To Honour the Dead

by John Dean

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘So why tell them it was Mackey, for God’s sake?’

  ‘They had a witness what saw me in the village last night. I had to say something and Mackey was the first thing that came into my mind. Everyone knows that Harris hates him. Don’t look like that. I had to say something. Harris, he said that I was in the frame for murdering the old guy if I didn’t come up with something.’

  ‘But you didn’t mention me?’

  Portland shook his head vigorously. ‘I wouldn’t drop you in it, mate. I ain’t like that.’

  ‘You dropped Mackey in it and he’s done nothing wrong. What did Harris make of it?’ The man glanced nervously round as he saw a woman walking her dog on the far side of the market place.

  ‘Seemed happy with it.’

  The man watched the woman disappear into a side alley then nodded.

  ‘It might not be so bad,’ he said. ‘Harris would believe anything about Mackey. Yeah, maybe it’s not too bad. I’m down at the storehouse tomorrow anyway so I should be able to keep out of Harris’s way. Already had one run-in with him.’

  ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Yeah, go on.’ Portland had only taken three steps when the man grabbed his arm. ‘But just remember, if my name gets dragged into this …’

  ‘I’ll remember.’ Portland nodded, wriggling free and heading across the market place. ‘How could I forget? Jesus, I need a drink.’

  ‘Well, just keep your trap shut if you get drunk. You know what you’re like when you’re in your cups.’

  ‘I will,’ said Portland. ‘I promise.’

  Having seen him go into a nearby pub, the man walked out of the market place, not noticing the dark figure shrinking back into the shadows, watching him in silence. When the man had gone, Detective Constable James Larch stepped out onto the pavement and started following at a reasonable distance, his surveillance eventually coming to a stop in a terraced street where his quarry let himself into a house. Leaning against a wall at the end of the street and watching as the downstairs light went on, Larch fished his mobile out of his pocket and dialled a number.

  ‘Gallagher,’ said the voice on the other end.

  ‘It’s me. Look, I hope you don’t mind, Sarge, but I changed the plan a bit.’

  ‘For why?’

  ‘Well, Portland has gone into the Duck and experience suggests it will be a long time before he comes out.’

  ‘Granted,’ said the sergeant, who was in the CID squad room. ‘So what’s the change of plan?’

  ‘I followed Barry Gough instead.’

  ‘Why on earth would you do that?’

  ‘I saw something rather interesting in the market place. Our friend Gough would appear to have plenty to discuss with Lenny Portland.’

  ‘Didn’t know they knocked around together. Lenny’s never shown much interest in pacifism,’ said Gallagher. ‘Not sure he could even spell it.’

  Larch gave a low laugh. ‘I reckon you’re right,’ he said, ‘but I kinda got the impression that it wasn’t about that. They seemed to be having a really intense conversation and when they went their separate ways, Gough grabbed him by the arm. Looked like he was really hurting Portland. Portland couldn’t get away quick enough.’

  ‘Now that is interesting. Where’s Gough now then?’

  ‘He’s gone home. Number 15 Raymond Street’s his gaff, I think?’

  ‘Scruffy place, peeling green paint, loads of posters in the window?’

  ‘That’s the one. What do you want me to do? Go back and keep an eye on Portland? Can’t really go into the Duck, he’ll clock me straightaway, but I could wait outside.’

  ‘No,’ said the sergeant. ‘No, I reckon we’ve got enough to do without hanging around outside pubs.’

  ‘But I thought the governor wanted me to—’

  ‘You leave Harris to me,’ said Gallagher. ‘He’s not here anyway. He’s on his way to Manchester. The glamour of high command, Jimmy boy, the glamour of command.’

  ‘You ever been to Manchester?’ asked Larch.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Went to see Carlisle play City one time. Crap pies.’

  ‘Now where have I heard that before?’ said Gallagher.

  A weary Rob Mackey pulled the Range Rover off the motorway shortly after nine and edged it into the motel car park. After reaching onto the back seat for his overnight bag, he got out and walked over to the reception.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said a pleasant young woman as he pushed open the door and walked up to the counter. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘A room for the night.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ She busied herself with the paperwork. ‘Have you come far today, sir?’

  ‘Too far,’ said Mackey.

  The girl looked at him with bemusement but he did not elaborate on the comment so she went back to her work. As he waited, Mackey’s mobile phone rang. He took it out of his jacket pocket and looked down at the illuminated screen. Liz, it said. The thirteenth time she had called. He had listened to one of her messages but had stopped before the end, tiring of his wife’s angry tirades. He had not listened to any of the others.

  ‘Don’t mind me, sir,’ said the girl as it continued to ring. ‘It might be important.’

  Mackey slipped the phone back into his pocket as it stopped ringing.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘no, I don’t think it is.’

  The girl had just finished filling out the paperwork when Mackey’s phone went again. He ignored it and it stopped ringing. A matter of seconds later, it rang again. Mackey sighed and took the phone out again, glancing at the screen. Al, it said.

  ‘You’re popular, sir,’ said the girl brightly, handing over his credit card and his booking form.

  Mackey gave a slight smile.

  ‘How right you are,’ he said, picking up his bag and heading towards the stairs. ‘Just with all the wrong people.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The fog was rolling thick and silent over the northern hills as Jack Harris guided the Land Rover carefully across the moor, occasionally leaning over the steering wheel as he struggled to make out the way ahead. Visibility had been poor ever since he and Detective Inspector Gillian Roberts had pulled away from the police station half an hour before, leaving the dogs in the doting care of the two women in the control room. Roberts, sitting in silence beside Harris, not speaking in order to let him concentrate on the road, was Levton Bridge’s only detective inspector. A mother of two in her early fifties, she affected a matronly demeanour but behind the avuncular façade was an officer as tough and sharp as they came, one who thrived on the challenges of the job. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness; this was the kind of thing she loved most. Her daily life tended to be spent dealing with the likes of Lenny Portland so the prospect of coming up against more serious villains had her excited.

  As he drove, Jack Harris was experiencing similar emotions. That he still did so five years after leaving Manchester never failed to surprise him. He had always assumed that he would be able to adapt completely to life back in the valley, that he had seen enough major-league crime during his time in the city to be sated. An officer who had always appreciated working in Manchester, who had always felt a rush of adrenaline when the big jobs were on, who relished bumping heads with villains, he had nevertheless assumed that his decision to seek out more peaceful climes would always seem like the right one. By and large it had been but on nights like this, when the chase was on, Jack Harris felt a call to his previous life.

  The inspector knew that he had to resist such moments; deep in his heart he did not want to go back to Manchester. He had felt claustrophobic living in the city, like he could hear everyone’s thoughts. He had known then, knew now, that the northern hills would keep calling to him until he finally committed his life fully to them; it was, he had reasoned, rather like a marriage and the hills were his ever-constant partner. And one on which he could rely to be faithful. Nevertheless, as ever in such situations as this
, when the paradox of his emotions were so clearly exposed, the inspector felt the stirrings of excitement.

  As the fog cleared at last and the road began to dip, the detectives could see the twinkling lights of villages spread out across the flatlands ahead of them, and in the far distance the town of Roxham, the area’s largest community. They would turn off long before they reached it, though, the Land Rover heading for the M6 southbound. As Harris relaxed and sat back in his seat again, Roberts glanced across at him.

  ‘This Ronny Michaels character,’ she said. ‘You know him of old then?’

  ‘From my Manchester days. A job on the M62. There was a lorry driver parked up in a truck stop for the night. Carrying crates of lager. Michaels and his gang jumped him when he nipped out to check his fastenings. We’d had a few jobs like that over the previous few months – same gang, we reckoned. Michaels coshed the driver. Landed him in hospital.’

  ‘Nice lad. How did you get them?’

  ‘Ah, well, because there had been quite a few of the jobs, we had been running an op so when the call came in, everyone was on standby. Traffic had a couple of fast cars parked near where it happened and intercepted them as they tried to get away. They tried to outrun them but not sure a loaded Ford Transit had much chance against one of our vehicles. They do like the glory stuff, the traffic boys.’

  ‘Rather like our Mr Barnett,’ said Roberts.

  ‘You heard about that then?’

  ‘It’s all anyone’s talking about. He’s walking round like he’s some kind of hero. From what Matty says the bus would have exploded if it had got above fifteen miles an hour. Not sure Barnett needed to do the high-speed pursuit stuff. Matty’s well hacked off.’

  ‘I’m sure he is.’ Harris frowned. ‘I lost it with Roger, if I’m honest. Threatened him.’

  ‘Why on earth did you do that?’

  ‘I’m really struggling with this,’ sighed Harris. He looked across at her with dark eyes. ‘I really am.’

  ‘Because it’s Harold?’

  ‘Yeah, because it’s Harold. We had known each other for years. Since I was a kid. First time I met him I must have been, I don’t know, ten, eleven, and I was out on the moor when I saw him walking towards me. Pointed out a buzzard to me on the horizon. All I could see was a black speck but he knew that it was a female and what it had had for breakfast. We got talking and we’d been friends ever since. He taught me so much about wildlife, you know. I’ve lost a friend, Gillian.’

  ‘You sure you want to handle the inquiry? I am sure they would send another—’

  ‘No, I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Sure? I mean, just because you were upset is not a reason to take it out on Roger Barnett.’

  ‘He deserved it. Not sure whether to take it any further, mind.’

  ‘In my experience, a hard word from Jack Harris usually suffices,’ she said with a smile. ‘Why the worried look, Jack? You think Barnett will complain? He’d be stupid if he did.’

  ‘Who knows? And wouldn’t Curtis love it if he did? He’s been waiting for something like that. Let’s not talk about it any more. Just gets me narked.’

  ‘Fair enough. You were saying. This lot that did over the lorry driver. What happened?’

  ‘Well, we had them bang to rights and they knew it. We found the cosh in the back of the van along with dozens of crates that they had taken from the lorry.’

  ‘Nice job.’

  ‘Yeah, and what’s more,’ said Harris, grinning, ‘the halfwit behind the wheel had already had two cans of Special. Not only did we get him for robbery but traffic breathalyzed him and he blew positive. Kept the traffic boys happy.’

  Roberts laughed. It was always good when Harris lightened up. It just didn’t happen often enough, in her view.

  ‘And you were the one who interviewed Michaels, I take it?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Harris nodded as he guided the Land Rover round a sharp bend. ‘It was my op so I did them all. He admitted being involved in the job straightaway, put his hands up to another four as well, but he swore blind that he never hit the driver. Claimed it was one of the others. He seemed genuinely concerned about what had happened to the guy. Never did work out if he was a coward or a villain with a conscience.’

  ‘Which one did you come up with?’

  ‘A twat.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Gillian Roberts.

  ‘Now this is interesting,’ said Gallagher, turning away from the computer screen, tipping back in his chair and glancing at Butterfield, who was sitting in the far corner of the CID room, staring out of the window. ‘There’s nothing on Mackey but we may have something on—’

  ‘There’s something you need to know,’ she said, turning to look at him.

  ‘You’ve been dobbing Rob Mackey.’

  ‘What?’ She stared at him in amazement.

  ‘Just a wild guess,’ said Gallagher with an impish look on his face. ‘It was that or you were a Martian.’

  ‘Who told you?’ Butterfield said angrily.

  ‘Saw your spaceship parked in the yard.’ Noticing that she was not laughing, he added. ‘Harris.’

  ‘But I told him it was a personal matter.’

  ‘The DCI would beg to differ. He sees it as an operational matter and one I needed to know about. For what it’s worth, I think he’s right. I mean, your pal Mackey has got a lot of questions to answer, has he not?’

  ‘I guess,’ she said glumly. ‘To his wife for a start.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘What else did Harris say?’

  ‘That he would have liked to have known about your dalliance a bit earlier. Why didn’t you tell him, for God’s sake, Alison? You knew Mackey was a part of the Morritt investigation. Surely you must have seen that there was a conflict of interest?’

  ‘But your inquiries showed Rob did nothing wrong. Besides, we got together after you finished your investigation.’

  ‘But before the inquest. At least if you had told the governor you would have covered your back if things went funny.’

  ‘I didn’t think he’d approve,’ said Butterfield, turning back to stare out of the window. ‘I just didn’t think he would approve.’

  ‘What, and you think he does now?’ said Gallagher sharply. Noticing her unhappy expression, he added in a softer voice, ‘Look, love, I just think the DCI does not like these kind of things being kept from him. You know what he’s like with surprises. Surely you have not forgotten the fiasco when we tried to throw the curmudgeonly old bastard a birthday party?’

  ‘But there’s no law against what I’ve done, Matty.’ She sounded plaintive when she said it, looking at Gallagher as if seeking approbation for what she had done.

  ‘The DCI’s view is that it shows a lack of judgement. Look, I know you like Mackey but in my view the man’s a prat. One, might I remind you, who tried to block the DCI’s investigation when that flipping bird was shot. And one who is now up to his neck in a murder inquiry.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding. Rob’s not so bad when you get to know him. He can be quite gentle.’

  ‘You,’ said the sergeant with a twinkle in his eye, ‘would know more about that than me.’

  The comment eased the tension in the room and Butterfield shied the phone book at him. Gallagher ducked, roaring with laughter as he did so.

  ‘Bastard!’ she said. ‘You are a complete bastard!’

  ‘I like to think so,’ said Gallagher, grinning.

  Their hilarity was interrupted by the arrival of Roger Barnett, who strode into the room and looked round.

  ‘This how you go about solving a murder inquiry then?’ he asked. ‘Your gaffer ain’t in his office. Where is he?’

  ‘Not in his office,’ said Gallagher, winking at Butterfield.

  ‘Don’t come the funny man with me. I asked where your—’

  ‘Where our governor is has nothing to do with you,’ said Gallagher, bridling at the sergeant’s tone of voice. ‘What do you want him fo
r anyway?’

  ‘He bawled me out earlier – threatened me, he did – and I want him to apologize.’

  ‘Apologize? Jack Harris?’

  ‘Yeah, Jack Harris. I was going to take it straight to Curtis then I thought, no, if I get an apol—’

  ‘Not sure you’ll get an apology from our gaffer,’ said Gallagher. ‘In fact, he’s more likely to ask you why you’ve been knocking Lenny Portland about.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That‘s what Lenny seems to think.’

  ‘He got what he deserved!’

  ‘And so, I imagine, will you if you try it on with our governor. I know they do things differently in the buzzing metropolis that is Roxham but up here Jack Harris’s word is law. Always worth bearing that in mind, Roger. What do you think, Constable?’

  Butterfield nodded. ‘Oh, aye,’ she said. ‘Law, Roger.’

  Barnett stalked angrily from the room.

  ‘You just wait,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘You just see what Curtis thinks to all of this.’

  ‘Yeah, good luck with that,’ shouted Gallagher. He frowned. ‘Don‘t know why we’re laughing. This could be what Curtis has been waiting for.’

  ‘The DCI’s a survivor.’

  ‘So was Harold Leach,’ said Gallagher, walking out of the room. ‘And look what happened to him.’

  Harris guided the Land Rover up the motorway slip road and onto the largely empty southbound carriageway. As he did so, his dashboard-mounted mobile phone rang.

  ‘Harris,’ he said reaching down to press the receive call button.

  ‘It’s Leckie,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘You on the way down here?’

  ‘Yeah, just pulling onto the M6. Why?’

  ‘Just had the DI on. One of our informants reckon your two guys may turn up at a pub on one of our housing estates. It’s notorious for stoppy-backs and, apparently, they sometimes make an appearance on a Thursday night. Been doing it for months. Nice of our informant not to tell us before. We didn’t even know they were back in town.’

  ‘Perhaps they were waiting until some professional coppers turned up.’