Fighting for the Dead

by Nick Oldham

  ‘What does that mean?’ Sunderland asked.

  ‘The search of your business premises, where items of evidence will be seized, such as stolen Range Rovers.’ Henry watched Sunderland’s reaction to this – just a kink of the mouth. Then Henry said, ‘And your house will be searched, too.’

  This news jarred Sunderland. His eyes rose and Henry saw apprehension in them and tension in his whole being. ‘You can’t do that,’ he said.

  ‘Just watch me.’

  Sunderland turned to his brief. ‘He can’t do that, can he?’

  ‘I’m afraid he can – with the necessary authorization.’

  ‘Which I’ve got,’ Henry confirmed. He leaned on the table. ‘Why? Something to hide?’

  Now Sunderland wouldn’t lock eyes with Henry.

  ‘What am I going to find, Mr Sunderland? Want to tell me now?’

  ‘You’ll find nothing.’ Sunderland pinched the bridge of his nose.

  ‘You sure about that? It won’t be a cursory search – I’ll rip your place to shreds.’ No response. Henry paused thoughtfully, sat back and folded his arms. ‘Mr Sunderland – what did your wife have in her possession that was so all-fired important? So important that two men committed serious assaults’ – here Henry pointed at his own face – ‘and almost killed a man to find whatever it was?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘What did you and her argue about the night she fell into the river?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘How did she fall into the river?’

  ‘How would I know? I wasn’t there. I’ve already told the police that.’

  ‘OK – how well do you know Joe Speakman and his wife?’

  ‘Only in passing.’

  ‘How about Yuri Gregorov and Vladimir Kaminski?’

  Sunderland shrugged. ‘Never heard of them.’

  ‘What about a gangster in Cyprus called Malinowski?’

  ‘A gangster? What planet are you on? I’m a businessman.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to those Range Rovers? Where are they destined?’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘How well do you know Ralph Barlow?’

  ‘Who? Does that answer your question?’ he sneered.

  ‘OK,’ Henry smiled wickedly. ‘Just food for thought, things for you to mull on.’ He brought the interview to a close, sealed the tapes and stood up. ‘Going to search your property now.’

  Henry and Rik walked through the narrow corridors and tight stairwells of Blackpool police station. Flynn tagged along behind them like a spare part, along for the ride but with no valuable input to give or job to do. He was feeling frustrated and out of place.

  ‘Search teams are sorted,’ Rik was saying, ‘and they’re all en route, one from Southern Division, one from Eastern and one of ours. I’ve emailed their sergeants copies of the search authorizations for Sunderland’s and Barlow’s houses.’

  ‘What about Sunderland Transport?’

  Rik winced. ‘I’ve had the stolen-vehicle squad seize the Range Rovers but other than shutting the place down, I think we’ll have to come back to that one. It’s a busy place, lorries coming and going.’

  ‘Shut it down, then,’ Henry said. ‘When we have enough people to search it, that is. If the Range Rovers have been seized, that’s enough for the time being.’

  ‘Incidentally, Range Rovers are big business with the Russkies, according to the stolen-vehicle guys . . . big trade in them across Eastern Europe . . . could be where they’re headed.’

  Henry took that on board as they reached the lower floor exit into the police-station car park. ‘What have I missed?’ he asked.

  ‘I think we’re about covered,’ Rik said. ‘It’s just a matter of getting their stories out of them . . . they’ll crack,’ he said. ‘But what do you think it’s all about?’

  ‘The usual – money, sex, greed, revenge, blackmail . . . and all the good things that make it worthwhile being a cop.’ He looked at Flynn, then glanced at his watch and blanched. He had not realized how quickly time had passed since receiving the phone call from Flynn that morning with the ‘tell Christie to back off’ warning that had galvanized him into action. Henry Christie didn’t back off from anything.

  Much had happened since. Something that had not happened – again – was Henry keeping in contact with Alison. He grimaced internally.

  ‘I need to make a call,’ he said, suddenly annoyed with himself. Rik nodded, turned and went back down the corridor. Henry stepped out on to the car park, with Flynn behind him.

  Flynn watched him with a wry smile as he shuffled off, pulling out his mobile phone and trying to get a signal in the high-walled compound, by holding up his phone high.

  Flynn was beginning to feel like the proverbial spare prick at a wedding, but was loath to leave the party because of his deep involvement in everything that had happened since heaving Jennifer Sunderland’s body out of the river. He thought that events gave him some sort of right to be here, but in reality he knew Henry was just being generous to him and he also knew FB was uncomfortable with him hanging around. Ex-cops were a pain.

  Which brought Flynn to thoughts of Henry and his very much altered perception of the guy.

  A thoroughly dedicated detective, Flynn was impressed by Henry’s doggedness and attention to detail, even though he could tell that Henry’s head was spinning with all the information being chucked at him. But he missed nothing and Flynn was sure that if Henry hadn’t clocked Sunderland’s river ‘mishap’, none of the subsequent events would have been linked together so quickly, if at all.

  Flynn felt a burgeoning respect for him. And beyond Henry’s obvious skills as a jack, the incidents with the two mad Russians had shown Henry to be courageous and brave, and that impressed Flynn, too. As well as Henry’s generosity about living accommodation.

  ‘Going soft on the bastard,’ he thought. ‘Best to keep thinking of him as a bit of a twat, I reckon.’

  ‘All quiet on the Western front?’ Flynn asked as Henry returned from making his call to Alison.

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’ Henry was relieved – and suddenly extremely hungry.

  ‘What’s the plan for me?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Whatever you want. I’m going to oversee these searches, pull in a whole bunch of detectives from across the county who I can brief and then get them interviewing.’ He checked his watch again. Time was disappearing fast. ‘I’ll get the searches started, see if we can find anything of interest, get these two bedded down for the night’ – he was referring to the prisoners – ‘then really get into their ribs in the morning, after I’ve had some proper sleep.’

  ‘You think Sunderland killed his wife?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not . . . but that’s not the point. You were once a detective . . . what’s the approach for any sudden death, even if it appears straightforward?’

  ‘Think murder.’

  ‘Bread and butter – and another mistake Barlow made, not treating it as murder to start with. Anyone else would have been hauled in if their missus had ended up drowned, but not his mate Sunderland.’

  ‘So, back to me.’

  ‘What do you want to do? You can stick with me if you want.’

  ‘Mm, maybe I’ll check out the searches with you . . . but after that, I’ll get back to why I’m here in the first place. So far I’ve not delivered on that. Should have let Mrs Sunderland drift away.’

  ‘You couldn’t have, could you?’

  ‘Guess not.’

  ‘The bedroom offer is still open, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks, Henry . . . I almost said you’re a pal.’

  ‘Let’s not get slushy . . . how about some fast food? My blood sugar has dropped to a dangerous level and only a KFC will remedy it.’

  FIFTEEN

  It was 8 p.m. Henry and Flynn had been on the go for almost twelve hours that day, plus all the hours from the preceding night and day, so they were perilously cl
ose to empty in terms of adrenaline and energy. That despite the KFC meal bucket they’d shared, plus a coffee each. The energy rush was short-lived and though both men had full bellies, all the food did was make them want to crash out like lions after a kill.

  Henry led the way out of Blackpool in the HQ pool vehicle, passing close to his house on an estate near to Marton Circle, the roundabout at the end of the M55. He hadn’t been there in about a week and he hoped it was still standing. His youngest daughter, Leanne, had access and Henry envisioned her entertaining a series of boyfriends, following her fairly messy break up with her long-term bloke.

  He was tempted to call in and drop into his own bed. That would have to wait. The duties and responsibilities of an SIO outweighed this need.

  His plan was to check out how the search at Harry Sunderland’s house was progressing, then wind them in for the night, securing and guarding the property, and recommencing in the morning. After carrying out this task, he intended to hare back to Blackpool and crash out at home so he wouldn’t have a long journey to Blackpool nick when he got up. Both he and Flynn had discounted staying at headquarters.

  It was all very well having the landlady of a country pub as a lady friend, but when the pub was so far out in the sticks, it was sometimes inconvenient geographically. The benefits did outweigh this minus point, though . . . and his mind drifted to Alison as he drove.

  Behind him, driving Alison’s car, was Flynn.

  He realized he was supernumerary, just a bit of an annoyance to Henry, and whilst he was keen to stay involved, he knew he had no right to be under Henry’s feet.

  The decision he took was that when they reached Lancaster, he would flash Henry to stop and tell him he was taking a step out of it. He was going to go to the hospital to visit Colin, catch up with Diane, apologize for all the crap that had dogged him since he’d landed – not least the complete and utter destruction of their beloved narrowboat.

  He had an idea that he would actually bed down in the chandlery itself. When he’d had an initial mooch around the place, he had found that upstairs, apart from the room used to store goods that had probably once been a bedroom, there was also a functioning bathroom with an old sink and a loo. It would be good enough for him, should keep him out of mischief and ensure he was right on the shop to look after it.

  Damn, he thought . . . he was pining for the simple life he’d carved out for himself in Puerto Rico . . . sun, fishing, uncomplicated sex, more fishing . . . his mind drifted to the Canary Islands as he drove.

  Flynn followed Henry up the M6 northbound and they exited at junction 34, north Lancaster, and turned towards the city. It was on this stretch of road that Flynn flashed Henry to pull in and stop. He could have used the mobile, but wanted to speak face to face.

  ‘What is it?’ Henry growled irritably by the roadside. It was getting cold and a bit unpleasant and he was shivering.

  Flynn grinned and decided not to rile Henry any further.

  ‘Look, Henry, I’m gonna cut and run here. I’m just a pain in the arse to you – no, don’t say anything, I know you don’t think that. I need to do what I came here to do. I keep saying it and then doing something different. Diane’s going to need someone to sort out the salvage of the canal boat and I need to run that shop properly. I’m going to be here for the next week, if you actually need me, then I’m on the big silver bird back to the sunshine – where I belong.’

  ‘So you’re going to trust me to do my job?’ Henry said sardonically.

  ‘Yup.’ Flynn again held back the urge to have a dig.

  ‘Thanks.’ Henry tried not to show his relief, because even though Flynn had basically saved his life twice, having him hanging around the investigation was pushing it, ex-cop or not. ‘We still need to sit down and get your statements sorted and speak to CPS about stuff.’

  ‘As to whether I’m going to get charged with two murders, you mean?’

  ‘That won’t happen.’ Henry shook his head. ‘Trust me, I’m a superintendent. Are you going back to the Owl?’

  ‘Naah, but thanks. I’ll crash down at the chandlery.’

  ‘You know you’re welcome . . .’

  ‘I know and thanks. If I could keep hold of Alison’s motor for another night that would be good.’

  Henry nodded an OK. ‘We’ll speak tomorrow. I’ll let you know what’s happening.’ They shook hands hesitantly.

  Henry got into his car and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank G for that.’

  Flynn got into Alison’s car and again followed Henry as he drove into Lancaster, but as Henry bore right across the River Lune, Flynn carried on up through the one-way system to the hospital.

  Sunderland lived in a luxurious seventeenth-century converted barn just outside Halton on the north bank of the Lune. It was about twice the size of Joe Speakman’s house and fitted out much more expensively. It was clear that Sunderland had made real money. Henry estimated the house was probably worth in excess of a million, particularly as its location was magnificent, set high on a hill with a great view of a curve in the river.

  Henry drew up just inside the gate, stopping at the side of a wide gravelled driveway that swept up to the front of the house. Parking in front of him were several police vehicles and it was apparent that the search teams were already busy.

  Henry flashed his warrant card at the constable controlling the comings and goings to the property, then walked on, his eyes taking in the darkening building, including two large detached garages, a stable block and a detached workshop.

  ‘Nice,’ he found himself saying.

  He found the sergeant in charge of the search, directing operations from the huge kitchen, the house crawling with overall-clad bobbies.

  ‘Boss,’ he greeted Henry.

  ‘Hi, Dave,’ Henry said, knowing the guy well enough. ‘How’s it going?’

  The sergeant shrugged. ‘We’ve found a lot of documents which relate to various things: the haulage company, property, vehicle hire and purchase and the usual household stuff. Quite a lot of it I don’t understand. The financial analysts will love it, I guess.’

  Henry nodded.

  ‘Do you actually know what you’re looking for?’ the sergeant asked.

  Henry smiled. ‘No, not really – that’s why the authorizations are so vague . . . the only thing is that I believe his wife had something on her when she went into the river that is vitally important to someone and when she was fished out, she didn’t have it.’

  ‘Where did she go in?’

  ‘That remains a mystery.’

  ‘How about we search the grounds from the house down to the river,’ the sergeant suggested.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For what that thing might be.’

  ‘Nothing lost, though we don’t know for sure if she went in around here, although the garden seems to run right down to the river.’

  ‘We’ll have to do it tomorrow, though. Daylight’s virtually gone now.’

  ‘Fine,’ Henry said. ‘How far have you got internally?’

  ‘Just a few rooms on the ground floor. It’s a big house, lots of nooks and crannies. I reckon we get back for seven in the morning, then blat the place all day.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  Flynn walked through the hospital corridors, having had a short visit to his friend, Colin. Diane walked along with him, their heads bowed with a cloud of melancholy above them.

  Colin had been asleep, under the effects of powerful pain relief and tranquillizers.

  When Flynn had walked into the room where Colin’s bed had been relocated, Diane was sitting at his bedside, clasping his hand, her forehead resting on it. She raised her head slowly when Flynn coughed quietly, the corners of her mouth turned down, strain beyond belief etched deeply across her features. She placed Colin’s hand gently on the bed and stood up, looking weak, then fell into Flynn’s embrace and held on tightly for a long time, sobbing, choking into his chest. Flynn stood there numb, holding her
and looked at his old friend in the bed.

  Eventually Flynn steered her out into the corridor, which was when she looked properly at him for the first time. She gasped, ‘Flynnie, what’s been happening!’

  What he really wanted to know was what was happening to Colin. He presumed it was very bad news. ‘Don’t worry about me. How’s Colin?’

  ‘Really poorly at the moment. I thought he seemed OK at first, but . . .’

  ‘Maybe the side-effects of a big operation?’ Flynn said. They were facing each other and he was holding her hands by the fingertips. ‘You look tired, sweetie,’ he said softly.

  She nodded. ‘Buy me a coffee? Bring me up to speed with what’s going on with you and the boat . . . bet you really regret coming back to England.’

  ‘To help you, I don’t regret. Getting involved in the other crap, yes . . . but now I want to concentrate on the shop. Come on, let’s find a coffee.’

  There was no sign of life in the hospital cafe, so they walked down to the edge of the city to the KFC on the southern perimeter of the centre, which whilst not the most salubrious establishment did do a good roast bean, even though Flynn was a bit caffeined-out and KFC-weary.

  Diane said nothing on the short walk, but Flynn noticed her breathing in the air and exhaling slowly, trying to relax. Her blood pressure must have been sky-high.

  Flynn brought her up to date with everything that had happened to him, but wasn’t too specific with names. He concluded by saying, ‘Now it’s all down to the cops. I’m going to get a good night’s sleep, then open up the shop properly tomorrow morning and do what I promised. Honestly. Chances are I won’t find any more floating bodies. I’ll sort out the salvage of the canal boat, see what can be saved . . . I’m really, really sorry about the crap.’

  ‘Not your fault. Where are you staying tonight?’

  Flynn told her about his idea of laying down his head upstairs in the chandlery.

  ‘That’ll be uncomfortable . . . ooh, but we do have some blow-up mattresses for sale in the shop, and sleeping bags. Help yourself to them, they’re quite comfy.’