To Honour the Dead (12 page)

T
he rain was falling again when Harris and Roberts parked the Land Rover outside the Manchester police station. As they got out, a tall, lean plain-clothes officer walked out from the bright lights of the reception area.

‘Jamie,’ said Harris as they shook hands. ‘Glad they saw sense and made you DI. I told them you were a good lad.’

‘I did hear that you put a word in for me. Much appreciated. Hope we may be able to return the favour tonight.’

It seemed to the watching Gillian Roberts that, for all the apparent generosity of the detective inspector’s welcome, there was a lack of warmth in his utterances. A forced formality. As ever when she found herself in such situations, she wondered about the things she did not know about Jack Harris. The DCI rarely talked about his life but there had been stories, rumours, fragments that suggested a past with its fair share of dark shadings. Roberts had seen enough of her boss’s methods to suspect that what worked in the rural backwater of Levton Bridge might not be so readily tolerated in the urban sprawl. She had always suspected that there had been those who had been pleased to see the DCI leave the city. Jamie Standish, she decided, had been one of them.

‘Jamie, this is DI Roberts,’ said Harris, gesturing to her and cutting through her reverie. ‘She’s part of my team at Levton Bridge.’

‘Glad to meet you,’ said Standish, shaking the DI’s hand as well, a little less guarded this time. ‘Welcome to sunny Manchester, Inspector, although we don’t really have time for these niceties, mind. Your two guys have turned up at the pub.’

Twenty minutes later, the inspector’s Land Rover was parked on one of the town’s housing estates and Harris and Roberts were sitting and surveying a rundown pub which stood at the end of a row of dilapidated shops. The shops were in darkness but there was a pale light shining through the ragged curtains of the pub. Parked next to the Land Rover was Jamie Standish’s car; they could see that the detective inspector was on the phone.

‘It’s at times like this,’ said Harris, glancing across at the nearby houses, most of which were boarded up, ‘that I remember why I left Manchester.’

‘It’s why I never left our force. I had the opportunity, you know. Could have joined West Yorkshire but I just couldn’t work areas like this. I know we have some dodgy places back home but nothing like this.’

‘It’s not all this bad. Some of the area is really pleasant.’

‘No hills, though.’

‘No,’ said Harris, ‘no hills.’

‘Must have been a big decision, leaving Manchester.’ Roberts looked at him. ‘I mean, from what I hear you were on the fast-track when you were down here.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Harris hesitated. ‘How can I put it, Gillian? Not everyone appreciated my way of working. They were a little more PC than I am.’

Roberts looked across at Standish in his car.

‘And him?’ she said. ‘Was he one of those who did not appreciate your way of working?’

Harris did not have chance to answer the question.

‘Here we go,’ he said, noticing three police vans pull up not far from the pub and disgorge a large number of officers in
riot gear. As the team quickly congregated, Harris and Roberts got out of the Land Rover and joined Standish as he walked towards the pub. Another vehicle pulled up behind the vans and a couple of officers got out carrying firearms.

‘We going to need them?’ asked Harris.

‘You can never be too careful. This isn’t some backwoods village, you know.’ Standish stopped walking and turned to face them. ‘Let our heavy mob go in first. Leave the arrests to them.’

‘Hang on, what…?’

‘I don’t know how you do things at Levton Bridge but here we have our own way of working.’ Standish gave him a hard look. ‘Understand?’

‘Of course,’ said Harris, having looked as if he might continue to remonstrate with him. ‘It’s your show, Jamie. We would not dream of interfering.’

‘Just make sure you don’t.’ There was an awkward silence between the two men then Standish added, in what seemed to Roberts, like a forced attempt at joviality, ‘After all, it wouldn’t look good if we let a couple of visiting cops get themselves shot on our patch, would it?’

‘Think of the paperwork,’ said Harris.

‘Quite.’

Seconds later, it started. One of the uniforms approached the pub door with a hydraulic ram and there was the sound of splintering wood and shouted warnings as the officers poured into the building. The detectives could hear more hollering from inside, the noise of chairs and tables being overturned and the smashing of glass. After less than a minute, a man ran out of the front door, barging his way past one of the uniformed officers, knocking him to the ground. Looking wildly about him, the man saw the detectives and started to run towards the nearby houses.

‘That’s Michaels,’ said Harris urgently.

‘You just leave him to …’ began Standish but a second man
appeared from the front door of the pub, brushed past the uniformed officer, who had only just struggled to his feet, and started to run in the opposite direction to his accomplice.

‘And that looks like Forrest,’ said Harris, looking at Standish then at the uniformed officer in the pub doorway, who had sunk to his knees again. ‘You can’t get them both, Jamie. And I’m not sure chummy is going to be much help.’

Standish hesitated then nodded.

‘OK,’ he said reluctantly. ‘You get Dave Forrest and—’

‘No, I’ll get Michaels,’ interrupted Harris and started to chase the fleeing man.

‘No tricks!’ shouted Standish after him and Harris waved a hand in acknowledgment.

‘Tricks?’ asked Roberts.

Standish did not reply but gave a low curse beneath his breath and ran after Forrest. Gillian Roberts watched Harris closing in on Michaels then turned to follow Standish. It did not take Harris long to catch up with Ronny Michaels in a back alley a hundred metres from the pub. Breathing hard, Michaels slowed as he heard the thundering footsteps getting closer behind him. He whirled round to see the inspector bearing down on him. Michaels’ eyes widened as he recognized his pursuer.

‘You!’ he gasped.

‘Long time no see, Ronny,’ said Harris, slowing down to walking pace. ‘Beaten up any innocent old men lately?’

‘I don’t know what …’

‘I think you murdered my friend, sunshine.’ Harris was battling to control his emotions. ‘I think you kicked his brains in.’

‘It weren’t me did that, Harris,’ said Michaels quickly. His eyes had widened even further and he looked scared. ‘Honest. I never killed him.’

‘God help you if you did.’

Noticing that the detective had clenched his fist, Michaels
gave a cry of alarm and lashed out. Harris ducked expertly beneath the blow and flicked out his hand. The punch caught Michaels on the side of the face and he staggered sideways, clattering into the fence, his knees buckling. He stayed there for a moment or two then, on seeing the inspector advance, swayed to his feet and turned to run. He did not even see the punch. The next thing Michaels knew, he was lying on his back with a pounding head and the inspector standing over him.

‘It weren’t me,’ said Michaels desperately. He held up an arm to fend off the next blow. ‘It were Dave did it.’

‘Will you say that on the record?’ asked Harris as Michaels scrabbled a few feet further away.

‘Yeah, anything. Just don’t hurt me.’

‘That what Harold said? He ask you to stop hurting him as well? That what happened, Ronny?’

‘No!’

Harris walked up to Michaels, stared at him for a few moments then pulled back his foot.

‘Please, no!’ wailed Michaels.

By the time Dave Forrest had reached the end of the row of shops, the younger and fitter Jamie Standish had already caught up with him. Hearing him closing in, Forrest turned and struck out. Standish did not read the punch in time and was sent reeling by the blow to his face, sinking to his knees as he leant against one of the shop windows, his world spinning and his stomach heaving. Forrest was about to turn and run when he saw the approaching Roberts.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.

‘I,’ she said calmly, ‘am DI Roberts from Levton Bridge. You know Levton Bridge, I think, Dave? Why, I believe you might even have been there yesterday.’

Forrest eyed her uncertainly, worried by her calm demeanour.

‘On your way to kill Harold Leach,’ she added, ‘if that jogs your memory. Easy to forget these little things in the confusion of everyday life, isn’t it?’

Forrest glanced over his shoulder.

‘If,’ said Roberts, ‘you are assessing the odds of outrunning a woman who is old enough to be your mother, let me help you make your mind up.’

Before Forrest could react, the detective inspector had moved behind him, grasped his arms and snapped a pair of handcuffs round his wrists. She walked the bewildered man to where Jamie Standish was now standing up, holding his head.

‘Good work,’ he said ruefully. ‘Jack Harris has taught you well.’

Together, they walked Forrest back to the pub where other officers were loading more men into the additional police vans that had now arrived.

‘A good haul,’ said Standish, eyeing them approvingly. ‘We’ve been after a couple of them for a while now. With Michaels, that makes for a good night’s work. Assuming your gaffer got him, of course.’

‘He’ll have got him,’ said Roberts.

They heard a scream from the direction of the back alley.

‘Just depends what shape he’s in when he does,’ replied Standish bleakly. ‘Those two have history. There’s a lot of people have history with your governor.’

‘So it would seem,’ she murmured.

The two detectives watched as Harris ushered Ronny Michaels out of the alleyway. Michaels was walking unsteadily, clutching his side. His face, which was twisted in pain, was grazed and already showing signs of a bruise.

‘Tricks,’ said Standish to Roberts.

She nodded glumly. ‘Tricks.’

Standish turned to face Harris and his quarry. ‘Nothing changes, eh, Jack? I mean, absolutely nothing changes, does it?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ replied the inspector, letting one of the uniforms take Michaels. Harris noticed Forrest being loaded into a van. ‘Right, Jamie lad, that’s the both of them so let’s talk protocol.’

‘Protocol, Jack?’ Standish could contain himself no longer. ‘Protocol? Protocol around here means that we do not beat up—’

‘Oh, give over, Jamie. He had it coming, you know that. Besides, he went for me. I was just acting in self-defence.’ Ignoring the DI’s darkening expression, he added, ‘Now then, it seems to me that my murder trumps your robbery so I would like to take them back to Levton Bridge tonight. Can you arrange that? Not sure it’s a good idea to take them back ourselves.’

‘Maybe murder does trump robbery but they are not leaving Manchester tonight. If you want to interview them, you will have to do it here.’

Harris again looked for a moment as if he was about to argue with the detective inspector but thought better of it, held up his hands and started walking towards the Land Rover.

‘Have it your way,’ he said.

When the inspector was out of earshot, Jamie Standish looked at Roberts.

‘He does know that he’s in my patch, doesn’t he?’ he asked with a hint of disbelief in his voice. ‘I mean, he does know, doesn’t he?’

‘Maybe he does, Jamie,’ said Roberts, following the inspector. ‘Maybe he doesn’t. You never can tell with Jack Harris.’

Once the two detectives were back in the Land Rover, Roberts glanced at the inspector.

‘You do push it too far sometimes,’ she said quietly.

‘Yeah, I know.’ He did not sound contrite.

‘I thought Standish was acting a bit funny when he came out to meet us. Now I know why.’

‘Jamie isn’t pissed off because I slap the odd suspect around,’ said Harris. ‘No, Jamie Standish is pissed off because I slept with his wife.’

Back in Levton Bridge, the police van was cruising through the market place for the fifth time that night when something caught the driver’s attention. He drove slowly over the cobbles to the war memorial, bringing the vehicle to a halt and winding down the window to allow himself a better look.

‘Damn,’ he murmured.

‘What you seen?’ asked his colleague, leaning over. ‘Ah. That isn’t good.’

‘Too right it isn’t good,’ said the driver as the two officers got out and walked up to the memorial. ‘There’ll be hell to pay for this. Harris will go off on one, that’s for sure.’

For a few moments, the officers looked gloomily at the letters ‘DIS’ scrawled in red paint across the names of the area’s war dead. The paint was still glistening.

‘This has only just been done,’ said the driver, turning round quickly. ‘Whoever did it can’t have gone far.’

But the market place was deserted.

‘J
amie, there’s something else we want to do after we’ve interviewed Forrest and Michaels,’ said Harris as the Levton Bridge detectives sat in the DI’s office, cradling mugs of tea. ‘Maybe in the morning before we head back.’

‘What is it?’ Standish seemed guarded.

‘We want to visit a place in Sale Street. Sells military memorabilia.’

‘Not sure why you would be interested in that. It’s been there for years, Jack. It’s completely kosher. Surely it’s not linked to your murder inquiry?’

‘It cropped up during some inquiries my sergeant was doing.’

‘Well, he’s wasting your time. I bought a couple of things there last year. Couple of cap badges for a project my eldest was doing at school. They’re good lads run that, Jack. There’s no way they would be mixed up with anyone like Forrest and Michaels.’

‘Maybe so,’ said Harris, standing up and draining his mug, ‘but we would still like to take a look. If nothing else, it will tie up a loose end.’

Standish was about to reply when a man in a dark suit walked into the room, a broad grin on his face.

‘They told me Jack Harris was in town,’ he said delightedly.

Harris stood up. ‘Dennis,’ he said as the two men shook
hands. ‘Good to see you. Gillian, this is Dennis Maddison, a DCI down here—’

‘Detective super now, old son,’ said Maddison, pulling up a chair and sitting down. He glanced at Roberts. ‘By, we had some times together, me and your governor. Must be five years since I last saw you, Hawk. How you been doing? Not sick of all those sheep yet?’

‘Sorry, Dennis.’

‘Pity. There’s always a place for you here if you change your mind, you know that. Nice result out at the pub. I hope Jamie is affording you all the help you need.’

‘Yes, he is, thanks.’

‘When you going back to Levton Gate or whatever it’s called?’

‘In the morning. Jamie’s fixed somewhere for us to sleep.’

Maddison’s lips twitched but he said nothing. Standish noticed the gesture and frowned.

‘Just telling Jamie that we want to drop in on a war memorabilia place out on Sale Street before we go,’ said Harris.

‘And I was just …’ began Standish.

‘Why so interested in it?’ asked Maddison.

‘Part of our murder inquiry.’

‘You need a warrant?’

‘There’s no way …’ began Standish.

‘Please,’ said Harris.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Maddison, standing up. ‘Listen, when you’ve interviewed your bad lads, come along to my office, yeah? I’ve got a nice single malt you’ll appreciate. Been waiting for a special occasion – this seems as good as any.’

After the superintendent had walked out into the corridor, Harris also stood up.

‘Sale Street tomorrow then,’ said the inspector.

‘OK,’ sighed Standish. ‘Have it your way.’

‘I usually do,’ said Harris, his voice echoing back from the corridor. ‘You know that, Jamie.’

Standish glared after him but said nothing. Roberts tried not to smile as she followed the inspector out of the office. As she did so, she glanced back at Standish, who sat at his desk, staring after them. He looked so forlorn, she thought.

Downstairs, the Levton Bridge detectives were about to enter the interview room when the inspector’s mobile rang. Gallagher, said the screen.

‘Matty lad,’ said the inspector, taking the call. ‘What you got?’

‘It’s happened again.’

‘What has?’

‘Just got a call from control. Someone has vandalized the Levton Bridge war memorial.’

Harris leaned against the wall of the corridor and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he felt very weary; it had been a long day.

‘Where the hell was our patrol?’ he said after a few moments. ‘I told them to watch the bloody thing.’

‘Looks like whoever did it must have waited for them to pass.’

‘What have they done to it?’

‘Same as the other one,’ said Gallagher. ‘If there was any lingering doubt about it being kids, that has surely gone. It’s definitely someone with a message for the world.’

‘I take it uniform haven’t got anyone for it?’

‘’Fraid not. They toured the streets but turned up nothing. I got them to check the war memorial at Chapel Hill and there’s been nothing further there. Oh, and the one down on the green at Kirkhill, that’s OK as well.’

‘That’s something, I suppose. Where are you?’

‘Back in Roxham. Just got home.’

‘OK, get uniform to double check something for me, will you…?’

A short while later, Harris joined Gillian Roberts in the
interview room where an anxious Ronny Michaels was sitting at the table. Next to him was the duty solicitor, a sallow, grey-haired man who Harris vaguely recognized from his time in Manchester. Just could not place him. It was often like that when he went back to his old patch. There were only two or three regular attending solicitors in Levton Bridge but in Greater Manchester there were dozens of lawyers and Jack Harris frowned as he surveyed this one; the inspector did not like surprises and the man did not look at all pleased to see him.

‘DCI Harris,’ said the solicitor in a voice that confirmed the inspector’s suspicion. ‘We meet again. I had rather hoped that we would not.’

‘I didn’t know we even had,’ murmured Harris. ‘Forgive me for being rude but who are you?’

‘Lewis,’ said the solicitor irritably. ‘Arthur Lewis of Lewis, Foreman and Battersley. I represent Mr Michaels in this matter and my client alleges that you assaulted him when he was being arrested.’

‘Really?’ Harris tried to look surprised. ‘I find that difficult to believe.’

‘Oh, come on, Inspector, everyone knows your reputation. Surely you recall the last time we met.’

Harris looked at him again and the memory unearthed itself from the back of his mind. He decided to play stupid.

‘I am afraid not, Mr Lewis,’ he said. ‘You will have to enlighten me. Did I arrest you for something? Not embezzling funds, were we?’

‘Gerry Hacking,’ said the lawyer angrily. ‘Another person whom you assaulted during an arrest.’

‘There’s a pattern emerging here,’ said Harris, giving the merest of winks to Roberts, who sat there, not quite sure what to make of the confrontation.

‘I am happy that we agree on the point,’ said Lewis.

‘Not sure what point we agree on, Mr Lewis. I was
thinking that you should not be so quick to represent clients with overactive imaginations.’

‘Perhaps they are more tolerant of your methods in the backwater where you work these days but down here we do not stand for—’

‘If your client wants to submit a formal complaint, I suggest he does it when we are finished here,’ said Harris, tiring of the game. ‘For the moment, your talents might be more gainfully employed on more pressing matters. Your client is in trouble up to his neck.’

Michaels, who had been enjoying the encounter between detective and solicitor, looked anxious again.

‘In which case,’ said Lewis, ‘perhaps you would like to explain exactly what he is doing here. As far as he is aware, he was having a quiet drink with friends when a large number of police officers burst into the hostelry in question. Next thing he knows, you are launching an unwarranted and unnecessary assault on his person.’

‘Did your client tell you that, as he was being arrested, he admitted being complicit in the murder of an elderly man in my area?’

The lawyer glanced at Michaels. ‘Is this true?’ asked Lewis.

‘I might have said something but I never said I killed him. It were Dave done that.’

‘But you did nothing to stop the assault?’ said Harris with an edge to his voice. ‘Did you?’

Michaels shook his head. ‘Dave would have killed me as well,’ he said.

‘So, Mr Lewis,’ said Harris sweetly, ‘how would you like to proceed?’

The lawyer looked at the inspector with a glum expression on his face but did not reply. Everyone in the room knew that he had been outmanoeuvred. Gillian Roberts allowed herself a slight smile; whatever you might think of the inspector’s
methods, she thought, there was no denying that he achieved results. Roberts had always struggled with the questions raised by Jack Harris’s occasional lapses. She knew it was wrong, of course she did, but there were times, if she was honest with herself, when such methods were justified. And the graze on Ronny Michaels’ cheek paled into obscene insignificance when compared to the terrible injuries sustained by Harold Leach. Maybe the ends did justify the means. She would never voice such thoughts aloud, and definitely not in the presence of Curtis, but sometimes … just sometimes … As so often in such situations she found herself coming down on the side of Jack Harris and, without realizing she had done it, the DI gave a little nod.

‘So, Ronny,’ said Harris, ‘from what you’ve said so far, am I to understand that you were in Harold Leach’s cottage last night?’

‘Will I be kept out of this if I tell you everything?’ asked Michaels hopefully.

‘I am not sure the inspector can make those kind of decisions,’ said the lawyer. ‘My advice would be to keep quiet and see if—’

‘It might mean we could put in a good word for you,’ interrupted Harris, ignoring the solicitor’s glare. ‘If you didn’t actually kill Harold, the CPS might consider a conspiracy charge rather than murder itself. But I can’t make any promises. The CPS might just as easily regard you both as equally responsible.’

Michaels glanced at his lawyer. ‘Is he right?’ he asked. ‘Might it do me some good if I tell him what I know?’

‘I suppose it might,’ said Lewis grudgingly. ‘But, like he says, there is no guarantee of it.’

‘What will happen if I don’t tell him?’

‘I imagine that Mr Harris would have no alternative than to see you charged with murder.’ The lawyer sounded reluctant as he made the comment.

‘I’ll tell you what happened then but I never hurt him, Mr Harris, you have to believe me. It were all down to Dave Forrest.’

‘So what happened? You got there in the early hours of the morning, I think?’

‘Yeah. Dave forced the back door then we searched the living room. Dave suggested we wake the old man because we couldn’t find the medal. I didn’t want to do it but Dave said it was the only way.’

‘I assume Harold refused to tell you where it was?’

‘He was a tough old bird. Kept saying we had no right to take it. He tried to punch Dave. That was when it kicked off. Dave, he was furious. Just kept hitting him. Kept demanding to know where the medal was but the old feller, he wouldn’t tell him.’ Michaels closed his eyes for a few moments and when he opened them again the detectives could see that they were glistening with tears. ‘It were awful, Mr Harris. Dave just kept hitting him. If only he’d told us where the thing was, Dave would have stopped. I kept telling Dave to stop hurting him. You know I don’t like violence. Mr Harris.’

‘There’s a lorry driver with early onset Alzheimer’s would like to disagree with you.’

‘I never attacked him either. I told you that at the time.’

‘You’ll be nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize next,’ said Harris sardonically. ‘Besides, the jury disagreed. Now here we are in a similar situation. You’re either lying through your teeth or you’re a remarkably unlucky man. What do you reckon, Inspector?’ Harris glanced at Roberts.

‘Certainly stretches the imagination,’ she said. ‘Was Harold dead when you left the cottage?’

‘Dave said he were just knocked out.’

‘And you believed him?’ asked Roberts.

‘Don’t answer that question,’ said the solicitor quickly.

Michaels looked down at the desk again and said nothing.

‘Not sure he has to,’ said Harris. ‘Tell me, Ronny. The
downstairs was a wreck. That was down to you as well, I assume?’

‘We couldn’t find the medal in his bedroom so we searched the living room again. Dave went berserk, ripping drawers out. I was frightened that someone would hear and kept telling him that we had to get out of there.’

‘But you found it in the end?’

‘He’d hidden it in the lining of one of the chairs. We couldn’t get out of there fast enough.’

‘Was there just the two of you?’ asked Harris.

‘Yeah.’

‘Does the name Lenny Portland mean anything to you?’

‘Never heard of him. Should I of?’

‘What about Barry Gough?’

Michaels shook his head. ‘No idea who he is either,’ he said.

‘Or a bloke called Rob Mackey?’

‘What is this? You better not be trying to pin anything else on me. I don’t know none of them.’

‘We think someone from our area tipped you off about Harold’s VC. Officers down here have told us that they reckon you have an associate from our area. He was seen getting the train to Roxham.’

‘Yeah, that’s where he lives but it weren’t any of them blokes you mentioned. It was some bloke that Dave knows from when they were in prison together.’

‘He got a name?’

‘Danny. Danny Marks, I think it was. I only met him a couple of times. Once when he asked us to do the job, the other one when he took the medal off us.’

‘I know Danny Marks from when I worked in Roxham,’ said Roberts, glancing at Harris. ‘He’s a fence. Sell his own grandmother if he could get the right price. So, stealing the VC was his idea, Ronny?’

‘Yeah. Said he had met this American in Roxham in a pub. 
They get talking and this American, he’s over on business or something, says he can get a good price for medals back home. Got right excited when Danny said he might be able to get a VC for him.’

‘This American got a name?’ asked Harris.

‘Nah. And whoever he was, he’s gone home now. Flew out tonight. That’s why we had to do the job last night.’

‘And you’re sure that none of the names I mentioned were involved? If you’re lying to protect—’

‘Why would I protect them?’ protested Michaels. ‘I’ve just dropped Dave Forrest and Danny Marks in the shit, and that Yank fellow as well. Why would I lie about the others?’

‘He’s got a point,’ said Roberts.

Harris nodded bleakly. ‘I suppose,’ he said, standing up.

‘Can I go now?’ asked Michaels. ‘You said you’d put a word in for me….’

‘Oh, come on, Ronny,’ said Harris as he headed for the door, followed by Roberts. ‘Like I said, you’re in this up to your neck. Do you really think that the CPS will go easy on you?’