To Honour the Dead (11 page)

The girl had just finished filling out the paperwork when Mackey’s phone went again. He ignored it and it stopped ringing. A matter of seconds later, it rang again. Mackey sighed and took the phone out again, glancing at the screen. Al, it said.

‘You’re popular, sir,’ said the girl brightly, handing over his credit card and his booking form.

Mackey gave a slight smile.

‘How right you are,’ he said, picking up his bag and heading towards the stairs. ‘Just with all the wrong people.’

T
he fog was rolling thick and silent over the northern hills as Jack Harris guided the Land Rover carefully across the moor, occasionally leaning over the steering wheel as he struggled to make out the way ahead. Visibility had been poor ever since he and Detective Inspector Gillian Roberts had pulled away from the police station half an hour before, leaving the dogs in the doting care of the two women in the control room. Roberts, sitting in silence beside Harris, not speaking in order to let him concentrate on the road, was Levton Bridge’s only detective inspector. A mother of two in her early fifties, she affected a matronly demeanour but behind the avuncular façade was an officer as tough and sharp as they came, one who thrived on the challenges of the job. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness; this was the kind of thing she loved most. Her daily life tended to be spent dealing with the likes of Lenny Portland so the prospect of coming up against more serious villains had her excited.

As he drove, Jack Harris was experiencing similar emotions. That he still did so five years after leaving Manchester never failed to surprise him. He had always assumed that he would be able to adapt completely to life back in the valley, that he had seen enough major-league crime during his time in the city to be sated. An officer who had always appreciated working in Manchester, who had always felt a rush of adrenaline when the big jobs were on,
who relished bumping heads with villains, he had nevertheless assumed that his decision to seek out more peaceful climes would always seem like the right one. By and large it had been but on nights like this, when the chase was on, Jack Harris felt a call to his previous life.

The inspector knew that he had to resist such moments; deep in his heart he did not want to go back to Manchester. He had felt claustrophobic living in the city, like he could hear everyone’s thoughts. He had known then, knew now, that the northern hills would keep calling to him until he finally committed his life fully to them; it was, he had reasoned, rather like a marriage and the hills were his
ever-constant
partner. And one on which he could rely to be faithful. Nevertheless, as ever in such situations as this, when the paradox of his emotions were so clearly exposed, the inspector felt the stirrings of excitement.

As the fog cleared at last and the road began to dip, the detectives could see the twinkling lights of villages spread out across the flatlands ahead of them, and in the far distance the town of Roxham, the area’s largest community. They would turn off long before they reached it, though, the Land Rover heading for the M6 southbound. As Harris relaxed and sat back in his seat again, Roberts glanced across at him.

‘This Ronny Michaels character,’ she said. ‘You know him of old then?’

‘From my Manchester days. A job on the M62. There was a lorry driver parked up in a truck stop for the night. Carrying crates of lager. Michaels and his gang jumped him when he nipped out to check his fastenings. We’d had a few jobs like that over the previous few months – same gang, we reckoned. Michaels coshed the driver. Landed him in hospital.’

‘Nice lad. How did you get them?’

‘Ah, well, because there had been quite a few of the jobs,
we had been running an op so when the call came in, everyone was on standby. Traffic had a couple of fast cars parked near where it happened and intercepted them as they tried to get away. They tried to outrun them but not sure a loaded Ford Transit had much chance against one of our vehicles. They do like the glory stuff, the traffic boys.’

‘Rather like our Mr Barnett,’ said Roberts.

‘You heard about that then?’

‘It’s all anyone’s talking about. He’s walking round like he’s some kind of hero. From what Matty says the bus would have exploded if it had got above fifteen miles an hour. Not sure Barnett needed to do the high-speed pursuit stuff. Matty’s well hacked off.’

‘I’m sure he is.’ Harris frowned. ‘I lost it with Roger, if I’m honest. Threatened him.’

‘Why on earth did you do that?’

‘I’m really struggling with this,’ sighed Harris. He looked across at her with dark eyes. ‘I really am.’

‘Because it’s Harold?’

‘Yeah, because it’s Harold. We had known each other for years. Since I was a kid. First time I met him I must have been, I don’t know, ten, eleven, and I was out on the moor when I saw him walking towards me. Pointed out a buzzard to me on the horizon. All I could see was a black speck but he knew that it was a female and what it had had for breakfast. We got talking and we’d been friends ever since. He taught me so much about wildlife, you know. I’ve lost a friend, Gillian.’

‘You sure you want to handle the inquiry? I am sure they would send another—’

‘No, I’ll be fine.’

‘Sure? I mean, just because you were upset is not a reason to take it out on Roger Barnett.’

‘He deserved it. Not sure whether to take it any further, mind.’

‘In my experience, a hard word from Jack Harris usually suffices,’ she said with a smile. ‘Why the worried look, Jack? You think Barnett will complain? He’d be stupid if he did.’

‘Who knows? And wouldn’t Curtis love it if he did? He’s been waiting for something like that. Let’s not talk about it any more. Just gets me narked.’

‘Fair enough. You were saying. This lot that did over the lorry driver. What happened?’

‘Well, we had them bang to rights and they knew it. We found the cosh in the back of the van along with dozens of crates that they had taken from the lorry.’

‘Nice job.’

‘Yeah, and what’s more,’ said Harris, grinning, ‘the halfwit behind the wheel had already had two cans of Special. Not only did we get him for robbery but traffic breathalyzed him and he blew positive. Kept the traffic boys happy.’

Roberts laughed. It was always good when Harris lightened up. It just didn’t happen often enough, in her view.

‘And you were the one who interviewed Michaels, I take it?’ she said.

‘Yeah.’ Harris nodded as he guided the Land Rover round a sharp bend. ‘It was my op so I did them all. He admitted being involved in the job straightaway, put his hands up to another four as well, but he swore blind that he never hit the driver. Claimed it was one of the others. He seemed genuinely concerned about what had happened to the guy. Never did work out if he was a coward or a villain with a conscience.’

‘Which one did you come up with?’

‘A twat.’

‘Ah,’ said Gillian Roberts.

‘Now this is interesting,’ said Gallagher, turning away from the computer screen, tipping back in his chair and glancing at Butterfield, who was sitting in the far corner of the CID
room, staring out of the window. ‘There’s nothing on Mackey but we may have something on—’

‘There’s something you need to know,’ she said, turning to look at him.

‘You’ve been dobbing Rob Mackey.’

‘What?’ She stared at him in amazement.

‘Just a wild guess,’ said Gallagher with an impish look on his face. ‘It was that or you were a Martian.’

‘Who told you?’ Butterfield said angrily.

‘Saw your spaceship parked in the yard.’ Noticing that she was not laughing, he added. ‘Harris.’

‘But I told him it was a personal matter.’

‘The DCI would beg to differ. He sees it as an operational matter and one I needed to know about. For what it’s worth, I think he’s right. I mean, your pal Mackey has got a lot of questions to answer, has he not?’

‘I guess,’ she said glumly. ‘To his wife for a start.’

‘Indeed.’

‘What else did Harris say?’

‘That he would have liked to have known about your dalliance a bit earlier. Why didn’t you tell him, for God’s sake, Alison? You knew Mackey was a part of the Morritt investigation. Surely you must have seen that there was a conflict of interest?’

‘But your inquiries showed Rob did nothing wrong. Besides, we got together after you finished your investigation.’

‘But before the inquest. At least if you had told the governor you would have covered your back if things went funny.’

‘I didn’t think he’d approve,’ said Butterfield, turning back to stare out of the window. ‘I just didn’t think he would approve.’

‘What, and you think he does now?’ said Gallagher sharply. Noticing her unhappy expression, he added in a softer voice, ‘Look, love, I just think the DCI does not like
these kind of things being kept from him. You know what he’s like with surprises. Surely you have not forgotten the fiasco when we tried to throw the curmudgeonly old bastard a birthday party?’

‘But there’s no law against what I’ve done, Matty.’ She sounded plaintive when she said it, looking at Gallagher as if seeking approbation for what she had done.

‘The DCI’s view is that it shows a lack of judgement. Look, I know you like Mackey but in my view the man’s a prat. One, might I remind you, who tried to block the DCI’s investigation when that flipping bird was shot. And one who is now up to his neck in a murder inquiry.’

‘I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding. Rob’s not so bad when you get to know him. He can be quite gentle.’

‘You,’ said the sergeant with a twinkle in his eye, ‘would know more about that than me.’

The comment eased the tension in the room and Butterfield shied the phone book at him. Gallagher ducked, roaring with laughter as he did so.

‘Bastard!’ she said. ‘You are a complete bastard!’

‘I like to think so,’ said Gallagher, grinning.

Their hilarity was interrupted by the arrival of Roger Barnett, who strode into the room and looked round.

‘This how you go about solving a murder inquiry then?’ he asked. ‘Your gaffer ain’t in his office. Where is he?’

‘Not in his office,’ said Gallagher, winking at Butterfield.

‘Don’t come the funny man with me. I asked where your—’

‘Where our governor is has nothing to do with you,’ said Gallagher, bridling at the sergeant’s tone of voice. ‘What do you want him for anyway?’

‘He bawled me out earlier – threatened me, he did – and I want him to apologize.’

‘Apologize? Jack Harris?’

‘Yeah, Jack Harris. I was going to take it straight to Curtis then I thought, no, if I get an apol—’

‘Not sure you’ll get an apology from our gaffer,’ said Gallagher. ‘In fact, he’s more likely to ask you why you’ve been knocking Lenny Portland about.’

‘What?’

‘That‘s what Lenny seems to think.’

‘He got what he deserved!’

‘And so, I imagine, will you if you try it on with our governor. I know they do things differently in the buzzing metropolis that is Roxham but up here Jack Harris’s word is law. Always worth bearing that in mind, Roger. What do you think, Constable?’

Butterfield nodded. ‘Oh, aye,’ she said. ‘Law, Roger.’

Barnett stalked angrily from the room.

‘You just wait,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘You just see what Curtis thinks to all of this.’

‘Yeah, good luck with that,’ shouted Gallagher. He frowned. ‘Don‘t know why we’re laughing. This could be what Curtis has been waiting for.’

‘The DCI’s a survivor.’

‘So was Harold Leach,’ said Gallagher, walking out of the room. ‘And look what happened to him.’

Harris guided the Land Rover up the motorway slip road and onto the largely empty southbound carriageway. As he did so, his dashboard-mounted mobile phone rang.

‘Harris,’ he said reaching down to press the receive call button.

‘It’s Leckie,’ said the voice at the other end. ‘You on the way down here?’

‘Yeah, just pulling onto the M6. Why?’

‘Just had the DI on. One of our informants reckon your two guys may turn up at a pub on one of our housing estates. It’s notorious for stoppy-backs and, apparently, they sometimes make an appearance on a Thursday night. Been doing it for months. Nice of our informant not to tell us
before. We didn’t even know they were back in town.’

‘Perhaps they were waiting until some professional coppers turned up.’

‘Yeah, never know when you’re likely to need someone who knows about sheep in Manchester,’ said Leckie. ‘Place is thick with the buggers, you know.’

‘Should we head direct to the pub then?’

‘No, I’ll text you the details of where to find us. Did you take my advice and bring that delightful little blonde constable with you?’

Before Harris could reply, Gillian Roberts leaned over towards the phone.

‘’Fraid not, Graham,’ she said in her best matronly tone. ‘He brought her wrinkled old granny instead.’

All they heard was a low laugh from Leckie.

G
allagher joined Butterfield at the squad-room window and they watched as four police vans and two patrol cars edged their way out of the station yard and onto the main road outside the station.

‘That’s the governor’s doing,’ said Gallagher. ‘He asked for a show of force to reassure folks. That last thing we want is another incident a couple of days before Remembrance Sunday.’

Butterfield did not reply and silence settled on the room. Gallagher hesitated.

‘I take it,’ he said, without looking at her, ‘that you did not know anything about what Mackey was up to?’

‘Do you even have to ask?’ she replied sharply.

‘I had to, though. I mean, didn’t I? Oh, don’t look like that. I imagine the governor said the same thing.’

‘Firstly,’ she said with anger in her voice as she stared hard at him, ‘there’s not much to suggest exactly what Rob’s done, if he’s done anything at all, and secondly, do you really think I would have stayed with him if I had known? I mean, do you, Matty? Knowing he could have been mixed up with something like this?’

‘No, no, I don’t think you would.’

‘I’m glad.’ There was an awkward silence. The constable broke it. ‘Anyway, what were you saying before Barnett interrupted us?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Gallagher, relieved that the tension had eased. He walked back to his computer. ‘See, I had this crazy idea that Rob might be advertising his stuff on the web – ebay, something like that, you know?’

‘Curtis would be delighted if we could solve all crimes by internet,’ said Butterfield, remaining at the window to watch the patrols disperse. ‘Save on mileage, that would. But even if you were right that Rob is into something dodgy, I am pretty sure that he would not be so stupid to use his own name. He’s a pretty smart cookie, you know.’

‘I guessed that but we have his contact numbers so I thought I would try them anyway. Long shot, I know.’ Gallagher tapped the computer screen. ‘Anyway, you will be delighted to hear that I found nothing – well, not about Rob anyway. But guess who is dealing in war memorabilia?’

‘Dunno.’ she shrugged. ‘Who?’

‘Humour me for a moment. Think of the last person in the world you would expect?’

‘Mother Teresa?’

‘She’s dead.’

‘I don’t know then. She was the obvious one.’

‘Barry Gough,’ said Gallagher dramatically. He tapped the computer screen. ‘We had his number as well. Got it one time when he was lifted for protesting so I keyed that in. Another long shot, really, but look what came up.’

Butterfield walked over to the computer and shook her head in disbelief as she looked over his shoulder.

‘You sure that’s his number?’ she said as she read the ‘Contact Us’ section of a website, which featured a series of military images and the words ‘Memorabilia for Sale’. ‘I always assumed he would be against anything like that on principle.’

‘Clearly his views are a somewhat movable feast.’

‘Hang on,’ said Butterfield as Gallagher clicked back to the home page and she pointed at a piece of small print. ‘That says that they do not deal in medals.’

‘So it does.’ He looked disappointed. ‘And much as I would like to lock the little bugger up and throw away the key, I guess there’s nothing illegal about what this lot are doing, as far as I can see. It’s simply a bunch of saddoes selling old army gear.’

‘Unless they’re nicking it first.’

‘Unless they’re nicking it first.’

‘Look,’ said Butterfield, pointing to an address on the screen, ‘they trade out of Manchester. What do you reckon that is – an industrial estate or something? A lock-up, perhaps?’

‘If only we had someone in Manchester who could help us out,’ said Gallagher, picking up the phone. ‘Oh, hang on, we just happen to have a couple of our finest on their way there as we speak. I’ll ring Leckie first. See what we can dig up.’

‘You decided what you’re going to do about young Butterfield?’ asked Gillian Roberts as the Land Rover sped through the night.

‘Not sure what I can do,’ said the inspector, moving into the middle lane to overtake a slow-moving lorry. ‘Not sure there’s a law against dating a git.’

‘You just do not like Rob Mackey, do you?’

‘Can’t stand the man.’

‘And yet you are so considerate with everyone else,’ she said, shooting him a sly look. ‘It’s so out of character.’

‘That’s below the belt,’ said Harris but he did not seem offended by the comment.

‘Talking of below the belt, do we know how long they had been sleeping together?’

‘Only a few months. She did not want anyone to know about it.’

‘Especially you.’

‘I guess so.’ He gave the slightest of smiles. ‘I can’t imagine why. Like you so rightly point out, I am usually so understanding.’

‘Just keep your eyes on the road. Don’t want to hit that flying pig if it gets too low, do we now? Talking of people with delusions of the truth, do you believe Portland? Is Rob Mackey wrapped up in this murder somehow?’

‘Can’t see it.’

‘Then why’s he done a runner?’

‘Not sure. There’s something we don’t know and I don’t like not knowing things.’

‘I’ll be sure to remind young Butterfield about that next time I see her.’

The inspector’s mobile phone bleeped and Roberts leaned over to call up the text.

‘It’s a pub called the Red Lion,’ she said. ‘Leckie says we are to meet a DI called Jamie Standish at the main town police station and they’ll take us there. Says you will be delighted to see Standish again. He’s put an exclamation mark after it. What’s that about then?’

‘Maybe I’ll tell you one day.’

‘I’ll hold you to that.’ Roberts read to the end of the message. ‘They want to know how long we’ll be.’

‘Not long,’ said Harris, ramming his foot on the accelerator. ‘Not long at all.’

‘Barry Gough?’ said Leckie, tapping on his own keyboard. ‘Not sure I’ve heard of him, Matty. Why so interested? Something to do with these guys your governor is after?’

‘Possibly. I hope we’re not wasting your time, Graham. I don’t imagine you’ll find much about him.’

‘Au contraire. Your Mr Gough has got quite a record. All minor disorder stuff, mind. Public order, that kind of thing.’

‘Linked to war protests, no doubt.’

‘Most of it. According to this, he left Manchester two years ago but no one knew where he went. Did you know he was ex-army?’

‘But he’s an anti-war protestor.’

‘Maybe it’s less to do with principle and more to do with getting his own back. Says here that he was kicked out at the age of twenty-one for being drunk on duty three times in a week. His involvement in protests would appear to have started after that.’

‘What else has he been up to?’

‘D and D, a bit of petty crime. He’s not much of a fish, Matty. What makes you think he might be linked to the murder of your old feller?’

‘He’s been selling war memorabilia through a bunch in Manchester. Their website mentions an address. Sale Street.’

‘Yeah, I know it. It’s on the edge of town. Not much to it, mind – a few workshops, half of which are empty. In fact, I did hear the council might be knocking it down. I guess your gaffer could take a look while he’s down here but it sounds like a long shot. Anything else you want me to check?’

‘I’m still trying to make sense of a war protestor who ends up selling memorabilia on the QT.’

‘Nothing like a man of principle.’

‘And Barry Gough is nothing like a man of principle.’

‘I’ll set ’em up, you knock ’em in,’ said Leckie.

Silence had settled on Levton Bridge market place, the only movement a cat skulking in the shadows. Shortly before the town clock chimed midnight, a police van drove slowly past the rows of shops and tearooms. The driver brought the vehicle to a halt as it drew parallel with the war memorial. He lowered his window and peered through the fog.

‘Anything?’ asked his colleague.

‘Nah, seems OK. After all, who would be stupid enough to try something after what happened at Chapel Hill?’

‘I guess,’ said the passenger. ‘Come on, I’m freezing, let’s get a cuppa. We’ll take another look a bit later. No one’s going to do anything now.’

The driver nodded his agreement and the van drove round
the corner in the direction of the police station. When it had gone, a figure emerged from an alley on the far side of the market place and walked slowly towards the memorial.

Liz Mackey sat in the darkened kitchen at Laurel House and nursed her fourth glass of whisky. The mobile phone sat on the table in front of her. Its battery was starting to run low. Wearily, Liz reached out and dialled her husband’s mobile number yet again and placed the phone to her ear. ‘The owner of this phone is unable to take your call,’ said the automated voice at the other end. It had been saying that for hours. Liz sighed and put the phone back on the table. The kitchen door opened and her teenage daughter walked into the room. She was dressed in her pyjamas. Bleary-eyed, Bethany glanced at the clock.

‘It’s 1.30, Mum,’ she said. ‘Go to bed.’

‘I can’t sleep. I keep thinking.’

‘I know,’ said Bethany, sitting down and putting her arm round her shoulder. ‘So do I. Where do you think he is?’

‘I have no idea. With his fancy woman, I suppose.’

‘Are you sure about him having an affair? I mean, the letter that the police took, it doesn’t actually say that, does it?’

‘It’s what it meant,’ said Liz. She reached across to stroke her daughter’s hair. ‘I’m sorry, love.’

‘For what, Mum?’

‘For letting it happen.’

‘Don’t talk daft. The only person to blame is Dad. And the other woman. Do you know who she is?’

‘I have no idea,’ she said; she was slurring her words a little.

They sat in silence for a few moments.

Bethany said, ‘Did you love him, Mum?’

Liz reached for the bottle as she considered the question.

‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’ said her daughter,
moving it further away. ‘God, that was virtually full this morning.’

Liz looked thoughtful. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t think I do love your father. Maybe not even at the start. Is that a terrible thing to say?’

Bethany shook her head. ‘Not really. I don’t love him either. He gave me good reason to—’

‘Please God don’t tell me that he—’

‘No, nothing like that, Mum,’ said her daughter quickly. ‘He did not have time for anyone else.’

Liz smiled sadly. ‘Except for his mystery woman,’ she said.

‘Except for his mystery woman,’ agreed Bethany, sliding the bottle over to her mother. ‘Go on, have another drink, you old soak.’

Liz poured some whisky out and held the glass up.

‘Here’s to her,’ she said. ‘She’s welcome to him. I hope she’s happy with what she’s done.’

Alison Butterfield sat in the darkened kitchen of her flat close to the market place and nursed her fourth glass of whisky. The mobile phone sat on the table in front of her. Its battery was starting to run low. Wearily, Butterfield reached out and dialled Rob Mackey’s mobile number yet again and placed the phone to her ear. ‘The owner of this phone is unable to take your call,’ said the automated voice at the other end. It had been saying that for hours. Butterfield sighed and put the phone back on the table.