To Honour the Dead

by John Dean

  Gallagher looked sharply at the inspector but said nothing.

  ‘You’re bluffing,’ said Portland, noticing the sergeant’s look. ‘Even Mr Gallagher here don’t believe it. He must have got it wrong, this feller of yours. Perhaps he saw someone else. I weren’t anywhere near Chapel Hill last night and that’s a fact.’

  ‘Then where were you?’ asked Harris.

  ‘I were in the pub all night. Left after the last bus and went straight home. I were far too drunk to get mesel’ to Chapel Hill. I got witnesses as will say I were there.’

  ‘And which pub was this, Lenny?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The pub,’ said Harris. ‘Which pub was it?’

  ‘Er, the Duck.’

  ‘Funny, that,’ said Harris, glancing at Gallagher, who seemed more comfortable now. ‘We reckoned you might say that – it’s your favourite strategy, I’m told – so the good sergeant here checked with the landlord and, surprise, surprise, no one can remember seeing you in there last night.’

  Portland hesitated then clicked his fingers. ‘Yeah, that were the night before. Sorry, Mr Gallagher, I meant the Queen’s …’

  ‘They had not seen you either,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘In fact,’ said Harris, ‘we checked them all and last night would appear to have been a historic one because you did not turn up at any of them to drink your brains out. A job which, judging from this little performance, you have already done pretty effectively.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. I were definitely—’

  ‘Cut the crap, Lenny,’ said Harris, leaning forward and tapping the photographs. ‘Want to know what I think? I think when I saw you in the village yesterday afternoon you were casing out Harold Leach’s cottage for these two and I reckon you came back with them last night.’

  Portland shook his head vigorously. ‘That’s wrong, Mr Harris, I weren’t there. Honest.’

  ‘Our forensics reckon that three people got into the cottage and I think you were one of them.’ Harris shook his head sadly. ‘A frail old chap and they killed him in cold blood. Despicable behaviour, Lenny, despicable.’

  ‘Well, it weren’t me!’

  ‘Ah, but I think it was.’ Harris jabbed the pictures of the men again. ‘I think you told them about this old fellow with a VC worth a few bob and I think you led them to the cottage.’ Harris looked at Portland’s green jumper. ‘And the funny thing is, our forensics guys found a fibre the same colour as that. Fancy that, eh?’

  Portland swallowed nervously.

  ‘Harold’s blood is on your hands, Lenny,’ said Harris, sitting back and crossing his arms. ‘My friend’s blood is on your hands so now really is the time to tell us where you were.’

  Silence settled on the room and Harris and Gallagher let it lengthen, the inspector toying idly with his papers, the sergeant seeming to be fascinated by the loose button on his jacket. Before the officers had gone into the interview, the sergeant had openly expressed grave doubts about the involvement of Lenny Portland, still seeing him as a petty thief unlikely to find himself embroiled in murder, but now he was having second thoughts. Gallagher looked at Harris, whose face showed no emotion. The sergeant knew what his colleague was thinking: trust my instincts, Matty lad, he was thinking, always trust my instincts. Noticing Harris watching him, the inspector gave the slightest of smiles. As the silence deepened, Lenny Portland looked at the detectives.

  ‘He were dead when I found him,’ he said in a voice so quiet the officers could hardly hear it.

  Gallagher started. Harris sat forward.

  ‘What did you say?’ he asked.

  ‘He were dead when I found him,’ repeated Portland, his voice a little louder. He sounded desperate. ‘Your witness were right, Mr Harris, I were in Chapel Hill last night – but I never killed him, you got to believe that. I’d never do a thing like that.’

  ‘What were you doing there then?’ asked Gallagher with a harsh edge to his voice; he was not going to make the same mistake twice. ‘Come on, Lenny, what were you doing in the cottage? Time to tell us exactly what happened last night.’

  ‘I went for the medal, all right.’ Portland had gone pale and was talking quickly now. ‘I admit that. I seen him wearing it in that television programme and I reckoned it must be worth a bob or two, like you said. Then when I seen him with it at that memorial thing yesterday, well, I decided to nick it. But I never meant to hurt him. Just wanted to get the medal and get out of there. I ain’t never hurt no one, you know that. You have to believe that, Mr Gallagher.’

  ‘I have no idea what to believe,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘Did you have a customer for it?’ asked Harris. ‘Someone you knew would fence it?’

  Portland hesitated.

  ‘Come on,’ said Harris. ‘We’re not daft, Lenny. We know you could not have done this on your own. You were hardly going to take it down the church’s car boot sale, were you now? You must have had someone. Am I right?’

  Portland did not reply. Harris glanced at Gallagher.

  ‘Looks like he wants to take the rap all on his own,’ said the inspector. ‘Sad, really, because I don’t reckon Lenny meant for the old fellow to die. What do you reckon, Sergeant?’

  ‘I reckon that if he told us who set him up to do this, it might play well with a judge.’ Gallagher looked at Portland. ‘Come on, son, we really do need a name.’

  Portland still hesitated.

  ‘And we need it now,’ said Harris.

  ‘Rob Mackey.’

  Gallagher closed his eyes. Harris noticed the gesture and gave a barely noticeable smile before returning his attention to Portland.

  ‘How come he wanted it?’ asked Harris.

  ‘If I tell you, I am out of trouble?’

  ‘Depends what you tell us.’

  ‘He’s taken other things from me in the past.’ Portland seemed eager to admit everything now.

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘I conned my way into some old bloke’s home one time, down in Cafforth, and got away with a couple of medals from his kitchen drawer. Mackey gave me twenty quid for them. And I did another job, same thing.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A couple of summers ago. This old bloke was in his back garden so I snuck in through the front and took it from his living room. That was in Ellerby, that one.’

  ‘And Mackey paid you for that one as well?’ asked Harris.

  ‘Yeah. It weren’t much, mind. Gave me a tenner. I don’t like doing it really. Don’t seem right to steal things from war heroes.’

  ‘It didn’t seem to stop you last night, though.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I were skint.’

  ‘But you didn’t kill Harold Leach?’

  Portland shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘no, I didn’t. God’s honest truth, Mr Harris.’ He looked at the pictures on the desk. ‘And I don’t know who them men are either.’

  ‘So when did you get to Chapel Hill?’

  ‘About two, maybe a bit later. I was real nervous. Waited for ages until I was sure the old chap would be really deep asleep….’

  ‘Were you alone?’ asked Gallagher.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What happened when you got to the cottage?’ asked Gallagher.

  ‘Someone had already forced the back door.’

  ‘But you went in all the same?’

  ‘Nearly didn’t. Must have stood there five minutes making me mind up. When I got in there, into the front room, it were like a bomb had hit it. Chairs turned over, things like that. I should have got out then but something made me go upstairs to the bedroom …’ Portland’s voice tailed off and he shook his head. ‘Shouldn’t have. Stupid thing to do.’

  ‘And then?’ asked Harris. ‘What happened then, Lenny?’

  ‘I went into the bedroom.’ Portland‘s voice was tremulous now and he was fighting strong emotions. He looked at the inspector through dark eyes. ‘It were horrible. I couldn’t see much at f
irst then I saw him, lying next to the bed. His face was all bashed in and there was blood everywhere. I can’t get the image out of me head, Mr Harris. I hightailed it out of there after that. Couldn’t get out fast enough.’

  ‘And the medal? Did you take the medal with you?’

  ‘Nah. I reckoned it were gone anyway. I reckon that’s what whoever broked in was there for. The place was a right mess, like they’d been looking for it.’

  ‘What did you do after you left the cottage?’

  ‘Walked back to Levton Bridge. I were shaking, I can tell you.’ Portland started to cry. ‘You got to believe me, I did not kill him. I would never do anything like that.’

  Harris sat back in his chair and surveyed Portland for a few seconds.

  ‘I believe you,’ said the inspector, glancing at a surprised Gallagher. ‘As the good sergeant here keeps reminding me, murder is not really your style.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  A relieved Lenny Portland having been returned to the cells, Matty Gallagher walked slowly up the dimly lit stairs and headed for the deserted CID room where he sat down at his computer. The sergeant took his notebook from his pocket and opened it at his notes from the interview with Portland. He tapped on his keyboard. Ten minutes later he walked, deep in thought, along the corridor to the inspector’s office.

  ‘You sure about this?’ asked Gallagher as he entered to find Harris tipping back in his chair with his feet up on the desk and his eyes closed. The dogs were curled up by the radiator in the corner of the room. ‘You still want me to release him? I mean, you’ve already taken one big gamble tonight.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Harris did not look at his sergeant nor did he open his eyes.

  ‘Telling him the witness had picked him out,’ said Gallagher, picking up the delivery driver’s statement from the desk. ‘It could have been anyone and well you know it. It was dodgy to say the least.’

  ‘Got to take a punt sometimes, Matty lad.’ Harris returned his feet to the ground and looked at the sergeant. ‘Oh, don’t look like that – don’t tell me that you didn’t push the boat out at some time in your career? They never pulled a stroke like that down in Da Smoke?’

  ‘Yeah, OK, maybe,’ said the sergeant grudgingly. ‘Nevertheless, to just let him walk out of here after he’d said all that.’

  ‘If it makes you feel any better you can let him stew for another half hour but then I want him kicked out. He had nothing to do with the murder and you know it. If nothing else, we can charge him with the jobs he admitted to. Be good for the clear-up rate.’

  ‘Not sure you can even do that. It’s the same as with that piece of paper Esther gave you. There’s no indication that any of these medals were stolen. Lenny Portland’s a born liar, if you ask me. Said it to drop Mackey in it.’

  ‘Why do you think I’m releasing him?’ said Harris, walking over to stare out of the window into the darkness of the night. ‘And much as it grieves me to say it, I am not sure I believe his claims about Mackey.’

  ‘You reckon we’re being sold a pup?’

  ‘It just does not sound right. It would be interesting to see what Mackey says. Any word?’

  ‘Nothing yet. He must have been spooked by something, mind. Maybe he knew we were talking to Lenny. Maybe he saw us lifting him off the bus. You have to admit, it’s not exactly the actions of an innocent man. Then there’s that weird note to his wife and kid. He’d done something wrong, he said. Maybe Lenny is right, maybe Mackey is tied up in Harold’s murder somehow.’

  Harris turned round. ‘Maybe but we should not forget our friends from Manchester in all of this. Murdering an old man for his medal is much more their style, I would have said. Anything else on the car traffic stopped yesterday?’

  ‘As we expected, false documents, false plate. Oh, while I remember, the pathologist says he’ll do a full PM tomorrow but at first glance he can’t see anything to suggest he died from anything else than the beating.’

  A couple of minutes later, Gallagher was walking down the corridor when Butterfield appeared at the top of the stairs.

  ‘He around?’ she asked the sergeant.

  ‘Er, yeah. In his office.’ He looked hard at the constable as she walked past, head down. ‘You OK, pet?’

  ‘Been better.’

  ‘Can’t be as bad as me,’ said Gallagher. ‘I let Rob Mackey slip through my fingers.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been doing with him.’

  Without elaborating on the comment, Butterfield headed for the inspector’s office. Gallagher watched her go in bemusement then turned to head for the canteen. He had a sudden yearning for a bacon sandwich. As he entered the room, his mobile phone rang. The sergeant glanced down at the name on the screen – Jules, it said.

  ‘Hi, love,’ he said in the phone. ‘You on duty yet?’

  ‘Yeah. Looks like it’ll be a busy one – already had a couple of heart attacks. Oh, and two drunks brought in after a fight.’

  ‘We had Henry Maitlin brawling up here.’

  ‘What? The old duffer?’

  ‘Yeah,’ chuckled Gallagher, ‘scrapping away with Barry Gough, he was. Last thing we want.’

  ‘Yeah, folks have been a bit funny for days.’

  ‘Don’t you start. I’ve had enough of that from Harris.’

  ‘The radio said you haven’t got anyone for your murder.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Gallagher, walking up to the counter where he smiled at the assistant. ‘A bacon butty, please, Edie. Actually, make that two.’

  ‘Fat bastard,’ said his wife’s voice down the phone.

  Matty Gallagher smiled. It was the first time he could remember smiling in a long time.

  Back down the corridor, Jack Harris was sitting at his desk, sifting through the day’s reports, when Butterfield knocked lightly on the door.

  ‘Ah, Constable, how goes it?’ he said, gesturing to the chair. ‘Pull up a pew. You’ve worked hard today, you must be knackered. I understand you showed some nifty rugby skills when you brought Lenny Portland down.’

  ‘I guess so.’ Butterfield sat down heavily on one of the chairs.

  ‘Why the long face?’ asked Harris. ‘We’ll crack this one. Just a matter of time.’

  ‘I am afraid I have something to tell you, and you are not going to like it. And I mean really not like it.’

  Thirty minutes later, Jack Harris was alone in his office again, sitting staring into the middle distance, fingers pressed together in a praying motion. Occasionally, he sighed and at one he point closed his eyes. After a few minutes, he murmured ‘silly girl’. Scoot looked up from his spot next to the radiator.

  ‘It does make you wonder,’ said Harris. ‘I mean, it really does. What was she thinking of? Don’t answer that, Scoot, I think we all know the answer to that one.’

  Scoot ambled across the room and rubbed his head against the inspector’s leg. Seeing what was happening, Archie did the same.

  ‘And don’t either of you get any daft ideas,’ said Harris as he scratched both of them behind the ear in turn.

  The inspector’s reverie was disturbed by the ringing of his mobile phone. He walked over to where his jacket was hanging on a peg on the wall and took out the device. Glancing down at the screen, Harris smiled. Leckie, it said.

  ‘You got something for me?’ asked the inspector into the phone. ‘Because believe me I could do with something.’

  ‘Just got a call from our DI. Your two guys Forrest and Michaels? Standish says they’re back in Manchester.’

  ‘He got them in custody?’

  ‘Not yet. One of our informants saw them leaving a pub in the town centre but they have gone to ground. I take it you are still after them?’

  ‘Too right I am,’ said Harris, returning to sit once more with his feet up on the desk. ‘The way it’s looking they’re my best bet for the old guy’s murder.’

  ‘Well, like I said, you want anything solving you just give me a ring, old son. L
isten, Jamie Standish was wondering if you wanted to come down here?’

  ‘He was?’

  ‘Yeah, I was gobsmacked when he made the offer. Thought you would be the last person he would want to see. After … well, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ said Harris.

  ‘Anyway, he’s pretty sure they’ll turn up in one of their other haunts before long. He thought you might like to be there when it happens?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Harris. ‘Can I bring someone down with me?’

  ‘You can bring that pretty constable with you, if you like.’

  ‘I think,’ said Harris, ‘that she has done more than enough for one day.’

  Shortly before nine o’clock, the main door to Levton Bridge Police Station opened and Lenny Portland walked out into the damp night air. After glancing along the deserted street, he headed up the hill, bound for the welcoming warmth of the market place’s pubs. Portland had just rounded the corner when a man stepped out from a back alley running down the side of the Co-op, barring his way.

  ‘What do you want?’ muttered Portland, making as if to brush past him.

  ‘Heard the cops pulled you in,’ said the man, catching his arm and not allowing him to pass. ‘You better be telling the truth about not being involved in the old feller’s murder.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then what you been saying? Better not have mentioned me. I don’t want dragging into it.’

  ‘I said nowt about you.’ Portland shrugged his arm free.

  ‘Then what did you tell Harris?’ The man’s voice was anxious. ‘I assume it was Harris?’

  ‘Yeah, him and that Gallagher bloke. I would rather it had been that Butterfield bird – she’s nice, she is. Anyway, stop looking so worried. I told them that I was working for Mackey.’

  ‘You did what? I thought we agreed that you would not say anything.’

  ‘They were really heavy,’ said Portland plaintively.

  ‘Heavy?’ asked the man, peering at the gash on his cheek. ‘That how you got that?’

  ‘Nah, that’s when that blonde detective knocked me over.’

  ‘Tough man, aren’t we?’ said the man sarcastically. ‘So they didn’t lay a hand on you?’