Fighting for the Dead

by Nick Oldham

  He palmed a couple more paracetamols into his mouth, swallowed them using saliva and hoped they would complement the painkillers he’d already taken that night. Last thing he needed was to overdose.

  Then he started to walk the hundred or so metres to the point where the yacht basin and the Lancaster Canal joined.

  There was a line of emergency vehicles nose-to-tail, crammed onto the canal towpath, together with emergency lighting. Two fire tenders headed the queue, so wide they virtually blocked the path. Two marked police cars were behind, then a plain car and then an ambulance on the grassy area at the end of the car park. Lots of blue lights flashed, lots of people scurried around, and it was apparent that the explosion had brought out most of the local population, eager to see some fun. A police crime-scene tape had been stretched across the path to keep the onlookers back.

  A little further on, just out of Henry’s eye-line, thick, heavy smoke plumed upwards into the atmosphere, visible even against the dark night. He assumed this was from the remnants of the barge.

  He walked towards the ambulance which had its back doors open, activity going on inside. As he got closer he could see two people, a female paramedic, clad in the usual hospital green overalls, and a casualty: Steve Flynn.

  Flynn was leaning back on the bench seat inside the ambulance holding an oxygen mask over his face whilst the paramedic squatted in front of him, gently dabbing the side of his face that Henry could not see with an antiseptic cloth of some sort. Henry recognized the paramedic as one of the two who had been at the drowning scene earlier and he wondered quickly what sort of hours they worked.

  ‘That’s nice – cool,’ Flynn’s muffled voice said through the mask, commenting on the work being done by the paramedic. He didn’t seem to have noticed Henry yet.

  ‘You really should let us take you to hospital . . . you need looking after,’ the lady paramedic said. The last four words were spoken with more than an undercurrent of suggestiveness and, maybe, Henry thought sourly, a little unprofessional.

  ‘You’re doing a great job as it is,’ Flynn said. ‘Lovely touch.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she gasped and dropped her face so she had to angle it at Flynn with a look of lust tempered with shyness.

  Henry, trying not to vomit, cleared his throat.

  The paramedic’s head turned quickly, guiltily.

  Flynn turned less quickly and Henry realized he’d known he was there all along and was just winding Henry up by flirting with the lady medic. Henry saw the injuries to Flynn’s face and saw they looked similar to his own, though clearly not as serious.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  The blast had ripped the canal boat apart. The roof had been blown off, scattering debris across a wide area, and what remained of the boat, basically just the hull, had keeled over and sunk into the canal, which was about six feet deep at this point. It reminded Henry of the German merchant vessels that had been blown up in Bordeaux harbour in a commando raid in World War Two. The boat had slumped over, torn apart by a ferocious blast, and was obviously beyond any sort of repair.

  Henry had listened to the early conclusions of the chief fire officer at the scene, which supported Flynn’s version of events, at least as to the cause of the explosion, if not what happened beforehand.

  A combination of accelerant, gas from the bottle underneath the sink and deliberate ignition equalled big BOOM.

  And if Flynn’s story was true, he was lucky to have escaped with his life. If he hadn’t regained consciousness in time, he’d have been vaporized.

  As Henry surveyed the mess, Barlow came towards him.

  ‘Boss, I take it you’ve spoken to Mr Flynn?’

  ‘At the ambulance. You think he’s telling the truth?’

  ‘Not sure. He wouldn’t tell me much, wanted to speak to you. What did he say?’

  Henry pulled a face. ‘Not much, either,’ he replied, uncertain as to why he wanted to keep Flynn’s story under wraps for the time being. Detective habit, possibly. The old-fashioned state of mind, knowledge and power, coupled with the mental jigsaw of bits of evidence and information slowly coming together, gradually forming a picture.

  ‘Surely he must’ve said something?’ Barlow insisted.

  ‘Well, yeah, something . . . just remembers waking up and finding the boat on fire, so he squeezed out of a window. It was a bit jumbled, though. He must’ve cracked his head.’

  ‘You think it’s something to do with Jennifer Sunderland? It sounds like it was started deliberately.’

  Henry shook his head. ‘Nah – doubt it. Why should it be?’

  Barlow gave a little shrug and said, ‘Dunno, just a thought. What then?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Henry said.

  The paramedics could not persuade Flynn to let them take him to hospital, so when another emergency call came up, they had to leave quickly.

  Henry witnessed the parting of Flynn and the lady paramedic, heart-rending to nauseating. She was clearly smitten by Flynn, even though he estimated Flynn was at least double her age.

  The refusal to go to hospital meant Flynn was left abandoned next to the canal, shivering, with an ambulance blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and no home to go to.

  Henry felt no sympathy for him, even if his predicament was not of his own doing.

  ‘What’s your plan?’

  Flynn shook his head. ‘I’ll crash down in the shop.’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of the chandlery.

  ‘When are you going to tell them about the boat?’ Henry asked, referring to the friends he had come to help.

  ‘On top of their already massive problems . . .’ Flynn’s voice faded out and he sighed, deflated. ‘Maybe in the morning . . . Diane’s spending the night at the hospital.’

  Henry regarded him. Already he had briefly considered offering him a room for the night at the Tawny Owl, knowing that there were two unoccupied ones, but he’d dismissed that idea, wanting to keep his distance from Flynn, and also keep him away from Alison. But he could already hear Alison’s voice ringing in his ears if she ever learned that he had left Flynn out in the cold.

  With a reluctant change of mind, Henry said, almost under his breath so Flynn might not hear, ‘You’re welcome to stay at the Owl tonight.’ His voice sounded like someone else was saying the words. Henry, doing something nice for Flynn. It was like he’d been taken over by some benign spirit.

  Trouble was, as much as it irked him, he knew it was the right thing to do. Even so, it made him shiver with repulsion.

  Flynn gave him an incredulous look. ‘Seriously?’

  Henry nodded. ‘You want to follow me back in Diane’s car?’

  ‘Breakfast, too? Full English?’

  ‘Don’t push it,’ Henry growled.

  ‘I just need to nip into the shop, though – and liberate some more clothes.’

  An hour after arriving at the Tawny Owl with Flynn in tow, and Alison meeting, greeting and fussing over them both (did she fuss more over Flynn, though, Henry wondered), Henry was still up trying to chill out with the help of that third JD, but found it hard as his brain churned over the events of what was now yesterday.

  His face pounded with pain, which also served to keep him awake.

  Alison – once Flynn had been shown to his room (did she take too much time up there with him, Henry’s suspicious mind asked) – came back down, but was unable to tempt Henry to bed because of the spinning thoughts. Eventually she admitted defeat and left him sitting in front of the fire, glass in one hand, bottle in the other.

  The owner’s living room was also the dining room and after a few minutes’ thought, Henry picked up his briefcase and shifted himself across to the dining table.

  He clicked the locks open and took out the folder inside, which he opened and tipped out the contents.

  This was a copy of the file regarding the unsolved murder of the unidentified young woman he’d been at the mortuary to look at. The murder investigation that had got nowhere
almost six months down the line.

  He placed glass and bottle on the table, started to read.

  Flynn was impressed by the standard of the refurbishment and thanked Alison profusely. He asked her to pass on his thanks to Mr Grumpy, too.

  ‘Not a problem,’ she smiled.

  ‘Do you think our lives will be forever entwined, Alison?’

  ‘They will, but only you and I will ever truly know what happened that night.’

  ‘You’re right.’ She’d saved him from a killer and he’d saved her from the complexities of an ugly justice system that didn’t always work for real justice. But he also knew that Henry Christie had slotted the pieces together.

  Meaning the three of them shared a very big secret.

  ‘I love Henry, by the way,’ she said, having seen a certain look come into Flynn’s eyes as they wished each other good night. ‘Madly.’

  ‘I can see that. He’s wild about you, too.’

  ‘We’re good for each other and nothing will get in our way,’ she said determinedly.

  ‘Point taken,’ Flynn conceded, even though he was dying to ask what Henry’s wife thought about the situation.

  They had a quick hug and Alison left him to it.

  First thing he did was head for the well-stocked minibar to liberate three Bell’s whisky miniatures which he poured into a glass and downed in one. This made him cough and bring something up from the back of his throat which was like a lump of black snot when he spat it into the toilet, result of smoke inhalation.

  Then he peeled off his wet clothes and had a long shower which felt incredible after his immersion in the Lancaster Canal.

  Dried off, heated up, and wearing the provided robe, he sat on the bed and helped himself to another whisky, which he sipped this time without coughing and mulled over his day.

  His eyelids started to droop and he wasn’t far off sleep when it hit him.

  ‘The bugger,’ he said angrily. But there was nothing he could do about it at that moment. Instead he removed the robe, slid in between the wonderful cotton sheets and closed his eyes, thinking lustful things about a female paramedic.

  Well rested and with his head feeling very clear, which surprised him after having been unconscious, even if it was for such a short time, and wearing his second set of new togs within two days, Flynn sauntered down for breakfast at eight next morning. His face was very swollen, cut, a puffy mess, but the pain was being kept chemically at bay by the painkiller slipped to him by his favourite paramedic – whose name he had failed to get.

  A few other guests were at tables in the dining area, having breakfast served by Alison’s stepdaughter Ginny. When she saw Flynn, her face brightened. She gave a squeak of excitement and rushed toward him with a big hug, after which she perused him critically, her face wincing slightly at his injured visage.

  ‘Mum says you can have breakfast with us, if you like.’

  ‘That would be great.’

  They exchanged pleasantries as Ginny led Flynn through to the private accommodation at the back of the pub, where Flynn found a jaded-looking Henry Christie slumped at the dining-room table, munching a croissant and drinking coffee, the unsolved-murder file open next to him. Something he closed as Flynn entered.

  He looked at Flynn as though he hoped last night’s magnanimous gesture was just a bad dream and was devastated when it wasn’t.

  Alison emerged from the kitchen and, just to wind up Henry, Flynn planted a smacker on her cheek and said, ‘Mornin’, lover.’

  ‘Stop it,’ she said with a smirk.

  Henry watched, annoyed, especially when Flynn gave him a wink.

  ‘Take a seat and I’ll get you food. Full English?’

  ‘Love that,’ Flynn said, raising his eyebrows at Henry. He sat down at the end of the table, ninety degrees to Henry.

  ‘Help yourself to coffee,’ Alison added over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen. There was a filter coffee machine on the table and Flynn poured himself a steaming mug full of the superbly smelling brew, to which he added a dash of milk and sipped it appreciatively.

  ‘Morning, Henry.’

  ‘Morning, Steve.’

  ‘Sleep well?’

  ‘No – you?’

  ‘Like a tot plied with Calpol.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘You think I might call Diane? I’d better do that sooner rather than later.’

  Henry indicated the handset on the table and said, ‘Help yourself.’ He picked up the remains of his croissant and folded it into his mouth.

  Flynn called Diane at the hospital. She sounded exhausted and slightly bewildered. When Flynn said he had some bad news for her about the boat, it didn’t seem to register, so he didn’t push it. He did learn that Colin had slept well and that she was being picked up by her sister to get some sleep at her place and that Flynn could keep the Smart Car for the day. He thought it would probably be better anyway if he told her face to face that her beloved canal boat had been destroyed. And there was every chance she would hear it from another source anyway.

  As he hung up Alison came back bearing a wonderful breakfast, the likes of which Flynn hadn’t seen for many a year. He gave an appreciative whistle.

  ‘All locally sourced, everything within a two-mile radius,’ she boasted proudly.

  ‘Fantastic. Thank you.’

  Alison looked at both men and chuckled. ‘You could be bookends.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Henry said.

  ‘With your faces. Sort of matching. But opposite.’

  The men glanced at each other, neither enamoured by this idea, and Alison backed off, seeing she had hit a bum note.

  Flynn chewed the end off a pork sausage. He said, ‘Henry?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Tell me how you got your injury – y’know, your face.’ He pointed a fork at the detective.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Seems hellish similar to mine, doncha think?’ Flynn leaned over and closely inspected Henry’s wound, part of which still bore the faint imprint of the weapon that caused it. ‘What was it? An automatic pistol of some sort? Two men?’ Henry kept shtum and let him speculate. ‘I know it was two men because it’s been on the local news. Just been watching it on TV in my room.’

  Henry sipped his coffee.

  ‘Circumstances are a bit vague . . . something to do with the mortuary and the police spokesperson really had no answers as to why you were assaulted, but that two violent armed men are being hunted. Well, they didn’t give your name, but it was you, wasn’t it?’

  Henry sighed. Waited. Deductions always intrigued him.

  ‘And if that’s the case, when exactly were you going to reveal to me that we were beaten up by the same men?’

  ‘If it ever became a necessity.’

  Flynn bit another chunk of sausage. ‘You think you know me, don’t you?’

  ‘Slightly.’

  ‘Well in that “slightly”, you should know something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That no one attacks me and destroys what is essentially my home, and property belonging to two dear friends of mine and thinks they’ll get away with it.’ The words were said very flatly, matter-of-fact. Which made them all the more scary. ‘Now – you can let that happen and when I catch those two guys, and I will, Henry, there’ll be some very fucking unpleasant business you’ll have to clean up. You can go a long way to prevent that – if you want.’ He shoved the last segment of the sausage into his mouth.

  ‘Is that a threat of some sort?’

  ‘Just pure fact, Henry. I nearly died last night and, to put it mildly, I’m fuming about it. But I’d rather you just did your job, caught them and dealt with ’em. Which means us maybe doing some sharing of information.’

  ‘How exactly do you propose to get any leads? They were masked, they took you by surprise, they knocked you out . . . and also, there’s nothing to say they were the same men who attacked me. You surprised two burglars on the boat. The ones who attacked me did so op
enly.’

  Flynn snorted. ‘Don’t insult my intelligence, Henry.’

  The two men glared at each other.

  It was Flynn who relented. ‘Look, tell you what – you show me yours, I’ll show you mine. Let’s stop pussyfooting around, eh?’

  ‘You first,’ Henry said.

  ‘OK.’ Flynn cleared his throat. ‘They wanted what I’d taken from Jennifer Sunderland.’

  ‘And that was . . .?’

  ‘I dunno, because I didn’t take anything.’

  ‘Did they say what they were after?’

  ‘No, I had to guess.’

  ‘So what did you take?’

  Flynn burst his fried egg, wishing it was Henry’s face he was driving his fork into. ‘I won’t even grace that with an answer. Now show me yours.’

  ‘They were after something in her property.’

  ‘I assume they didn’t find it.’

  ‘Not if they came knocking on your door later.’

  Flynn concentrated on his breakfast, Henry his coffee.

  Flynn broke the uncomfortable silence. ‘Have you spoken to Mr Sunderland?’

  ‘I have – but I haven’t asked him the obvious question.’

  ‘Is it in your plans to do so?’

  ‘Duh – yeah. I want to get the PM done first, though. See if that throws up any nooky questions for him. He’s due to be seen later today.’

  ‘I’d like to get involved in some way,’ Flynn said. ‘After all, I did see one of them when I yanked his mask off, even though it was only for a second before I got knocked out.’

  ‘Would you recognize him again?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What about spending some time with a police artist?’

  ‘Give it a go.’

  ‘But I think that’s as far as your involvement should go,’ Henry said. ‘And about what you’ve just said, if you take the law into your own hands, I’ll get you, Steve.’

  Once more the men stared rigidly at each other.

  Thing was, Flynn believed him.

  ‘And anyway,’ Henry said more brightly, ‘don’t you have a shop to run?’

  The phone rang and Henry answered it. ‘Tawny Owl, can I help?’

  Flynn smirked as he heard this. Henry sounded like a Girl Guide leader. Henry shot him another chilling stare.