respect—’
‘Get out of my sight, Lenny.’ Portland gave him a relieved look but it faded with the inspector’s next words. ‘And I wouldn’t look that cheerful. Constable Butterfield still wants to speak to you. About a handbag theft, oddly enough. In fact, there she is now.’
As Harris turned to watch the young constable approaching across the green, Portland seized his opportunity and scuttled over to the bus stop.
‘What did Lenny want?’ asked Butterfield, watching him go.
‘Wanted to talk to me about civil liberties. I told him that he was in the frame for that handbag snatch. Have you got anywhere on that?’
‘No. I thought that with what happened to …’
‘Well, I want you to nick him for it.’ Harris noticed Portland waiting at the bus stop. ‘And I want you to do it now.’
‘Now? Surely you don’t think that he has anything to…?’
‘Do you know,’ said Harris irritably, ‘every bastard seems keen to tell me who didn’t murder poor old Harold Leach. Perhaps someone would like to tell me who did instead. Make a nice change, wouldn’t it? Just lift Lenny Portland, will you?’
‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir,’ said Butterfield quickly.
She noticed with alarm that the bus had pulled up at the stop. The constable started to run towards the vehicle but Portland had already clambered aboard. The bus pulled away with him sitting at the back seat. He was on the phone.
‘I just hope,’ said Harris, glancing at the constable as the vehicle rumbled out of the village, ‘that he’s not talking to anyone important.’
‘So do I,’ said Butterfield. ‘So do I.’
Rarely had she meant anything more.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Once in the Land Rover, Jac
k Harris reached onto the back seat to greet the dogs and was about to make the call when his mobile rang. He glanced down at the screen: Stuffed Shirt, it said. Harris sighed; better take it this time, he reckoned. He’d already missed three calls.
‘Jack, that you?’ asked Curtis.
‘Yeah, it’s me.’
‘I have tried your mobile several times without answer,’ said the district commander. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Bad reception.’
‘That one again.’ Both men knew that the inspector had been ignoring the calls. Always did. It had been a major bone of contention between them for years. ‘I take it you are in the village now?’
‘Yeah, been here for some time.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And what have you found out?’ said Curtis, the irritation clear in his voice. ‘Any leads?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Well, we need something quickly.’
‘Good idea, sir.’
‘Don’t be facetious, Jack. I’ll need something for when I get there.’
Harris closed his eyes. ‘I’m not sure that’s entirely necess—’
‘I do not care what you think. I have just finished my meeting at headquarters and not surprisingly the chief constable was eager for information. I’ll be there within the hour.’
‘Looking forward to it already,’ said Harris and clicked the end call button on his phone. He looked at the dogs. ‘That’s all I need.’
Having let the animals out to wander round the car park for a few minutes, the inspector sat in the driver’s seat and stared moodily at the hills. Not for the first time that day, he wished he was up there. You could trust the hills. You could also trust Leckie. He dialled a number on his mobile.
‘It’s Hawk,’ he said.
‘Not wanting me to solve another of your crimes, are you? Someone nick a sheep?’
‘Not quite,’ said Harris as he settled back in the seat. Same joke every time. Graham Leckie was one of the few people who could get away with such banter. ‘But I do need your help.’
