To Honour the Dead

O
f course, thought Jack Harris, as he sat with his feet up on the desk in his dimly lit office, it could be that he really was the only one who sensed that something was wrong. Perhaps, thought the detective chief inspector, the others simply could not feel it or, even if they could, did not share his concerns. What if, and the thought came to Harris reluctantly, as it always did with suggestions of personal weakness, he
was
overreacting? Harris knew that most of his colleagues at Levton Bridge Police Station shared that view; he had seen it in their faces every time he started to talk about it. For all their scepticism, the nagging sensation would not go away. It was not a fleeting thought, either. Harris had felt like this for weeks, months even, the unease at its strongest in his quietest moments. Tonight, in the silence of his office, it was more powerful than ever and, with a sigh, he lowered his feet to the floor and walked over to stare moodily out of the window.

Looking onto the deserted street, the inspector had to acknowledge that it was difficult to rationalize his concerns about rising tension in the valley; it was not as if he could see people locked in furious combat down on the pavement. And it
had
just been one woman shouting her mouth off, after all. A crazy woman who had been incapable, in the inspector’s view, of rational thought for months, consumed by the belief that her teenage son had been murdered.

Like his colleagues, Harris was convinced that the boy’s death was an accident and that his team had done everything by the book. That was not what worried the inspector; what concerned him was Esther Morritt’s constant barrage of criticism and innuendo. Harris knew that it did not take much to stir ferment in the small, tight-knit communities ranged along the North Pennines valley. On the other hand, no one else believed that she had created an atmosphere of ferment.

‘Maybe I’m the one who’s going crazy,’ he said, glancing down at the two dogs lying by the warmth of the radiator. They watched him with interest. ‘No, that’s not it.’

Besides, he thought, as he made his way out of the
first-floor
office, dogs at his heels, there
had
been signs that tensions were increasing in the days leading up to tomorrow’s inquest. For starters, thought the inspector as he walked down the stairs, trying to avoid the dogs as they barged past him in the gloom, his sergeant, Matty Gallagher, who had led the investigation, had been more irritable than usual. Harris turned right at the bottom of the stairs and entered the control room.

‘All quiet?’ he asked, glancing at the two operators.

‘As the grave,’ said one of the women, nodding. She noticed his sceptical expression. ‘You expecting something, sir? No one told us you had an op on.’

‘We haven’t,’ said Harris, turning and walking out of the door. ‘Good night, ladies.’

When Harris had gone, the operator turned to her colleague.

‘He’s not getting any better,’ she said.

‘Rang up from home three times last night shift I did. I have no idea what he thinks is going to happen.’

‘Matty Gallagher reckons he’s expecting a riot or something.’

‘Does Matty agree?’

‘Course not – says it’s all in the DCI’s head.’

‘It’s living alone on that hillside, that does it,’ said the operator slyly. ‘Him and his whisky bottle.’

Her voice seemed a touch loud and, instinctively, both operators glanced at the door but the inspector had already gone. Having walked past the front counter and murmured a farewell to the officer on duty, he headed out into the early evening chill, the frost already beginning to glisten on the pavements. Within a couple of minutes, the inspector was driving past the park when movement caught his eye. He brought the vehicle to a halt, cut the engine and wound the window down. He sat for a few moments, resting his elbows on the steering wheel and staring into the darkness, seeking further movement in among the trees. Voices carried on the night air towards him, teenagers’ voices, and as he watched, a group of five or six young people emerged from a side street, a couple carrying white carrier bags. Hearing the clink of bottles and seeing the teenagers disappear into the park, the inspector reached for his radio.

‘Control,’ said the female operator’s voice.

‘It’s Harris. Just seen some teenagers heading into the park.’

There was a pause.

‘You still there, Myra?’ asked the inspector.

‘Yes, sorry, sir. Lost you for a second there. I’ll get uniform to have a look.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harris, starting the engine. ‘You can never be too careful.’

‘No, sir. Good night, sir.’

‘Good night, Myra.’

When the sound of the inspector’s vehicle had receded into the distance, a figure emerged from behind one of the trees in the park. He was holding a petrol can. After glancing nervously around, he set off along the perimeter path, pausing to stare over the low stone wall into the churchyard,
its headstones faintly illuminated by the glow from the nearby street lights. The man gave a slight shudder and continued along the path until he reached the British Legion’s wooden bowls pavilion. After pausing for a few moments to listen to the town clock striking seven, the man unscrewed the lid from the can and started to pour petrol at the base of one of the walls. Satisfied that enough had been applied, he reached into a coat pocket to produce a box of matches. Striking one of them, he watched in fascination as the flame flared. He was about to drop the match onto the petrol when he heard voices over by one of the flower beds on the far side of the park. Peering into the darkness, he could just about make out a small group of teenagers, drinking from cans of lager. He saw the glow of a cigarette.

‘Shit,’ he murmured.

The flame flickered and died out and the man cursed beneath his breath as he dropped the match. He fumbled in his pocket for another one but a change in the teenagers’ voices alerted him and he saw two torch beams by the entrance to the park. As two uniformed police officers approached, the teenagers scattered, laughing and shouting, and the man made his way back unseen along the shadows of the perimeter path. At the churchyard wall, he hesitated before climbing over to crouch among the headstones. He could hear the officers’ voices carried on the still night air as they approached the pavilion.

‘Looks like another of the DCI’s wild-goose chases,’ said Roger Barnett, a grey-haired officer in his early fifties. ‘That man has not got enough to do, if you ask me. God knows why he’s interested in the park. Come on, we’ve checked it, let’s get out of here.’

‘Shouldn’t we at least have a look round, Sarge?’ asked his young female companion. ‘I mean, just to be sure?’

‘Why bother? They’ll have all legged it by now.’

‘We might find a clue as to who they were.’

‘Who cares?’ said Barnett. ‘Listen, love, when I was working down in Roxham, we were too busy to bother with kids mucking about. Proper policing that was. Not like here.’

‘Yes, so you keep saying, Sarge, but with all due respect, this is not Roxham, is it? I do think we should check it out.’

‘If you insist,’ sighed Barnett. He gave a laugh that sounded forced. ‘The enthusiasm of youth, eh?’

It seemed to the listening man that there was an edge to the sergeant’s voice now. Irritation? No, he thought, more than irritation. The man knew about Barnett, knew that he did not like being crossed. Knew how vindictive he could be. The man did not like Roger Barnett. Had not liked him ever since the officer had returned to the valley the previous year.

‘Is that petrol?’ asked the young constable, sniffing the air as the officers approached the pavilion.

‘Might be,’ said Barnett grudgingly. He walked over to the pavilion and knelt down to examine the petrol seeping across its wooden deck. ‘Bloody kids. Why won’t they leave the place alone? No respect, that’s what it is. The younger generation has no respect.’

‘Not all of them,’ said the constable, walking to where the teenagers had been standing. She flicked a cider can across the path with her foot.

‘Pissed up as usual,’ grunted Barnett, hearing the sound and joining her. He reached down to pick up a cigarette tab. ‘At least we know how they were going to set fire to the place.’

‘You want me to go after them?’ asked the constable, glancing towards the park entrance. ‘I may be able to catch …’

‘Nah, they’ll be long gone. Let’s just leg it.’

‘What if Harris…?’

‘You leave Percy the Park Keeper to me, pet. I’ve got a big day tomorrow and the last thing I want is a late finish.’

The constable considered protesting but something in
Barnett’s comment persuaded her to hold her silence. As the officers walked out of the park, the man peered over the churchyard wall, glanced at the pavilion, decided it was too risky and headed off into the night.

‘A
nd so,’ said the grey-haired coroner, peering over his spectacles, ‘I must bring this inquest to a close. I appreciate not everyone will agree with what I am about to say.’

All eyes turned to a tousle-haired woman sitting in the public area of the wood-panelled courtroom. She clutched a handkerchief on her lap and stared back at him out of a pinched face.

‘However,’ continued Henry Maitlin, ‘my office dictates that I set aside the controversy that this case has engendered and deal only in facts. To that end, I am greatly obliged to the police for the help they have afforded me in this inquiry. This case has not been easy for them and I feel I must say that they have been subjected to undue pressure from some quarters.’

He glanced further along the wooden bench to where sat two plain-clothed officers: Jack Harris, strong jawed, thick brown hair without a hint of grey, and next to him Matty Gallagher, a decade younger, smaller, stocky, black hair starting to thin, a man with the appearance, colleagues often said, of a monk. Neither detective acknowledged the woman; they had not done so throughout the three hours of the hearing.

‘But,’ said Maitlin, ‘I have to come back to the facts. Facts, ladies and gentlemen, have always been my bedfellows as I
have attempted to execute my sworn duty as the coroner for this area. They have shone a guiding light into the very darkest of corners and have been my constant companions on the road I must tread.’

‘Fucking hell,’ murmured Harris in a voice so low that only the sergeant could hear.

Despite the gravity of the circumstances, Gallagher tried desperately not to laugh, pretending instead to cough. Several people turned to look and the sergeant tried to appear apologetic, difficult when he was aware of the sly smile emanating from the inspector.

‘I have listened to the testimony given by Detective Sergeant Gallagher,’ said Maitlin as the officer attempted to appear solemn, ‘and noted his belief that Philip Morritt met his death following a fall. The sergeant’s inquiries have been most professional and brought forth no evidence to support Mrs Morritt’s hypothesis that her son died as the result of an assault.’

The woman glanced along the row towards Gallagher. Feeling her eyes boring into him, the sergeant did not return the look, instead allowing his gaze to stray up to the sharp November sun streaming in through the high windows in Levton Bridge’s courthouse. During his previous career with the Metropolitan Police, Gallagher had been laid back about giving evidence but since his reluctant move to Levton Bridge, to allow his wife to be near her family, he had found formal hearings an ordeal, largely because everyone seemed to feel they had a right to share their pet theories with him. The run-up to Philip Morritt’s inquest had been particularly testing with people regularly stopping him in the street to ask him his views on the case, probing him for scraps of information to feed into the rumour mill and expressing their disappointment when the sergeant declined to join in with their game.

‘I also listened to the evidence given by Sergeant Roger
Barnett,’ said Henry Maitlin, glancing at the uniformed officer sitting on the row to the left of the detectives. ‘You will recall that he was the first policeman on the scene after Mr Morritt was discovered. Sergeant Barnett is a hugely experienced officer, a point he stressed to this hearing, and he supports DS Gallagher’s belief that there was nothing suspicious about the death of this young man. I am aware there has been a suggestion of collusion between these officers but I find nothing to support that contention. Indeed, I find the suggestion vexatious.’

Philip Morritt’s mother made a small sound but said nothing, her gaze locked on the coroner. I know that stare, thought Gallagher bleakly. Oh, how I know that stare. The sergeant switched his attention to Barnett, who had a smug expression on his face. Hearing Gallagher’s sigh, Harris gave his colleague the merest of winks. Somehow it made Matty Gallagher feel better. You did not often get such gestures from Jack Harris but when you did …

‘I have also taken evidence from a Leonard Portland,’ continued the coroner, glancing at an unshaven man sitting on one of the benches, ‘who, on the night in question, was drinking with Mr Morritt in several town-centre public houses. I know some people have questioned Mr Portland’s power of recall….’

There were a few low laughs in the courtroom.

‘Might I remind you,’ said the coroner tartly, ‘that this is a court of the land and, as such, requires respect.’

The laughter died away.

‘Thank you,’ said the coroner. He glanced down at his notes. ‘Mr Morritt, you will remember from Mr Portland’s testimony, indicated at the end of the night that he intended to walk to his home in the village of Chapel Hill, a distance of some two and a half miles. Given his state of mind on the night in question, and what we may call his colourful background, some people might doubt Mr Portland’s
testimony but, on this occasion, I found myself convinced by it.’

‘That Levton Bridge then, Dave?’ asked the passenger as the dark saloon car came to a halt on the crest of the hill. The two men looked across the moorland to slate-grey buildings and a church spire poking through the bare branches of trees.

‘Yeah, that’s it.’ The driver, a thin-faced man with lank black hair, nodded. ‘Chapel Hill’s a couple of miles the other side, apparently. On the main road through the valley.’

‘We sure about this?’ asked the passenger as Dave started the vehicle moving again. ‘I mean, really sure?’

‘You getting cold feet, Ronny?’ asked the driver, glancing at his travelling companion, a burly man in sweater and jeans. ‘The last thing we want is another …’

‘Nah. Nah, I’m fine,’ said the passenger quickly. ‘You can count on me, Dave. It’s just that it feels like we’re taking a big risk on this one. I mean, if it’s a small village there’s more chance of someone seeing us and calling the cops. If Jack Harris …’

‘I told you, forget Harris. He’s a backwater cop these days. More interested in sheep.’

‘Yeah, but …’

‘Think of the money, Ronny. Yer man reckons it’ll fetch fifty grand and we’re down for ten of that between us. Think of that instead of worrying about some washed-up copper.’

‘Yeah, I guess so.’ The passenger nodded but he still looked uneasy.

Silence settled on the car once more as it began to drop down from the moor. Ronny’s next words were spoken quietly.

‘What happens if he disturbs us, Dave?’ he said. ‘I mean, when we’re in there? How far do we go to get it?’

The driver did not reply.

Henry Maitlin turned his attention to another man sitting in Levton Bridge’s courtroom. Thin faced, brown haired and wearing a smart black suit, the man’s body language suggested impatience and he was glancing at his watch when the coroner looked at him.

‘You also heard Robert Mackey give evidence,’ said the coroner. ‘Mr Mackey, as you will recall, lives in Laurel House, halfway between Levton Bridge and Chapel Hill. He recounted how, when he came out of his home the following morning, he discovered Mr Morritt on the roadside, the amount of snow about his person suggesting that he had lain there for a number of hours. Mr Mackey immediately called for an ambulance but by the time Mr Morritt reached Roxham General Hospital he was dead. Mr Mackey has also been subjected to attacks on his integrity. In my view, neither he nor any of the other witnesses have done anything to deserve such sleights on their character, slurs which can prove deeply divisive in such a tight-knit community as ours and whose impact cannot be overestimated.’

Rob Mackey inclined his head slightly in the direction of the coroner. Harris gave Gallagher a knowing look. The detective sergeant sighed again; the bastard will be insufferable now, he thought gloomily.

‘So,’ said the coroner, ‘to my conclusions. Let me take you back to a country road late on a February night, the surface already icy, some would say treacherous, after several days of sub-zero temperatures….’

‘So,’ said the coroner, ‘all the evidence confirms that Mr Morritt had consumed a considerable amount of alcohol that night and there is no doubt in my mind that in his inebriated state, he slipped and fell, striking his head on the ground and sustaining the injury that was eventually to prove fatal.’

The coroner paused for dramatic effect. Gallagher stared up at the window again, Esther Morritt dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief and Rob Mackey glanced at his watch.

‘God, he does milk it,’ murmured Harris.

One or two people glanced at the chief inspector and Gallagher gave a little shake of the head without realizing he had done it. Despite having worked with the inspector for almost two years, he still struggled with his ways.

‘I find then,’ said Henry Maitlin, ‘that I must return a verdict of misadventure and I so do. I thank you for your attendance. This hearing is at an end.’

‘Thank God for that,’ said Harris quietly to his sergeant. ‘Man gets pissed and falls over. How long does it take to work that one out?’

There was a general murmuring as people started to stand up. Rob Mackey walked swiftly from the room.

‘He’s got the right idea,’ said Harris. ‘Come on, Matty lad,
let’s get out of here before the barn-pot woman collars us.’

Gallagher nodded and, as the officers pushed their way through the people and out into the corridor, he glanced back to see Philip Morritt’s mother remonstrating with the coroner. The sergeant followed Harris out into the market place. Ignoring the waiting television camera crew, the detectives sidled along the side of the building and walked briskly past the row of shops and tearooms. As they turned the corner, a black saloon headed down the hill. The detectives watched it pass the Victorian house that had served as Levton Bridge’s police station for as long as anyone could remember. When the car reached the crossroads, it slowed with just one brake light showing then turned right onto the road which led out of town.

‘By, I’m glad that hearing’s over,’ said Gallagher. ‘What do you make of what happened back there?’

‘I told you how it would go. It was the only verdict the old buffer could possibly have brought in. He always does as he’s told, does Henry. Not sure he needed three hours to do it, mind.’

‘Can’t disagree with that.’ Gallagher glanced round and groaned as Esther Morritt appeared, walking swiftly towards them with a determined expression on her face. ‘Not that everyone will agree, mind.’

‘Her kind never do.’

‘She’s just upset, I guess. Maybe she will calm down now that the inquest has …’

‘Sergeant Gallagher!’ shouted Esther Morritt.

‘Yeah, perhaps you’re right,’ said Harris slyly as the detectives stopped walking. ‘That sounds like a woman who has rediscovered her sense of perspective.’

Gallagher shot him a pained look then turned back to face the furious woman.

‘Esther …’

‘Don’t you Esther me,’ she said, jabbing a finger at the
sergeant. ‘What went on in there was a disgrace. An absolute dis—’

‘We have been over this a thousand times,’ said Gallagher wearily. ‘Like the coroner said, we have to …’

‘You’re all in it together. I’m not stupid.’ Now she jabbed a finger at the inspector. ‘And you, you should know better than to let a man like this investigate what happened to my son.’

‘A man like what?’ asked Harris innocently.

‘He doesn’t understand our ways. Neither does that man Barnett.’

‘Oh, come on, Esther,’ said the inspector, in the kind of voice he would normally reserve for a small child, assuming that he was minded to talk to one, and he never was, ‘DC Gallagher is a perfectly competent officer and Roger Barnett’s from Roxham, for God’s sake. Like it or not, this inquiry was conducted properly.’

‘Rubbish! My son had just joined the army. Why would he throw it all away?’ She turned on her heel and stalked back towards the market place. ‘This is not over. Not by a long chalk.’

‘Bloody small-town mentality!’ exclaimed Gallagher when she was out of earshot and the officers had started walking again. ‘It’s not as if London is the end of the world! Besides, I live in Roxham as well, for God’s sake!’

Harris listened with amusement. Although the sergeant’s attitude to the valley could be irritating at times, the inspector could not help but agree. It was the claustrophobic nature of small-town mentality that had driven a teenage Jack Harris from the valley in the first place, and it was what made him think twice about coming back two decades later.

‘And what’s more …’ continued Gallagher as the officers reached the police station.

They climbed the stairs to the first floor where Gallagher
turned right towards to the CID squad room, still chuntering, and a grinning Harris went left to his office where his dogs leapt to their feet and bounded across the room, tails wagging furiously. Harris beamed at the reception from Scoot the black Labrador and the detective’s more recent acquisition from the local animal sanctuary, a scruffy Collie by the name of Archie. Never a great one for people, the inspector loved dogs. He also loved the fact that Philip Curtis tried to ban him from taking them into the police station when he first became divisional commander, only to be forced by staff protests to reverse the decision.