by John Dean
‘Now, now, Jack,’ said Curtis as he walked up the steps, adding over his shoulder, ‘Just you behave.’
But they could tell he was smiling.
‘You and he big buddies now then?’ asked Gallagher.
Before Harris could reply, the detectives were joined by Alison Butterfield and the three detectives stood at the bottom of the steps and watched Mackey as he took his car keys from a coat pocket and unlocked the vehicle.
‘It definitely over then?’ Harris asked her as Mackey took off his coat and placed it carefully on the back seat. ‘You and lover boy history?’
She nodded. ‘I went to see his wife last night.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes, when we had finished the search. Told her what I had done.’
‘What’d she say?’ asked Gallagher.
‘Think she was glad to see the back of him, but the daughter, she gave me a filthy look. Not sure I blame her.’
Mackey made as if to get into the driver’s seat then saw Butterfield. For a moment, their eyes met then the constable turned away and Mackey got into his car and started the engine. After doing a three-point turn, he headed towards the crossroads and the officers turned to walk up the steps. They had just reached the front door when they heard shouting, a woman’s scream and the squealing of tyres. Staring down the hill, they saw Lenny Portland standing in the middle of the road, his shotgun trained on the Range Rover, which had come to a halt a few metres away. The detectives sprinted down the hill, barging their way past startled war veterans and families.
‘Don’t no one come any closer!’ shouted Portland in a trembling voice as he saw them walking slowly down the left-hand side of the car. ‘Just don’t no one come any closer.’
‘Come on, Lenny,’ said Harris, glancing into the vehicle where an ashen-faced Mackey was staring in horror, his knuckles glowing white as he gripped the steering wheel.
Harris took another step forward.
‘You stay back!’ Portland turned the gun to point at the inspector.
Harris stopped walking. ‘Have it your way, Lenny,’ he said.
‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ said Portland, turning the gun back towards Mackey. ‘I don’t want to hurt no one but him.’
Mackey looked even more frightened.
‘But why, Lenny?’ asked Harris.
‘Because of what happened to my father.’ He seemed close to tears.
‘Think it through, son. Rob didn’t do that, did he? It was his father. Thirty years ago.’
‘Yeah, but he knew.’ Portland started crying and lowered the gun slightly. He lifted it again as he saw armed officers edging their way down the streets, which was now virtually deserted as others ushered the crowds away. ‘Keep them back or I’ll shoot!’
Harris turned and gestured to the armed officers, who stopped walking.
‘We’ll play it your way, Lenny,’ he said, ‘but it makes no sense to kill Rob for what his father did.’
‘No?’ said Portland bitterly, tears starting to flow now. ‘He knew but he never told anyone. Do you know how old I were when it happened? Do you?’
‘No.’
‘Twelve, that’s how old. That’s no age to lose your father. Someone has to pay for what happened.’
‘If you pull that trigger,’ said Harris, glancing behind him at the armed officers ‘they will drop you where you stand.’
Portland hesitated then lifted the gun again, gripping it even tighter.
‘No,’ he said, voice firmer. ‘No …’
‘Lenny,’ said Alison Butterfield softly, brushing past the inspector. ‘Give it up, love.’
Portland seemed to waver slightly.
‘Why should I?’ he said but he sounded less sure of himself.
‘Because you need help. And because we let you down.’ Butterfield glanced at Mackey, who still gripped the steering wheel, unable to take his eyes off the shotgun. ‘We all let you down, love.’
Portland looked hopefully at her. ‘Will you get me help?’ he said, tears streaming down his cheeks.
‘I promise,’ said Butterfield.
Portland hesitated then nodded and lowered the gun. Butterfield walked forward and took it off him.
‘We’ll get it right this time,’ she said, placing an arm round his shoulder. ‘I promise.’
Two uniformed officers rushed forward and grabbed Portland, twisting his arms behind his back so that he squealed with pain.
‘Be careful with him,’ protested Butterfield.
‘Yeah, lads,’ shouted Harris as they led Portland up the hill. ‘Go easy!’
Butterfield shot him a grateful look and walked back towards her colleagues.
‘Well done, Constable,’ said Harris, patting her on the shoulder.
‘Thank you, sir.’ She was trembling. ‘At least I got one thing right. I kind of feel like I made up for … well, you know.’
‘I do indeed. For a start, it means I do not have to live with the knowledge that I saved your ex-boyfriend’s life.’ He headed up the hill. ‘Can you believe how hard that would be? Doesn’t bear thinking about, just doesn’t bear thinking about.’
Butterfield watched him go then looked across at Gallagher.
‘Can you believe him sometimes?’ she said with a shake of the head.
Gallagher nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah, I reckon I can.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
‘This is where it belongs,’ said Maggie, looking at the VC in a glass case, sitting on a crimson cushion next to a black and white photograph of Harold Leach in uniform and a faded newspaper cutting telling the story of his wartime bravery. ‘This is where my grandfather’s medal should be. It needs to be seen.’
‘Indeed,’ said Harris, nodding.
It was mid-morning and they were standing in one of the rooms at Roxham Museum. Around them milled a mixture of civic dignitaries and war veterans, all there for the opening of the new exhibition devoted to the area’s war heroes. Glancing at the next case, Harris noticed that it was devoted to George Mackey’s Military Cross, which sat on a cushion as well. The inspector looked round the room and frowned. Only the previous day, Rob had been extradited to stand trial in America and there had been no sign of Liz or Bethany at the courthouse in Manchester. They were not at the opening of the exhibition either.
‘So much for honouring the dead,’ murmured Harris.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing. Just thinking aloud.’
‘My grandfather would have been very embarrassed at all this, you know,’ said Maggie, accepting a glass of orange juice from a young woman who was circulating with a tray. She looked across at the local councillors talking to the chief constable. ‘He hated fuss.’
‘Not quite his thing, I imagine,’ said Harris, following her gaze.
‘Not really. Stuffed shirts, he used to call them.’
‘I knew there was a reason I liked him.’ The inspector’s mobile rang. Gallagher, said the read-out. Harris lifted the device to his ear. ‘Matty lad, can’t you manage without me for a couple of hours?’
‘Sorry,’ said the sergeant; Harris could hear that his colleague was trying not to laugh. ‘Roger Barnett and Sergeant Squirrel are making an appearance at the primary school this afternoon and Curtis wondered if you fancied popping along? Thinks we should be officially represented. Would have gone himself but he reckons you might derive more satisfaction from the experience.’
Gallagher lost his battle with laughter. So did Jack Harris.
By the Same Author
A Flicker in the Night
No Age to Die
The Vengeance Man
The Latch Man
The Long Dead
Strange Little Girl
The Dead Hill
The Railway Man
To Die Alone
The Secrets Man
Copyright
© John Dean 2012
First published in Great Britain 2012
This edition 2012
&n
bsp; ISBN 978 0 7198 0830 2 (epub)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0831 9 (mobi)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0832 6 (pdf)
ISBN 978 0 7198 0701 5 (print)
Robert Hale Limited
Clerkenwell House
Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.halebooks.com
The right of John Dean to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
