To Honour the Dead

by John Dean

  As Rob Mackey drove his Range Rover south across the rain-swept moorland, he slowed down to make a call on his hands-free. A woman’s voice answered.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Can you talk?’

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ She sounded angry. ‘The DCI has got everyone out looking for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He wants to talk to you about the murder of Harold Leach.’

  ‘But I had nothing to do with that.’

  ‘He seems to have got it into his head that you’re mixed up in it somehow.’

  ‘That man! He would believe anything about me even if …’

  ‘I’m sure it’s all a horrible mistake, love. Why don’t you just come into the station and clear it all up?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  There was silence for a few moments.

  ‘She knows about us,’ said the woman.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Liz knows you have been having an affair. She told us.’

  ‘Shit. She know it’s you?’

  ‘I don’t think so but you know this place, it’s only a matter of time. This has gone too far. You have to come in.’

  There was silence on the other end of the phone.

  ‘Rob? Rob, you there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here. I’m sorry, I can’t come in.’

  ‘Why not?’ There was panic in her voice now. ‘What have you done, for God’s sake? Please God don’t tell me you were involved in the murder.’

  ‘It‘s more complicated than that,’ said Mackey, further slowing down the Range Rover as the road dipped and twisted and he negotiated a stone bridge over a fast-flowing beck. ‘I can’t come in. Not yet, anyway. Got things to sort.’

  ‘If you’re tied up with the murder somehow, God help me I’ll—’

  ‘I’m not, love.’ He tried to sound reassuring. ‘I’ve told you.’

  ‘But if you are, that puts me in a difficult situation.’ She made her mind up. ‘I’m sorry but I will have to tell Harris about us. I have no option.’

  ‘No.’ The voice was urgent. ‘Please, don’t say anything. We agreed.’

  ‘We didn’t agree anything like this.’

  Mackey pulled the Land Rover onto the side of the road and cut the engine.

  ‘Please don’t,’ he said quietly, the tears starting to stream down his cheeks. ‘Please don’t tell Harris.’

  He could hear that she was crying as well. ‘I have to,’ she said through the tears. ‘You know that.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I have to go,’ said Alison Butterfield and the phone went dead.

  Rob Mackey sat for a few minutes then, noticing through the gathering gloom a set of headlights behind him. He cursed, turned the key to start the engine and guided the Range Rover across the moor. Back in Levton Bridge, Butterfield sat in the deserted CID office, mobile phone still in hand, and stared wordlessly out of the window into the darkness of the night. Tears still coursed down her cheeks and she fumbled in her handbag for a handkerchief with which she dabbed her eyes.

  ‘Damned fool,’ she said quietly. ‘The damned fool.’

  Her reverie was disturbed by the ringing of her mobile again. She glanced down and saw the name Gallagher flash up on the screen. After letting it ring while she composed herself, she hit the receive button.

  ‘Butterfield,’ she said; her voice still sounded shaky.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, why shouldn’t I be?’ Butterfield hoped the reply sounded natural.

  ‘You just sounded different.’

  ‘Sorry about that. What you after?’

  ‘Harris reckons there’s not much more we can do out here so we’re coming back in. Alan’s still here anyway and he’s going to stay with the incident room for a while, maybe do some more door to doors. The governor will want to talk to Lenny Portland the moment he gets back. Thought you’d like to make sure that he looks presentable.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Butterfield, ‘I will.’

  ‘Good girl,’ said Gallagher and the phone went dead.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The rain was easing as Jack Harris parked his Land Rover in front of the police station and got out of the vehicle to hear angry shouting from the direction of the market place. Running up the hill, followed by his excited dogs, the inspector was faced with the sight of a furious Henry Maitlin confronting Barry Gough and two spotty teenagers in parkas, both of whom were wielding placards as they stood in front of the town’s war memorial. Gough was shouting slogans and ignoring the attempts of Maitlin to quieten him down. As Harris arrived, Maitlin made a grab for Gough’s placard, sending both men staggering to the floor where they struggled on the wet cobbles.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ shouted Harris, pushing back the dogs and wading in to separate the two men. Dragging the combatants to their feet, he let Maitlin go and surveyed his dishevelled hair. ‘Brawling in the street, Henry? And at your age? Jesus H. Christ.’

  Maitlin dusted the mud from his trousers and looked sheepishly at the detective.

  ‘Sorry, Jack,’ he mumbled.

  Still held in the inspector’s grip, and attempting to free his arm, Barry Gough showed no such contrition.

  ‘Let go of me!’ he said. ‘I have my rights.’

  ‘Not until I get some kind of answer, you haven’t,’ said Harris, tightening his grip.

  ‘Ow!’ squealed Gough. ‘You’re hurting me!’

  ‘Then perhaps you had better give me a good explanation for your behaviour.’ Harris looked at Maitlin. ‘You’re like a couple of four-year-olds.’

  Maitlin averted his gaze and Gough finally fell silent and stopped struggling. Harris let him go.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the inspector, ‘I’m waiting.’

  ‘It’s his lot,’ said Maitlin, nodding at the protestors. ‘Doing that in front of the war memorial like that. It’s disrespectful, that’s what it is, especially given what’s happened to poor Harold last night.’

  ‘We have every right to—’ began Gough but cried out in pain as the inspector snapped out a hand and twisted his ear.

  ‘Rights,’ hissed the detective, ‘are earned around here.’

  Harris let him go again and the protestor stood a few yards away, clutching his ear. Gough’s supporters edged back a pace or two when the inspector turned his attention on them. Harris estimated that neither were much above sixteen. Neither looked particularly healthy specimens. They eyed him nervously.

  ‘And why,’ said Harris, turning to Gough, ‘did you decide to protest here tonight of all nights?’

  ‘They said they were going to disrupt Sunday,’ added Maitlin before any of the protestors could reply. ‘Stage a demonstration in the middle of the Remembrance ceremony. It’s disgraceful, Jack, absolutely disgraceful.’

  ‘Is this true?’ asked the inspector, looking at Gough again.

  ‘Yeah, we’re going to make sure that people know about the evils of—’

  ‘Oh, do shut it,’ sighed Harris. ‘I really have had enough of you and your primary-school friends bleating on.’

  Gough was about to remonstrate but the throbbing in his ear persuaded him to reconsider and he said nothing. The inspector turned to see Matty Gallagher walking across the market place.

  ‘You OK, guv?’ asked the sergeant, trying not to appear amused at the sight of the dishevelled Henry Maitlin trying to tidy up his hair. ‘Need a hand with these hardened miscreants?’

  ‘Think I can dispense some summary justice all on my own.’

  ‘Right-o,’ said Gallagher, turning so they could not see him smiling. He walked back across the market place, attempting to keep the laughter out of his voice. ‘See you later then.’

  ‘Now,’ said Harris, returning his attention to the two men, ‘I have two choices. Charge you both with fighting in the street or you can apologize for your actions. Not sure either of you fancies being charged. It would, I think, be your first conviction, Henry? Not perhaps
the best advert for our local coroner, might I suggest.’

  Maitlin nodded meekly. ‘It won’t happen again, Jack,’ he said, adding with fire in his eyes, ‘but I won’t apologize to the likes of him.’

  ‘And you needn’t think I am either,’ said Gough.

  ‘Yeah, maybe that is asking a bit much,’ said Harris, walking towards Gough until he was within six inches of him. He lowered his voice. ‘If I see you anywhere near this place on Sunday your feet won’t touch the ground. You can have free speech elsewhere but not in my town. You just remember that, sunshine. Now sod off.’

  Gough looked as if he was about to say something but the expression on the inspector’s face counselled against it and he and his fellow protestors took their placards and slunk away.

  ‘Police state!’ shouted Gough when they reached the edge of the market place.

  ‘I like to think so,’ replied Harris.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Maitlin as the protestors disappeared. It sounded heartfelt. ‘I don’t know what came over me, Jack.’

  ‘You needn’t think you’re getting off lightly. I mean, what on earth were you thinking about? What if the press gets hold of the story?’

  ‘I know, I know.’ He looked after the retreating protestors. ‘You don’t think he’ll tell them, do you?’

  ‘Not if he knows what’s good for him. But next time you just leave Barry Gough and his mates to me, yes?’

  ‘You can understand why I did it, can’t you, Jack?’ said Maitlin, despair in his voice. ‘I mean, these young people, they don’t seem to understand what sacrifices we made for them. So many sacrifices, Jack, so many friends lost, and for what? So that someone like them can …’

  His voice tailed off and he closed his eyes.

  ‘So many sacrifices,’ he said quietly.

  ‘That may be so, Henry, but there is a certain irony, is there not, that those sacrifices secured Gough and his like the right to say what they do?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Maitlin unhappily as they started walking towards his car, which was parked on the far side of the market place. ‘But for them to do it on the day that Harold’s body was discovered, it’s abominable, Jack. There’s no other word for it.’

  He stopped walking and gave Harris a forlorn look.

  ‘I just don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Maybe I am too old?’

  ‘Go home, Henry,’ said the inspector gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘Mrs Maitlin will be wondering where you’ve got to. Not sure brawling on the street will be among her possibilities, mind.’

  Maitlin gave a slight smile and walked over to the car. Harris watched him drive away and headed towards the police station. As he turned the corner and started down the hill, he saw Roger Barnett striding towards him.

  ‘Heard there was some trouble,’ said Barnett. ‘Thought you might need some help.’

  ‘Well, I don’t,’ replied the inspector, not breaking stride.

  ‘I just thought that—’

  ‘And if you ever fuck up one of my operations again I’ll rip your head off and shit down the hole.’

  ‘What?’ Barnett looked at him in amazement.

  ‘I heard what you did when I asked Gallagher to stop that bus. Damned fool reckless it was, Roger, damned fool. This is no place for glory boys and you had better remember that. Folks are enough on edge without idiots like you stirring things up even further.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Oh, fuck off, Roger. My friend is lying dead on a mortuary slab and I have no time for crap like this.’

  ‘Now hang on a minute, Hawk—’

  ‘And don’t call me Hawk,’ said Harris, turning and striding back down the hill. ‘Only people I respect call me Hawk. Just be warned. Jerk my chain again and you’ll wish you’d never come back here.’

  Barnett stood in brooding silence and watched the inspector stride down the hill and up the police station steps. As the inspector walked into reception, Gallagher was chatting to the desk clerk.

  ‘What on earth was that all about?’ asked the sergeant, seeing Harris. ‘Did I really see Henry Maitlin scrapping in the street?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘You put him right, I take it?’ said the sergeant as they walked up the stairs.

  ‘Yes, but he tried to tell me that Barry Gough did not appreciate the sacrifices that had been made in the name of free speech.’

  ‘He’s right, surely.’

  ‘Course he is,’ chuckled Harris as they reached the top of the stairs, ‘but Henry seems to have forgotten that I know that he spent World War II in the Pay Corps. The only injury he ever picked up was a paper cut.’

  And still laughing at his own joke, the inspector headed off in the direction of his office.

  With the grey light of day fading rapidly to night, Rob Mackey guided the Range Rover into a lay-by on the deserted country road. For a few seconds, he sat and watched the rushing of the headlights on the nearby motorway. Behind him were the dark shapes of the northern hills and he felt, for the first time since he had left, a pang of remorse. Mackey thought of his home. Laurel House would be all warm light now. He loved it when it was like that. Loved the smell of cooking, loved the aroma of fresh coffee, loved the sound of his daughter’s music wafting down from her room. Mackey smiled at the thought but it was only momentary. He supposed that they must have found his letter by now, realized that he had thrown everything away.

  His phone rang and he glanced down at the screen glowing green in the darkness of the car. Liz, it said. The fifth time. For a few moments, Mackey considered answering it then shook his head, hit the cancel call button and edged the Range Rover out of the lay-by. No other vehicles were around so when he reached the roundabout, he held the vehicle on the brake, entertaining thoughts of turning back. Back to the hills. Back to Laurel House. Back to his family. He did not need to run. He could sort it all out, he told himself. Perhaps Liz would forgive him if he told her that he had made a mistake? Maybe he could talk his way out of trouble with the police? The more he thought about it, running made no sense. A smart lawyer would doubtless be able to engineer a way out. But these were only fleeting thoughts and Mackey shook his head, gunned the engine and drove across the roundabout onto the motorway filter road. The southbound carriageway of the M6 was empty; Rob Mackey’s road ahead was clear and he jammed his foot on the accelerator.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The air was heavy and oppressive in the interview room early that evening as Jack Harris and Matty Gallagher stared across the desk at a bedraggled Lenny Portland. The petty thief’s cheek was grazed and there was the beginnings of a bruise above his right eye.

  ‘I’m gonna make a complaint,’ said Portland belligerently, touching his cheek. ‘Look what she did to me. Assaulted me, that’s what she did.’

  ‘You were running away from her at the time,’ said Harris blandly. ‘As I understand it, Constable Butterfield was merely doing her duty. I mean, you were not exactly acting like Mr Innocent, were you, Lenny?’

  ‘It was that lunatic Barnett, he got me frightened, bellowing like that on the bus. I thought he was going to lamp me one. It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘No? When did that happen then?’

  ‘First time was just after he got sent back up here. I were pissing up against the church wall and he gave me a smack.’ Portland raised a hand to his head again. ‘Hurt, it did. And he did it again a few weeks later when I were drunk one night.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Yeah, sure is, Mr Harris.’ Portland nodded. ‘Glad you agree with me.’

  ‘I certainly do. Slapping people around is my job.’

  The smile faded from Portland’s face. ‘Anyway,’ he said, standing up, ‘I reckon I’ve got a case for police harassment against you lot. In fact, I’m gonna do it right now and—’

  ‘Sit down,’ said Harris sharply.

  Portland hesitated but one look at the inspector’s expression was enough. Being smack
ed by Roger Barnett and getting on the wrong end of Jack Harris were entirely different things and Portland knew it. Everyone in the valley knew it. He sat down.

  ‘See, Lenny,’ said the inspector, ‘I am not sure that you are in much of a position to get shirty with us. Trouble you’re in.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Recognize either of these guys?’ Harris reached for the brown file lying on the table and slid out a couple of faxed photographs.

  ‘Never seen them before in me life.’

  ‘Look again,’ said Harris, jabbing a finger on the pictures. ‘If it helps, the one on the left is Dave Forrest and the one on the right is a toerag called Ronny Michaels. They’re from Manchester. Ever been to Manchester, Lenny?’

  ‘Saw Carlisle play at City’s ground once. Rubbish pies.’ Portland smiled; he was pleased with the quip.

  ‘What do you think people will say when they hear that you might have been involved in the death of Harold Leach?’ said Harris. Once again, the smile froze on Portland’s face. ‘Knowing the folks round here, Lenny, you’ll be strung up from the nearest lamppost, I reckon.’

  Portland looked worried. ‘But I told you,’ he said quickly, ‘I don’t know nothing about what happened to Harold. I were in the village seeing me aunt.’

  ‘Maybe you were,’ said Harris, extracting another piece of paper from the file but not showing it to Portland. ‘Maybe you weren’t. See, this is a witness statement which one of our officers took in Chapel Hill this afternoon.’

  ‘Who’s it from?’

  ‘You know we don’t play that game, Lenny. Suffice to say that this person had occasion to be up early in the morning and guess what he saw?’

  Portland shrugged. ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘I weren’t there, if that’s what you’re trying to make out.’

  ‘Not so sure about that. See, our witness saw a man at the bottom of Harold Leach’s street. About the time Harold was murdered, in fact. And guess what? Our witness gave a very good description. Sounded just like you.’