by John Dean
‘Harris. Turns out Gough gave our guy a shotgun as a thank you for services rendered. Thought he would use it for rabbits.’ Gallagher drained his cup of tea. ‘I have this awful feeling he has something else in mind. Come on, we had better sort this out before someone gets hurt.’
The man loped through the misty fields, shotgun in hand, until he reached the dry-stone wall, where he paused to survey the gable end poking out of the nearby trees. He gave a thin smile and started walking again.
‘Payback,’ he said.
Sitting on the sofas in the living room and sipping at their mid-morning coffee, Liz and Bethany Mackey were not aware that the man had emerged from the bushes at the bottom of the garden and was walking with a steady pace across the lawn towards Laurel House.
‘When are they going to let you see Dad?’ asked Bethany.
‘I am not sure, love. They said they were going to interview him at Levton Bridge this afternoon.’
‘Did they say much about what he’s done wrong?’
‘All Sergeant Gallagher said was that he thought it was something to do with a fraud. God knows what your father has been up to.’
‘Then what?’ asked Bethany, taking a sip of coffee. ‘Will he come back here?’
‘Who knows?’
‘Will you let him back?’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘Then don’t,’ said Bethany. ‘Let him go and stay with that floosie of his.’
The blast shattered the window.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘I bet you are really enjoying this,’ said Mackey as he sat, arms crossed, next to his solicitor, staring across the desk at Harris and fraud squad officer Daniel Stafford. ‘Been waiting a long time, haven’t you?’
‘I won’t deny that I am deriving a certain degree of pleasure out of this,’ said Harris. ‘However, I will not be conducting this interview. DC Stafford will be handling it. I think you know what it’s about. See, despite so many people trying to blacken your name, I have nothing to hold you on myself. Ironic, really.’
‘According to my client,’ said the lawyer, ‘this matter with the Americans is just a misunderstanding which can be very easily cleared as well.’
‘I very much doubt that,’ said Stafford.
‘Anyway, Rob,’ said Harris. ‘I just have one outstanding matter to sort then I will leave you to it. It’s just a pity that your father is not here.’
The words hung heavy in the air as Mackey stared at him.
‘What did you say?’ he said eventually.
‘Your father. The venerated George. Now there was a man with something to hide.’
‘You can’t get me so you go after my father, is that it?’ exclaimed Mackey. ‘Bloody hell, man! You must be desperate. And if you say anything against my father …’
‘Does the name Edward Portland mean anything to you?’ asked Harris, removing a couple of pieces of paper from the brown file on the desk.
Mackey shook his head. ‘No. Should it?’
‘He was Lenny Portland’s father.’
‘He another drunk then?’ said Mackey scornfully.
‘I believe he was. Amazing how often the son turns out like the father, isn’t it?’
Mackey glared at him.
‘Now,’ continued Harris, ‘normally you would not expect the two men’s paths to have crossed. Your father was, after all, a highly respected soldier with a chest full of medals and Edward Portland was, as you so delightfully pointed out, a drunk. However, in a small town like this I guess it was inevitable that they would meet from time to time. In fact, they had already had a couple of run-ins before the night in question, I believe.’
‘Night? What night? What are you on about, man?’ said Mackey but he sounded less confident.
Harris held up the pieces of paper.
‘My sergeant found these earlier today,’ he said. ‘They do not mention your father’s name but I believe they chronicle the last time he met Edward Portland. A matter of days before your father went out to the Falklands, in fact.’
It was not long after midnight when an inebriated Edward Portland lurched out of The Duck and into the deserted market place. As he staggered across the cobbles, he saw a set of headlights appear from his right but kept on walking until he was standing in the middle of the road. The vehicle slowed to a halt and the driver wound down his window.
‘Get out of the way!’ shouted George Mackey.
Portland swayed but did not move.
‘Go on, get out of the way!’ shouted the driver. ‘Fucking drunk.’
Slowly, as deliberately as he could manage, Portland held up two fingers. The driver rammed his foot on the accelerator and swerved past him, catching Portland a glancing blow with the wing mirror. Portland 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 George Mackey strode back to his vehicle and 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.
In whatever way they saw fit.
‘I vaguely remember something about it from the time,’ said Harris as Mackey stared at him in silence, ‘but it didn’t really register. No one took much notice really. The coroner, a newly appointed Henry Maitlin, oddly enough, decided that Portland fell over and hit his head. A familiar story, eh? I take it you knew about this?’
‘My father told me a couple of days before he went to join the Task Force,’ said Mackey. His demeanour had changed. Now it was one of resignation and the edge that always existed between the men had gone. ‘I have thought many times about that day. Never a day goes by …’
He paused and the detectives let silence settle on the room, oppressive and enveloping.
‘We were in the garden at Laurel House,’ said Mackey eventually, his voice slightly tremulous. ‘Digging out an apple tree, as I recall. I was a teenager at the time. My father was not the type of man to confide in any member of his family, Inspector. He was not a particularly welcoming man, and the only reason I can think he did so then was that he knew he was not coming back from the Falklands. That somehow he knew and he wanted to unburden himself. Does that sound too fanciful a notion?’
‘No, but why did he not come forward at the time? Surely he realized he had hit Ted Portland?’
‘He did, yes. Even reversed up to see how he was.’
‘Then all he had to do was come to us. There were no witnesses and if it was an accident, he had nothing to worry about.’
‘You know what people are like round here. They hate anyone who’s made something of themselves. Bloody ingrates. They’d have lynched him. You know that.’ He gave a slight smile. ‘Oddly enough, we have never been the most popular of families round here. Can you believe that?’
‘Somehow, yes.’
‘You know, I think he would have admitted everything if your lot had come for him – he always had a strong respect for authority – but they never did. After he was killed, it all seemed to go away.’
‘You tell anyone else about this? Liz perhaps?’
‘No one.’ Mackey gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Dark family secret, Inspector. Hardly the kind of thing you chat about at dinner parties. I say, I know Abigail has done awfully well at her ballet classes but my father killed a man.’
‘Did you tell Alison Butterfield?’
‘I wondered when you woul
d mention her. No, I didn’t. She knew nothing about it and I’m not just saying it to keep her out of trouble. Will I be able to see her after this?’
‘From what I hear, she regards your affair as over.’
‘I’m a bloody fool,’ said Mackey with a shake of the head. ‘A bloody fool. She was the best thing that ever happened to me.’
‘Can we get back to your father?’
‘I suppose we have to,’ sighed Mackey. ‘How did this come to light? Is it why the memorials are being vandalized?’
‘We think so.’
‘Lenny Portland doing it?’
‘We’re pretty sure he is, yes. We believe he only found out recently. We were rather hoping you might know who told him.’
‘One of your lot, I assume. Roger Barnett.’
‘Why him?’
‘It would seem that he worked on the original inquiry and always had his suspicions about what happened. Apparently, someone thought they had seen my father’s car out in the town not long after it happened but my father had gone to the Falklands by the time they came forward and after his death it all seemed to get forgotten.’
‘There’s nothing in the record about any of this. Roger Barnett is not even mentioned.’
‘Not sure anyone was bothered really.’ Mackey gave a slight smile. ‘Like you said, drunk falls over and bangs head. A familiar story. The inquest took ten minutes, apparently. Besides, not long after my father left for the Falklands, Barnett went to work in Roxham and that was the last I heard of it.’
‘Clearly Barnett did not forget it, though. He approach you?’
Mackey nodded.
‘Why did he do that after all these years?’ asked Harris.
‘He called after it was announced that I was going to erect the memorial in Chapel Hill. Barnett said it was wrong, given what my father had done. I fobbed him off then the attacks started on the British Legion pavilion. I knew at once what it was about, of course. I guess Barnett told Lenny as a way of getting his own back.’
‘But even then you did not come to us?’
‘The last thing I wanted was you reopening the original inquiry so close to the unveiling.’ Mackey gave another slight smile. ‘Got to honour the dead whatever they’ve done, haven’t we?’
‘Talking of honouring the dead, your American pal took Harold Leach’s VC home with him. Know anything about that?’
‘No.’
‘I think yes.’
‘Prove it.’
‘Maybe I will but in the meantime DC Stafford here wants to know more about our Mr Randall. Like I said, I’m mainly interested in Lenny Portland.’
Mackey gave a sigh. ‘I had rather hoped that I would take this story to my grave,’ he said. ‘Like my father did.’
‘You still might,’ said Harris, slotting the piece of paper back in the file. ‘Portland is missing, and we’ve just discovered that he’s got a shotgun.’
‘Surely you don’t think he would do anything to harm me, though?’
‘You been unpleasant to him lately?’
‘Told him to get out of my way the odd time. The man’s a drunk.’
‘Funny how these things have a habit of coming back round on themselves, isn’t it?’ said Harris.
Mackey looked worried. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘Someone shot out the downstairs windows of your house less than an hour ago,’ said Harris. ‘Now who do you think would do a thing like that?’
There was a knock on the door and Gallagher walked in.
‘He’s here,’ said the sergeant.
‘Thank you,’ said Harris, standing up and nodding at Stafford. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Who’s here?’ asked Mackey anxiously.
Harris ignored the comment. He had just opened the door when a thought struck him and he looked back into the room.
‘And yes,’ he said, looking at Mackey, ‘Liz and Bethany are all right.’ Shaking his head, the inspector walked out of the room to join Matty Gallagher in walking along the corridor. ‘I take it the search has not turned up any sign of Lenny Portland?’
‘No, but it was only a perfunctory search. My thinking is to do a more detailed one of the town first then gradually fan out onto the hills.’
‘Sounds sensible,’ said Harris as they started down the stairs. ‘You found our man then?’
‘Yeah, but he’s not desperately happy about it,’ said Gallagher. ‘Been banging on about Saturday being his day off.’
‘Golf course?’
‘Something like that,’ said Gallagher as the officers walked into the interview room just off the reception area, where there sat a grey-haired, balding man in a red and white checked sweater.
‘Are you Detective Chief Inspector Harris?’ asked the man angrily.
‘I am,’ replied Harris, sitting down opposite him. ‘You must be Dr Maddox.’
‘Mr Maddox,’ said the man tartly. ‘Consultants are called Mr and might I say that this is all very irregular. How did you get hold of me?’
‘Roxham Hospital let us have your number,’ said Gallagher, also sitting down.
‘Yes, well, they should not have done that. My normal working—’
‘Lenny Portland,’ interrupted Harris. ‘One of his friends suggested that he may have been seeing a psychiatrist. That you?’
‘As well you know, Inspector, we are unable to breach a patient’s confidentiality. I am surprised that you of all people should—’
‘Just answer the question, will you?’
‘Why so interested?’ said Maddox, glowering at the inspector.
‘We believe he may have a gun and we want to find out if he is the type to use it.’
‘Leonard?’ said Maddox with a laugh. ‘Use a gun? I think that is highly unlikely and even if—’
‘We believe he shot out the windows of a house an hour ago.’
Maddox shook his head. ‘Not Leonard,’ he said.
‘Well, someone did. Why did he come to see you, Mr Maddox?’
‘I told you, patient conf—’
‘I really do not have time for this,’ snapped Harris. ‘If you do not co-operate, so help me, I will arrest you for obstructing our inquiries.’
Maddox looked at him uncertainly then at Gallagher, as if seeking support from the sergeant.
‘He will.’ Gallagher nodded. ‘And if he doesn’t, I will. For wearing that sweater if nothing else. Just answer the questions, will you?’
Maddox considered the comment then nodded glumly.
‘I have been seeing Leonard for fifteen years,’ he said eventually, each word begrudged. ‘Or rather, I saw him fifteen years ago for mild depression, probably linked to the amount of alcohol he had been consuming. He responded to treatment and was discharged after a matter of months.’
He hesitated.
‘I sense a but,’ said Harris.
‘A few weeks ago, sometime in mid September, I think it was, the doctor’s surgery up here referred him back to me. They believed Leonard may have been experiencing a reoccurrence of his previous problems. He had been acting somewhat erratically, apparently.’
‘And was he experiencing some kind of relapse?’
‘He was a touch fragile but it’s difficult to be more precise on the exact nature of his condition.’ The reply sounded vague, the consultant evasive.
‘But you’re the expert,’ said Gallagher. ‘Surely, if anyone would know, you would?’
Again, Maddox hesitated.
‘Well?’ said Gallagher.
‘Look, Mr Maddox,’ said Harris, leaning forward, ‘I have got a man out there with a gun which he has already used once. I need to know everything I can about him.’
‘He only came for his first appointment,’ said Maddox in a voice so quiet the detectives could hardly hear it.
‘What?’ exclaimed Harris, glancing at Gallagher.
‘He did not attend the follow-up ones,’ said Maddox, adding quickly as he saw the serg
eant shake his head in disbelief, ‘We did not leave it there, of course. We wrote to him. Several times.’
‘Perhaps we should write to him as well,’ said Gallagher, the silence of the room disturbed by the clattering of rotor blades as the police helicopter swooped in low over Levton Bridge on its second sweep of the town. ‘Let’s just hope he gets it in time. Eh?’
The consultant gave him a sick look.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The helicopter was still hovering over Levton Bridge when, having left Gallagher to co-ordinate the search for Lenny Portland, Jack Harris strode out of the police station and up the hill towards the courtroom. Long before he reached the market place, the inspector could hear the raised voices of the angry crowd that had gathered. Turning the corner, the DCI was confronted by more than fifty people standing outside the court building. He recognized many of them; some he had never seen before. Among them was Henry Maitlin. As the detective worked his way through the crowd, he was approached by Elaine Landy and a cameraman.
‘Inspector,’ she said as the cameraman focused on him, ‘do you have any comment on the arrest of the men for…?’
‘You know better than that,’ said Harris. ‘Never heard of sub judice?’
‘Yes, but surely you can…?’
Harris brushed past her, blocking the camera lens with his hand, and walked through the front door of the courtroom. Two minutes later, he was sitting on the same bench he had occupied for the inquest into Philip Morritt’s death earlier in the week. A lot had happened since then, he thought. Still could, he thought, catching a glimpse of the helicopter through one of the windows. Harris turned his attention to the public gallery, which was already full of people waiting to see Forrest and Michaels. They did not have long to wait as the magistrates duly filed in to take their seats. All eyes turned to the dock and an angry murmuring ran round the room when the accused men were brought up, Forrest looking calm despite his situation and Michaels had a livid blue bruise on his cheek. Both men caught sight of the inspector. Forrest scowled. Michaels looked away.
‘Bastards!’ yelled someone and there were shouts of agreement.
