Fighting for the Dead

by Nick Oldham

  He trotted behind the sergeant up to Sunderland’s lovely house and followed him inside into a huge entrance hallway, then up a wide staircase to the first floor. He was led along the landing, through a door that opened on to another set of stairs which were much tighter and steeper than the main set.

  ‘Up to the converted loft,’ the sergeant explained. ‘There’s a couple of extra bedrooms up here, a shower room and a large sort of lounge, all built under the eaves.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Henry said.

  They emerged on to a long landing corridor, a door either side, one a little further on and a door at the far end.

  The sergeant pointed at the end door. ‘That one goes into the lounge, these doors are to the bedrooms, and that one is to the shower room, toilet.’

  ‘OK,’ Henry said, taking in the geography. He might have been a detective, but he wasn’t keen on mini-mysteries and was aching for the sergeant to get on with it and tell him why he had been dragged up here. It had better be good, something to match the Wellington boot and mobile phone. He hoped his face hid how he was feeling. He suspected it did. Being battered and bruised and swollen hid most things, except pain.

  The sergeant opened a door.

  Inside was a pair of constables going through items in a chest of drawers. They stopped their work.

  Henry glanced quickly around a fairly small, sparsely furnished bedroom, with a three-quarter-sized bed that took up a lot of the floor space, the chest of drawers, a narrow wardrobe and one bedside cabinet. The bed was unmade and several items were strewn on it, including men’s clothing.

  The sergeant said to one of the PCs, ‘John, what have you got?’

  John nodded eagerly. He crossed to the bed saying, ‘Various things, but these in particular.’ He lifted a grubby shirt, underneath which were four passports, which he picked up and came to Henry’s side. The PC was wearing latex gloves, so he kept hold of the passports and opened the first one of them for Henry to see, so he didn’t have to touch it. It was Russian and on seeing the holder’s photograph, Henry went icy cold. He looked at Henry for a reaction.

  ‘Next one,’ Henry said.

  The PC did the same for that one and the next two. There was another Russian passport, an EU one from Malta and a Turkish one. The photographs were all of the same person, all slightly different, and the names were all completely different.

  They belonged to the man who had forced Henry and Flynn off the road and then tried to murder them by spraying them with bullets – but had met his own violent end at the hands of Steve Flynn.

  Henry’s lips parted with a pop: ‘Vladimir Kaminsky.’

  ‘There are two guns underneath the bed with ammunition.’

  Henry said, ‘The room opposite?’

  ‘Three passports from three different countries, all belonging to the same man – but not this one.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Henry crossed the corridor into the opposite bedroom and inspected the find.

  Three passports, two more guns. Each passport with a different name, but all belonging to the man who had killed Joe Speakman, wife and dog, and who had almost blasted Henry to pieces, had it not been for Steve Flynn. Yuri Gregorov.

  ‘Brilliant job, guys,’ Henry said. He turned to the sergeant, beaming like the father on the day that his son scored his first hat trick for the school football team. ‘Same applies to these passports, as the mobile phone; bagged and sealed in the safe, only me to access. Deal with the weapons as you would normally.’

  Henry then rushed out to his car.

  The floorboards in the store room were unsealed, planed wood, which is why it had been virtually impossible to clean away the blood that had soaked in. And there had been a lot of it.

  Flynn stood and looked at it, his mind working through it and constantly returning to the one fact that made him feel weak: the memory of the snippet of conversation that he’d had with Diane, just a throwaway remark. Two pieces of information that Diane had revealed to him openly and innocently.

  One, that Colin had once worked for Harry Sunderland as a driver; two, that this property had been bought from Sunderland.

  Flynn’s face remained impassive despite the fact that his brain was coming to conclusions that were deeply unsettling him.

  ‘Utter bollocks,’ he said out loud. He looked at the tooth again and thought, ‘Surely not.’

  Grim-faced and angry, Henry screwed the HQ pool car down the M6, leaving plumes of unhealthy looking blue-black smoke behind him, reminding him he needed to check the oil.

  He still hadn’t heard back from the divisional commander. The man was someone he knew quite well and respected. Henry could not imagine he would buckle under pressure from any solicitor, slick or otherwise. And Henry could not work out why he himself had not been contacted about any of this. That was an extra worry. Was he being cut out of the circle, and why?

  The mobile phone was slotted into the crux of his right shoulder and ear as he tried to call Blackpool police station. There was no Bluetooth or hands-free connection in this basically appointed car, so it was back to breaking the law. It rang out for ages before someone in comms answered and Henry asked to be put through to the chief superintendent.

  The man’s secretary answered and fielded off Henry’s insistence to be connected to him. He tried to keep his cool as he spoke to the lady who was a very effective firewall. In the end he gave up and ended the call, then tried to call Rik Dean, holding the phone in his left hand, steering wheel in the right, and thumb-tabbed through his contacts list to find Rik’s number and trying to keep the car safe at 80 mph.

  He found the number, pressed call and jammed the phone between shoulder and ear again, waiting for the connection. Which never came: number unobtainable.

  In frustration, Henry threw the phone onto the passenger seat and almost had a seizure when it bounced sideways off the seat and dropped down into the gap between seat and door with a clunk.

  He swore and reached across with his left hand but it was just too far for his fingertips and he had to shoot upright when a car pulled out from the centre lane without warning and Henry had to anchor on, and swerve from the fast lane into the middle to avoid a collision.

  The driver of that car was completely clueless that an angry maniac was in the car he’d just cut up.

  Henry coaxed more miles per hour out of the vehicle than he thought possible. Hoping there was enough oil in its system to get him to Blackpool without the engine seizing, he overtook the offending car on the inside and gave the other driver a look of incomprehension. The man didn’t even glance sideways at Henry, who was fuming enough to give him the international ‘dick head’ gesture if they’d made eye contact.

  Instead he just threw up both hands, grabbed the steering wheel again and shook it, pleading for more speed. None came. Eighty-five was tops.

  And then, just to taunt him, his out-of-reach mobile phone started to ring.

  Flynn was having breakfast, a bacon sandwich and large mug of coffee from the dockside cafe. He sat on a table outside, even though the morning was chilly, and watched the activity along the quayside at Glasson as the day came to life. A large yacht was working its way through the sea lock, the water draining down to the level of the dock. He watched the boat gradually disappear from view into the lock, until just the tip of the mainmast remained visible from where he sat. The lower lock gates then began to open.

  Normally he would have loved watching this magnificent sight.

  This morning it meant nothing to him as he munched through his tasty – but to him, tasteless – breakfast butty.

  He watched the yacht leave the lock and motor slowly towards the dock gates, pass through them into the Lune estuary, where it went out of sight.

  Flynn stood up and walked despondently back to the chandlery, knowing he wasn’t going to open up that morning after all. He stood outside the shop and pulled out the clear plastic money bag from his pocket that he’d found by the till, in
which was the tooth.

  He held it in the palm of his hand, trying to convince himself that there was a simple, rational, non-criminal explanation for the presence of the tooth and the blood stains. Try as he might, he wasn’t that persuasive

  He made his decision and got into Alison’s car, which was parked in front of the shop.

  Henry hurtled into the custody office to cast his eyes over the prisoner dry-wipe board affixed to the wall behind the custody officer’s desk. As ever, the cells at Blackpool were full to bursting – almost. Henry scanned the names twice and it took a few moments for him to realize that the ones he wanted to see up there – Sunderland and Barlow – were missing.

  His knees went to lead and he was rooted to the spot. They had gone. Released. It wasn’t just a terrible joke.

  He inhaled a steadying breath, walked past the short queue of prisoners waiting to be booked in, went behind the custody desk and caught the eye of the sergeant, whose face fell as he recognized Henry.

  He was booking a prisoner in. He nodded worriedly at Henry and said, ‘One minute, boss.’

  Henry walked into the tiny office behind the desk and stood waiting for him to finish up. The sergeant appeared a few minutes later. The expression on his face told Henry he knew everything.

  ‘What happened?’ Henry demanded.

  ‘I couldn’t do anything,’ the sergeant pleaded.

  ‘Just tell me what happened.’

  ‘I came on at six and the chief super and a solicitor came in and told me to release your two prisoners.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Unlawful arrest. Not working expeditiously enough to investigate the case.’

  ‘And you let them go?’

  ‘I’m not going to say no to the chief super, am I? But they’re still on police bail – back in a week. I had to argue for that.’

  ‘By which time they’ll be long gone.’ Tight-lipped, Henry said, ‘Not your fault.’

  ‘It’s all documented on the custody record,’ the sergeant said. ‘There was all sorts of talk about civil litigation and I think the chief super was just covering his arse. Sorry, boss.’

  ‘I’ll go and see him now.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ the sergeant hesitated.

  ‘What?’ Henry said suspiciously.

  ‘Something I overheard . . . about the house searches . . .’ Henry’s guts whipped over and a fist seemed to crush them. ‘About them being illegal, too, and the chief super saying he would cancel or stop them.’

  ‘Shit . . . thanks, buzz me out, will you?’

  Henry barged past him and went out into the police garage where he had half-abandoned the pool car. Here he found a signal on his mobile phone and called the support-unit sergeant in charge of the search at Sunderland’s house.

  ‘It’s Henry Christie . . . has anyone contacted you about stopping the search, Dave?’

  ‘No, should they have?’

  ‘They might do . . . look, what I want you to do is this . . .’ Henry gave him some instructions and at the end of the call he leaned against the pool car. The engine was still creaking as it cooled down from boiling point and a horrible whiff emanated from it. He shook his head, wondering what the hell was happening and who was on whose side.

  Steeling himself, he walked back into the station, deciding to take the stairs up to the level on which the chief superintendent’s office was located instead of the lift.

  Being early in the day, it was easy to find a space in the hospital car park. Flynn walked in and made his way through to the ward, off which Colin was now being cared for. As he turned into the ward, a nurse emerged from an office and asked if she could help.

  Flynn’s nice smile and general charm worked wonders and although it was well out of normal visiting hours, she said he could have ten minutes – max – with the patient, who was awake and actually eating for the first time since his operation.

  Colin looked better than when Flynn had last seen him, but was still exhausted and drawn.

  ‘Flynn!’

  ‘Hi, Col, how you feeling?’

  He was sitting, propped up by pillows. Scrambled eggs on toast were on a plate across his knees.

  ‘I’m actually famished and feeling as good as can be expected, as they say. But famished is good. So, what’s new? Shouldn’t you be minding the shop?’

  ‘Yeah, I should,’ Flynn said, knowing that Colin knew nothing about the occurrences of the last few days. Flynn regarded his old mate with a puckered brow.

  ‘Problem?’ Colin asked.

  The secretary rose defensively as Henry barged through the door of the divisional commander’s outer office.

  ‘I want to see Mr Geldhill,’ he said, and made to his right to pass her on the wing to get to the divisional commander’s office door.

  She moved quickly and positioned herself between Henry and the door, shaking her head. ‘He’s busy. Someone’s in with him.’

  ‘Margery,’ Henry said, he had known the battle axe for quite a few years, ‘I don’t give a toss.’

  ‘You can’t go in, Henry.’

  Henry shot her a pitying look. ‘I think you’ll find I can,’ he said petulantly.

  ‘Henry, please.’

  ‘Just tell him you couldn’t stop me. Tell him I was rude and elbowed my way past you – which is what I am and what I’m going to do.’

  She saw ire and determination in Henry’s whole being, could see he was shaking. She wilted and moved sideways, allowing him to pass, a glint of apprehension in her eyes.

  He did not knock, simply opened the door and let himself into the chief super’s office.

  Tom Gledhill was sitting behind his wide desk, a uniformed inspector sitting opposite him. From their body language they seemed to be having a fairly informal discussion. Gledhill looked up and the instantaneous change in his demeanour was visible, becoming upright in his chair, tense suddenly.

  Henry stood there, not saying a word.

  Gledhill said, ‘Excuse me?’ Still Henry did not speak. ‘Henry, can’t you see I’m busy here?’

  Henry knew he was trembling. He pointed a finger at the inspector. ‘Get out,’ he said.

  Dumbfounded, the inspector’s mouth actually dropped open in complete horror. He looked for guidance from the commander.

  ‘We’ll continue this later, Gerry.’

  The inspector stood and sidled warily around Henry, looking at the detective superintendent with a mix of awe and contempt, unable to make up his mind one way or the other.

  ‘And shut the door,’ Henry snapped. The poor man reacted as though he’d been slapped by a wet towel in a changing room and jerked out of the office.

  Henry’s gaze settled on Gledhill, who picked up his desk phone. ‘Margery, definitely no interruptions now. Yes, I know.’ He glanced at Henry. ‘He is, you’re right.’ He cradled the phone. ‘Sit.’

  Henry sat on the recently vacated chair. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘With regard to your prisoners?’

  ‘Tom, no – with regard to the situation in the Middle East. Please, don’t fuck me about.’

  Gledhill’s face hardened. ‘And don’t you forget you are talking to someone of senior rank,’ he bristled, but not terribly convincingly. Sometimes, even in the modern day and age, rank was pulled.

  ‘Fair enough,’ Henry relented. ‘Don’t fuck me about – sir.’

  Henry saw the man was needled. His jaw muscles worked as though he was chewing something tough and unpleasant. ‘Like I said,’ Henry repeated, ‘what’s going on. Sir?’

  ‘I was dragged out of bed at five this morning by an irate solicitor, demanding that he be heard and that his clients were to be released forthwith, following their unlawful arrests.’

  ‘OK – so why wasn’t I contacted about this? I would have gladly turned out to defend the position.’

  ‘Henry, I tried to call you several times – no reply.’

  Henry held up his phone. ‘No missed calls o
n this,’ he said.

  Gledhill shrugged. ‘I take it you were ensconced with your tame landlady, out in the wilds where the phone signal is non-existent. Not good for an SIO. Hardly professional, eh?’ Gledhill was trying to bounce it back to Henry.

  ‘If you knew where I was, why didn’t you call the landline?’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter now, does it? Fact is I got dragged out of bed, you were uncontactable and someone had to make a decision.’

  ‘So you took the line of least resistance?’

  ‘I did the correct thing under the circumstances, and with regard to the Police and Criminal Evidence Act and the Codes of Practice.’ He waited for Henry’s challenge.

  ‘Utter cock!’

  ‘The solicitor argued that the arrests were purely speculative, with no evidential foundation or reasonable suspicion. The force was in a very bad position.’

  Henry studied the senior officer, senior in terms of rank, not years. He was not impressed. ‘Tom – Harry Sunderland probably killed his wife. Ralph Barlow has been feeding him confidential information which was used to commit crime. They could both be linked to the unsolved murder of a teenage girl and the search of Sunderland’s house has uncovered some pretty fucking damning evidence about him sheltering two killers.’

  ‘Henry, this is not the good old days, like when you worked down the Valley. You cannot lock people up on a whim and then go looking for evidence, just because you think they might be guilty. That was a seventies trick and you know it. And how come the searches are still going on? I specifically instructed Rik Dean to contact the search teams to call them off.’

  Henry held back a smirk. ‘Guess the message mustn’t have got through – bad reception up there.’

  ‘What have you found?’

  ‘A camera phone which could contain evidence.’

  Gledhill rolled his eyes at this. ‘Could?’

  ‘Passports relating to the two men who tried to kill me and Steve Flynn, and guns.’

  ‘Shit,’ Gledhill breathed.

  ‘Yes, shit.’

  The two men regarded each other silently.

  ‘They’re still on bail,’ Gledhill said. ‘They have to come back. You still have a hold on them, time to build up your case.’