Free To Honour the Dead by John Dean Page A

Harris.’
    Having unlocked the vehicle, the inspector had heard the phone ring and had turned to see Portland. Seeing the inspector walking towards him, Portland slipped the phone into his pocket and headed in the opposite direction.
    ‘Lenny!’ shouted the inspector.
    Portland turned to face the detective and tried to sound calm.
    ‘Morning, Mr Harris,’ he said. ‘How can I help you?’
    ‘You can tell me what a tea-leaf like you is doing here for starters?’
    ‘It’s a free country.’
    ‘Been listening to Barry Gough, have you?’
    ‘Don’t know the man.’
    ‘So what are you doing in Chapel Hill, Lenny?’
    ‘Visiting me aunt.’
    ‘You and she must have a lot to talk about. That’s two days running you’ve been here. I saw you at the unveiling yesterday as well. She teaching you embroidery, perhaps?’
    Portland looked bemused.
    ‘Never mind,’ said Harris. ‘You would not happen to know anything about what happened to Harold Leach, would you? Not got a sudden penchant for shiny things, have we?’
    Portland’s eyes widened. ‘That ain’t nothing to do with me. Honest, Mr Harris. You know it ain’t my style.’
    ‘Yeah, maybe you’re right,’ agreed Harris, ‘but so help me, if I hear that you were tied up in this—’
    ‘You won’t, Mr Harris. Honest. I have too much respect—’
    ‘Get out of my sight, Lenny.’ Portland gave him a relievedlook but it faded with the inspector’s next words. ‘And I wouldn’t look that cheerful. Constable Butterfield still wants to speak to you. About a handbag theft, oddly enough. In fact, there she is now.’
    As Harris turned to watch the young constable approaching across the green, Portland seized his opportunity and scuttled over to the bus stop.
    ‘What did Lenny want?’ asked Butterfield, watching him go.
    ‘Wanted to talk to me about civil liberties. I told him that he was in the frame for that handbag snatch. Have you got anywhere on that?’
    ‘No. I thought that with what happened to …’
    ‘Well, I want you to nick him for it.’ Harris noticed Portland waiting at the bus stop. ‘And I want you to do it now.’
    ‘Now? Surely you don’t think that he has anything to…?’
    ‘Do you know,’ said Harris irritably, ‘every bastard seems keen to tell me who didn’t murder poor old Harold Leach. Perhaps someone would like to tell me who did instead. Make a nice change, wouldn’t it? Just lift Lenny Portland, will you?’
    ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir,’ said Butterfield quickly.
    She noticed with alarm that the bus had pulled up at the stop. The constable started to run towards the vehicle but Portland had already clambered aboard. The bus pulled away with him sitting at the back seat. He was on the phone.
    ‘I just hope,’ said Harris, glancing at the constable as the vehicle rumbled out of the village, ‘that he’s not talking to anyone important.’
    ‘So do I,’ said Butterfield. ‘So do I.’
    Rarely had she meant anything more.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    O nce in the Land Rover, Jack Harris reached onto the back seat to greet the dogs and was about to make the call when his mobile rang. He glanced down at the screen: Stuffed Shirt, it said. Harris sighed; better take it this time, he reckoned. He’d already missed three calls.
    ‘Jack, that you?’ asked Curtis.
    ‘Yeah, it’s me.’
    ‘I have tried your mobile several times without answer,’ said the district commander. ‘Where have you been?’
    ‘Bad reception.’
    ‘That one again.’ Both men knew that the inspector had been ignoring the calls. Always did. It had been a major bone of contention between them for years. ‘I take it you are in the village now?’
    ‘Yeah, been here for some time.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘And what?’
    ‘And what have you found out?’ said Curtis, the irritation clear in his voice. ‘Any leads?’
    ‘Not yet.’
    ‘Well, we need something quickly.’
    ‘Good idea, sir.’
    ‘Don’t be facetious, Jack. I’ll need something for