To Honour the Dead by John Dean Page B

is only a service bus,’ said Gallagher, steering sharply as they approached a bend. ‘It’s hardly Bullitt.’
    ‘You do have a look of Steve McQueen in the right light,’ said Butterfield as the vehicle careered round a tight bend. ‘I’ve always thought it. Mind you, he wasn’t going bald.’
    ‘Yes, thank you, Constable.’ Gallagher glanced in his rear-view mirror to see it filled with a patrol car, siren blaring, headlights flashing. ‘It would seem that not everyone appreciates my driving, though.’
    As the patrol car overtook them, narrowly avoiding scraping along the dry-stone wall, the sergeant noted the grinning figure of Roger Barnett.
    ‘Flash git,’ said Butterfield.
    ‘Dangerous flash git,’ said Gallagher.
     
    Rob Mackey sat on a sofa in the living room at Laurel House with his eyes closed and his head throbbing. He had been there ever since arriving home following his angry confrontation with Harris outside the cottage in Chapel Hill. Mackey had known that it was a risk to demand that Harris arrest Esther Morritt, had known that it would only serve to infuriate the inspector, but it was all he could think of to buy him the time he needed to get his thoughts straight. He knew the time had come to act. The letter had changed everything and Mackey was sure that the police would be called in sometime. Maybe they already had been; maybe they were just waiting for their moment. Maybe the deathHarold Leach had distracted them. But he knew it would not be for long. If not today, tomorrow….
    The silence of the room was disturbed by the sound of a police siren in the distance and Mackey snapped open his eyes and cursed. He knew that he should have fled the valley when the envelope arrived. He had wrestled with the idea at the time but family loyalty had kept him there, a strong feeling that he needed to see the unveiling of the memorial through, that he owed it to his father’s memory to complete the task. His father. Mackey sighed; what would his father think of what he had done? To honour the dead? The son had hardly honoured the father. Or his mother’s memory, for that matter. Dead from cancer within three years of her husband’s death. The thought came with a stab of guilt and Mackey listened as the sirens grew louder.
    He relaxed slightly as the emergency vehicle passed the house and the siren faded away into the direction of Levton Bridge. The moment did not last long, however, and he stood up. Mackey knew that Harris would come for him sooner or later. That’s what Roger Barnett was trying to tell him at the ceremony. Mackey walked over to the bureau, where he opened a drawer from which he extracted a pen and writing paper. He sat down.
    ‘Dear Liz and Bethany,’ he wrote. ‘I should have written this letter a long time ago. I am afraid that I have done something rather stupid….’
     
    ‘What on earth has Rob Mackey got to do with the murder of Harold Leach?’ asked Harris, looking dubiously at Esther but not sitting down. ‘You’re paranoid, woman, you really are.’
    ‘Do you know why Harold was killed, Inspector?’
    ‘I do not really think that it is any of your business.’
    ‘Was it for his VC?’
    ‘What makes you say that?’
    ‘Well, was it?’ She looked at him intently. ‘For the medal?’
    ‘Yes.’ Harris nodded, finally sitting down, something in her tone piquing his interest. ‘Yes, we think it probably was.’
    ‘Then whoever took it will have to sell it somewhere, I imagine.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘I believe the criminal fraternity refers to the practice as fencing, do they not?’
    ‘They do but I am still …’
    ‘So you will presumably be asking yourself who around here deals in war memorabilia?’
    ‘That would certainly be one line of inquiry but no one that I am aware of—’
    ‘Rob Mackey does.’
    ‘Oh, come on, Esther!’ exclaimed Harris, standing up again. ‘I have more important things to do than listen to you trying to rope Rob