To Honour the Dead (2 page)

Having glanced at the reports on his desk, the inspector was about to replace the documents when something caught his attention and he peered closer. Study completed, Jack Harris headed out into the corridor.

H
aving pointedly refused to acknowledge the journalists gathered outside Levton Bridge court house, Rob Mackey went home after the inquest, edging his Range Rover up the tree-lined drive, tyres crunching on the gravel. Having parked outside Laurel House and cut the engine, he sat for a few moments, acutely conscious that his palms were sweaty and his heart was racing. Something, he assumed it to be fear, told him that this would be the day. After all, there was no way it could have stayed a secret for ever. Calming down, he tried to rationalize the situation. Perhaps he had got away with it, after all. He had been very careful; they both had.

Feeling slightly better, and with his heart-rate slowing, Rob Mackey got out and walked over to the house. Unlocking the front door – his wife was at work and his eighteen-
year-old
daughter at college in Roxham – he stooped to pick up the post from the doormat. Flicking through the bills, he stopped when he reached a white envelope. Rob Mackey knew what was in it. Waiting for its arrival had become a way of life and he had grown accustomed to the sharp twisting in his stomach every time he heard the postman’s boots crunching on the gravel. And yet in a strange way, and one Rob Mackey did not understand, he wanted to savour the moment so he turned the envelope over and over in his hands. No, he thought, as he walked slowly through to the
kitchen, savour was not the right word. He was not sure how to describe the feeling as he flicked the switch on the kettle, sat down at the table and stared at the envelope, which he had propped up against the toast rack. Perhaps the sensation he was experiencing was relief. Yes, perhaps that was it. Relief that the waiting was over.

After a few moments, he reached for the paper knife and slit open the envelope with exaggerated care. Out dropped a piece of paper. Mackey picked it up off the table and scanned it.

‘And so it begins,’ he said softly. He walked over to the boiling kettle. ‘Or finishes.’

Followed by his dogs, Jack Harris strode along to the CID room where Matty Gallagher was standing by the window, watching the television crew approaching the police station. The sergeant noted that light rain had started to fall and was glistening on the camera. Next to him stood Alison Butterfield, a young blonde detective constable in a smart black suit.

‘Matty reckons it was a bit tasty at the inquest,’ said Butterfield as the inspector walked into the room. She reached down to stroke the dogs as they milled around her legs. ‘Esther Morritt going off on one again.’

‘As predicted,’ said Harris, sitting down at one of the desks, the chair creaking under his weight.

‘She had a go at me earlier this week,’ said Butterfield, nodding.

‘She’s had a go at everyone,’ commented Gallagher gloomily, still looking down into the street. ‘Telly look like they want a chat about it, guv. That reporter bird, Landy or whatever she’s called, she’s with them. They’re on the front steps. You going to talk to them?’

‘I told Curtis to do it.’

‘Told?’ said Gallagher, raising an eyebrow.

‘Suggested that it was more suited to his interpersonal communications skills,’ said Harris with the ghost of a smile. He tipped back in the chair, placed his feet on the desk and glanced at Butterfield. ‘All quiet then?’

‘Some old dear got her handbag lifted from the Co-op. Not sure if we’ll get it back. Or if it’s lost in the first place. Nobody remembers anything happening and the staff don’t reckon any of our locals have been in. Lenny Portland was at the inquest so that rules him out. It’ll probably turn up on her kitchen table.’

‘You’re probably right. That all?’

‘Traffic reckon all they’ve done is ticketed some guy for driving with a tail light out. Got him just as he came into town on the moor road.’

‘Yeah, we saw him. Anything else?’

‘Sir?’

‘Anything off the overnight log?’

‘No. Dead as the proverbial.’

Matty Gallagher turned his attention away from the television crew and to the conversation, marvelling, as usual, at the way Butterfield failed to read the signs with the inspector. The sergeant wondered whether to intervene – he had, after all, seen the entry on the log as well and realized that Harris would ask about it. Gallagher decided against it. The girl had to learn sometime. Besides, this was more fun.

‘The British Legion bowls pavilion?’ said Harris, an edge to his voice. ‘Someone tried to set fire to it last night.’

‘Oh, yeah, that.’ The constable’s tone was dismissive.

Gallagher closed his eyes. They never learn, he thought.

‘Is that all you can say?’ asked Harris.

‘I talked to Katie Jarvis about. She reckons it was kids. There’s always teenagers mucking about in the park. She and Roger Barnett found some empty cider cans.’

‘And if it wasn’t kids?’

‘Roger Barnett reckons—’

‘Roger Barnett,’ snorted Harris. ‘How many times have I told you about Roger Barnett? Right, since you reckon it’s so quiet, you can accompany me to Chapel Hill.’

‘What, for that memorial ceremony?’ protested Butterfield. It felt like a punishment; she was just not sure for what. ‘Do I have to?’

‘Call it your civic duty. I’ll meet you out the front when Curtis has finished boring the arse off the telly guys.’

Butterfield waited for the inspector and his dogs to leave the room then scowled.

‘And don’t look like that,’ said the DCI’s voice from the corridor. ‘It’s not becoming for a young woman.’

‘How does he know?’ asked Butterfield, looking at Gallagher. ‘I mean, how the hell does he know?’

‘Yeah, you’re normally so enthusiastic about these kind of things,’ said Gallagher. ‘Surely the fact that someone had tried to torch the British Legion pavilion set some kind of alarm bells ringing, for God’s sake? You’ve heard him banging on for the past few weeks. He’s talked about nothing else. He’s driving the girls in control bonkers.’

Butterfield shrugged, gathered her belongings and left the room.

‘Will she never learn?’ said Gallagher. He turned round to the empty office. ‘Jesus, talking to myself now.’

Resuming his survey of events at the front of the police station, he watched as the uniformed figure of Superintendent Curtis walked down the steps. From his vantage point, the sergeant could see the drizzle glistening on the commander’s balding head. Him and me both, Gallagher thought; must be the stress of working with Jack Harris. The sergeant noticed Curtis frown as he saw the inspector’s white Land Rover parked by the front door. Everyone in the station had lost count of the number of times the commander had issued memos ordering staff to park in the yard. Harris had ignored them all, arguing that
he’d always parked at the front and nothing was going to change that. Not even Philip Curtis. Especially not Philip Curtis. Gallagher grinned at the commander’s irritation but quickly wiped the smile from his face as the superintendent looked up at the CID office window. Ducking back into the room, Gallagher chuckled. Sometimes, small-town mentality could be fun, he thought. Only sometimes, mind.

As he returned to his desk, the sergeant’s mobile rang. He glanced down at the name on the screen. Harris.

‘Now I wonder what he wants?’ murmured the sergeant, taking the call.

‘Got a little job for you, Matty lad,’ said the inspector. ‘Constable Butterfield might not think it’s important but I want you to find out everything we know about the attempted arson on the British Legion pavilion last night.’

‘Ahead of you but not really sure there’s much more to tell.’

‘Well, check again.’

‘Yes, but …’

‘Humour me,’ said the inspector and the phone went dead.

The drizzle had started to fall in Chapel Hill as well when the black saloon car entered the village and came to a halt alongside the green. For a few moments, the two occupants surveyed the bandy-legged man in overalls who balanced precariously on a stepladder as he rearranged the blue covering over the stone war memorial. The driver perused the rest of the village, his eyes taking in every detail. Like so many of the communities strung out along the main road through the valley, Chapel Hill was small, its slate-grey cottages crammed into half a dozen terraced streets, each one of which gave way to steep, wooded slopes. Many of the houses had a tired appearance and there had once been a corner shop but it had long since been boarded up, as had the derelict Methodist chapel at the top of the village.

‘What a dump,’ said the driver.

‘Which one is it, Dave?’

‘Halfway up.’ The driver gestured to the street on the southern edge of the village. ‘The one with the blue door, apparently.’

‘We definitely doing it tonight then?’ Ronny nodded at the man working on the memorial then at the bunting strung across the streets. ‘I mean, what with all this going off and the—’

‘We do it tonight.’ The driver’s voice brooked no argument. Noticing his accomplice’s anxious expression, his demeanour softened. ‘Will you stop worrying about it, Ronny. They’re all old gadgies live here, they’ll all be in bed with a mug of Horlicks by eight after all this excitement. Besides, yer man wants it as quick as possible.’

‘I guess,’ said Ronny, but he did not sound convinced.

The driver glanced in his rear-view mirror as a vehicle emerged round a bend at the top of the hill, followed by two more, all of which started to make their way down into the village.

‘Time to make ourselves scarce,’ he said and slipped the car into gear.

Having left the village and parked in the lay-by above Chapel Hill, the two men got out of the vehicle and looked back down towards the houses. The driver reached onto the back seat and produced binoculars through which he surveyed with interest the cars pulling up and the people beginning to assemble on the green, many of them
white-haired
men in blazers adorned by strings of medals.

‘Honouring their dead,’ he said. ‘How appropriate.’

I
t was shortly before one when Jack Harris emerged from the reception interview room where he had taken refuge while he waited for Curtis to conclude his press conference on the front steps. As the commander had fielded the journalists’ questions, Harris had sat with his feet on the desk and his eyes closed, a faint smile playing on his lips. The dogs lay under the table. When the inspector heard the conference come to an end, he swung his legs down, walked over to the door and opened it slightly, peering cautiously out into the reception area. The grey-haired officer behind the counter noticed him.

‘Don’t worry, Hawk, he’s gone,’ he said. ‘You in his bad books again?’

‘Usually am, Des,’ said Harris, slipping on his Barbour jacket and gesturing for the dogs to wait for him at the front door. ‘Which way did his highness go?’

‘Upstairs. Looking for you, I think.’

‘Time to go in the other direction then,’ said Harris and walked towards the door.

‘Not trying to avoid me, I hope,’ said a voice.

The inspector sighed and turned to see the commander heading back down the stairs.

‘Of course not,’ said Harris. ‘As if I would. How can I help, sir?’

‘I was just checking you were OK for the ceremony?’

‘Just on my way there now. Will that be all, sir?’

Curtis looked irritated; he hated it when Harris pretended to be deferential. Both men knew that the inspector did not mean it. In many ways, Curtis preferred the bad-tempered version of the detective.

‘Just behave yourself,’ grunted the commander. ‘Henry Maitlin asked for you specially, remember. You and Rob Mackey may not get on but just bear in mind that this is no time for antag—’

‘Yes, well, I’ll remember that. Excellent advice, sir,’ said Harris, glancing at his watch. ‘Gosh, is that the time? Got to be off. Don’t want to be late.’

Curtis glowered as the inspector headed out of the front door, dogs following in his wake. The commander noticed Des Lomax grinning from behind the counter, scowled and walked back up the stairs, at the top of which he was almost sent flying by a rushing Alison Butterfield.

‘Watch where you’re going, young lady!’ exclaimed Curtis, grabbing for the handrail.

‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir,’ said the constable and walked down the remainder of the steps.

Lomax grinned as she quickened her stride once she was in the reception area.

‘How’s the love life, young ’un?’ he asked.

‘None of your business,’ she retorted as she struggled into her coat; they always had the same exchange.

‘I’m always available, you know.’

‘In your dreams,’ said Butterfield, heading for the front door. ‘Besides, I’m going out with someone.’

‘Really?’ Lomax looked at her with interest. ‘A rival, eh? Anyone I know?’

‘Like I said, it’s none of your business.’ Butterfield turned and pointed a finger at him. ‘And I don’t expect this to go round the station, right?’

The officer gave her his best innocent look as she
disappeared out of the front door and down the steps. Who, he thought, as he picked up the phone, should he tell first?

Jack Harris had already backed the Land Rover onto the road when Butterfield appeared. Once she had clambered into the passenger seat, he guided the vehicle through Levton Bridge’s outskirts and out onto the valley road, the town’s narrow streets soon giving way to dry-stone walls and steep wooded slopes.

‘No need to look like that,’ said Harris, as Butterfield sat in gloomy silence beside him. ‘You might find this afternoon an education.’

‘About what? I know you’re into this kind of thing but they don’t really do it for me.’ Butterfield realized how it must have sounded so added quickly, in what she hoped was a more respectful tone, ‘I mean, I know we should honour their sacrifice and all that but …’ Her voice tailed off. It just sounded lame.

‘How many times have I told you to think these things through?’

‘I said that we should respect their sacrifice and what they did for …’

‘This isn’t about honouring a bunch of dead soldiers, Constable.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘There’s a lot more going on.’

‘There is?’

‘Certainly things a good detective should be aware of.’ Noticing her bemused expression, he sighed. ‘What do I keep saying, Constable?’

Butterfield thought for a few moments. ‘Always read the situation?’ she hazarded.

‘Exactly.’

‘But what’s to read?’

‘There’s always something, Constable. What do we know about this afternoon?’

‘Just that it’s the unveiling of a war memorial.’

‘A good detective never uses the word just. What else?’

‘That Rob Mackey paid for it in memory of his father.’

‘Well, in theory, it’s in memory of all the Chapel Hill villagers who fell in battle but I imagine our dear Robert would much prefer your interpretation.’

‘Wouldn’t have thought there’d be that many of them to commemorate.’

‘More than you might think,’ said Harris, negotiating the Land Rover round a tight bend. ‘Three from the Great War, two from the Second. Then, of course, there’s Rob’s father. I take it you know about the Mackeys?’

‘I know you detest Rob.’

‘That’s besides the point.’ Harris seemed irritated by the comment. ‘What else?’

‘Rob deals in antiques, doesn’t he?’ Butterfield trailed her hand over the back of the seat and Scoot and Archie competed for the chance to lick it first. She chuckled. ‘Daft as a brush, both of them.’

‘Yeah, they are,’ said Harris, grinning, irritation momentarily banished. Now his voice was more even. Not friendly, though; Jack Harris’s voice was rarely friendly. ‘And Rob’s father, what do you know about the venerated George?’

‘That he was killed in the Falklands. The sarge reckons he was a hero.’

‘Well, it rather depends if you believe in heroes but yes’ – Harris nodded as the valley opened up to reveal the
slate-grey
roofs of Chapel Hill in the distance – ‘yes, he was. He was a captain in the Paras who led his men on an assault on an Argentinian position above Port Stanley. Several of them were wounded but he kept going. Took it
single-handed
. Trouble was, another group of Argies heard the shooting and came rushing up the hill, all guns blazing. George fought them off as well but was hit in the stomach….’

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
.

‘Did he die immediately?’ asked Butterfield, trying to sound interested. Talk of military derring-do had never excited her imagination.

‘Took him a day and half,’ said Harris, slowing the vehicle to a halt to let a tractor edge past. ‘I’ve seen a man die of a stomach wound. George Mackey must have been in agony. He was posthumously awarded the Military Cross.’

‘Brave man.’ It seemed the right thing to say.

Her disinterest in such matters had its roots in her upbringing as a farmer’s daughter. Born and brought up in the valley, Alison Butterfield had never felt a strong connection with the military life. Her world, and that of her father and her grandfather, had always revolved around the Pennines’ changing seasons. When the local newspaper ran the occasional story about lads in Afghanistan, it seemed too remote to be relevant. Even when a Levton Bridge man had been shot dead by insurgents in Helmand the year before, it had not really registered, although Butterfield remembered the coffin draped with a Union Jack being carried into the
parish church for the funeral. Had she been moved by the scene? She tried to remember.

As Harris waved at the tractor driver and started the Land Rover moving again, a thought struck the constable.

‘Did you win any medals?’ she asked. ‘I mean, when you were in the army?’

‘The odd one.’

Butterfield waited for him to elaborate but he didn’t. He never did. For a moment there was silence in the vehicle. It was broken by Harris.

‘I take it you know that Rob Mackey tried to follow his father into the army?’ he said. ‘When he was a young man? Rejected on health grounds?’

‘Is it relevant?’

‘How many times do I have to tell you? Everything is relevant. You never know when these snippets of information will come in handy.’

‘Right.’

Butterfield stared out of the window at the sheep grazing in the fields. Sometimes, she thought, sometimes she wished that she had taken up her father’s offer to help run the farm. But not often.

‘And because I do take notice,’ continued Harris, ‘I know that this afternoon is really all about Rob Mackey. He’s an arrogant so-and-so. Just like his father.’

‘But George was a war hero.’

‘Doesn’t make him a good man,’ said Harris as the road started to dip towards the village and they saw a small group of people gathered round the memorial, still covered in its blue sheet. ‘Nor is Rob for that matter. If you ask me, being rejected by the army hurt his pride. Today is the next best thing. Reflected glory.’

‘Oh, come on,’ protested Butterfield, ‘that’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?’

‘Is it? Is it really?’ There was an edge to the inspector’s
voice. ‘Surely you must have noticed that George Mackey has more decorations than a bleeding Christmas tree? His name is already on the war memorial in Levton Bridge market place, there’s a plaque on the library because he once borrowed a book there or something, there’s one on their house, big thing with a military crest, and unless I am much mistaken, there’s one on the pavilion in the park after Rob paid for its refurbishment. Now this.’

‘Yes, but …’

‘What’s more,’ said Harris, bringing the Land Rover to a halt in the village car park, ‘I happen to know that the parish council suggested Rob do the unveiling at the weekend. They thought Remembrance Sunday was the ideal time to do it but, no, he wanted it on its own. Wanted the limelight all to himself. And all for the sake of three days.’

‘I bet he was hacked off when he heard it was the same day as the inquest then,’ said Butterfield, unclipping her seat belt.

‘The best laid plans, eh?’ said Harris as he cut the engine. ‘Pity about that.’

‘Do you think Esther Morritt will turn up?’ asked Butterfield as she got out of the vehicle and glanced towards the rows of cottages. ‘She lives in the village, doesn’t she?’

‘Finally,’ said Harris, gesturing for the dogs to remain in the back.

‘Guv?’

‘Finally you’re thinking the thing through. The inquest is unlikely to have persuaded her that Rob Mackey did not kill her son. That’s why they’re here.’ Harris nodded at the television van that had just pulled up alongside the van. ‘Hoping that she puts on a show.’

‘Ah.’

‘Now those guys, on the other hand,’ said the inspector, switching his attention to the elderly war veterans gathering on the green, ‘you’d never hear them demanding a statue in their memory. Quite the opposite.’

‘Right.’

‘What’s more,’ said Harris, tossing his Barbour jacket into the back seat of the Land Rover and locking the vehicle, ‘doesn’t it strike you as odd that last night someone tried to torch the British Legion pavilion? I mean, ahead of today’s events?’

‘Uniform seem convinced that it was kids.’ Butterfield caught sight of Barnett talking to a couple of veterans. ‘Roger reckoned it was hardly even worth logging.’

‘Roger always says it’s kids. Means he doesn’t have to do anything about it. However, that’s the third time the place has been attacked. Windows smashed three weeks ago and someone tried to kick the door in two weeks before that. Jesus, am I the only one who thinks something weird is going on? Come on, let’s get this over with.’

The inspector sighed; he hated ceremonies.
Self-consciously
, he tried to do up the top button of his shirt. It took him several seconds – Jack Harris was a big man – but eventually he managed it, wincing at the discomfort.

‘Do I look OK?’ he asked.

‘You look lovely, guv.’

‘Come on then,’ grunted Harris. As he started walking towards the gathering, he noticed the scruffy figure of Lenny Portland loitering on the edge of the green. ‘Not sure the presence of our local tea leaf fits in with Rob Mackey’s world view. What’s he doing here, I wonder?’

‘Doesn’t his aunt live in one of the cottages?’

‘Yeah?’

‘You never know when these snippets of information will come in handy.’ Butterfield noticed his look with alarm and wondered if she had overstepped the mark. It was always difficult to predict how Jack Harris would react so she added quickly, ‘Sorry, guv, er, sir.’

‘I should think so,’ said Harris but there was a twinkle in his eye. ‘Cheeky basket.’

Butterfield laughed with relief. Harris gave the slightest of smiles; he loved the effect that his unpredictability had on people. The detectives walked over to the memorial where a bored-looking Rob Mackey was being engaged in conversation by Henry Maitlin, who had changed into grey slacks, a blazer on which were pinned several medals and a beret. Standing with them, Roger Barnett tried to appear interested in what the coroner had to say and greeted the arrival of the detectives with relief.

‘Ah, Chief Inspector,’ said Maitlin, ‘I was just saying how fitting it is that a man of your background should represent the constabulary at such an occasion as this.’

‘I guess it does seem appropriate,’ said Harris as the men shook hands.

‘I take it that awful woman won’t be trying to disrupt this event as well?’ said Mackey. He appeared irked by the inspector’s presence and did not offer his hand to the detective.