Fighting for the Dead (24 page)

‘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.'

‘I think I'm eating up your profits . . . I will pay you back.'

‘Steve, we don't make a profit, not yet anyway.'

They strolled back to the hospital, where Diane met up with her sister, at whose house she was going to stay, and Flynn made his way to Alison's car on the car park. His mobile phone rang as he reached it.

‘Steve, it's me,' a female voice said. ‘The woman who saved your life.'

‘My very own paramedic,' he said with a grin.

‘One who has a rare night off. Can you come around?'

‘It's a really nice offer . . .' he began.

‘But? You dumping me already?'

‘It's not an offer I want to refuse.'

‘But?'

‘I'd really like to see you, honestly . . .'

‘But!' The ‘buts' were getting pithier.

‘I'm exhausted,' he revealed. ‘Why don't you come down to Glasson and take me for a drink, see what happens from that point onwards.' Even as he said it he knew it sounded awfully egotistical. He wouldn't have blamed her if she told him to go to hell.

She didn't.

Henry's resolve faltered at the first hurdle. His intention had been to spend the night at his own house in Blackpool so he didn't have a long journey to the cells in the morning. He was going to zip down the motorway, but as he reached junction 34, the magical allure of Kendleton and a certain landlady wafted to him and he couldn't resist. So he went straight on instead, driving to Kendleton, passing the point where he'd been forced off the road – and trying not to think about it and his poor car.

Twenty minutes later he was propping up the bar with a couple of the locals, a doctor and a farmer, both solid-gold inebriates, he had come to know and love.

By midnight the place was closed and deserted, just himself and Alison sitting side by side in front of the fire in the main bar. It had been roaring earlier, but was now just red embers, emitting a lovely but dwindling and sleepy warmth. They had a Glenfiddich each, doubles, one ice cube so as not to spoil the flavour. Henry's face began to glow.

He had told Alison as much about his day as he could and also bemoaned the death of his fancy car, but was also philosophical about it. He had managed to have a couple of fleeting conversations with his insurers and knew they were going to write it off.

‘In some way it might be a good thing,' he said.

‘Why?' Alison said in disbelief.

‘I bought it in some kind of response to Kate's death, something to cheer me up.' Henry looked sideways at her. ‘That moment has passed, it was just a phase of grieving. When it's all sorted money wise, I think I'll just buy something more sensible. I don't need a fancy motor to make me happy now, just one that gets me from A to B. You're what makes me happy,' he purred.

She pretended to consider his words. ‘Don't make it too sensible,' she laughed. ‘I quite like fancy cars.' She slid off her chair and knelt down in front of him, laying her forearms along his thighs. ‘I never thought I'd be happy again.'

‘Me neither.'

He leaned forwards and they kissed lingeringly. She really has the most wonderful lips, he thought. They needed kissing a lot.

Suddenly she broke off the kiss. Her eyes played lustfully over his face.

He picked up the less than subtle meaning. It was a look he had learned to read very well over the past few months. ‘No way!' he said, pretending to be shocked. ‘No way! Here? Now? What about Ginny . . . she might walk in!'

‘In bed, all tucked up, fast asleep. Front door's locked, blinds are drawn . . . no paying guests . . . this rug is nice, soft and fluffy . . .' Her hand moved up his thigh and came to rest on his groin, which had already begun to strain. She gripped him through his trousers, keeping her eyes locked into his.

‘Naked?' he asked hopefully.

‘Completely,' she said.

The inflatable beds came with inflatable pillows and two pushed together worked very well as a double, as did two sleeping bags, unzipped, then zipped together to form a wide blanket.

The make-do approach certainly sufficed for Flynn and the paramedic, two people who also made love in a fairly unusual location. This time, though, the upstairs storage room above the chandlery.

In fact they had a wonderful time, laughing intensely as they screwed with abandon, taking their joining to new levels of intimacy on the air beds, flipping from one position to the next and back again, not forgetting other forms of stimulation either.

They finished in a blur of orgasmic speed and loud moans before flopping back, exhausted and laughing.

Flynn managed to stay awake for a few minutes of blown-up pillow talk, but then, shattered, he was asleep.

Flynn slept deeply until six-thirty when he rolled off the bed onto the hard, uncarpeted floor of the storage room and banged his forehead. He lay there face down, staring at the grain of the exposed wooden floorboards. Then he eased himself up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and wondering, for a moment, where he was. Over the years he had woken up in many peculiar places.

He sat up, glanced across and saw that Liz, the paramedic, had gone. He vaguely recalled her saying something and him responding and presumably making some sense. She had probably been saying goodbye, he thought muzzily.

He exhaled, scratched the back of his leg and tried to get his mind to function. His body was stiff and sore and creaky but he forced himself up to his feet and padded naked and shivering into the tiny toilet where he relieved himself, a function that seemed to last a very long time.

Empty of bladder he came back and got back on to the inflatable bed, pulling up the sleeping bag. He lay on his side, blinking, thinking about the day ahead.

The crown of his skull was quite close to the wall and from where he was he could see along the skirting board running along the bottom edge of the wall, where it met the floorboards at ninety degrees. It wasn't a well-fitted skirting board, not helped by the unevenness of the floorboards themselves, several of which were loose, as he had discovered.

He wasn't really looking for anything. He was thinking about running a shop. Quite looking forward to it. Trying to remember how to use the till. Still feeling quite sleepy. But also looking along the bottom edge of the skirting board, which narrowed as it reached the corner of the room because of his perspective.

And then he saw something wedged underneath it in one of the gaps made by a loose, badly fitted floorboard. At first it didn't seem like anything. Something off-white, cube-like. He didn't even care what it was.

Just a bit of rubbish, an offcut from a piece of wood, perhaps. Smaller than a sugar cube. A broken piece of tile?

He could not tell . . . in his mind he was still visualizing how to use that till and asking an imagined customer to enter his PIN number.

Then he remembered . . . Liz wasn't saying goodbye, she was saying, ‘See you later. I have to be in work by eight. I finish at four today . . . can I see you tonight?' Flynn remembered saying yes, absolutely. He also remembered the night. And smiled contentedly. And he looked along the skirting board again at that small object wedged under it.

He yawned and flipped on to his back, still smiling. A paramedic. Fancy. He'd always liked paramedics . . . he kept smiling and remembering . . . and then his face creased into a frown as he suddenly realized what the object was underneath the skirting.

In disbelief he scrambled off the bed and scuttled along the floor and tried to prise the object out from where it was by using his thumb and forefinger to grip it. He couldn't quite . . . He cast around and saw Alison's car keys which he grabbed and using the ignition key he started to gently tease the object out. It was tightly stuck in there, but eventually it came out with a pop and rolled a few inches across the floor like a dice. Flynn stared at it, then picked it up, sat back on his naked bottom, and held it up to the light filtering through the curtained window, like it was a precious diamond.