To Honour the Dead (14 page)

J
ack Harris and Gillian Roberts left their hotel and drove the short distance to the Sale Street industrial estate. Pulling the Land Rover up outside a run-down workshop, they saw that Jamie Standish was already waiting.

‘He looks cheerful,’ said Roberts.

Harris said nothing and the Levton Bridge officers got out of the vehicle and walked up to the building.

‘You got it?’ said Harris to Standish.

Standish fished in his jacket pocket and produced a document which he handed to the inspector.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Took a bit of hard talking, I can tell you. Frankly, I felt a right dick and if the super hadn’t—’

‘You got it anyway.’ Harris nodded to the door, which bore no sign. ‘You want to do the honours? It is in your patch, after all.’

‘Nice of you to remember,’ murmured Standish. ‘And no, I do not want to do the honours. This is a wild-goose chase and when it goes tits up you can handle the flak. Like I keep telling you, our intelligence hasn’t turned up anything to suggest that this place is anything other than legit. Surely you are not suggesting that your mate Leckie has missed something?’

‘No one’s perfect,’ said Harris, knocking on the door. He winked at Roberts. ‘I have even heard suggestions that I may be a flawed human being. Besides, I’ve got a feeling about this one.’

‘And you don’t argue with his instincts,’ said Roberts, glancing at Standish. ‘Rule number one of working with Jack Harris. You should know that, Jamie.’

‘I’ve had enough of his instincts, thank you.’ Harris gave a slight smile and knocked again, louder this time. After a couple of minutes, the door was opened by a man, whose eyes widened when he saw them.

‘Jesus,’ he said weakly.

‘Morning, Barry,’ said Harris cheerfully, walking past Barry Gough before he could protest. ‘What a surprise to see you here. How’s it going in the world of double standards? This where you make your placards then?’

Gough leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the officers had already pushed their way through the interior door that led into the dimly lit workshop.

‘Hey!’ shouted Gough, following them into the room. ‘You can’t …’

‘Actually we can,’ said Harris, holding the warrant up. ‘Well, well, what do we have here then?’

The detectives looked at three young men standing by a series of wooden crates and eyeing the officers uneasily.

‘What’s this then, Barry?’ asked Harris, turning round to Gough. ‘You getting into the mail order business?’

‘It’s nothing, Harris. Just …’

‘Just a bit of war memorabilia, I imagine,’ said the inspector, walking over to the pile of boxes. His path was barred by one of the other men but a hard look cleared the way. ‘And what would I find if I opened one of these then?’

‘Nowt much,’ mumbled the man, taking a couple of steps backwards.

‘Yeah,’ said Gough, trying to appear calm but coming over as nervous. ‘Cap badges, uniforms, that kind of thing. We’re not doing anything wrong. This is all legit.’

‘Don’t you think it’s weird that a man who protests about
the evils of war should also be making money from selling this kind of stuff?’ asked Roberts.

‘So if I’m guilty of anything it’s double standards.’ Gough pointed to the door. ‘It ain’t against the law, lady. Now get out. You ain’t got no right …’

‘Your favourite phrase,’ said Harris with a thin smile, holding up the document, ‘but this is a warrant to search this place. We always like to do things by the book, as you know.’

The comment was not lost on Standish, who frowned but said nothing.

‘But we ain’t done nothing wrong,’ protested one of the men, gesturing to Standish. ‘You ask him – he’s bought stuff from us. For his boy. For a school project or something.’

Harris glanced at Standish, waiting for a response, but the detective inspector did not say anything, preferring to look away. Harris walked over to a table and picked up a screwdriver before prising open the lid to one of the crates to reveal carefully folded uniforms.

‘See,’ said Gough, reaching over to close the lid. ‘Ain’t nothing illegal. Now get out before I—’

‘’Fraid I can’t do that, Barry. I’m a suspicious bugger.’ Harris lifted the uniforms out of the crate and produced an army-issue revolver. ‘This legal as well?’

Harris gave a smile as he glanced at the amazed Standish, whose eyes seemed magnetically drawn to the weapon. Even Gillian Roberts looked surprised.

‘That’s one hell of a school project your lad was doing, Jamie,’ said Harris.

Barry Gough seemed rooted to the ground but the other three men started to run towards the door, one of them knocking over a startled Standish as they fled. Getting quickly back to his feet, the DI gave chase, followed by Harris. Gough made as if to follow them but found his way blocked by the resolute form of Gillian Roberts.

‘Not worth it, Barry,’ she said. ‘Besides, where would you run? It’s a long way back to Levton Bridge.’

For a moment, the detective inspector thought that he was going to strike out at her but, after considering his predicament for a few moments, Gough gave a shrug and held out his hands to be cuffed.

‘Not sure there’s any need for that, Barry,’ said Roberts. ‘Just stand there and don’t try any funny business.’

Out in the lobby, one of the fleeing men wrenched open the door only to be grabbed by Jack Harris, who whirled him round by his shoulder. The man gave a cry and lashed out with his fist, the blow catching Harris on the side of the face. With a grunt the inspector fell against the wall and all three men burst out into the morning sunshine to be confronted by the sight of several uniformed officers standing and chatting next to a police van. Within moments, and after a brief struggle, two of the men were apprehended. Having seen them marched back into the building, glum looks on their faces, Standish turned to see the man who had struck Harris running away with the inspector closing rapidly on him. Standish cursed and set off after them.

Harris caught up with the man a little further down the road, grabbing at his jacket and sending him sprawling on the tarmac. The man leapt back to his feet and swung another punch at the inspector who, this time, swayed inside it. Standish slowed to a walk as Harris closed in on his quarry.

‘Come on, son,’ said Harris, holding out a hand. ‘This does not make sense. Give it up, eh? We don’t want anyone else hurt, do we?’

The man hesitated; he had drawn blood with his punch and both Harris and Standish could see the fear in his eyes. Harris took a step closer. Standish held his breath. The man nodded and allowed Harris to slip on the handcuffs and walk his suspect back towards Standish.

‘See,’ said Harris, ‘you think you know someone.’

Standish gave a rueful smile. ‘Guess it’s possible to make a mistake,’ he said.

‘Guess it is,’ said Harris. He gave the slightest of nods. ‘Me included, Jamie.’

Standish nodded and the three men walked back into the workshop where Harris approached the crates again. Roberts gave Standish a quizzical look as she nodded in the direction of the uniformed officers.

‘I thought you said there wasn’t any need for back-up?’ she said. ‘We wouldn’t find anything? The warrant was a waste of time? School project blah blah.’

Standish gave her a rueful look. ‘Are all Levton Bridge detectives arsey gits?’ he asked.

‘Pretty much. So, you going to explain the back-up then?’

‘Your governor may be infuriating but, like you said, if there is one thing I learned about him when he was down here, it was not to doubt his instincts.’

‘Wise words, Jamie,’ said Roberts. She looked at what Harris had produced from the crate. ‘Oh, will you look at that? It’s like Christmas come early.’

Harris had produced several more revolvers. He reached in again and pulled out a machine gun.

‘Jesus Christ,’ murmured Standish, walking over to the chief inspector. He glanced at Harris. ‘Proper little arsenal, isn’t it? We looking at calling in the anti-terrorism boys, Jack?’

‘Could be.’

‘It’s nothing like that,’ said Gough quickly; he had gone pale. ‘Besides, it’s deactivated. And it’s not new. Dates from 1954.’

‘Not sure anyone standing at the wrong end of the barrel would appreciate the distinction,’ said Harris. ‘Besides, do you know how easy it is to deactivate a gun, Barry?’

Gough looked bleakly at him.

‘Thought so,’ said Harris.

He prised open the lid of the next crate. Again, he removed some uniforms then brought out a small box, opening the lid and holding it up so that the others could see.

‘Medals,’ said Roberts. ‘Now there’s interesting. Where might you have got them from, I wonder, Barry?’

‘Not from Harold Leach,’ said Gough quickly.

‘Then who?’ said Harris with an edge to his voice. ‘Some other veteran who regarded them as among his most precious possessions?’

Gough gave them a sick look. Harris placed the box down on the nearby table and leaned further into the crate.

‘Get out,’ he said quietly. He gestured to the others. There was urgency in his voice now. ‘Get your people out of here, Jamie. Get everyone out of here.’

‘Why, what’s…?’

Standish’s voice tailed away as the inspector held up a hand grenade.

The smartly dressed businessman had just cleared Customs at Los Angeles Airport when the two plain-clothes police officers approached him.

‘Grover Randall?’ said one of them.

‘Yes.’

‘Come with me, please, sir.’

They took him into an airless room where they began to search his bags.

‘They have already been checked,’ said Randall.

‘We are aware of that, sir,’ said the officer and continued searching, eventually holding up a small paper package, watched by a perspiring Randall. ‘And what might this be?’

‘A present for my wife,’ said Randall but it didn’t sound convincing.

‘She like war memorabilia, does she?’ said the officer, unwrapping the package and holding up a Victoria Cross.

Gallagher and Butterfield were driving past the front door of Laurel House when they saw a woman standing on the roadside and frantically waving her arms.

‘That’s Liz Mackey,’ said Gallagher, bringing the vehicle to a halt. ‘Wonder what’s happened now?’

‘I’ll stay in the car.’

‘She doesn’t know it’s you been dobbing her husband.’

She shot him a beseeching look. ‘Please, Matty, let me stay in the car.’

Gallagher nodded. ‘This time. And this time only,’ he said as he got out of the car. ‘Liz, what’s the problem? You heard from Rob?’

‘Forget that bastard,’ she said angrily. ‘Follow me, I’ll show you.’

Butterfield watched as they disappeared down the
tree-lined
drive. The constable already knew that there were rumours in the police station that she was the other woman in Rob Mackey’s life. She had seen the looks, heard the whispering in corridors. Butterfield knew that it was only a matter of time before the news made its way beyond the police-station walls. The valley had never kept secrets. Things always leaked out. Sometimes, she thought as she sat there, there was a great appeal to the idea of working in the city. A place where no one knew your name and your secrets remained secrets because no one cared. As she waited for Gallagher to return, Butterfield sighed and wished that no one cared about her.

At the end of the drive, the sergeant stood and stared at the letters ‘DIS’ scrawled across the memorial plaque on the wall of the house.

‘Brilliant,’ he murmured.

‘This is her doing!’ exclaimed Liz.

‘Whose doing? Who do you think did this, Liz?’

‘Who? You know damn well who.’

‘Enlighten me.’ Gallagher held his breath and thought of Butterfield sitting alone in the car back on the main road.

‘That crazy Morritt woman.’

Gallagher breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Ah, her,’ he said.

‘Yes, her. Rob was right. She won’t leave us alone. First the memorial in Chapel Hill, now this. And I heard that the memorial in the market square was vandalized last night. I take it you know that George’s name is on that as well?’

‘We do, yes.’ Gallagher walked up to examine the paint. It was still tacky. ‘You didn’t see anything last night then?’

‘Don’t you think I would have done something if I had?’

‘Did you not even hear anything?’

Hesitation.

‘Liz?’ he said, looking closely at her. ‘Did you hear anything?’

‘I didn’t hear much last night, Sergeant.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘I am afraid I had rather too much to drink.’

Gallagher glanced across to the front door to see Bethany emerge.

‘She was absolutely plastered,’ said the teenager, nodding. ‘Whisky. Celebrating my father’s decision to run from his responsibilities as usual. Are you going to talk to that Morritt woman?’

‘We’ll talk to her, Bethany. Don’t worry about that.’

‘My grandfather deserves better than this,’ said the teenager, looking at the vandalized plaque. ‘I mean, after what he did for his country.’

‘He does, yes. I guess you never met him?’

‘Do I look thirty?’ she said waspishly. ‘And just because I never knew him, it doesn’t mean I’m not proud of him.’

‘I didn’t mean to …’

‘We should remember our fallen war heroes, Sergeant. That was just about the only thing I agreed with my father
about. They may be gone but they’re still alive in people’s hearts, aren’t they? I mean they never die, do they?’

‘No, they don’t,’ said the sergeant thoughtfully. He started to walk down the drive. ‘We’ll keep you informed of developments.’

When he got back to the car, Butterfield looked at him.

‘Well?’ she said anxiously. ‘What happened?’

‘Out of the mouths of babes,’ he said, easing himself into the driver’s seat.

‘What?’

‘I think we have been looking at the wrong Mackey. I don’t think this is about Rob, I think this is about George.’

‘But he’s been dead thirty years!’

‘If you ask me,’ said Gallagher, starting the engine, ‘he’s very much alive to someone.’

The man stumbled in the darkness and pitched forward. He did not feel what had hit him; at first he did not even know that he had been hit. Mind reeling, confused images swirling before his eyes, he sunk to his knees. He slowly turned his head, trying desperately to focus on the spinning world around him, trying to make sense of what had happened. Vision blurred, body now racked with jagged pain, he tried to stand up but his legs buckled and he staggered forward once more, this time to lie still and silent on the cold ground. Looking up, he saw a face staring down at him and heard a voice echoing as if from afar. The voice fell silent and the face receded into the distance as the darkness closed in. The man was alone and he felt cold. He knew in that moment that he was dying. After that, he saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. His was to sleep for ever. It was down to others to honour his memory
.