To Honour the Dead (9 page)

T
he rain was easing as Jack Harris parked his Land Rover in front of the police station and got out of the vehicle to hear angry shouting from the direction of the market place. Running up the hill, followed by his excited dogs, the inspector was faced with the sight of a furious Henry Maitlin confronting Barry Gough and two spotty teenagers in parkas, both of whom were wielding placards as they stood in front of the town’s war memorial. Gough was shouting slogans and ignoring the attempts of Maitlin to quieten him down. As Harris arrived, Maitlin made a grab for Gough’s placard, sending both men staggering to the floor where they struggled on the wet cobbles.

‘What the hell is going on?’ shouted Harris, pushing back the dogs and wading in to separate the two men. Dragging the combatants to their feet, he let Maitlin go and surveyed his dishevelled hair. ‘Brawling in the street, Henry? And at your age? Jesus H. Christ.’

Maitlin dusted the mud from his trousers and looked sheepishly at the detective.

‘Sorry, Jack,’ he mumbled.

Still held in the inspector’s grip, and attempting to free his arm, Barry Gough showed no such contrition.

‘Let go of me!’ he said. ‘I have my rights.’

‘Not until I get some kind of answer, you haven’t,’ said Harris, tightening his grip.

‘Ow!’ squealed Gough. ‘You’re hurting me!’

‘Then perhaps you had better give me a good explanation for your behaviour.’ Harris looked at Maitlin. ‘You’re like a couple of four-year-olds.’

Maitlin averted his gaze and Gough finally fell silent and stopped struggling. Harris let him go.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the inspector, ‘I’m waiting.’

‘It’s his lot,’ said Maitlin, nodding at the protestors. ‘Doing that in front of the war memorial like that. It’s disrespectful, that’s what it is, especially given what’s happened to poor Harold last night.’

‘We have every right to—’ began Gough but cried out in pain as the inspector snapped out a hand and twisted his ear.

‘Rights,’ hissed the detective, ‘are earned around here.’

Harris let him go again and the protestor stood a few yards away, clutching his ear. Gough’s supporters edged back a pace or two when the inspector turned his attention on them. Harris estimated that neither were much above sixteen. Neither looked particularly healthy specimens. They eyed him nervously.

‘And why,’ said Harris, turning to Gough, ‘did you decide to protest here tonight of all nights?’

‘They said they were going to disrupt Sunday,’ added Maitlin before any of the protestors could reply. ‘Stage a demonstration in the middle of the Remembrance ceremony. It’s disgraceful, Jack, absolutely disgraceful.’

‘Is this true?’ asked the inspector, looking at Gough again.

‘Yeah, we’re going to make sure that people know about the evils of—’

‘Oh, do shut it,’ sighed Harris. ‘I really have had enough of you and your primary-school friends bleating on.’

Gough was about to remonstrate but the throbbing in his ear persuaded him to reconsider and he said nothing. The
inspector turned to see Matty Gallagher walking across the market place.

‘You OK, guv?’ asked the sergeant, trying not to appear amused at the sight of the dishevelled Henry Maitlin trying to tidy up his hair. ‘Need a hand with these hardened miscreants?’

‘Think I can dispense some summary justice all on my own.’

‘Right-o,’ said Gallagher, turning so they could not see him smiling. He walked back across the market place, attempting to keep the laughter out of his voice. ‘See you later then.’

‘Now,’ said Harris, returning his attention to the two men, ‘I have two choices. Charge you both with fighting in the street or you can apologize for your actions. Not sure either of you fancies being charged. It would, I think, be your first conviction, Henry? Not perhaps the best advert for our local coroner, might I suggest.’

Maitlin nodded meekly. ‘It won’t happen again, Jack,’ he said, adding with fire in his eyes, ‘but I won’t apologize to the likes of him.’

‘And you needn’t think I am either,’ said Gough.

‘Yeah, maybe that is asking a bit much,’ said Harris, walking towards Gough until he was within six inches of him. He lowered his voice. ‘If I see you anywhere near this place on Sunday your feet won’t touch the ground. You can have free speech elsewhere but not in my town. You just remember that, sunshine. Now sod off.’

Gough looked as if he was about to say something but the expression on the inspector’s face counselled against it and he and his fellow protestors took their placards and slunk away.

‘Police state!’ shouted Gough when they reached the edge of the market place.

‘I like to think so,’ replied Harris.

‘Thank you,’ said Maitlin as the protestors disappeared. It sounded heartfelt. ‘I don’t know what came over me, Jack.’

‘You needn’t think you’re getting off lightly. I mean, what on earth were you thinking about? What if the press gets hold of the story?’

‘I know, I know.’ He looked after the retreating protestors. ‘You don’t think he’ll tell them, do you?’

‘Not if he knows what’s good for him. But next time you just leave Barry Gough and his mates to me, yes?’

‘You can understand why I did it, can’t you, Jack?’ said Maitlin, despair in his voice. ‘I mean, these young people, they don’t seem to understand what sacrifices we made for them. So many sacrifices, Jack, so many friends lost, and for what? So that someone like them can …’

His voice tailed off and he closed his eyes.

‘So many sacrifices,’ he said quietly.

‘That may be so, Henry, but there is a certain irony, is there not, that those sacrifices secured Gough and his like the right to say what they do?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Maitlin unhappily as they started walking towards his car, which was parked on the far side of the market place. ‘But for them to do it on the day that Harold’s body was discovered, it’s abominable, Jack. There’s no other word for it.’

He stopped walking and gave Harris a forlorn look.

‘I just don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Maybe I am too old?’

‘Go home, Henry,’ said the inspector gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘Mrs Maitlin will be wondering where you’ve got to. Not sure brawling on the street will be among her possibilities, mind.’

Maitlin gave a slight smile and walked over to the car. Harris watched him drive away and headed towards the police station. As he turned the corner and started down the hill, he saw Roger Barnett striding towards him.

‘Heard there was some trouble,’ said Barnett. ‘Thought you might need some help.’

‘Well, I don’t,’ replied the inspector, not breaking stride.

‘I just thought that—’

‘And if you ever fuck up one of my operations again I’ll rip your head off and shit down the hole.’

‘What?’ Barnett looked at him in amazement.

‘I heard what you did when I asked Gallagher to stop that bus. Damned fool reckless it was, Roger, damned fool. This is no place for glory boys and you had better remember that. Folks are enough on edge without idiots like you stirring things up even further.’

‘But—’

‘Oh, fuck off, Roger. My friend is lying dead on a mortuary slab and I have no time for crap like this.’

‘Now hang on a minute, Hawk—’

‘And don’t call me Hawk,’ said Harris, turning and striding back down the hill. ‘Only people I respect call me Hawk. Just be warned. Jerk my chain again and you’ll wish you’d never come back here.’

Barnett stood in brooding silence and watched the inspector stride down the hill and up the police station steps. As the inspector walked into reception, Gallagher was chatting to the desk clerk.

‘What on earth was that all about?’ asked the sergeant, seeing Harris. ‘Did I really see Henry Maitlin scrapping in the street?’

‘You did.’

‘You put him right, I take it?’ said the sergeant as they walked up the stairs.

‘Yes, but he tried to tell me that Barry Gough did not appreciate the sacrifices that had been made in the name of free speech.’

‘He’s right, surely.’

‘Course he is,’ chuckled Harris as they reached the top of
the stairs, ‘but Henry seems to have forgotten that I know that he spent World War II in the Pay Corps. The only injury he ever picked up was a paper cut.’

And still laughing at his own joke, the inspector headed off in the direction of his office.

With the grey light of day fading rapidly to night, Rob Mackey guided the Range Rover into a lay-by on the deserted country road. For a few seconds, he sat and watched the rushing of the headlights on the nearby motorway. Behind him were the dark shapes of the northern hills and he felt, for the first time since he had left, a pang of remorse. Mackey thought of his home. Laurel House would be all warm light now. He loved it when it was like that. Loved the smell of cooking, loved the aroma of fresh coffee, loved the sound of his daughter’s music wafting down from her room. Mackey smiled at the thought but it was only momentary. He supposed that they must have found his letter by now, realized that he had thrown everything away.

His phone rang and he glanced down at the screen glowing green in the darkness of the car. Liz, it said. The fifth time. For a few moments, Mackey considered answering it then shook his head, hit the cancel call button and edged the Range Rover out of the lay-by. No other vehicles were around so when he reached the roundabout, he held the vehicle on the brake, entertaining thoughts of turning back. Back to the hills. Back to Laurel House. Back to his family. He did not need to run. He could sort it all out, he told himself. Perhaps Liz would forgive him if he told her that he had made a mistake? Maybe he could talk his way out of trouble with the police? The more he thought about it, running made no sense. A smart lawyer would doubtless be able to engineer a way out. But these were only fleeting thoughts and Mackey shook his head, gunned
the engine and drove across the roundabout onto the motorway filter road. The southbound carriageway of the M6 was empty; Rob Mackey’s road ahead was clear and he jammed his foot on the accelerator.

T
he air was heavy and oppressive in the interview room early that evening as Jack Harris and Matty Gallagher stared across the desk at a bedraggled Lenny Portland. The petty thief’s cheek was grazed and there was the beginnings of a bruise above his right eye.

‘I’m gonna make a complaint,’ said Portland belligerently, touching his cheek. ‘Look what she did to me. Assaulted me, that’s what she did.’

‘You
were
running away from her at the time,’ said Harris blandly. ‘As I understand it, Constable Butterfield was merely doing her duty. I mean, you were not exactly acting like Mr Innocent, were you, Lenny?’

‘It was that lunatic Barnett, he got me frightened, bellowing like that on the bus. I thought he was going to lamp me one. It wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘No? When did that happen then?’

‘First time was just after he got sent back up here. I were pissing up against the church wall and he gave me a smack.’ Portland raised a hand to his head again. ‘Hurt, it did. And he did it again a few weeks later when I were drunk one night.’

‘That’s terrible.’

‘Yeah, sure is, Mr Harris.’ Portland nodded. ‘Glad you agree with me.’

‘I certainly do. Slapping people around is my job.’

The smile faded from Portland’s face. ‘Anyway,’ he said, standing up, ‘I reckon I’ve got a case for police harassment against you lot. In fact, I’m gonna do it right now and—’

‘Sit down,’ said Harris sharply.

Portland hesitated but one look at the inspector’s expression was enough. Being smacked by Roger Barnett and getting on the wrong end of Jack Harris were entirely different things and Portland knew it. Everyone in the valley knew it. He sat down.

‘See, Lenny,’ said the inspector, ‘I am not sure that you are in much of a position to get shirty with us. Trouble you’re in.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Recognize either of these guys?’ Harris reached for the brown file lying on the table and slid out a couple of faxed photographs.

‘Never seen them before in me life.’

‘Look again,’ said Harris, jabbing a finger on the pictures. ‘If it helps, the one on the left is Dave Forrest and the one on the right is a toerag called Ronny Michaels. They’re from Manchester. Ever been to Manchester, Lenny?’

‘Saw Carlisle play at City’s ground once. Rubbish pies.’ Portland smiled; he was pleased with the quip.

‘What do you think people will say when they hear that you might have been involved in the death of Harold Leach?’ said Harris. Once again, the smile froze on Portland’s face. ‘Knowing the folks round here, Lenny, you’ll be strung up from the nearest lamppost, I reckon.’

Portland looked worried. ‘But I told you,’ he said quickly, ‘I don’t know nothing about what happened to Harold. I were in the village seeing me aunt.’

‘Maybe you were,’ said Harris, extracting another piece of paper from the file but not showing it to Portland. ‘Maybe you weren’t. See, this is a witness statement which one of our officers took in Chapel Hill this afternoon.’

‘Who’s it from?’

‘You know we don’t play that game, Lenny. Suffice to say that this person had occasion to be up early in the morning and guess what he saw?’

Portland shrugged. ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘I weren’t there, if that’s what you’re trying to make out.’

‘Not so sure about that. See, our witness saw a man at the bottom of Harold Leach’s street. About the time Harold was murdered, in fact. And guess what? Our witness gave a very good description. Sounded just like you.’

Gallagher looked sharply at the inspector but said nothing.

‘You’re bluffing,’ said Portland, noticing the sergeant’s look. ‘Even Mr Gallagher here don’t believe it. He must have got it wrong, this feller of yours. Perhaps he saw someone else. I weren’t anywhere near Chapel Hill last night and that’s a fact.’

‘Then where were you?’ asked Harris.

‘I were in the pub all night. Left after the last bus and went straight home. I were far too drunk to get mesel’ to Chapel Hill. I got witnesses as will say I were there.’

‘And which pub was this, Lenny?’

‘Eh?’

‘The pub,’ said Harris. ‘Which pub was it?’

‘Er, the Duck.’

‘Funny, that,’ said Harris, glancing at Gallagher, who seemed more comfortable now. ‘We reckoned you might say that – it’s your favourite strategy, I’m told – so the good sergeant here checked with the landlord and, surprise, surprise, no one can remember seeing you in there last night.’

Portland hesitated then clicked his fingers. ‘Yeah, that were the night before. Sorry, Mr Gallagher, I meant the Queen’s …’

‘They had not seen you either,’ said the sergeant.

‘In fact,’ said Harris, ‘we checked them all and last night
would appear to have been a historic one because you did not turn up at any of them to drink your brains out. A job which, judging from this little performance, you have already done pretty effectively.’

‘I don’t know what you mean. I were definitely—’

‘Cut the crap, Lenny,’ said Harris, leaning forward and tapping the photographs. ‘Want to know what I think? I think when I saw you in the village yesterday afternoon you were casing out Harold Leach’s cottage for these two and I reckon you came back with them last night.’

Portland shook his head vigorously. ‘That’s wrong, Mr Harris, I weren’t there. Honest.’

‘Our forensics reckon that three people got into the cottage and I think you were one of them.’ Harris shook his head sadly. ‘A frail old chap and they killed him in cold blood. Despicable behaviour, Lenny, despicable.’

‘Well, it weren’t me!’

‘Ah, but I think it was.’ Harris jabbed the pictures of the men again. ‘I think you told them about this old fellow with a VC worth a few bob and I think you led them to the cottage.’ Harris looked at Portland’s green jumper. ‘And the funny thing is, our forensics guys found a fibre the same colour as that. Fancy that, eh?’

Portland swallowed nervously.

‘Harold’s blood is on your hands, Lenny,’ said Harris, sitting back and crossing his arms. ‘My friend’s blood is on your hands so now really is the time to tell us where you were.’

Silence settled on the room and Harris and Gallagher let it lengthen, the inspector toying idly with his papers, the sergeant seeming to be fascinated by the loose button on his jacket. Before the officers had gone into the interview, the sergeant had openly expressed grave doubts about the involvement of Lenny Portland, still seeing him as a petty thief unlikely to find himself embroiled in murder, but now he
was having second thoughts. Gallagher looked at Harris, whose face showed no emotion. The sergeant knew what his colleague was thinking: trust my instincts, Matty lad, he was thinking, always trust my instincts. Noticing Harris watching him, the inspector gave the slightest of smiles. As the silence deepened, Lenny Portland looked at the detectives.

‘He were dead when I found him,’ he said in a voice so quiet the officers could hardly hear it.

Gallagher started. Harris sat forward.

‘What did you say?’ he asked.

‘He were dead when I found him,’ repeated Portland, his voice a little louder. He sounded desperate. ‘Your witness were right, Mr Harris, I were in Chapel Hill last night – but I never killed him, you got to believe that. I’d never do a thing like that.’

‘What were you doing there then?’ asked Gallagher with a harsh edge to his voice; he was not going to make the same mistake twice. ‘Come on, Lenny, what were you doing in the cottage? Time to tell us exactly what happened last night.’

‘I went for the medal, all right.’ Portland had gone pale and was talking quickly now. ‘I admit that. I seen him wearing it in that television programme and I reckoned it must be worth a bob or two, like you said. Then when I seen him with it at that memorial thing yesterday, well, I decided to nick it. But I never meant to hurt him. Just wanted to get the medal and get out of there. I ain’t never hurt no one, you know that. You have to believe that, Mr Gallagher.’

‘I have no idea what to believe,’ said the sergeant.

‘Did you have a customer for it?’ asked Harris. ‘Someone you knew would fence it?’

Portland hesitated.

‘Come on,’ said Harris. ‘We’re not daft, Lenny. We know you could not have done this on your own. You were hardly going to take it down the church’s car boot sale, were you now? You must have had someone. Am I right?’

Portland did not reply. Harris glanced at Gallagher.

‘Looks like he wants to take the rap all on his own,’ said the inspector. ‘Sad, really, because I don’t reckon Lenny meant for the old fellow to die. What do you reckon, Sergeant?’

‘I reckon that if he told us who set him up to do this, it might play well with a judge.’ Gallagher looked at Portland. ‘Come on, son, we really do need a name.’

Portland still hesitated.

‘And we need it now,’ said Harris.

‘Rob Mackey.’

Gallagher closed his eyes. Harris noticed the gesture and gave a barely noticeable smile before returning his attention to Portland.

‘How come he wanted it?’ asked Harris.

‘If I tell you, I am out of trouble?’

‘Depends what you tell us.’

‘He’s taken other things from me in the past.’ Portland seemed eager to admit everything now.

‘What kind of things?’

‘I conned my way into some old bloke’s home one time, down in Cafforth, and got away with a couple of medals from his kitchen drawer. Mackey gave me twenty quid for them. And I did another job, same thing.’

‘When?’

‘A couple of summers ago. This old bloke was in his back garden so I snuck in through the front and took it from his living room. That was in Ellerby, that one.’

‘And Mackey paid you for that one as well?’ asked Harris.

‘Yeah. It weren’t much, mind. Gave me a tenner. I don’t like doing it really. Don’t seem right to steal things from war heroes.’

‘It didn’t seem to stop you last night, though.’

‘Yeah, well, I were skint.’

‘But you didn’t kill Harold Leach?’

Portland shook his head.

‘No,’ he said, ‘no, I didn’t. God’s honest truth, Mr Harris.’ He looked at the pictures on the desk. ‘And I don’t know who them men are either.’

‘So when did you get to Chapel Hill?’

‘About two, maybe a bit later. I was real nervous. Waited for ages until I was sure the old chap would be really deep asleep….’

‘Were you alone?’ asked Gallagher.

‘Yeah.’

‘What happened when you got to the cottage?’ asked Gallagher.

‘Someone had already forced the back door.’

‘But you went in all the same?’

‘Nearly didn’t. Must have stood there five minutes making me mind up. When I got in there, into the front room, it were like a bomb had hit it. Chairs turned over, things like that. I should have got out then but something made me go upstairs to the bedroom …’ Portland’s voice tailed off and he shook his head. ‘Shouldn’t have. Stupid thing to do.’

‘And then?’ asked Harris. ‘What happened then, Lenny?’

‘I went into the bedroom.’ Portland‘s voice was tremulous now and he was fighting strong emotions. He looked at the inspector through dark eyes. ‘It were horrible. I couldn’t see much at first then I saw him, lying next to the bed. His face was all bashed in and there was blood everywhere. I can’t get the image out of me head, Mr Harris. I hightailed it out of there after that. Couldn’t get out fast enough.’

‘And the medal? Did you take the medal with you?’

‘Nah. I reckoned it were gone anyway. I reckon that’s what whoever broked in was there for. The place was a right mess, like they’d been looking for it.’

‘What did you do after you left the cottage?’

‘Walked back to Levton Bridge. I were shaking, I can tell you.’ Portland started to cry. ‘You got to believe me, I did not kill him. I would never do anything like that.’

Harris sat back in his chair and surveyed Portland for a few seconds.

‘I believe you,’ said the inspector, glancing at a surprised Gallagher. ‘As the good sergeant here keeps reminding me, murder is not really your style.’