To Honour the Dead (10 page)

A
relieved Lenny Portland having been returned to the cells, Matty Gallagher walked slowly up the dimly lit stairs and headed for the deserted CID room where he sat down at his computer. The sergeant took his notebook from his pocket and opened it at his notes from the interview with Portland. He tapped on his keyboard. Ten minutes later he walked, deep in thought, along the corridor to the inspector’s office.

‘You sure about this?’ asked Gallagher as he entered to find Harris tipping back in his chair with his feet up on the desk and his eyes closed. The dogs were curled up by the radiator in the corner of the room. ‘You still want me to release him? I mean, you’ve already taken one big gamble tonight.’

‘Meaning?’ Harris did not look at his sergeant nor did he open his eyes.

‘Telling him the witness had picked him out,’ said Gallagher, picking up the delivery driver’s statement from the desk. ‘It could have been anyone and well you know it. It was dodgy to say the least.’

‘Got to take a punt sometimes, Matty lad.’ Harris returned his feet to the ground and looked at the sergeant. ‘Oh, don’t look like that – don’t tell me that you didn’t push the boat out at some time in your career? They never pulled a stroke like that down in Da Smoke?’

‘Yeah, OK, maybe,’ said the sergeant grudgingly. ‘Nevertheless, to just let him walk out of here after he’d said all that.’

‘If it makes you feel any better you can let him stew for another half hour but then I want him kicked out. He had nothing to do with the murder and you know it. If nothing else, we can charge him with the jobs he admitted to. Be good for the clear-up rate.’

‘Not sure you can even do that. It’s the same as with that piece of paper Esther gave you. There’s no indication that any of these medals were stolen. Lenny Portland’s a born liar, if you ask me. Said it to drop Mackey in it.’

‘Why do you think I’m releasing him?’ said Harris, walking over to stare out of the window into the darkness of the night. ‘And much as it grieves me to say it, I am not sure I believe his claims about Mackey.’

‘You reckon we’re being sold a pup?’

‘It just does not sound right. It would be interesting to see what Mackey says. Any word?’

‘Nothing yet. He must have been spooked by something, mind. Maybe he knew we were talking to Lenny. Maybe he saw us lifting him off the bus. You have to admit, it’s not exactly the actions of an innocent man. Then there’s that weird note to his wife and kid. He’d done something wrong, he said. Maybe Lenny is right, maybe Mackey is tied up in Harold’s murder somehow.’

Harris turned round. ‘Maybe but we should not forget our friends from Manchester in all of this. Murdering an old man for his medal is much more their style, I would have said. Anything else on the car traffic stopped yesterday?’

‘As we expected, false documents, false plate. Oh, while I remember, the pathologist says he’ll do a full PM tomorrow but at first glance he can’t see anything to suggest he died from anything else than the beating.’

A couple of minutes later, Gallagher was walking down
the corridor when Butterfield appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘He around?’ she asked the sergeant.

‘Er, yeah. In his office.’ He looked hard at the constable as she walked past, head down. ‘You OK, pet?’

‘Been better.’

‘Can’t be as bad as me,’ said Gallagher. ‘I let Rob Mackey slip through my fingers.’

‘You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been doing with him.’

Without elaborating on the comment, Butterfield headed for the inspector’s office. Gallagher watched her go in bemusement then turned to head for the canteen. He had a sudden yearning for a bacon sandwich. As he entered the room, his mobile phone rang. The sergeant glanced down at the name on the screen – Jules, it said.

‘Hi, love,’ he said in the phone. ‘You on duty yet?’

‘Yeah. Looks like it’ll be a busy one – already had a couple of heart attacks. Oh, and two drunks brought in after a fight.’

‘We had Henry Maitlin brawling up here.’

‘What? The old duffer?’

‘Yeah,’ chuckled Gallagher, ‘scrapping away with Barry Gough, he was. Last thing we want.’

‘Yeah, folks have been a bit funny for days.’

‘Don’t you start. I’ve had enough of that from Harris.’

‘The radio said you haven’t got anyone for your murder.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Gallagher, walking up to the counter where he smiled at the assistant. ‘A bacon butty, please, Edie. Actually, make that two.’

‘Fat bastard,’ said his wife’s voice down the phone.

Matty Gallagher smiled. It was the first time he could remember smiling in a long time.

Back down the corridor, Jack Harris was sitting at his desk, sifting through the day’s reports, when Butterfield knocked lightly on the door.

‘Ah, Constable, how goes it?’ he said, gesturing to the chair. ‘Pull up a pew. You’ve worked hard today, you must be knackered. I understand you showed some nifty rugby skills when you brought Lenny Portland down.’

‘I guess so.’ Butterfield sat down heavily on one of the chairs.

‘Why the long face?’ asked Harris. ‘We’ll crack this one. Just a matter of time.’

‘I am afraid I have something to tell you, and you are not going to like it. And I mean really not like it.’

Thirty minutes later, Jack Harris was alone in his office again, sitting staring into the middle distance, fingers pressed together in a praying motion. Occasionally, he sighed and at one he point closed his eyes. After a few minutes, he murmured ‘silly girl’. Scoot looked up from his spot next to the radiator.

‘It does make you wonder,’ said Harris. ‘I mean, it really does. What was she thinking of? Don’t answer that, Scoot, I think we all know the answer to that one.’

Scoot ambled across the room and rubbed his head against the inspector’s leg. Seeing what was happening, Archie did the same.

‘And don’t either of you get any daft ideas,’ said Harris as he scratched both of them behind the ear in turn.

The inspector’s reverie was disturbed by the ringing of his mobile phone. He walked over to where his jacket was hanging on a peg on the wall and took out the device. Glancing down at the screen, Harris smiled. Leckie, it said.

‘You got something for me?’ asked the inspector into the phone. ‘Because believe me I could do with something.’

‘Just got a call from our DI. Your two guys Forrest and Michaels? Standish says they’re back in Manchester.’

‘He got them in custody?’

‘Not yet. One of our informants saw them leaving a pub in the town centre but they have gone to ground. I take it you are still after them?’

‘Too right I am,’ said Harris, returning to sit once more with his feet up on the desk. ‘The way it’s looking they’re my best bet for the old guy’s murder.’

‘Well, like I said, you want anything solving you just give me a ring, old son. Listen, Jamie Standish was wondering if you wanted to come down here?’

‘He was?’

‘Yeah, I was gobsmacked when he made the offer. Thought you would be the last person he would want to see. After … well, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Harris.

‘Anyway, he’s pretty sure they’ll turn up in one of their other haunts before long. He thought you might like to be there when it happens?’

‘Sounds good,’ said Harris. ‘Can I bring someone down with me?’

‘You can bring that pretty constable with you, if you like.’

‘I think,’ said Harris, ‘that she has done more than enough for one day.’

Shortly before nine o’clock, the main door to Levton Bridge Police Station opened and Lenny Portland walked out into the damp night air. After glancing along the deserted street, he headed up the hill, bound for the welcoming warmth of the market place’s pubs. Portland had just rounded the corner when a man stepped out from a back alley running down the side of the Co-op, barring his way.

‘What do you want?’ muttered Portland, making as if to brush past him.

‘Heard the cops pulled you in,’ said the man, catching his arm and not allowing him to pass. ‘You better be telling the truth about not being involved in the old feller’s murder.’

‘I am.’

‘Then what you been saying? Better not have mentioned me. I don’t want dragging into it.’

‘I said nowt about you.’ Portland shrugged his arm free.

‘Then what did you tell Harris?’ The man’s voice was anxious. ‘I assume it was Harris?’

‘Yeah, him and that Gallagher bloke. I would rather it had been that Butterfield bird – she’s nice, she is. Anyway, stop looking so worried. I told them that I was working for Mackey.’

‘You did what? I thought we agreed that you would not say anything.’

‘They were really heavy,’ said Portland plaintively.

‘Heavy?’ asked the man, peering at the gash on his cheek. ‘That how you got that?’

‘Nah, that’s when that blonde detective knocked me over.’

‘Tough man, aren’t we?’ said the man sarcastically. ‘So they didn’t lay a hand on you?’

‘Nah.’

‘So why tell them it was Mackey, for God’s sake?’

‘They had a witness what saw me in the village last night. I had to say something and Mackey was the first thing that came into my mind. Everyone knows that Harris hates him. Don’t look like that. I had to say something. Harris, he said that I was in the frame for murdering the old guy if I didn’t come up with something.’

‘But you didn’t mention me?’

Portland shook his head vigorously. ‘I wouldn’t drop you in it, mate. I ain’t like that.’

‘You dropped Mackey in it and he’s done nothing wrong. What did Harris make of it?’ The man glanced nervously round as he saw a woman walking her dog on the far side of the market place.

‘Seemed happy with it.’

The man watched the woman disappear into a side alley then nodded.

‘It might not be so bad,’ he said. ‘Harris would believe anything about Mackey. Yeah, maybe it’s not too bad. I’m
down at the storehouse tomorrow anyway so I should be able to keep out of Harris’s way. Already had one run-in with him.’

‘Can I go now?’

‘Yeah, go on.’ Portland had only taken three steps when the man grabbed his arm. ‘But just remember, if my name gets dragged into this …’

‘I’ll remember.’ Portland nodded, wriggling free and heading across the market place. ‘How could I forget? Jesus, I need a drink.’

‘Well, just keep your trap shut if you get drunk. You know what you’re like when you’re in your cups.’

‘I will,’ said Portland. ‘I promise.’

Having seen him go into a nearby pub, the man walked out of the market place, not noticing the dark figure shrinking back into the shadows, watching him in silence. When the man had gone, Detective Constable James Larch stepped out onto the pavement and started following at a reasonable distance, his surveillance eventually coming to a stop in a terraced street where his quarry let himself into a house. Leaning against a wall at the end of the street and watching as the downstairs light went on, Larch fished his mobile out of his pocket and dialled a number.

‘Gallagher,’ said the voice on the other end.

‘It’s me. Look, I hope you don’t mind, Sarge, but I changed the plan a bit.’

‘For why?’

‘Well, Portland has gone into the Duck and experience suggests it will be a long time before he comes out.’

‘Granted,’ said the sergeant, who was in the CID squad room. ‘So what’s the change of plan?’

‘I followed Barry Gough instead.’

‘Why on earth would you do that?’

‘I saw something rather interesting in the market place. Our friend Gough would appear to have plenty to discuss with Lenny Portland.’

‘Didn’t know they knocked around together. Lenny’s never shown much interest in pacifism,’ said Gallagher. ‘Not sure he could even spell it.’

Larch gave a low laugh. ‘I reckon you’re right,’ he said, ‘but I kinda got the impression that it wasn’t about that. They seemed to be having a really intense conversation and when they went their separate ways, Gough grabbed him by the arm. Looked like he was really hurting Portland. Portland couldn’t get away quick enough.’

‘Now that is interesting. Where’s Gough now then?’

‘He’s gone home. Number 15 Raymond Street’s his gaff, I think?’

‘Scruffy place, peeling green paint, loads of posters in the window?’

‘That’s the one. What do you want me to do? Go back and keep an eye on Portland? Can’t really go into the Duck, he’ll clock me straightaway, but I could wait outside.’

‘No,’ said the sergeant. ‘No, I reckon we’ve got enough to do without hanging around outside pubs.’

‘But I thought the governor wanted me to—’

‘You leave Harris to me,’ said Gallagher. ‘He’s not here anyway. He’s on his way to Manchester. The glamour of high command, Jimmy boy, the glamour of command.’

‘You ever been to Manchester?’ asked Larch.

‘No.’

‘Went to see Carlisle play City one time. Crap pies.’

‘Now where have I heard that before?’ said Gallagher.

A weary Rob Mackey pulled the Range Rover off the motorway shortly after nine and edged it into the motel car park. After reaching onto the back seat for his overnight bag, he got out and walked over to the reception.

‘Good evening, sir,’ said a pleasant young woman as he pushed open the door and walked up to the counter. ‘How can I help?’

‘A room for the night.’

‘Certainly, sir.’ She busied herself with the paperwork. ‘Have you come far today, sir?’

‘Too far,’ said Mackey.

The girl looked at him with bemusement but he did not elaborate on the comment so she went back to her work. As he waited, Mackey’s mobile phone rang. He took it out of his jacket pocket and looked down at the illuminated screen. Liz, it said. The thirteenth time she had called. He had listened to one of her messages but had stopped before the end, tiring of his wife’s angry tirades. He had not listened to any of the others.

‘Don’t mind me, sir,’ said the girl as it continued to ring. ‘It might be important.’

Mackey slipped the phone back into his pocket as it stopped ringing.

‘No,’ he said, ‘no, I don’t think it is.’