little tosspot Barry Gough trying to disrupt things yesterday,’ said Mackey, with a curl of the lip. ‘Should have lamped the little toerag when I had the chance.’
‘I heard you and he had a bust-up a couple of weeks ago. You do seem to have a remarkable gift for making friends, Mr Mackey.’
‘Well, what do you expect me to do? Him and his little mates were in the market place with those stupid placards. I told them what I thought of them and Gough, he gives me some backchat.’ Mackey looked at the memorial. ‘Mind, I still reckon this is down to Esther Morritt. I take it you are going to arrest her?’
‘We will have to …’
‘Because if you won’t, I will.’ Mackey gestured up to the street. ‘I’ll drag the crazy bitch down here by her hair.’
‘Will you please let us handle it?’ said Gallagher sternly, patience finally exhausted. ‘We will go and have a chat with—’
‘Chat … chat! It needs more than a chat!’ Mackey pointed at the memorial stone. ‘Five and a half thousand quid that thing cost me! Five and a half thousand quid!’
‘That’s what they mean by a high price being paid,’ murmured Gallagher, his voice so low that Mackey was unable to make out the words.
‘What? What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’ Gallagher motioned for Butterfield to follow him across the green. Once the detectives were out of Mackey’searshot, the sergeant added, ‘They’re off their rockers. All of them.’
‘That’s rough-necks for you.’
‘Yes, thank you, Constable,’ said Gallagher, shooting her a pained look. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with before Rob Mackey bursts a blood vessel.’
Half-way up the street, the sergeant glanced through the front-room window of one of the cottages and tensed.
‘Hello,’ he said quietly.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Butterfield. She watched him walked over and peer through the grimy glass. ‘What you seen?’
‘I hate to think.’
Butterfield leaned forward to look over his shoulder, struggling to make anything out through the film of dirt. It took a few moments for her eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness of the room.
‘That does not look good,’ she said quietly when they did.
Gallagher tried the front door but found it locked so the detectives jogged up the street, past Esther Morritt’s home and through the band of trees that took them round the top of the village and back down along the rear of the properties. Halfway down, they climbed over the low wall at the end of one of the gardens. Walking quickly up the path, they noticed that the back door had been forced.
‘Definitely not good,’ said the sergeant as the detectives stood for a few uneasy moments before he led the way into the cottage, through the narrow kitchen and into the gloomy hallway.
‘Hello! Anyone in? It’s the police!’ shouted the sergeant but there was no answer. He gestured at Butterfield. ‘Check the bedrooms, will you? I’ll take a look in the living room. Oh, and be careful. I don’t like the feel of this.’
As Butterfield headed quietly up the stairs, Matty Gallagher stood in the hall for a few moments, his heartpounding and his hands clammy. The sergeant had seen many scenarios like this during his time in London and already had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Such scenes had something that he had never been able to describe. Not a smell. Not even a feeling. It was, he concluded as he stood there, something about the silence. A heavy, oppressive silence. For a moment he was back in a terraced house in London, his first murder inquiry as a young officer. That house had the same silence that he felt now.
‘Bugger,’ said Gallagher.
Having composed himself, he walked into the living room and surveyed the devastation: drawers wrenched out of the dresser and discarded on the carpet, seat cushions hurled onto the floor and an upturned table lying amid the shards of a shattered vase. The sergeant’s gaze strayed to the photograph
‘I heard you and he had a bust-up a couple of weeks ago. You do seem to have a remarkable gift for making friends, Mr Mackey.’
‘Well, what do you expect me to do? Him and his little mates were in the market place with those stupid placards. I told them what I thought of them and Gough, he gives me some backchat.’ Mackey looked at the memorial. ‘Mind, I still reckon this is down to Esther Morritt. I take it you are going to arrest her?’
‘We will have to …’
‘Because if you won’t, I will.’ Mackey gestured up to the street. ‘I’ll drag the crazy bitch down here by her hair.’
‘Will you please let us handle it?’ said Gallagher sternly, patience finally exhausted. ‘We will go and have a chat with—’
‘Chat … chat! It needs more than a chat!’ Mackey pointed at the memorial stone. ‘Five and a half thousand quid that thing cost me! Five and a half thousand quid!’
‘That’s what they mean by a high price being paid,’ murmured Gallagher, his voice so low that Mackey was unable to make out the words.
‘What? What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’ Gallagher motioned for Butterfield to follow him across the green. Once the detectives were out of Mackey’searshot, the sergeant added, ‘They’re off their rockers. All of them.’
‘That’s rough-necks for you.’
‘Yes, thank you, Constable,’ said Gallagher, shooting her a pained look. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with before Rob Mackey bursts a blood vessel.’
Half-way up the street, the sergeant glanced through the front-room window of one of the cottages and tensed.
‘Hello,’ he said quietly.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Butterfield. She watched him walked over and peer through the grimy glass. ‘What you seen?’
‘I hate to think.’
Butterfield leaned forward to look over his shoulder, struggling to make anything out through the film of dirt. It took a few moments for her eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness of the room.
‘That does not look good,’ she said quietly when they did.
Gallagher tried the front door but found it locked so the detectives jogged up the street, past Esther Morritt’s home and through the band of trees that took them round the top of the village and back down along the rear of the properties. Halfway down, they climbed over the low wall at the end of one of the gardens. Walking quickly up the path, they noticed that the back door had been forced.
‘Definitely not good,’ said the sergeant as the detectives stood for a few uneasy moments before he led the way into the cottage, through the narrow kitchen and into the gloomy hallway.
‘Hello! Anyone in? It’s the police!’ shouted the sergeant but there was no answer. He gestured at Butterfield. ‘Check the bedrooms, will you? I’ll take a look in the living room. Oh, and be careful. I don’t like the feel of this.’
As Butterfield headed quietly up the stairs, Matty Gallagher stood in the hall for a few moments, his heartpounding and his hands clammy. The sergeant had seen many scenarios like this during his time in London and already had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Such scenes had something that he had never been able to describe. Not a smell. Not even a feeling. It was, he concluded as he stood there, something about the silence. A heavy, oppressive silence. For a moment he was back in a terraced house in London, his first murder inquiry as a young officer. That house had the same silence that he felt now.
‘Bugger,’ said Gallagher.
Having composed himself, he walked into the living room and surveyed the devastation: drawers wrenched out of the dresser and discarded on the carpet, seat cushions hurled onto the floor and an upturned table lying amid the shards of a shattered vase. The sergeant’s gaze strayed to the photograph
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