by John Dean
‘Tricks?’ asked Roberts.
Standish did not reply but gave a low curse beneath his breath and ran after Forrest. Gillian Roberts watched Harris closing in on Michaels then turned to follow Standish. It did not take Harris long to catch up with Ronny Michaels in a back alley a hundred metres from the pub. Breathing hard, Michaels slowed as he heard the thundering footsteps getting closer behind him. He whirled round to see the inspector bearing down on him. Michaels’ eyes widened as he recognized his pursuer.
‘You!’ he gasped.
‘Long time no see, Ronny,’ said Harris, slowing down to walking pace. ‘Beaten up any innocent old men lately?’
‘I don’t know what …’
‘I think you murdered my friend, sunshine.’ Harris was battling to control his emotions. ‘I think you kicked his brains in.’
‘It weren’t me did that, Harris,’ said Michaels quickly. His eyes had widened even further and he looked scared. ‘Honest. I never killed him.’
‘God help you if you did.’
Noticing that the detective had clenched his fist, Michaels gave a cry of alarm and lashed out. Harris ducked expertly beneath the blow and flicked out his hand. The punch caught Michaels on the side of the face and he staggered sideways, clattering into the fence, his knees buckling. He stayed there for a moment or two then, on seeing the inspector advance, swayed to his feet and turned to run. He did not even see the punch. The next thing Michaels knew, he was lying on his back with a pounding head and the inspector standing over him.
‘It weren’t me,’ said Michaels desperately. He held up an arm to fend off the next blow. ‘It were Dave did it.’
‘Will you say that on the record?’ asked Harris as Michaels scrabbled a few feet further away.
‘Yeah, anything. Just don’t hurt me.’
‘That what Harold said? He ask you to stop hurting him as well? That what happened, Ronny?’
‘No!’
Harris walked up to Michaels, stared at him for a few moments then pulled back his foot.
‘Please, no!’ wailed Michaels.
By the time Dave Forrest had reached the end of the row of shops, the younger and fitter Jamie Standish had already caught up with him. Hearing him closing in, Forrest turned and struck out. Standish did not read the punch in time and was sent reeling by the blow to his face, sinking to his knees as he leant against one of the shop windows, his world spinning and his stomach heaving. Forrest was about to turn and run when he saw the approaching Roberts.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.
‘I,’ she said calmly, ‘am DI Roberts from Levton Bridge. You know Levton Bridge, I think, Dave? Why, I believe you might even have been there yesterday.’
Forrest eyed her uncertainly, worried by her calm demeanour.
‘On your way to kill Harold Leach,’ she added, ‘if that jogs your memory. Easy to forget these little things in the confusion of everyday life, isn’t it?’
Forrest glanced over his shoulder.
‘If,’ said Roberts, ‘you are assessing the odds of outrunning a woman who is old enough to be your mother, let me help you make your mind up.’
Before Forrest could react, the detective inspector had moved behind him, grasped his arms and snapped a pair of handcuffs round his wrists. She walked the bewildered man to where Jamie Standish was now standing up, holding his head.
‘Good work,’ he said ruefully. ‘Jack Harris has taught you well.’
Together, they walked Forrest back to the pub where other officers were loading more men into the additional police vans that had now arrived.
‘A good haul,’ said Standish, eyeing them approvingly. ‘We’ve been after a couple of them for a while now. With Michaels, that makes for a good night’s work. Assuming your gaffer got him, of course.’
‘He’ll have got him,’ said Roberts.
They heard a scream from the direction of the back alley.
‘Just depends what shape he’s in when he does,’ replied Standish bleakly. ‘Those two have history. There’s a lot of people have history with your governor.’
‘So it would seem,’ she murmured.
The two detectives watched as Harris ushered Ronny Michaels out of the alleyway. Michaels was walking unsteadily, clutching his side. His face, which was twisted in pain, was grazed and already showing signs of a bruise.
‘Tricks,’ said Standish to Roberts.
She nodded glumly. ‘Tricks.’
Standish turned to face Harris and his quarry. ‘Nothing changes, eh, Jack? I mean, absolutely nothing changes, does it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ replied the inspector, letting one of the uniforms take Michaels. Harris noticed Forrest being loaded into a van. ‘Right, Jamie lad, that’s the both of them so let’s talk protocol.’
‘Protocol, Jack?’ Standish could contain himself no longer. ‘Protocol? Protocol around here means that we do not beat up—’
‘Oh, give over, Jamie. He had it coming, you know that. Besides, he went for me. I was just acting in self-defence.’ Ignoring the DI’s darkening expression, he added, ‘Now then, it seems to me that my murder trumps your robbery so I would like to take them back to Levton Bridge tonight. Can you arrange that? Not sure it’s a good idea to take them back ourselves.’
‘Maybe murder does trump robbery but they are not leaving Manchester tonight. If you want to interview them, you will have to do it here.’
Harris again looked for a moment as if he was about to argue with the detective inspector but thought better of it, held up his hands and started walking towards the Land Rover.
‘Have it your way,’ he said.
When the inspector was out of earshot, Jamie Standish looked at Roberts.
‘He does know that he’s in my patch, doesn’t he?’ he asked with a hint of disbelief in his voice. ‘I mean, he does know, doesn’t he?’
‘Maybe he does, Jamie,’ said Roberts, following the inspector. ‘Maybe he doesn’t. You never can tell with Jack Harris.’
Once the two detectives were back in the Land Rover, Roberts glanced at the inspector.
‘You do push it too far sometimes,’ she said quietly.
‘Yeah, I know.’ He did not sound contrite.
‘I thought Standish was acting a bit funny when he came out to meet us. Now I know why.’
‘Jamie isn’t pissed off because I slap the odd suspect around,’ said Harris. ‘No, Jamie Standish is pissed off because I slept with his wife.’
Back in Levton Bridge, the police van was cruising through the market place for the fifth time that night when something caught the driver’s attention. He drove slowly over the cobbles to the war memorial, bringing the vehicle to a halt and winding down the window to allow himself a better look.
‘Damn,’ he murmured.
‘What you seen?’ asked his colleague, leaning over. ‘Ah. That isn’t good.’
‘Too right it isn’t good,’ said the driver as the two officers got out and walked up to the memorial. ‘There’ll be hell to pay for this. Harris will go off on one, that’s for sure.’
For a few moments, the officers looked gloomily at the letters ‘DIS’ scrawled in red paint across the names of the area’s war dead. The paint was still glistening.
‘This has only just been done,’ said the driver, turning round quickly. ‘Whoever did it can’t have gone far.’
But the market place was deserted.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘Jamie, there’s something else we want to do after we’ve interviewed Forrest and Michaels,’ said Harris as the Levton Bridge detectives sat in the DI’s office, cradling mugs of tea. ‘Maybe in the morning before we head back.’
‘What is it?’ Standish seemed guarded.
‘We want to visit a place in Sale Street. Sells military memorabilia.’
‘Not sure why you would be interested in that. It’s been there for years, Jack. It’s completely kosher. Surely it’s not linked to your murder in
quiry?’
‘It cropped up during some inquiries my sergeant was doing.’
‘Well, he’s wasting your time. I bought a couple of things there last year. Couple of cap badges for a project my eldest was doing at school. They’re good lads run that, Jack. There’s no way they would be mixed up with anyone like Forrest and Michaels.’
‘Maybe so,’ said Harris, standing up and draining his mug, ‘but we would still like to take a look. If nothing else, it will tie up a loose end.’
Standish was about to reply when a man in a dark suit walked into the room, a broad grin on his face.
‘They told me Jack Harris was in town,’ he said delightedly.
Harris stood up. ‘Dennis,’ he said as the two men shook hands. ‘Good to see you. Gillian, this is Dennis Maddison, a DCI down here—’
‘Detective super now, old son,’ said Maddison, pulling up a chair and sitting down. He glanced at Roberts. ‘By, we had some times together, me and your governor. Must be five years since I last saw you, Hawk. How you been doing? Not sick of all those sheep yet?’
‘Sorry, Dennis.’
‘Pity. There’s always a place for you here if you change your mind, you know that. Nice result out at the pub. I hope Jamie is affording you all the help you need.’
‘Yes, he is, thanks.’
‘When you going back to Levton Gate or whatever it’s called?’
‘In the morning. Jamie’s fixed somewhere for us to sleep.’
Maddison’s lips twitched but he said nothing. Standish noticed the gesture and frowned.
‘Just telling Jamie that we want to drop in on a war memorabilia place out on Sale Street before we go,’ said Harris.
‘And I was just …’ began Standish.
‘Why so interested in it?’ asked Maddison.
‘Part of our murder inquiry.’
‘You need a warrant?’
‘There’s no way …’ began Standish.
‘Please,’ said Harris.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Maddison, standing up. ‘Listen, when you’ve interviewed your bad lads, come along to my office, yeah? I’ve got a nice single malt you’ll appreciate. Been waiting for a special occasion – this seems as good as any.’
After the superintendent had walked out into the corridor, Harris also stood up.
‘Sale Street tomorrow then,’ said the inspector.
‘OK,’ sighed Standish. ‘Have it your way.’
‘I usually do,’ said Harris, his voice echoing back from the corridor. ‘You know that, Jamie.’
Standish glared after him but said nothing. Roberts tried not to smile as she followed the inspector out of the office. As she did so, she glanced back at Standish, who sat at his desk, staring after them. He looked so forlorn, she thought.
Downstairs, the Levton Bridge detectives were about to enter the interview room when the inspector’s mobile rang. Gallagher, said the screen.
‘Matty lad,’ said the inspector, taking the call. ‘What you got?’
‘It’s happened again.’
‘What has?’
‘Just got a call from control. Someone has vandalized the Levton Bridge war memorial.’
Harris leaned against the wall of the corridor and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he felt very weary; it had been a long day.
‘Where the hell was our patrol?’ he said after a few moments. ‘I told them to watch the bloody thing.’
‘Looks like whoever did it must have waited for them to pass.’
‘What have they done to it?’
‘Same as the other one,’ said Gallagher. ‘If there was any lingering doubt about it being kids, that has surely gone. It’s definitely someone with a message for the world.’
‘I take it uniform haven’t got anyone for it?’
‘’Fraid not. They toured the streets but turned up nothing. I got them to check the war memorial at Chapel Hill and there’s been nothing further there. Oh, and the one down on the green at Kirkhill, that’s OK as well.’
‘That’s something, I suppose. Where are you?’
‘Back in Roxham. Just got home.’
‘OK, get uniform to double check something for me, will you…?’
A short while later, Harris joined Gillian Roberts in the interview room where an anxious Ronny Michaels was sitting at the table. Next to him was the duty solicitor, a sallow, grey-haired man who Harris vaguely recognized from his time in Manchester. Just could not place him. It was often like that when he went back to his old patch. There were only two or three regular attending solicitors in Levton Bridge but in Greater Manchester there were dozens of lawyers and Jack Harris frowned as he surveyed this one; the inspector did not like surprises and the man did not look at all pleased to see him.
‘DCI Harris,’ said the solicitor in a voice that confirmed the inspector’s suspicion. ‘We meet again. I had rather hoped that we would not.’
‘I didn’t know we even had,’ murmured Harris. ‘Forgive me for being rude but who are you?’
‘Lewis,’ said the solicitor irritably. ‘Arthur Lewis of Lewis, Foreman and Battersley. I represent Mr Michaels in this matter and my client alleges that you assaulted him when he was being arrested.’
‘Really?’ Harris tried to look surprised. ‘I find that difficult to believe.’
‘Oh, come on, Inspector, everyone knows your reputation. Surely you recall the last time we met.’
Harris looked at him again and the memory unearthed itself from the back of his mind. He decided to play stupid.
‘I am afraid not, Mr Lewis,’ he said. ‘You will have to enlighten me. Did I arrest you for something? Not embezzling funds, were we?’
‘Gerry Hacking,’ said the lawyer angrily. ‘Another person whom you assaulted during an arrest.’
‘There’s a pattern emerging here,’ said Harris, giving the merest of winks to Roberts, who sat there, not quite sure what to make of the confrontation.
‘I am happy that we agree on the point,’ said Lewis.
‘Not sure what point we agree on, Mr Lewis. I was thinking that you should not be so quick to represent clients with overactive imaginations.’
‘Perhaps they are more tolerant of your methods in the backwater where you work these days but down here we do not stand for—’
‘If your client wants to submit a formal complaint, I suggest he does it when we are finished here,’ said Harris, tiring of the game. ‘For the moment, your talents might be more gainfully employed on more pressing matters. Your client is in trouble up to his neck.’
Michaels, who had been enjoying the encounter between detective and solicitor, looked anxious again.
‘In which case,’ said Lewis, ‘perhaps you would like to explain exactly what he is doing here. As far as he is aware, he was having a quiet drink with friends when a large number of police officers burst into the hostelry in question. Next thing he knows, you are launching an unwarranted and unnecessary assault on his person.’
‘Did your client tell you that, as he was being arrested, he admitted being complicit in the murder of an elderly man in my area?’
The lawyer glanced at Michaels. ‘Is this true?’ asked Lewis.
‘I might have said something but I never said I killed him. It were Dave done that.’
‘But you did nothing to stop the assault?’ said Harris with an edge to his voice. ‘Did you?’
Michaels shook his head. ‘Dave would have killed me as well,’ he said.
‘So, Mr Lewis,’ said Harris sweetly, ‘how would you like to proceed?’
The lawyer looked at the inspector with a glum expression on his face but did not reply. Everyone in the room knew that he had been outmanoeuvred. Gillian Roberts allowed herself a slight smile; whatever you might think of the inspector’s methods, she thought, there was no denying that he achieved results. Roberts had always struggled with the questions raised by Jack Harris’s occasional lapses. She knew it was wrong, of course she did, but there were time
s, if she was honest with herself, when such methods were justified. And the graze on Ronny Michaels’ cheek paled into obscene insignificance when compared to the terrible injuries sustained by Harold Leach. Maybe the ends did justify the means. She would never voice such thoughts aloud, and definitely not in the presence of Curtis, but sometimes … just sometimes … As so often in such situations she found herself coming down on the side of Jack Harris and, without realizing she had done it, the DI gave a little nod.
‘So, Ronny,’ said Harris, ‘from what you’ve said so far, am I to understand that you were in Harold Leach’s cottage last night?’
‘Will I be kept out of this if I tell you everything?’ asked Michaels hopefully.
‘I am not sure the inspector can make those kind of decisions,’ said the lawyer. ‘My advice would be to keep quiet and see if—’
‘It might mean we could put in a good word for you,’ interrupted Harris, ignoring the solicitor’s glare. ‘If you didn’t actually kill Harold, the CPS might consider a conspiracy charge rather than murder itself. But I can’t make any promises. The CPS might just as easily regard you both as equally responsible.’
Michaels glanced at his lawyer. ‘Is he right?’ he asked. ‘Might it do me some good if I tell him what I know?’
‘I suppose it might,’ said Lewis grudgingly. ‘But, like he says, there is no guarantee of it.’
‘What will happen if I don’t tell him?’
‘I imagine that Mr Harris would have no alternative than to see you charged with murder.’ The lawyer sounded reluctant as he made the comment.
‘I’ll tell you what happened then but I never hurt him, Mr Harris, you have to believe me. It were all down to Dave Forrest.’
‘So what happened? You got there in the early hours of the morning, I think?’
‘Yeah. Dave forced the back door then we searched the living room. Dave suggested we wake the old man because we couldn’t find the medal. I didn’t want to do it but Dave said it was the only way.’
‘I assume Harold refused to tell you where it was?’
‘He was a tough old bird. Kept saying we had no right to take it. He tried to punch Dave. That was when it kicked off. Dave, he was furious. Just kept hitting him. Kept demanding to know where the medal was but the old feller, he wouldn’t tell him.’ Michaels closed his eyes for a few moments and when he opened them again the detectives could see that they were glistening with tears. ‘It were awful, Mr Harris. Dave just kept hitting him. If only he’d told us where the thing was, Dave would have stopped. I kept telling Dave to stop hurting him. You know I don’t like violence. Mr Harris.’
