To Honour the Dead (8 page)

‘When did we ever take any notice of what people say about us? Besides, we just say new evidence has emerged.’

‘Perhaps we should have searched the kid’s belongings after he died. We just assumed it was an accident.’

‘Why think anything else?’ said Harris, taking a sip of tea.

‘But if it ends up being genuine and … Hey, Mackey passed me after Rambo stopped the bus. If Esther’s right, he wasn’t popping down the supermarket for a loaf of bread.’

‘Best get back out there,’ said Harris, standing up as Gallagher headed for the door just as Philip Curtis emerged at the top of the steps.

‘What’s the emergency?’ asked the commander, scowling as he noticed the dogs.

‘Possible breakthrough,’ said Harris.

‘Which is?’

‘We think Rob Mackey may be involved in the murder.’

‘You think what?’ Curtis stared at the inspector in amazement. He looked at Gallagher. ‘You agree?’

Gallagher hesitated.

‘I’ll take that as a no,’ said the superintendent, turning back to Harris. ‘Everyone knows you’ve got it in for Mackey but the man has proved himself remarkably generous to this community and we should not harass him because of some silly vendetta….’

Gallagher made his mind up.

‘Actually,’ said the sergeant, ‘I think the DCI may have a point. We certainly can’t take the chance, can we?’

Harris shot his colleague a grateful look.

‘Yes, well, it sounds pretty far-fetched to me,’ said Curtis grudgingly. ‘I mean why would you think this?’

‘Esther Morritt says …’ began the inspector.

‘Is she really the best you can do?’

‘We have also arrested Lenny Portland.’

‘The man’s a petty thief. I’d hardly call it progress, would you?’

Harris did not reply but watched balefully as Curtis walked over to stare out of the vehicle window. The commander’s gaze settled on the small knot of people gathered round the defaced war memorial, now being filmed by the camera crew.

‘And the vandalism?’ said Curtis, turning back to the detectives. ‘That linked to the murder, do you think?’

‘It’s still early days,’ said Harris but he knew that it sounded lame.

In the ensuing silence, the inspector found himself searching for something with which to fight back, something with which to impress the commander. The sensation surprised the inspector, whose usual approach was to divulge as little as possible to Curtis in an attempt to reduce
the amount of what he saw as his meddling in investigations. ‘This inquiry will run on a need-to-know basis,’ the inspector would always tell his staff, tapping the side of his nose, ‘and that sanctimonious bastard does not need to know anything.’ But this was different. Harris knew that an entire community was looking to him to come up with something. Knew that his commander would be feeling the same. Knew that what Curtis really wanted was something to ease his own fears. And wanted it quickly. Everyone did. Yet again, Harris recalled the seminar.

‘There is another line of inquiry,’ said Harris. ‘But there’s nothing to confirm it at this stage. There is the possibility that whoever killed Harold came from outside the area. That they were after his VC.’

‘Outside? Where outside?’

‘Manchester.’

‘That sounds more likely,’ said Curtis. There was something different about him now, less confrontational, more understanding. Hopeful. ‘That makes a lot more sense.’

Harris nodded; it seemed the most politically sensible thing to do.

‘We really do have to sort this out quickly,’ continued Curtis earnestly. ‘People are panicking. Control have already taken calls from pensioners saying they are frightened to stay at home. And it’s not just Chapel Hill either. We have had them from other villages. And the media are lapping it up. You know what something like this does.’

‘I’ve asked uniform to make a big show of patrolling here tonight and to keep an eye on the other war memorials in the area. Last thing we want is another incident.’

‘Let’s hope we don’t get one then,’ said Curtis, walking back down the steps. ‘In the meantime, I suggest you get this sorted quickly. And don’t waste any more time on this Mackey thing. Results, Jack, we need results.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Harris glumly.

‘So,’ said Gallagher when the commander had gone, ‘I take it that means you do not want to reopen the inquiry into Philip Morritt’s death after all?’

‘Not for the moment, but I do want Mackey brought in, mind. Whichever way this breaks, he still has some questions to answer. Put the word out, will you?’

‘But Curtis said …’

‘I know what he said,’ said Harris, noticing the sergeant’s uncertainty. ‘Do it for me, will you? Go and see the wife, yeah? Get Butterfield to meet you there. A woman’s touch and all that.’

Gallagher nodded. ‘Sure,’ he said, and headed out of the incident room.

When he had gone and silence had settled on the vehicle, Jack Harris walked over to his dogs.

‘Poor old Harold,’ he said, kneeling down and ruffling their heads. ‘He did not deserve this. No one deserves this.’

The inspector felt tears start in his eyes. He had been fighting them all day. Harold Leach was not simply a number, not just another victim of crime to be processed. Harold Leach had been a friend. A good friend and one to be mourned. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Harris straightened up and walked towards the door. The dogs followed him out onto the green where the inspector stood for a few moments in the rain and let his gaze roam to the looming shapes of the hills gradually disappearing as darkness settled on the North Pennines. Even though they were fading from view, Harris could visualize them perfectly, see every path, every copse, every dry-stone wall, every brook. The inspector had walked them so many times that he had lost count and now, as he stood on the grass, he felt their pull once more, felt them drawing him in, urging him to forget the stresses of the real world and give himself up to their embrace. Sometimes, thought Harris, as he allowed himself to experience the moment, it would be all too easy to
give in to their gentle caresses. Hand in his badge, retire, find something else to do, something different, something where he did not have to deal with man’s inhumanity to man. He sighed.

‘Sir?’

The woman’s voice broke into his reverie and Harris turned slowly and surveyed the young uniformed constable standing at a respectful distance.

‘Are you all right, sir?’

‘Why should I not be?’

‘You seemed not to have heard me. It was the third time I’d tried to speak to you.’

‘Do you go walking, Constable?’

She seemed taken aback by the question. ‘Walking, sir?’

He gestured to the dark shapes disappearing in the gathering gloom. ‘On the hills.’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Sometimes I wish I did not have to come back.’

She looked at him uncertainly. ‘Are you sure you are all right, sir?’

Harris gave a slight smile. ‘Yes, of course I am. What did you want me for?’

The inspector noticed a man in a delivery uniform standing a few feet away.

‘This is Gary Ross, sir,’ said the constable. She gestured to the nearby streets. ‘He lives in one of the cottages. He’s only just got back home. Says he was out and about early this morning when he saw someone near the green.’

‘Really? And why were you up so early, Mr Ross?’

‘A delivery. Got quite a few early starts coming up.’

‘So what time did you go out?’

‘Fourish, just after. That’s when I saw someone moving over there.’ Ross gestured to the far side of the green. ‘Fair gave me the willies, I can tell you.’

‘I’m sure it did. You get a description?’

‘Sorry, just saw a figure.’

‘Young, old?’ asked the inspector. ‘Tall, short? Man, woman? Vegetable, mineral?’

‘Just a figure really. It was dark; it looked kind of fuzzy.’

‘Ah, one of those,’ said Harris. ‘Did you not think it was strange seeing someone in the village at that time of night?’

‘I thought about ringing you lot but I was already late. Old Robertshaw, he don’t like me to get down there late. He’s a real stickler for timekeeping is old Robertshaw.’

‘I’m sure he is.’ The inspector looked at the young constable. ‘Take a statement, will you? Oh, and when you’ve done that, can you get an APB out on a figure? Tell them to look for a fuzzy one.’

The constable looked at him in bemusement.

‘Sir?’ she said.

‘It’s a joke,’ said Harris, turning away from her. ‘I find they help to lighten the atmosphere.’

Watched by the bemused constable and followed by his dogs, Harris walked across the green. Once he was out of the constable’s earshot, he murmured, ‘No bloody sense of humour these young bobbies.’

Glancing down at the dogs, Harris could have sworn that Archie laughed.

M
atty Gallagher stood at the kitchen window of Laurel House and read the handwritten note for the second time. He handed it to Butterfield, who was sitting at the table. She made no comment.

‘For someone unburdening himself, he doesn’t say much, does he?’ said Gallagher, glancing at the slight, brunette woman who was making the tea. ‘What do you make of it, Mrs Mackey?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Liz, placing the mugs on the table.

She sounded calm, had done so ever since she had let the officers into the house. For a woman struggling with the disappearance of her husband, thought the sergeant, Liz Mackey seemed remarkably unaffected. People, he thought, reaching for his mug, you just never could work them out. Butterfield handed the note back to the sergeant but still offered no opinion on its contents. She had hardly spoken since they had arrived at the house.

‘Thank you for the tea,’ said Gallagher, taking a sip. ‘You sure you have no idea at all why your husband would take off?’

‘No.’ Liz sat down at the table and looked at them. ‘And he’s not answering his mobile.’

For the first time, Gallagher noticed that she had been crying.

‘Take all the time you need,’ said the sergeant, softening his tone a little. ‘I know this has been a shock.’

‘I’m glad it’s you,’ she said quietly. Vulnerability replaced calmness.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Not Jack Harris. Everyone knows that he’s got it in for Rob.’ She gave him a slight smile. ‘I suspect you are slightly more sympathetic than your boss?’

‘Only in everything,’ said Gallagher. He looked back down at the note. ‘This says that your husband has done something stupid and needs to get away for a while to get his thoughts straight. Had he given any indication as to what that might be?’

Liz shook her head. More tears did not seem far away.

‘I know this is difficult for you,’ said the sergeant, softening his tone even more. Gallagher glanced at Butterfield. ‘We understand, don’t we?’

‘Er, yes. Yes, of course we do.’

‘There you go with the sympathy,’ said Liz, shooting Gallagher a grateful look.

‘Sympathetic or not, I still have to ask you some questions. Had you been having …’ The sergeant hesitated. ‘You know, any marital difficulties?’

‘That’s a very personal question.’

‘Or perhaps it’s something to do with your husband’s business?’ continued the detective. ‘Was there anything to do with that? Money troubles, maybe?’

‘He never talked to me about his business.’

‘But surely you must know something about …’

‘I told you, I don’t.’ Now her tone was clipped, her vulnerability disappearing once more behind its veneer.

‘Well, there must be something, Mrs Mackey,’ said Gallagher, bridling slightly at her change in demeanour. ‘I mean, for a husband to take off like that, there has to be something and often it’s the wife who—’

‘Don’t you think I would have told you if I knew anything?’

‘Would you have called us if we had not come round?’

‘What?’

‘Would you have called us?’ repeated the sergeant. ‘Your husband is missing, after all. Look, sometimes wives cover things up for their husbands without realizing that they would be better advised to …’

‘Don’t be patronizing, Sergeant.’ Liz took a sip of tea and fell silent for a few moments. ‘I’m sorry. Uncalled for. I’m upset. Not thinking straight.’

‘I get the impression that there
is
something you want to tell us,’ said the sergeant. ‘I think you know exactly what that letter is about.’

Liz began to cry again. The officers waited until she had composed herself.

‘Well?’ said Gallagher gently. ‘What do you think has caused this?’

‘I believe that he’s been having an affair.’

Gallagher glanced at Butterfield, who looked out of the window.

‘With who?’ asked the sergeant.

‘I don’t know but I’m sure he is having one. A woman just knows these things.’ She paused. ‘Are you married, Sergeant?’

Gallagher nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘she’s a nurse down at Roxham General.’

‘And are you an attentive husband?’

‘What?’ Gallagher was not quite sure where the conversation was going.

‘Are you an attentive husband? When was the last time you gave your wife flowers?’

‘Er … three weeks ago, I think. Not quite sure what that …’

‘Rob has never been an attentive man, Sergeant. He would not have known where to buy flowers even if he wanted to. But things have changed. I have had three bunches in the last month.’ She nodded at the blooms standing in a vase on
the windowsill. ‘Lovely, aren’t they? He even got my favourite colour right.’

‘Perhaps he just realized that he had not been as—’

‘You’ve met my husband, I take it?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘Then you will have worked out that he is not the kind of man to do things like giving bunches of flowers.’

‘I guess.’

‘Sometimes, I wonder why I ever married him in the first place,’ said Liz with a shake of the head. ‘And he’s got worse down the years. I mean, he’s always been an arrogant man. Like father, like son. Oh, don’t look like that, Constable Butterfield. Just because George won that blessed medal it does not mean that he was a good person. He was a bastard and as the years wore on, I have seen more and more of him in Rob.’

‘I’m sure he’s not all bad,’ murmured Butterfield.

‘Don’t try to defend him.’ Liz gave a dry laugh. ‘Don’t try to defend either of them. I’m glad Rob has gone. Whoever she is, she’s welcome to him.’

Ten minutes later, the officers walked out of the house. Before they got into their cars, Gallagher looked at Butterfield.

‘You were quiet in there,’ he said.

‘Sorry. Not very good in those kind of situations.’

‘So much for the woman’s touch.’

‘Eh?’

‘Nothing. What did you make of what she said?’

Butterfield shrugged. ‘Maybe the governor’s wrong. Maybe he’s got nothing to do with what happened to Harold Leach. Maybe it’s a domestic, nothing more.’

‘Maybe. Listen, I’m going to nip back to Chapel Hill, see what’s what. See you back at the factory.’

‘Yeah, sure.’

The sergeant got into his car but before he turned the
ignition, he took his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and called up ‘Jules’ on his contacts. He hesitated then dialled the number.

‘Hiya, love,’ said a cheery voice. ‘You OK?’

‘Yeah, fine. You left for work yet?’

‘Next few minutes. Just fed the cats and now I’m having a cup of coffee. There’s some casserole in the fridge for you when you get in.’

‘Thanks.’ There was silence as he watched Butterfield guide her vehicle down the drive and out of sight.

‘You OK?’ asked Jules.

‘Yeah. Yeah. Just wanted to hear your voice.’

‘Oh dear, what’s brought this on?’

‘You know how it is sometimes,’ he said.

‘I do. Love you, Matty.’

‘Love you, too,’ said Gallagher. ‘Have a good shift. See you whenever.’

‘Sure. Be careful.’

The sergeant slipped the phone back in his pocket. Glancing over at the house, Gallagher saw Liz Mackey standing in the front window and staring at him. She was crying.

As Rob Mackey drove his Range Rover south across the
rain-swept
moorland, he slowed down to make a call on his hands-free. A woman’s voice answered.

‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Can you talk?’

‘Where the hell have you been?’ She sounded angry. ‘The DCI has got everyone out looking for you.’

‘Why?’

‘He wants to talk to you about the murder of Harold Leach.’

‘But I had nothing to do with that.’

‘He seems to have got it into his head that you’re mixed up in it somehow.’

‘That man! He would believe anything about me even if …’

‘I’m sure it’s all a horrible mistake, love. Why don’t you just come into the station and clear it all up?’

‘I can’t.’

There was silence for a few moments.

‘She knows about us,’ said the woman.

‘What?’

‘Liz knows you have been having an affair. She told us.’

‘Shit. She know it’s you?’

‘I don’t think so but you know this place, it’s only a matter of time. This has gone too far. You have to come in.’

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

‘Rob? Rob, you there?’

‘Yes, I’m here. I’m sorry, I can’t come in.’

‘Why not?’ There was panic in her voice now. ‘What have you done, for God’s sake? Please God don’t tell me you were involved in the murder.’

‘It‘s more complicated than that,’ said Mackey, further slowing down the Range Rover as the road dipped and twisted and he negotiated a stone bridge over a fast-flowing beck. ‘I can’t come in. Not yet, anyway. Got things to sort.’

‘If you’re tied up with the murder somehow, God help me I’ll—’

‘I’m not, love.’ He tried to sound reassuring. ‘I’ve told you.’

‘But if you are, that puts me in a difficult situation.’ She made her mind up. ‘I’m sorry but I will have to tell Harris about us. I have no option.’

‘No.’ The voice was urgent. ‘Please, don’t say anything. We agreed.’

‘We didn’t agree anything like this.’

Mackey pulled the Land Rover onto the side of the road and cut the engine.

‘Please don’t,’ he said quietly, the tears starting to stream down his cheeks. ‘Please don’t tell Harris.’

He could hear that she was crying as well. ‘I have to,’ she said through the tears. ‘You know that.’

‘But …’

‘I have to go,’ said Alison Butterfield and the phone went dead.

Rob Mackey sat for a few minutes then, noticing through the gathering gloom a set of headlights behind him. He cursed, turned the key to start the engine and guided the Range Rover across the moor. Back in Levton Bridge, Butterfield sat in the deserted CID office, mobile phone still in hand, and stared wordlessly out of the window into the darkness of the night. Tears still coursed down her cheeks and she fumbled in her handbag for a handkerchief with which she dabbed her eyes.

‘Damned fool,’ she said quietly. ‘The damned fool.’

Her reverie was disturbed by the ringing of her mobile again. She glanced down and saw the name Gallagher flash up on the screen. After letting it ring while she composed herself, she hit the receive button.

‘Butterfield,’ she said; her voice still sounded shaky.

‘You OK?’

‘Yeah, why shouldn’t I be?’ Butterfield hoped the reply sounded natural.

‘You just sounded different.’

‘Sorry about that. What you after?’

‘Harris reckons there’s not much more we can do out here so we’re coming back in. Alan’s still here anyway and he’s going to stay with the incident room for a while, maybe do some more door to doors. The governor will want to talk to Lenny Portland the moment he gets back. Thought you’d like to make sure that he looks presentable.’

‘Thanks,’ said Butterfield, ‘I will.’

‘Good girl,’ said Gallagher and the phone went dead.