To Honour the Dead by John Dean Page A

‘it’s just that Lenny Portland is small fry.’
    ‘But maybe his friends aren’t. Had you ever thought of that?’
    ‘On my way,’ said Gallagher, urgent now and turning to jog to his vehicle. After a few paces, he glanced back. ‘Oh, Esther Morritt wants to talk to you.’
    ‘What about?’
    ‘Says she will only talk to you. Says you know what you’re doing.’
    ‘Well, she’ll have to wait,’ said Harris. ‘Just stop that bus then we can think about Esther Morritt.’
    ‘Says she knows who killed Harold Leach.’
    ‘And I wonder,’ said the inspector, ‘who she reckons did that then?’

CHAPTER NINE
    ‘I imagine you think that I am some kind of madwoman,’ said Esther Morritt, as she sat on the sofa in the gloomy front room of her cottage. She did not look at Harris but stared instead at the threadbare carpet.
    ‘I wouldn’t have said …’
    ‘Oh, come on,’ said Esther, finally looking at the inspector as he sat on a scruffy armchair, grubby cup and saucer balanced on his lap. ‘Everyone else thinks I’m mad. You ask your sergeant what he thinks about me. Why should you be any different?’
    ‘You have not exactly been acting rationally, have you?’ Harris took a sip of tea. ‘And there’s plenty of folks out there think you vandalized the memorial last night.’
    ‘Well, I didn’t.’ She seemed horrified at the thought. ‘There’s no way I would dishonour the memory of those men. That could have been Philip’s name up there.’
    ‘But that’s the point, isn’t it, Esther?’ He glanced at the photograph hanging on the wall. A young man in uniform. Sallow complexion, the remnants of acne, greasy hair. ‘It isn’t his name up there, is it? Like it or not, your son brought about his own death by drinking himself silly.’
    ‘Have you ever lost a child, Inspector?’ She looked at him intently.
    Harris shook his head. ‘Doesn’t change the facts, though, does it?’ he said.
    ‘You sound like Rob Mackey. That’s the kind of thing he’d say.’
    ‘Nevertheless, that’s what this has all been about, hasn’t it?’ Now it was the inspector’s turn to look intently at her. ‘You can’t face the fact that his father died a hero and gets his name on a memorial and that your son did not. I kind of side with Rob Mackey on this one, much as it galls me to say it.’
    ‘How can you say that?’ said Esther, eyes flashing with anger. ‘That man murdered my son! Why will no one listen to what I have to say?’
    ‘Because it just does not make sense,’ said Harris wearily. ‘Oh, give over, Esther, don’t give me the look. My sergeant examined every bit of evidence. It was a very thorough invest—’
    ‘He saw what he wanted to see. You have to believe me when I say he missed it.’
    ‘But missed what?’ said an exasperated inspector. ‘The medical evidence showed that Philip had drunk enough to knock out a bull elephant and that his injuries were consistent with a fall.’
    ‘I am not disputing that but I think that when my son was walking past Laurel House, what really happened is that Rob Mackey came out and attacked him then left him to die and came back later and pretended to …’
    ‘Yes, but the medical evidence simply does not support that, Esther. And Mackey’s wife swore blind that he did not leave their bed. She should know.’
    ‘A wife does not know everything.’
    ‘OK, I’ve heard enough.’ Harris drained his cup and stood up. ‘I have no intention of going over old ground, Esther. Next thing you’ll be telling me that Rob Mackey murdered Harold.’
    ‘That is exactly what I am telling you. And what’s more, I can prove it.’
     
    Matty Gallagher guided his car at speed along the narrow country road, struggling to keep the vehicle off the grass verge as it rocked and rolled. Sitting in the passenger seat, Alison Butterfield leaned forward eagerly, her eyes gleaming with the excitement of the chase.
    ‘You’re gaining on it!’ she said.
    ‘It