To Honour the Dead

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To Honour the Dead Page 13

by John Dean


  ‘Yeah, never know when you’re likely to need someone who knows about sheep in Manchester,’ said Leckie. ‘Place is thick with the buggers, you know.’

  ‘Should we head direct to the pub then?’

  ‘No, I’ll text you the details of where to find us. Did you take my advice and bring that delightful little blonde constable with you?’

  Before Harris could reply, Gillian Roberts leaned over towards the phone.

  ‘’Fraid not, Graham,’ she said in her best matronly tone. ‘He brought her wrinkled old granny instead.’

  All they heard was a low laugh from Leckie.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Gallagher joined Butterfield at the squad-room window and they watched as four police vans and two patrol cars edged their way out of the station yard and onto the main road outside the station.

  ‘That’s the governor’s doing,’ said Gallagher. ‘He asked for a show of force to reassure folks. That last thing we want is another incident a couple of days before Remembrance Sunday.’

  Butterfield did not reply and silence settled on the room. Gallagher hesitated.

  ‘I take it,’ he said, without looking at her, ‘that you did not know anything about what Mackey was up to?’

  ‘Do you even have to ask?’ she replied sharply.

  ‘I had to, though. I mean, didn’t I? Oh, don’t look like that. I imagine the governor said the same thing.’

  ‘Firstly,’ she said with anger in her voice as she stared hard at him, ‘there’s not much to suggest exactly what Rob’s done, if he’s done anything at all, and secondly, do you really think I would have stayed with him if I had known? I mean, do you, Matty? Knowing he could have been mixed up with something like this?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t think you would.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ There was an awkward silence. The constable broke it. ‘Anyway, what were you saying before Barnett interrupted us?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Gallagher, relieved that the tension had eased. He walked back to his computer. ‘See, I had this crazy idea that Rob might be advertising his stuff on the web – ebay, something like that, you know?’

  ‘Curtis would be delighted if we could solve all crimes by internet,’ said Butterfield, remaining at the window to watch the patrols disperse. ‘Save on mileage, that would. But even if you were right that Rob is into something dodgy, I am pretty sure that he would not be so stupid to use his own name. He’s a pretty smart cookie, you know.’

  ‘I guessed that but we have his contact numbers so I thought I would try them anyway. Long shot, I know.’ Gallagher tapped the computer screen. ‘Anyway, you will be delighted to hear that I found nothing – well, not about Rob anyway. But guess who is dealing in war memorabilia?’

  ‘Dunno.’ she shrugged. ‘Who?’

  ‘Humour me for a moment. Think of the last person in the world you would expect?’

  ‘Mother Teresa?’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘I don’t know then. She was the obvious one.’

  ‘Barry Gough,’ said Gallagher dramatically. He tapped the computer screen. ‘We had his number as well. Got it one time when he was lifted for protesting so I keyed that in. Another long shot, really, but look what came up.’

  Butterfield walked over to the computer and shook her head in disbelief as she looked over his shoulder.

  ‘You sure that’s his number?’ she said as she read the ‘Contact Us’ section of a website, which featured a series of military images and the words ‘Memorabilia for Sale’. ‘I always assumed he would be against anything like that on principle.’

  ‘Clearly his views are a somewhat movable feast.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Butterfield as Gallagher clicked back to the home page and she pointed at a piece of small print. ‘That says that they do not deal in medals.’

  ‘So it does.’ He looked disappointed. ‘And much as I would like to lock the little bugger up and throw away the key, I guess there’s nothing illegal about what this lot are doing, as far as I can see. It’s simply a bunch of saddoes selling old army gear.’

  ‘Unless they’re nicking it first.’

  ‘Unless they’re nicking it first.’

  ‘Look,’ said Butterfield, pointing to an address on the screen, ‘they trade out of Manchester. What do you reckon that is – an industrial estate or something? A lock-up, perhaps?’

  ‘If only we had someone in Manchester who could help us out,’ said Gallagher, picking up the phone. ‘Oh, hang on, we just happen to have a couple of our finest on their way there as we speak. I’ll ring Leckie first. See what we can dig up.’

  ‘You decided what you’re going to do about young Butterfield?’ asked Gillian Roberts as the Land Rover sped through the night.

  ‘Not sure what I can do,’ said the inspector, moving into the middle lane to overtake a slow-moving lorry. ‘Not sure there’s a law against dating a git.’

  ‘You just do not like Rob Mackey, do you?’

  ‘Can’t stand the man.’

  ‘And yet you are so considerate with everyone else,’ she said, shooting him a sly look. ‘It’s so out of character.’

  ‘That’s below the belt,’ said Harris but he did not seem offended by the comment.

  ‘Talking of below the belt, do we know how long they had been sleeping together?’

  ‘Only a few months. She did not want anyone to know about it.’

  ‘Especially you.’

  ‘I guess so.’ He gave the slightest of smiles. ‘I can’t imagine why. Like you so rightly point out, I am usually so understanding.’

  ‘Just keep your eyes on the road. Don’t want to hit that flying pig if it gets too low, do we now? Talking of people with delusions of the truth, do you believe Portland? Is Rob Mackey wrapped up in this murder somehow?’

  ‘Can’t see it.’

  ‘Then why’s he done a runner?’

  ‘Not sure. There’s something we don’t know and I don’t like not knowing things.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to remind young Butterfield about that next time I see her.’

  The inspector’s mobile phone bleeped and Roberts leaned over to call up the text.

  ‘It’s a pub called the Red Lion,’ she said. ‘Leckie says we are to meet a DI called Jamie Standish at the main town police station and they’ll take us there. Says you will be delighted to see Standish again. He’s put an exclamation mark after it. What’s that about then?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll tell you one day.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that.’ Roberts read to the end of the message. ‘They want to know how long we’ll be.’

  ‘Not long,’ said Harris, ramming his foot on the accelerator. ‘Not long at all.’

  ‘Barry Gough?’ said Leckie, tapping on his own keyboard. ‘Not sure I’ve heard of him, Matty. Why so interested? Something to do with these guys your governor is after?’

  ‘Possibly. I hope we’re not wasting your time, Graham. I don’t imagine you’ll find much about him.’

  ‘Au contraire. Your Mr Gough has got quite a record. All minor disorder stuff, mind. Public order, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Linked to war protests, no doubt.’

  ‘Most of it. According to this, he left Manchester two years ago but no one knew where he went. Did you know he was ex-army?’

  ‘But he’s an anti-war protestor.’

  ‘Maybe it’s less to do with principle and more to do with getting his own back. Says here that he was kicked out at the age of twenty-one for being drunk on duty three times in a week. His involvement in protests would appear to have started after that.’

  ‘What else has he been up to?’

  ‘D and D, a bit of petty crime. He’s not much of a fish, Matty. What makes you think he might be linked to the murder of your old feller?’

  ‘He’s been selling war memorabilia through a bunch in Manchester. Their website mentions an address. Sale Street.’

  ‘Yeah, I know it. It’s on the edge of tow
n. Not much to it, mind – a few workshops, half of which are empty. In fact, I did hear the council might be knocking it down. I guess your gaffer could take a look while he’s down here but it sounds like a long shot. Anything else you want me to check?’

  ‘I’m still trying to make sense of a war protestor who ends up selling memorabilia on the QT.’

  ‘Nothing like a man of principle.’

  ‘And Barry Gough is nothing like a man of principle.’

  ‘I’ll set ’em up, you knock ’em in,’ said Leckie.

  Silence had settled on Levton Bridge market place, the only movement a cat skulking in the shadows. Shortly before the town clock chimed midnight, a police van drove slowly past the rows of shops and tearooms. The driver brought the vehicle to a halt as it drew parallel with the war memorial. He lowered his window and peered through the fog.

  ‘Anything?’ asked his colleague.

  ‘Nah, seems OK. After all, who would be stupid enough to try something after what happened at Chapel Hill?’

  ‘I guess,’ said the passenger. ‘Come on, I’m freezing, let’s get a cuppa. We’ll take another look a bit later. No one’s going to do anything now.’

  The driver nodded his agreement and the van drove round the corner in the direction of the police station. When it had gone, a figure emerged from an alley on the far side of the market place and walked slowly towards the memorial.

  Liz Mackey sat in the darkened kitchen at Laurel House and nursed her fourth glass of whisky. The mobile phone sat on the table in front of her. Its battery was starting to run low. Wearily, Liz reached out and dialled her husband’s mobile number yet again and placed the phone to her ear. ‘The owner of this phone is unable to take your call,’ said the automated voice at the other end. It had been saying that for hours. Liz sighed and put the phone back on the table. The kitchen door opened and her teenage daughter walked into the room. She was dressed in her pyjamas. Bleary-eyed, Bethany glanced at the clock.

  ‘It’s 1.30, Mum,’ she said. ‘Go to bed.’

  ‘I can’t sleep. I keep thinking.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bethany, sitting down and putting her arm round her shoulder. ‘So do I. Where do you think he is?’

  ‘I have no idea. With his fancy woman, I suppose.’

  ‘Are you sure about him having an affair? I mean, the letter that the police took, it doesn’t actually say that, does it?’

  ‘It’s what it meant,’ said Liz. She reached across to stroke her daughter’s hair. ‘I’m sorry, love.’

  ‘For what, Mum?’

  ‘For letting it happen.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft. The only person to blame is Dad. And the other woman. Do you know who she is?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ she said; she was slurring her words a little.

  They sat in silence for a few moments.

  Bethany said, ‘Did you love him, Mum?’

  Liz reached for the bottle as she considered the question.

  ‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’ said her daughter, moving it further away. ‘God, that was virtually full this morning.’

  Liz looked thoughtful. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t think I do love your father. Maybe not even at the start. Is that a terrible thing to say?’

  Bethany shook her head. ‘Not really. I don’t love him either. He gave me good reason to—’

  ‘Please God don’t tell me that he—’

  ‘No, nothing like that, Mum,’ said her daughter quickly. ‘He did not have time for anyone else.’

  Liz smiled sadly. ‘Except for his mystery woman,’ she said.

  ‘Except for his mystery woman,’ agreed Bethany, sliding the bottle over to her mother. ‘Go on, have another drink, you old soak.’

  Liz poured some whisky out and held the glass up.

  ‘Here’s to her,’ she said. ‘She’s welcome to him. I hope she’s happy with what she’s done.’

  Alison Butterfield sat in the darkened kitchen of her flat close to the market place and nursed her fourth glass of whisky. The mobile phone sat on the table in front of her. Its battery was starting to run low. Wearily, Butterfield reached out and dialled Rob Mackey’s mobile number yet again and placed the phone to her ear. ‘The owner of this phone is unable to take your call,’ said the automated voice at the other end. It had been saying that for hours. Butterfield sighed and put the phone back on the table.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The rain was falling again when Harris and Roberts parked the Land Rover outside the Manchester police station. As they got out, a tall, lean plain-clothes officer walked out from the bright lights of the reception area.

  ‘Jamie,’ said Harris as they shook hands. ‘Glad they saw sense and made you DI. I told them you were a good lad.’

  ‘I did hear that you put a word in for me. Much appreciated. Hope we may be able to return the favour tonight.’

  It seemed to the watching Gillian Roberts that, for all the apparent generosity of the detective inspector’s welcome, there was a lack of warmth in his utterances. A forced formality. As ever when she found herself in such situations, she wondered about the things she did not know about Jack Harris. The DCI rarely talked about his life but there had been stories, rumours, fragments that suggested a past with its fair share of dark shadings. Roberts had seen enough of her boss’s methods to suspect that what worked in the rural backwater of Levton Bridge might not be so readily tolerated in the urban sprawl. She had always suspected that there had been those who had been pleased to see the DCI leave the city. Jamie Standish, she decided, had been one of them.

  ‘Jamie, this is DI Roberts,’ said Harris, gesturing to her and cutting through her reverie. ‘She’s part of my team at Levton Bridge.’

  ‘Glad to meet you,’ said Standish, shaking the DI’s hand as well, a little less guarded this time. ‘Welcome to sunny Manchester, Inspector, although we don’t really have time for these niceties, mind. Your two guys have turned up at the pub.’

  Twenty minutes later, the inspector’s Land Rover was parked on one of the town’s housing estates and Harris and Roberts were sitting and surveying a rundown pub which stood at the end of a row of dilapidated shops. The shops were in darkness but there was a pale light shining through the ragged curtains of the pub. Parked next to the Land Rover was Jamie Standish’s car; they could see that the detective inspector was on the phone.

  ‘It’s at times like this,’ said Harris, glancing across at the nearby houses, most of which were boarded up, ‘that I remember why I left Manchester.’

  ‘It’s why I never left our force. I had the opportunity, you know. Could have joined West Yorkshire but I just couldn’t work areas like this. I know we have some dodgy places back home but nothing like this.’

  ‘It’s not all this bad. Some of the area is really pleasant.’

  ‘No hills, though.’

  ‘No,’ said Harris, ‘no hills.’

  ‘Must have been a big decision, leaving Manchester.’ Roberts looked at him. ‘I mean, from what I hear you were on the fast-track when you were down here.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Harris hesitated. ‘How can I put it, Gillian? Not everyone appreciated my way of working. They were a little more PC than I am.’

  Roberts looked across at Standish in his car.

  ‘And him?’ she said. ‘Was he one of those who did not appreciate your way of working?’

  Harris did not have chance to answer the question.

  ‘Here we go,’ he said, noticing three police vans pull up not far from the pub and disgorge a large number of officers in riot gear. As the team quickly congregated, Harris and Roberts got out of the Land Rover and joined Standish as he walked towards the pub. Another vehicle pulled up behind the vans and a couple of officers got out carrying firearms.

  ‘We going to need them?’ asked Harris.

  ‘You can never be too careful. This isn’t some backwoods village, you know.’ Standish stopped walking and turned to face them. ‘Let ou
r heavy mob go in first. Leave the arrests to them.’

  ‘Hang on, what…?’

  ‘I don’t know how you do things at Levton Bridge but here we have our own way of working.’ Standish gave him a hard look. ‘Understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Harris, having looked as if he might continue to remonstrate with him. ‘It’s your show, Jamie. We would not dream of interfering.’

  ‘Just make sure you don’t.’ There was an awkward silence between the two men then Standish added, in what seemed to Roberts, like a forced attempt at joviality, ‘After all, it wouldn’t look good if we let a couple of visiting cops get themselves shot on our patch, would it?’

  ‘Think of the paperwork,’ said Harris.

  ‘Quite.’

  Seconds later, it started. One of the uniforms approached the pub door with a hydraulic ram and there was the sound of splintering wood and shouted warnings as the officers poured into the building. The detectives could hear more hollering from inside, the noise of chairs and tables being overturned and the smashing of glass. After less than a minute, a man ran out of the front door, barging his way past one of the uniformed officers, knocking him to the ground. Looking wildly about him, the man saw the detectives and started to run towards the nearby houses.

  ‘That’s Michaels,’ said Harris urgently.

  ‘You just leave him to …’ began Standish but a second man appeared from the front door of the pub, brushed past the uniformed officer, who had only just struggled to his feet, and started to run in the opposite direction to his accomplice.

  ‘And that looks like Forrest,’ said Harris, looking at Standish then at the uniformed officer in the pub doorway, who had sunk to his knees again. ‘You can’t get them both, Jamie. And I’m not sure chummy is going to be much help.’

  Standish hesitated then nodded.

  ‘OK,’ he said reluctantly. ‘You get Dave Forrest and—’

  ‘No, I’ll get Michaels,’ interrupted Harris and started to chase the fleeing man.

  ‘No tricks!’ shouted Standish after him and Harris waved a hand in acknowledgment.

 

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