To Honour the Dead (13 page)

‘Hang on a minute,’ said the lawyer. ‘You said that you would….’

‘Besides,’ said Harris, opening the door to reveal a
stern-faced
Jamie Standish standing in the corridor, ‘even if we did go easy on you, I think the DI here wants a chat. Old fellow got himself duffed up and all for the sake of a medal. Sound familiar, Ronny?’

Michaels gave his lawyer an anxious look as Standish took a seat at the table.

‘This could be a long night, Ronny,’ said Standish with a thin smile. ‘A very long night indeed, son.’

Once out in the corridor, Gillian Roberts patted the DCI on the shoulder.

‘Well done, guv,’ she said. ‘Well done indeed. Even if Forrest says nothing, forensics should be able to tie them to
the job. And Michaels’ testimony would play well with a jury, wouldn’t it?’

‘I guess. Come on, let’s see if two hard-working detectives can get a bacon sandwich at this time of night.’

‘Good idea, I’m famished,’ said Roberts as they walked along the dimly lit corridor. ‘What about this American guy? What we going to do about him?’

‘Not sure what we can do,’ said Harris, glancing at his watch. ‘Last time I was at Manchester, there were loads of flights for America. Our man could be on any one of them. Assuming he’s flying from Manchester, that is. Without a name we’ve got little chance. We’ll just have to hope that Customs clock the medal.’

Ten minutes later, the officers were seated at a table by the canteen window, sipping from mugs of tea as they stared down at the empty night-time street and awaited the delivery of their food. Harris’s mobile phone rang.

‘No peace for the wicked,’ he sighed.

‘And sometimes you can be very wicked indeed.’

Harris smiled and took the call. ‘Matty lad. Uniform do what I said? Am I right?’

‘Yeah, you are. George Mackey’s name is obscured by the painted letters. There’s a few others, mind.’

‘Nevertheless, first thing in the morning, I want Esther Morritt lifting. I can’t risk this going any further with Remembrance Sunday so close.’

‘Will do. You getting anywhere?’

‘Got them both. Caught Michaels down a back alley. He couldn’t wait to spill his guts.’

‘You didn’t help him, by any chance?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, Matty lad.’ The inspector glanced at Roberts. ‘Everyone seems to think that I’m not to be trusted. Believe me, I played it by the book.’

‘Which one, though?’ said the sergeant. He did not wait for a reply. ‘What about the others? Portland et al? Michaels implicate any of them?’

‘Says he has never heard of them.’

‘You believe him?’

‘I am afraid I do.’ Harris looked at Roberts, who nodded.

‘Which leaves us with Forrest and Michaels.’

‘Yeah, and a guy from Roxham. We need to pick him up. Did you track down the traffic officer who stopped Forrest’s car in Levton Bridge?’

‘Yeah, he was on leave, fishing somewhere in the Lake District, but we found him and showed him the mug shots. Says he is pretty sure the driver was Forrest.’

The inspector looked up as the canteen woman brought over their sandwiches.

‘Thanks, pet,’ he said.

‘You’ve never called me pet before,’ said Gallagher.

Harris chuckled.

‘So when you back?’ asked Gallagher.

‘Tomorrow. Jamie Standish is sorting out an overnight stay for us. I was going to suggest we bunk down round his place but for some reason he declined.’

‘Am I missing something?’ asked Gallagher as he heard Roberts roar with laughter in the background.

‘No, but I might be,’ said Harris, grinning.

The two detectives had just finished their sandwiches when a plain-clothes officer walked over to the table.

‘Forrest is ready,’ he said.

As the final light went out in Laurel House, plunging the building into darkness, a figure emerged from the bushes at the bottom of the garden. Having stood and listened to the silence of the night for a few moments, he started walking across the lawn.

‘Y
ou manage to check Forrest’s car?’ asked Harris as the Levton Bridge detectives followed the officer out of the canteen, along the corridor and down the stairs.

‘He’d tried to hide it in his garage. It’s blue now, mind. It’s had a re-spray but we reckon it’s the same one your lot stopped. Our traffic guy reckons it’s got a new rear bulb.’

‘Excellent. Did the plates match with the one we stopped?’

‘No, but that doesn’t account for much round here. This lot swap plates all the time.’ As they reached the door of the interview room, the detective turned to look at them. ‘Don’t tell my gaffer I said this – he’s a bit of an old lady, is Jamie – but if it’s true you battered Ronny Michaels, there won’t be many round here complaining. They were pretty angry about what he did to that old feller over on Kelley Road. Michaels had it coming, if you ask me.’

‘Thank you,’ said Harris, pushing his way into the interview room.

He and Roberts took their seats across the desk from a glowering Dave Forrest. Sitting next to him was another lawyer. Harris recognized him from days of old as well.

‘Mr Lucas,’ said the inspector affably. ‘How nice to meet you again.’

‘I am not sure I can say the same about yourself,’ said Lucas coldly. ‘At least you did not beat up my client so that’s something to be grateful for, I suppose. What do you want to
talk to him about, Mr Harris? Your colleague mentioned something about an incident in Levton Bridge but my client does not even know where it is. From my understanding, it’s a rural backwater, is it not?’

‘That’s two of you have used that phrase tonight,’ said Harris. He stared at Forrest. ‘Sure you don’t know where it is, Dave?’

‘Never heard of it.’ Forrest seemed brash. Confident.

‘I suppose that means you have never heard of a little village called Chapel Hill either, then?’

‘S’right.’

‘Funny that,’ said Harris, glancing at Roberts. ‘Is it not, Inspector?’

‘Very funny.’

‘Perhaps you would like to desist from these silly little games and tell my client why he is being questioned?’ said the lawyer icily.

‘He is being held in connection with the death of an elderly war veteran called Harold Leach,’ explained Harris. ‘Mr Leach’s body was found in his home yesterday and we believe your client was the one who killed him. We believe that he and Ronny Michaels were robbing the place. We believe they were after Mr Leach’s VC, which they sold through an intermediary to an American businessman.’

‘Rubbish!’ snorted Forrest. ‘I told you, I ain’t never been to this Chapel Hill place and, what’s more, I don’t know any Americans.’

‘See you’ve had the car fixed,’ said Harris blandly.

Consternation flickered across Forrest’s face but only for a second.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, quickly regaining his composure. ‘I ain’t got a—’

‘You were stopped in Levton Bridge by one of our traffic officers. Your back light was out. He recognized you from your picture.’

‘That all you got?’ said Forrest dismissively. ‘Some plod checking lights reckons he’s seen me in a place I’ve never even been to?’

‘I must admit,’ said the lawyer, clipping closed his briefcase and standing up, ‘that it all sounds rather flimsy. If that really is all you’ve got, Mr Harris, we are leaving now.’

‘Yeah,’ said Forrest, also standing up. ‘We’re—’

‘Fair enough,’ said Harris, as they headed for the door. ‘Oh, before you do go, Ronny Michaels seems to think that you killed the old man. Now where would he have got such a crazy idea from, Dave?’

Forrest turned to stare at the detective.

‘He wouldn’t,’ he said; all the colour had drained from his face.

‘Funny how you think you know someone, isn’t it, David?’

Twenty-five minutes later, the officers emerged into the corridor and Harris leaned wearily against a wall.

‘Banged to rights,’ said Roberts, her eyes gleaming. ‘Banged to bloody rights the two of them. Jesus, we’re on a roll!’

‘I guess.’

‘What do you mean, you guess? The lawyer clearly thought so, trying to get his client to suggest it was an accident. No jury in the land will go for manslaughter, though. Not a hope in hell.’

‘I imagine not.’

‘I don’t get it,’ said Roberts. ‘You don’t seem excited by any of this. Think how pleased everyone will be. Think how pleased Curtis will be. You’ve solved a high-profile murder and got enough on Lenny Portland to at least warrant charges of—’

‘I can’t help feeling that we are missing something.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, if I knew that, Gillian.’ Harris frowned. ‘There’s something else happening here. Someone is trying to send
out a message with those attacks on the war memorials but we’re not reading it properly. And if there’s one thing I don’t like, Gillian, it’s surprises. I do not like them at all.’

‘I remember your birthday party,’ said Roberts, nodding.

T
he first grey light of day was streaking the sky when Matty Gallagher and half a dozen uniformed officers walked up the Roxham street, halting halfway up at a terraced house with a red door. Gallagher knocked loudly, the noise deadened by the mist that was hanging over the town.

‘Police!’ he shouted.

No answer. Gallagher nodded to one of the uniformed officers who walked forwards with his hydraulic ram and smashed his way through the door. Gallagher and the officers ran inside and the sergeant thundered up the stairs and burst into the bedroom, where a man was struggling out of bed.

‘Danny Marks,’ said Gallagher. ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to murder.’

Jack Harris sat in the hotel restaurant and picked moodily at his cooked breakfast. Sitting opposite him, Gillian Roberts sipped her tea.

‘Not exactly a ray of sunshine, are we?’ she said. ‘Not still worrying about the war memorial thing?’

‘Sorry.’ Harris gave her a faint smile. ‘Just can’t get it out of my head.’

‘Could be as simple as kids after all. Maybe you are reading too much into it?’

‘That’s what Roger Barnett reckons.’

‘Then I withdraw the comment immediately,’ she said, reaching for another slice of toast. ‘I imagine he only said it because it stops him actually investigating anything. Gives him more time for chatting up the pretty young things in the typing pool.’

‘That’s what I said. Then there’s Mackey. Given that he’s not tied up with the murder, why is he running away?’ The inspector’s mobile rang and he took it out of his jacket pocket. ‘Perhaps this is our answer, eh?’

‘We can only hope. Sick of staring at your gloomy face.’

‘I thank you for those few kind words,’ murmured the inspector, lifting the phone to his ear. ‘DCI Harris, who is this?’

‘Good morning, sir,’ said a young man’s voice. ‘This is DC Stafford from the fraud squad at Roxham. They said you were in Manchester. Can you talk?’

‘Sure.’

‘I understand you are trying to track down a chap called Rob Mackey?’

‘We are, though not sure why. We’ve got nothing on him. Why you after him?’

‘We received an email from our counterparts in Los Angeles, who were called in by a large firm of antique dealers in the city. A recent audit revealed discrepancies in the company’s accounts and further inquiries pointed to bogus invoices from Rob Mackey, who is their representative in the UK.’

‘Really?’ Harris sat forward. ‘Now that is interesting.’

‘More than interesting. Their checks uncovered invoices stretching back the best part of ten years and worth 1.4 million dollars. All for items that appear not to have existed.’

‘Did the Americans pay up?’

‘Yes.’

‘Curtis queries it if I’m a penny out on my mileage. Surely someone knew what was happening?’

‘Yes. A guy who worked for the American company. Mackey submitted invoices for goods shipped over from the UK and this fellow waved them through then falsified the records. All very slick until he made a mistake and the auditors clocked it.’

‘They get him?’

‘The firm say he’s been in the UK on business. Comes over here quite often to see Mackey. Seems he flew out of Manchester last night on his way home. Chap called Grover Randall. When they looked into his background, they discovered that he’s got form for fraud. Got three names as well. Grover Randall’s his latest.’

‘I wonder,’ murmured Harris.

‘Wonder what?’

‘I wonder if he’s got a VC in his bag. Where do we come into all this?’

‘US police will arrest Randall when he touches down – what time is it now? 8.45. They may already have done so. And they want us to pick Mackey up.’

‘Wish we could. He disappeared yesterday. I guess he knew what was happening.’

‘Almost certainly. The inquiry has been very hush-hush but the firm’s payments department have just written to him in error, telling him no further invoices will be honoured. Sounds like your man put two and two together and scarpered.’

‘Well, he can’t run for ever,’ said Harris. ‘No man can. And I should know, I’ve tried.’

A small crowd had gathered round Levton Bridge’s war memorial as the sullen light of day revealed the full extent of the vandalism. Standing apart from the other people, Matty Gallagher gloomily surveyed the damage then glanced over to where Roger Barnett was trying to ensure that the growing crowd did not get too close. With a sigh, the
sergeant looked back at the memorial, where a forensics officer was crouched, examining the paint.

‘Anything we can use?’ asked Gallagher, walking over to him.

‘Sorry, Matty,’ said the officer without looking up, ‘it’s like the other one. The paint is the type you could get anywhere.’

‘You’re right, I’m afraid. After Chapel Hill, we checked the local hardware stores and they’d all sold loads of the stuff. I never realized the sodding colour was so popular.’

‘Looks like the type my missus used in our downstairs loo.’ The forensics officer finally looked up. ‘Having a dump in a bright red loo, I tell you, it’s not exactly conducive. Especially if you’ve had jalfrezi the night before. The colour is quite re—’

‘Yeah, thanks for sharing that. Very useful.’

‘Anything to oblige,’ said the forensics officer, grinning. ‘I’ll try to match a sample with Chapel Hill but even if we do I’m not sure where it gets us.’

‘I hate to think what kind of sample you’re referring to. God knows we need something, though. All the sales were cash so there’s no record. Billy over in Porteous Street did remember selling a pot to the vicar last year. Perhaps I should arrest him.’

‘Stop him preaching those criminally long sermons.’

‘Quite the wit, aren’t we? It’s like an audience with Max Miller.’

‘Who?’ said the forensics officer, scraping at the memorial.

‘Never mind. Unfortunately, no one can remember Esther Morritt buying paint.’

‘She still your favourite then?’ asked the forensics officer, straightening up and stepping back from the memorial.

‘She’s the only one with a good enough reason to hate Rob Mackey.’

‘There’s plenty of people with reason to hate Rob Mackey. I don’t blame them. He’s an arrogant so and so.’ The officer
noticed Butterfield and James Larch walking across the market place. ‘Hey, is it true that he has been dobbing young Alison?’

‘How the…?’

‘Never mind how, is it true?’

‘’Fraid so but I wouldn’t mention it to her – well, not unless you fancy keeping your testicles in a box.’

‘Point taken. Mind, she’s better than that, way better than that.’ The forensics officer returned his attention to the memorial. ‘That’s assuming that this is about Rob Mackey, of course. I mean, there’s plenty more names on here.’

‘We’re not getting far with them, though. Apart from Mackey’s father, they died at least sixty years ago.’ Gallagher leaned forward towards the memorial. ‘I mean, this one was killed in 1914. Who the hell could hang on to a grudge that long? Not even Harris could do that.’

‘Not so sure, Matty.’ The forensics man clicked shut his case. ‘I heard your governor bawled out Roger Barnett last night. And they have known each other for twenty-odd years. Anyhoo, can’t do much more here. It rained in the early hours so there’s very little to go on.’

‘OK, thanks, Brian,’ said Gallagher, watching him walk across the market place and nod at Butterfield and Larch as he passed them. As the detectives neared him, the sergeant asked: ‘Anything?’

‘Nothing,’ said Butterfield. ‘We checked with the pub landlords. None of them heard or saw anything last night.’

‘We checked if Portland stayed in the boozer last night,’ added Larch. ‘The landlord of the Duck reckoned he was kaylied.’

Before the officers could reply, they were approached by a worried-looking Henry Maitlin, who stood and shook his head as he surveyed the vandalized war memorial.

‘Terrible, absolutely terrible,’ he said. He lowered his voice. ‘Listen, keep this under your hats for the moment but we’re thinking of calling off tomorrow’s ceremony.’

‘Harris reckoned you might suggest that,’ said Gallagher. ‘The governor reckons this town should honour its dead whatever the risks.’

‘But it’s too big a risk, Matthew. Think of the shame it would bring on Levton Bridge if something happened.’

‘Let’s not be too hasty.’ Gallagher lowered his voice. ‘Between you and me, we’re going to lift Esther now.’

‘About time. That woman has caused more than enough trouble.’

‘But what if it’s not her?’ asked Butterfield when Maitlin had gone. ‘What if the dishonour does not relate to the Mackeys at all? And I am not saying that because I was going out with Rob.’

‘Was?’ said the sergeant.

‘Not sure we’ve got much of a future after all this.’

‘You’re probably right. Maybe you’ve got a point about the Mackeys, though. Could be nothing to do with them. If Esther’s in the clear, we’ll lift Barry Gough, rattle his cage.’

‘What about the British Legion?’ said Larch, looking across to where Maitlin was deep in conversation with an elderly man. ‘Remember what Harris has been banging on about? Those other incidents? What if the Legion is the target?’

‘Who on earth would have a grudge against a load of old codgers?’ said Gallagher as the officers started walking across the market place. ‘We got a secret Nazi cell operating in Levton Bridge?’

Larch shrugged. ‘Folks are funny, Sarge.’

‘Best get looking then,’ said Gallagher, glancing up at the town clock as it struck ten. ‘Because by my reckoning we have twenty-five hours to stop the Remembrance ceremony being wrecked. In the meantime, we’ll go and nick Esther Morritt.’

‘We?’ said Butterfield, noticing that the sergeant was looking at her.

‘Yeah, you’re going with me. I’m not facing the mad old baggage myself and that’s final.’

Sitting on the bed in his motel room, Rob Mackey stared at the Ceefax story on the television screen. He had read it three times.

Rob Mackey picked up his bag and left the room.

‘Run, rabbit, run,’ he murmured.