by John Dean
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said the chairwoman of the bench, ‘please restrain yourselves or I will have the courtroom cleared.’
The room fell silent.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘This is a special sitting following the arrest of David Forrest and Ronald Michaels in connection with the murder of Harold Leach. Mr Haines appears for …’
Five minutes later, it was all over and Harris strode back into the market-place, pointedly ignoring the waiting cameraman. Seeing Butterfield standing next to a couple of uniformed constables in front of one of the shops, he walked over to join her and, without talking, they surveyed the crowd for a few moments. There was an angry sound as word spread that the prison van had edged itself out of the alley behind the courtroom and was on its way up the hill towards the market place. People surged forward as the van appeared and the driver was forced to slow down as several men banged on the side of the vehicle. Harris caught sight of Henry Maitlin; his face was twisted with hate.
A couple of press photographers held up their cameras to try to get a shot of the suspects through the blacked-out windows then turned their attention to the shaven-headed young man who was trying to wrench open the van’s door, only to be pulled back by a couple of uniformed officers.
‘That’s Billy Duggan, isn’t it?’ said Butterfield as he was hauled away, lashing out at the officer holding him. ‘He’s not normally violent.’
‘Like I kept trying to tell folks, anything is possible.’ Harris glanced up at the hovering helicopter and started walking towards the police station. ‘Anything.’
Ten minutes later, he walked into the briefing room, which was packed with a large number of officers, some local, many drafted in from surrounding areas. All eyed him expectantly as he walked to the front of the room. Harris surveyed the faces; Gallagher over by the window, staring down at the row of police vans parked in the street, Gillian Roberts in the front row next to Butterfield and Larch, Curtis sitting at the back, slightly apart from everyone else. And Roger Barnett, leaning against the wall with a grim expression on his face. Harris turned to the board and tapped the large photograph that had been pinned up.
‘Lenny Portland,’ he said. ‘This is our boy, ladies and gentlemen. Until he shot out the windows of Laurel House, he was viewed as little more than a harmless petty thief with a drink problem. Now it seems that he may be a little more than that.’
‘How dangerous is he?’ asked one of the officers. ‘He likely to have a pop at us?’
‘We have to assume that to be the case. Trouble is, the shrink has not seen him for two months. The concern has to be that, in his current state, anything could set him off. Unfortunately’ – and Harris looked across at Barnett – ‘we believe that someone did just that. Eh, Roger?’
Everyone stared at the sergeant, who looked down at his shoes.
‘Our biggest concern,’ said Harris, ‘is that Lenny may be thinking about disrupting tomorrow’s Remembrance Day ceremony. Our job is to get to him before then. OK, on your way. Let’s get him found. Oh, and be careful. This lad’s a crackerjack.’
With a loud murmuring and the scraping of chair legs, the search teams headed for the door. As Barnett made to follow them, Curtis approached him.
‘Roger,’ said the commander, ‘might I have a word?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
As the police teams searched gardens and outhouses, streets and parks, pub cellars and the back rooms of shops, Jack Harris, accompanied by Butterfield, headed for Lenny Portland’s terraced house on the edge of town. Nodding to the uniformed officer at the front door, Harris walked into the hallway, wrinkling his nose at the smell. The carpet was threadbare and stained in places and a pile of old newspapers stood at the bottom of the stairs, next to several empty beer bottles. Harris walked into the equally untidy living room as Butterfield went to search the upstairs bedrooms. Alone in the room, the inspector let silence settle.
‘Come on, Lenny,’ he murmured, ‘where are you, son?’
After three minutes, Butterfield came downstairs and walked into the room.
‘Anything?’ asked Harris.
‘Nothing. Smells terrible as well. Should see the toilet.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘How did we miss this, guv?’ she asked, glancing at him. ‘How did I miss it? I mean, I probably had more to do with Lenny than anyone and yet I did not see it coming. Just did not see it coming.’
‘I wouldn’t beat yourself up about it, Constable, none of us did. Even Barry Gough knew nothing about any of this. Said if he had known how unstable he was, he would never have given him the shotgun.’
The inspector’s mobile rang and he listened for a few moments, mumbled a ‘thanks’ and returned the phone to his pocket.
‘That was James Larch,’ he said. ‘Bob who runs the fishing tackle shop off Rainer Street reckons he sold some shotgun cartridges to Lenny yesterday.’
‘I feel like I’ve cocked up big-time.’ She seemed close to tears.
‘When I was in the army,’ said Harris, walking over to the front window and watching as two uniformed officers started door-to-door at the end of the street, ‘I was stationed in Germany at one point. There was this fellow. Little chap he was. No one ever took any notice of him. Hardly ever spoke, never got into arguments. Then one day the sergeant said something to him, I forget what it was, and this little chap went for him. Put him in hospital with a fractured skull, trashed the mess and assaulted three MPs.’ Harris gave her a reassuring smile. ‘So you see, despite what an ageing chief inspector might say, sometimes you just cannot read the situation, however hard you try.’
‘Thank you,’ she said and gave him a little smile.
His phone rang. ‘It’s DC Stafford,’ said a voice. ‘We are going to bail Rob Mackey. He wants to see you before he goes.’
Twenty minutes later, the inspector was back in the interview room, sitting next to Stafford and staring across the table at Mackey and his solicitor.
‘You wanted to see me,’ said Harris.
‘I wanted you to know that I intend to be at the Remembrance Sunday ceremony tomorrow.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise? We still have not found Lenny Portland.’
‘I go every year, to honour my father.’
‘Even though you know what he did?’
‘Even though I know what he did. Besides, Henry Maitlin asked me some time ago if I would lay a wreath in memory of the men of Chapel Hill. Are you going to stop me?’
‘It’s a free country, Rob,’ said Harris. ‘Isn’t that what they all died for? You do what you want.’
Mackey gave a thin smile. ‘Does that make me bait?’ he asked.
Jack Harris did not reply.
Shortly before seven, he was sitting in his office, feet up on the desk, eyes closed. His dogs lay curled up in their usual position beneath the radiator.
‘A fine way to spend Saturday night, eh, boys?’ said the inspector, glancing down at the dogs. ‘When this is done and dusted, we’ll finish that walk over Howgill Top. Promise.’
Archie struggled to his feet and wagged his tail. Scoot did not acknowledge the comment. The inspector’s desk phone rang.
‘It’s Henry,’ said a voice when he picked up the receiver. ‘Have you got him?’
‘Sorry, Henry. They’re still out there but we’re pretty sure he’s not in the town and there’s not much we can do in the countryside with it being dark. There’s always the chance that he took fright after what happened at Laurel House and is no longer in the area.’
‘Can you promise me that?’
‘You know the answer, Henry.’
‘Then I have no alternative but to call off tomorrow,’ said Maitlin quietly. ‘Your Superintendent Curtis said we had to make a decision by seven and it’s nearly that now. I mean, what if he tries to kill Rob Mackey?’
‘Who, the superintendent?’
‘This is no time for jokes, Jack.’
‘Sorry, Hen
ry. I’ve told Mackey he can attend if he wants. He’s keen to be there. You asked him to lay a wreath, I think.’
‘To the men of Chapel Hill, yes, but …’ Maitlin’s voice tailed off. He sounded lost. ‘What would you do, Jack?’
‘I’d go ahead. Any other event I’d have said no but this is Remembrance Sunday, Henry. Those guys would not have accepted defeat and neither should we.’
‘If you’re sure.’ Maitlin did not sound convinced.
‘I’m sure, Henry.’
‘I’ll tell him I want to go ahead then,’ said Maitlin. ‘Just make sure nothing happens.’
‘No pressure there then,’ murmured Harris as he ended the call just as Philip Curtis walked into the room.
Harris thought the commander had a look on his face that was different from their usual confrontations. Friendly, thought the DCI. No, not friendly, never friendly. Harris would not want it to be friendly. So what then? Understanding, possibly. Yes, understanding.
‘You and your team have done really well,’ said Curtis, sitting down at the desk.
‘Enough results for you, sir?’ asked Harris with a slight smile.
‘Almost. I’ve just had the military police on singing your praises. Not to mention Harold Leach’s granddaughter almost in tears because you caught Forrest and Michaels. Oh, and a DI called Standish—’
‘What did he say?’ asked Harris quickly.
‘Grateful that you helped him clear up a crime in his area. You’ve been busy.’ Curtis nodded at the phone. ‘Who was that? Another happy customer?’
‘Not quite. Henry Maitlin. I suspect he is about to ring you.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘That if it was down to me, I would go ahead with tomorrow’s ceremony.’
‘I agree with you. The chief’s not so sure but I am.’
‘You are?’
‘I do agree with you sometimes, Jack. But only when there’s an R in the month.’
Harris chuckled. He could not remember ever having done that with Philip Curtis.
‘It’s a gamble, though,’ said the commander, serious again. ‘We don’t know where Lenny Portland is and there’s no guarantee we’ll find him before tomorrow.’
‘Granted but we should be able to secure the place OK. The weapons boys seem fairly confident. I just think it would be wrong to cancel it. Send out the wrong message.’
Curtis nodded and there was silence. It was broken by Harris.
‘What have you done with Barnett?’ he asked.
‘Suspended him pending a full investigation. Told him he should have come to me if he wanted to bring the Portland thing up again. He tried to argue that he was only trying to do the right thing but it didn’t wash, Jack, it really didn’t. It may be quite some time before he hooks up with Sergeant Squirrel.’
‘Sir?’
‘It’s going to be his next challenge if he gets through this. Road safety.’
‘Appropriate.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Curtis stood up. ‘Listen, Jack, I know you and me have not always got on.’
‘You could say that.’
‘But I appreciate what you do, even if I do not always agree with how you do it.’ Curtis looked at the dogs. ‘And even if I hate them with a rare passion.’
Scoot gave him a dirty look and Archie whimpered. Curtis ignored them and headed out into the corridor. He popped his head back into the office.
‘But if you tell anyone I said something nice to you,’ he said, ‘I will have to kill you. Have I made that clear?’
‘Crystal,’ said Harris, grinning. When the sound of the commander’s footsteps had faded away, the inspector glanced down at the dogs. ‘You think you know someone, eh?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As the first rays of light streaked the dawn sky, Jack Harris and Matty Gallagher waited in a car park on the edge of Levton Bridge and watched as the force helicopter touched down on the tarmac, the clatter of its rotor blades disturbing the Sunday-morning peace. Within seconds, the detectives were aboard and the aircraft was rising into the sky before turning to sweep low across the town, the wan early-morning light revealing teams of uniforms fanning out from the police station. As the helicopter wheeled over the town, Harris looked down on deserted streets and gardens.
‘Anything?’ he shouted to Gallagher, who was on the other side of the craft.
Gallagher shook his head.
‘Where the hell is he?’ murmured Harris.
The helicopter banked and headed north out of town to fly low over fields and hillsides, the officers looking down on sheep huddled in the lee of dry-stone walls, copses waving in the breeze and chuckling brooks dancing their way down grassy slopes. Harris tapped Gallagher on the shoulder and pointed to a line of red shapes working their way along one of the ravines.
‘The mountain rescue boys,’ shouted the inspector. ‘They were out just after six looking for him.’
‘If Portland’s here, we should have found him by now. Maybe he’s not. Maybe we’ve got away with—’
The pilot turned round.
‘Message for you, Inspector,’ he said. ‘One of the ground teams has found something.’
‘On the other hand,’ said Gallagher.
The helicopter touched down in a farmyard on the edge of Levton Bridge and the two detectives jumped out and ran across to a barn outside of which stood two uniformed officers.
‘Where is it?’ asked Harris.
‘Inside,’ said one of the uniforms, directing them to an old tarpaulin next to which lay a couple of sweet wrappers and an empty beer bottle.
‘When did you find them?’ asked Harris, glancing at the farmer who had just walked into the barn.
‘’Bout twenty minutes ago.’ He looked worried. ‘Do you reckon he’s been here, Mr Harris?’
Harris looked round the barn. ‘He’s been here,’ he said grimly.
‘You want to call the ceremony off?’ asked Gallagher. ‘There’s still time.’
Harris shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This town has pledged to honour its dead and honour them it will.’
‘Just as long as it doesn’t add anyone else to the list.’
‘He’ll not get into the market place,’ said Harris and walked out of the barn.
As the town clock edged its way closer to the eleven, uniformed teams began to take up positions around the square, watching as people started to filter in from the side streets. The atmosphere was in stark contrast to the previous afternoon. Gone was the anger; many people looked uneasily about them, unnerved by the heavy police presence and the clattering of the helicopter yet determined to support the war veterans.
Several armed officers took up discreet positions in shop doorways and one officer carrying a rifle emerged onto a rooftop and stared down at the rapidly filling market place. And all the time, the force helicopter hovered above the market place, the chatter of its rotors filling the air. At ten to eleven, Jack Harris walked into the square and took up his position, leaning in the doorway of one of the tearooms, soon to be joined by Matty Gallagher.
‘Nothing?’ asked the inspector.
‘I don’t reckon he’s going to show.’ Gallagher surveyed the crowd. ‘Remarkable turnout.’
Harris nodded. ‘Right decision,’ he said.
As the clock ticked over onto five-to, the detectives could hear the sound of music and a long line of war veterans marched proudly into the square, led by a local brass band. Arms swinging, medals glinting in the morning sun, Henry Maitlin at their head, just a few paces ahead of Rob Mackey, the veterans made their way to the war memorial, Philip Curtis a few steps back in dress uniform, walking next to the mayor. The band stopped playing and the helicopter wheeled away, the sound of the rotor blades fading into the distance. Silence settled on the market place.
‘If he is here, he’ll make his move now,’ whispered Harris, as Rob Mackey, clutching his wreath, took his place among the war veterans gathered round the m
emorial.
‘I’ve never known anything like it,’ said Gallagher. His mouth felt dry. ‘Have you?’
‘Once or twice.’ Harris glanced up at the rooftops.
‘You reckon he might be up there?’
‘Old habits die hard, Matty lad. Saw a man taken out by a sniper in Cyprus once. Clean between the eyes.’
‘Yeah, thanks for making me feel better.’
Harris waved to the armed officer on the roof and returned his attention to Henry Maitlin, who along with the mayor stepped forward and placed his wreath at the base of the memorial. Representatives of the three armed forces did likewise, followed by Rob Mackey, who glanced nervously to right and left as he did so.
‘Say what you like about him,’ murmured Gallagher, ‘but that takes bottle.’
Harris did not reply as the haunting sound of ‘The Last Post’ drifted across the market place.
‘Never hear that without feeling the hairs on the back of my neck rise,’ he said as the final notes faded away.
‘A no-show then,’ said Gallagher, relief in his voice as the brass band struck up again, the veterans turned and marched from the market place and the crowd started to drift away.
‘So it would seem,’ said Harris. But he did not sound convinced.
The detectives followed the procession down the hill towards the police station, where the band stopped playing and the veterans started to disperse. As the detectives reached the steps of the station, Curtis caught up with them.
‘Well done, Jack,’ he said. ‘A fine operation.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Rob Mackey walked over to them and extended his hand to the inspector.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you for keeping me safe.’
Harris hesitated then, on noticing everyone watching him, grudgingly shook the hand. Mackey walked down the hill towards his Range Rover, which was parked on the pavement.
‘Perhaps we can give him a ticket for blocking the public highway,’ said Harris. Noticing the commander’s look, he feigned innocence. ‘What? What have I said?’
