To Honour the Dead

by John Dean

  At the end of the drive, the sergeant stood and stared at the letters ‘DIS’ scrawled across the memorial plaque on the wall of the house.

  ‘Brilliant,’ he murmured.

  ‘This is her doing!’ exclaimed Liz.

  ‘Whose doing? Who do you think did this, Liz?’

  ‘Who? You know damn well who.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’ Gallagher held his breath and thought of Butterfield sitting alone in the car back on the main road.

  ‘That crazy Morritt woman.’

  Gallagher breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Ah, her,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, her. Rob was right. She won’t leave us alone. First the memorial in Chapel Hill, now this. And I heard that the memorial in the market square was vandalized last night. I take it you know that George’s name is on that as well?’

  ‘We do, yes.’ Gallagher walked up to examine the paint. It was still tacky. ‘You didn’t see anything last night then?’

  ‘Don’t you think I would have done something if I had?’

  ‘Did you not even hear anything?’

  Hesitation.

  ‘Liz?’ he said, looking closely at her. ‘Did you hear anything?’

  ‘I didn’t hear much last night, Sergeant.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘I am afraid I had rather too much to drink.’

  Gallagher glanced across to the front door to see Bethany emerge.

  ‘She was absolutely plastered,’ said the teenager, nodding. ‘Whisky. Celebrating my father’s decision to run from his responsibilities as usual. Are you going to talk to that Morritt woman?’

  ‘We’ll talk to her, Bethany. Don’t worry about that.’

  ‘My grandfather deserves better than this,’ said the teenager, looking at the vandalized plaque. ‘I mean, after what he did for his country.’

  ‘He does, yes. I guess you never met him?’

  ‘Do I look thirty?’ she said waspishly. ‘And just because I never knew him, it doesn’t mean I’m not proud of him.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to …’

  ‘We should remember our fallen war heroes, Sergeant. That was just about the only thing I agreed with my father about. They may be gone but they’re still alive in people’s hearts, aren’t they? I mean they never die, do they?’

  ‘No, they don’t,’ said the sergeant thoughtfully. He started to walk down the drive. ‘We’ll keep you informed of developments.’

  When he got back to the car, Butterfield looked at him.

  ‘Well?’ she said anxiously. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ he said, easing himself into the driver’s seat.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think we have been looking at the wrong Mackey. I don’t think this is about Rob, I think this is about George.’

  ‘But he’s been dead thirty years!’

  ‘If you ask me,’ said Gallagher, starting the engine, ‘he’s very much alive to someone.’

  The man stumbled in the darkness and pitched forward. He did not feel what had hit him; at first he did not even know that he had been hit. Mind reeling, confused images swirling before his eyes, he sunk to his knees. He slowly turned his head, trying desperately to focus on the spinning world around him, trying to make sense of what had happened. Vision blurred, body now racked with jagged pain, he tried to stand up but his legs buckled and he staggered forward once more, this time to lie still and silent on the cold ground. Looking up, he saw a face staring down at him and heard a voice echoing as if from afar. The voice fell silent and the face receded into the distance as the darkness closed in. The man was alone and he felt cold. He knew in that moment that he was dying. After that, he saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. His was to sleep for ever. It was down to others to honour his memory.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Shortly before eleven, Harris and Roberts were sitting in the Land Rover and watching the arrival of the bomb disposal team. The building had been sealed off by uniformed officers, who had created a taped cordon to keep back the excited crowd, local people having gathered as word spread about the discovery of the arms cache. Also there were television crews and other reporters.

  ‘Quite a circus,’ said Harris, glancing into the back seat where Barry Gough was sitting next to Standish. ‘What on earth were you thinking?’

  ‘It seemed a good idea at the time,’ said Gough gloomily. ‘Besides, I needed the money.’

  ‘I assume the war protesting was a cover?’

  ‘Not as such, no. I went on a couple of protest marches when I was a student.’

  ‘Yet you ended up in the army.’

  ‘Only because there were no jobs. Definitely not because I believed in what they were doing. And before you say it, what we do here does not glorify war. Look, I know you were a soldier, Harris, but even you must realize that what we are doing in Afghanistan is absolutely appalling and it is absolutely correct that we—’

  ‘Skip the party political, son. Besides, your beliefs did not exactly stop you trafficking in arms, did they? Quite a remarkable thing for a man of peace.’

  ‘There’s plenty of men of peace have done things which are not compatible with their beliefs.’

  ‘Quite the philosopher, aren’t we?’

  ‘Besides, you make it sound worse than it is.’

  ‘How much worse can it be?’ asked the inspector, watching the bomb disposal team at work. ‘They reckon you’ve got eleven grenades and half a dozen mortars. All of which could have gone off at any time. Where the hell does it come from, Barry?’

  ‘Most of it’s old army issue. Lots of guys have this kind of stuff lying about.’

  ‘Revolvers, maybe, but machine guns? Mortars? And some of the stuff I saw was modern. Where did that come from?’

  Gough hesitated.

  ‘You can tell us or wait for the MPs to arrive,’ said Harris. ‘Not sure they’ll be as nice as us, mind.’

  Roberts gave Gough a look. ‘He’s right,’ she said. ‘They’re not all as easy-going as the governor.’

  Gough recalled his earlier encounters with the DCI and nodded.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘The modern stuff comes from a couple of lads I knew in the army. They’re still in – one of them’s a quartermaster – and they smuggle stuff out to us and we sell it on. They get a cut.’

  ‘Where do you sell it on to?’ asked Standish.

  ‘Not to criminals if that’s what you are thinking. It’s just collectors.’

  ‘What’s the betting some of your stuff has turned up in the wrong hands?’ said Harris. ‘You had any armed stuff lately, Jamie?’

  ‘Couple of post office jobs. Least one of them by a guy carrying a revolver. If any of your gear is linked to them, you‘re for the high jump, sunshine. Deactivated or not, they’re still guns.’

  Gough looked worried.

  ‘The rest of your stuff,’ said Harris, ‘the medals and the like. Any of that come from our patch?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Guarded now.

  ‘No maybes, Barry,’ said Harris. ‘You’re in this up to your neck – not sure you can make it any worse. Who passes stuff on from our patch?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘We’ll find out whether you tell us or not. We’ve been watching you. And yes, I know it goes against your human rights. Where does Lenny fit in with this?’

  ‘OK, OK,’ sighed Gough. ‘He gets hold of some stuff for me. The odd medal. A bayonet once.’

  ‘Stolen?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe yes. And Philip Morritt? Did he get you some gear?’

  ‘A bit. Couple of medals.’

  ‘His mum reckons he was working with Rob Mackey.’

  ‘She’d say anything to drop him in it,’ said Gough with a low laugh. ‘Nah, Rob Mackey is nowt to do with us. The man’s an arrogant bastard. Do you really think we would have anything to do with him?’

  ‘But Lenny told us that Mackey was involved.’

  ‘You believe everything he tells you? If Lenny t
old me it was raining I’d stick my head out of the window to see if I got wet. He panicked, said the first thing that came into his mind. And before you say it, he had nowt to do with the death of that old feller either. None of us did.’

  ‘But he was after the medal, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I never ask him where the stuff comes from.’ Gough noticed the officers’ sceptical expressions. ‘Honest.’

  ‘I very much doubt that you would even know the meaning of the word, son.’ Harris noticed a large car pulling into the road. ‘Ah, here’s your ride. They’re going to love you. Absolutely love you.’

  ‘You said you’d keep them out of it,’ protested Gough as he saw the military police officers getting out of the vehicle.

  ‘Not sure I said that, Barry. I reckon this is a military matter when all’s said and done. Besides, when they’re finished, Anti-Terrorist want a word but only if they can persuade Special Branch to let them go first. They’ll be pulling rank like there’s no tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re Mr Popular,’ nodded Standish. ‘Loads of people want to talk to you, sunbeam.’

  ‘You’ll be Levton Bridge’s biggest celebrity,’ said Harris. ‘Hey, if you play your cards right, they’ll have you opening the carnival next summer. Assuming you’re not inside, mind.’

  ‘What if I gave you something else?’ said Gough quickly.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like telling you who is doing them memorials?’

  Harris glanced over at the military policemen, who had sought directions from a uniformed constable and were now approaching the Land Rover.

  ‘Start talking, Barry,’ said Harris, ‘and if I were you, son, I’d do it quickly.’

  As Rob Mackey plugged his mobile into the Range Rover’s connection point, the phone rang. He glanced down at the screen. Liz. Mackey scowled, switched the phone off, turned on the ignition key and drove out of the motel car park onto the motorway slip road. He did not notice the patrol car parked in the nearby petrol station.

  Matty Gallagher hesitated for a moment or two as he and Butterfield stood outside the cottage in Chapel Hill.

  ‘You ready?’ he said.

  ‘Not sure I am ever ready for an encounter with Esther Morritt, Sarge. Give me Liz Mackey any day.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Gallagher and knocked loudly on the cottage door. ‘Oh, well, heydy-ho.’

  The door was opened by Esther Morritt.

  ‘Sergeant Gallagher,’ she said without warmth in her voice. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I am afraid I am going to have to ask you to accompany us to the police station, Esther.’

  ‘Why?’ She showed no sign of moving off the doorstep.

  ‘The Levton Bridge war memorial was vandalized last night.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with that. I was here all night.’

  ‘Anyone stand witness to that? Got an exotic love life we know nothing about?’

  She glared at him. ‘There has been no one since my Arthur died. I am a widow and you well know that, Sergeant.’

  ‘Could be a merry one, though.’

  ‘How dare—’

  ‘Look, can we come in, Esther?’ said Gallagher, glancing down the street and noticing curtains twitching in windows. ‘I do not really want to talk about this on the doorstep.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t talk about it at—’

  ‘Have it your way then,’ said Gallagher irritably, reaching out to take her by the arm. ‘Esther Morritt, I am arr—’

  His mobile phone rang.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ he said, letting go of her, fishing the device out of his jacket pocket and walking a few yards down the street. After an intense conversation, he returned to the cottage, a sheepish look on his face.

  ‘It would seem,’ he said, ‘that we owe you an apology. It was wrong of us to try to arrest you. Enjoy the rest of the day. Sorry to have inconvenienced you.’

  As the detectives walked down the hill, it struck the sergeant that he would probably never forget the look of triumph on her face.

  ‘What the hell was that about?’ asked Butterfield when they were out of her earshot. ‘Who was that on the phone?’

  ‘Harris,’ said Gallagher gloomily. ’It would appear that dearest Esther is not public enemy number one after all. Nowhere near, in fact. Well, not unless she’s got a stash of machine guns in the outside lavvy.’

  The Range Rover was only a couple of miles down the southbound motorway when Rob Mackey saw the flashing blue lights in his rear-view mirror. For a moment he wondered whether to hit the gas, try to outrun them. But run where? he asked himself. Where on earth could he go? Wherever he went, he knew that Jack Harris would always come for him. Mackey recalled Roger Barnett’s words back on the green. He’ll love arresting you. Absolutely love it. And now Harris had a reason to do it. That letter about the invoices suggested the Americans had become suspicious and there was no way they would not have called in the police. Not with 1.4 mil at stake. Perhaps they knew that Randall Glover had been to see him during his recent visit to the UK. Perhaps they had already arrested him. Perhaps they had found the VC. Thought that Mackey was involved in that as well. Whatever had happened, Mackey was sure that Glover would sing like the proverbial. He’d never trusted the man.

  Mackey slowed the vehicle down to a halt on the hard shoulder and waited for the traffic officers to arrest him. At least that would deprive Jack Harris of the pleasure, he thought. A minor victory but it felt like a victory all the same.

  Back in Levton Bridge, Philip Curtis was doing his paperwork when there came a knock on his office door.

  ‘Come in,’ said the commander, glancing up.

  Roger Barnett walked into the room.

  ‘Good morning, Roger,’ said Curtis, gesturing to the vacant chair on the other side of the desk. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘This is a somewhat delicate matter, sir,’ said Barnett, sitting down.

  ‘I hope you feel that you can talk to me in confidence.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Barnett leaned forward. ‘I think you and I may be in the position to make a deal.’

  ‘A deal?’ said Curtis, raising an eyebrow. ‘I hardly think it is appropriate for district commanders to enter into “deals” with sergeants.’

  ‘Look, sir, I know that you would love an opportunity to get rid of Jack Harris. Well, I wish to make a complaint about his highly unprofessional conduct towards me, which if you play your cards right—’

  ‘Play my cards right?’

  ‘Yes, this will give you a golden opportunity to—’

  ‘Let me stop you there,’ said Curtis, putting his pen down on its blotter and leaning back in his seat. ‘You are right, Roger, I struggle with Jack Harris. Yes, there are times when he oversteps the mark and yes, there are times when I would like nothing more than for him to retire to that cottage of his and take his blessed dogs with him, especially as they are currently cluttering up my control room. But at the end of the day, he’s ten times the police officer you are. The events of the past two days have made that abundantly clear, I would have thought.’

  Barnett looked at him in amazement.

  ‘However,’ continued Curtis, with a slight smile, ‘I do acknowledge your candour in this matter. I like an officer who can communicate concisely and clearly.’

  Barnett looked at him suspiciously. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Oh, and while I remember,’ said Curtis, picking up a piece of paper from his desk, ‘headquarters have been on. Would you like a posting back to headquarters, Roger?’

  ‘Very much so, sir,’ said Barnett, adding quickly, ‘depending on what it is, of course.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll love this one. They’re setting up a new road safety unit, going round the schools, talking to the kids, that kind of thing. They wondered if we had anyone spare and I immediately thought of you. Right up your street. As it were.’

  ‘Now hang on, sir …’

  ‘Apparently you wil
l be working with Sergeant Squirrel.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sergeant Squirrel. It’s their new mascot. They’ve seconded some young girl from the typing pool to dress up in the costume. I know you take a keen interest in girls from the typing pool, Roger. Apparently, their first campaign is aimed at kids getting off school buses and from what I hear you are also excellent with buses. So, do you accept? Yes? Good. You can start Monday. Close the door on your way out, will you?’

  A stunned Roger Barnett walked out of the office, not quite sure what had just happened to him, and Philip Curtis returned to his paperwork, allowing himself an occasional smile.

  In the corridor, Barnett was approached by James Larch.

  ‘You heard the news?’ said the detective excitedly. ‘Not only have they cracked the Harold Leach murder but they’ve only gone and busted an arms ring as well! And solved the vandalism of the memorials. Bloody amazing. Absolutely bloody amazing.’

  Barnett stared gloomily as the detective walked down the corridor but said nothing. For the first in his life, he could not think of anything to say.

  Matty Gallagher emerged from the records room in the basement station, carrying a battered old file. Having spent the best part of an hour and a half there, he was feeling cold so he went to the canteen before returning to the CID squad room. Clutching his cup of tea in one hand and the file in the other, he finally reached the squad room where a number of detectives were waiting.

  ‘Well?’ asked Larch eagerly as the sergeant walked in. ‘Is Barry Gough telling the truth?’

  ‘Sure is,’ said Gallagher, placing the file on the table and blowing away the dust. ‘We have been looking at the wrong Mackey.’

  ‘Looks pretty thin to me,’ said Butterfield, picking up the file and removing a couple of sheets of paper.

  ‘But isn’t that the point?’ Gallagher took a sip of his tea. ‘Looks like they assumed it was open and shut. Not sure anyone did much in the way of investigating.’

  Before he could elaborate further, the sergeant’s mobile rang and he walked out into the corridor. Several minutes later, he walked back into the room, slipping the device into his jacket pocket.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Larch, seeing the grim expression on the sergeant’s face. ‘Who was that on the phone?’