Fighting for the Dead (8 page)

‘When did you find her?' Sunderland asked.

‘Two hours ago, maybe?'

For the first time he made direct eye contact with Henry and said softly, ‘Thank you for coming to tell me.' Then he noticed Henry's injuries. ‘What happened to you?'

‘I'll come to that.'

Sunderland looked confused. ‘Is it something to do with my wife?' he asked. ‘Your injury?'

‘In a way . . . look, Mr Sunderland, because this is a sudden and unusual death . . .'

‘Unusual?' he butted in.

‘Not that many people drown,' Henry said. Sunderland nodded, understanding. ‘As I was saying, because of the circumstances, we will need you to do a formal identification and we will have to ask you some questions and the coroner will want an inquest.'

‘Some questions?'

‘About the night your wife went missing, what went on, that sort of thing. It will have to be quite detailed.'

‘I told the bobby everything who reported it . . . and this detective has also been to see me . . .' He indicated Barlow, who was standing by a window that overlooked the nearest warehouse unit.

‘I'm aware of that.'

‘So what then? It was obviously accidental . . . clearly she must have slipped into the river . . .' His voice trailed off wistfully. ‘She liked walking by the river . . . and the tides must have washed her into the Conder.'

‘I know what you're saying,' Henry began, then stopped momentarily and shot a quick glance at Barlow, before coming back on track and continuing, ‘All drownings have to be thoroughly investigated and I know you told the reporting officer what happened, but we need a statement from you now.'

‘From some questions to a statement, is it now?'

‘Is that a problem?'

‘No . . . no, it isn't . . . sorry for being abrupt. It's just so much to take in. I sort of thought the worst, but hoped for the best, y'know?' His face was tight with emotional pain. ‘It's starting to hit me, I guess.' He dropped his chin to his chest, rotating his jaw, clearly holding back the urge to break down. His bottom lip wobbled. If he was acting, it was pretty good.

‘First things first, though, eh?' Henry said. ‘We do need that formal identification and I'm afraid it'll be a tough call, but I'd like you to come down to the mortuary now.'

‘Now?'

Henry said, ‘We'll give you a lift down, if you like.'

‘I'll drive myself, I know where it is.'

‘Do you have a relative or close friend who could accompany you – give you some support?'

Sunderland shook his head. ‘No one I'd care to bring along,' he said sarcastically.

‘OK. In that case, how do you feel about coming down in an hour? That way we'll have a bit of time to get things ready.'

He nodded.

Henry considered asking what his wife might have had in her possession that would end up with two violent men turning up at the mortuary. But he held back for the moment. He wasn't sure how important it was, but the cynical side of him – the side that didn't believe a damn thing anyone said until it was proved to be the truth, the side that made him a half-decent jack – thought it might be wise just to hang fire. It was a feeling, nothing more, maybe the ace in the ankle sock.

He turned to Barlow. ‘OK?' he said, and gave the DI a stare that was unequivocal.
It was OK
.

‘Y-yes, boss.'

They left Sunderland alone in his office.

‘Seems straight up,' Barlow said.

Henry paused. ‘Yeah, suppose so.'

‘You don't think so?'

‘Well . . . let's do the job by numbers and see what transpires,' Henry said. ‘And to that end, will you sort out the ID with him and then arrange to take a statement at some time, depending on how he's handling it. If he's in pieces, put it off until tomorrow, but arrange to do it at the nick and not his home.'

‘Will do.' Barlow understood the reasoning behind that. Police-station interviews gave the cops the psychological upper hand, and in cases of suspicious deaths, it was always best to have home advantage where possible.

Henry eased himself into the front passenger seat of the CID car, Barlow got behind the wheel.

There was a moment when Henry was going to say something. He actually turned square to him and opened his mouth, but stopped as Barlow looked at him and smiled. Henry hoped his transition was smooth, and instead of saying what he was going to say, he said, ‘I'll try and get back into the X-ray queue because my face is actually killing me. Not that they'll be able to do anything if the bone's broken, other than to ply me with painkillers.'

‘Yeah, no problems . . . were you going to say something else?' Barlow had obviously realized Henry was about to say something, then halted.

‘No,' Henry said.

And, as the saying goes, his arsehole twitched: ‘Half-crown, sixpence.'

He was meek, mild and apologetic to the hospital staff and by overuse of his well-practised, but now slightly crooked and frankly scary, boyish and endearing grin – made so by his facial injury – on both male and female nurses, he was logged back into the system with just a mild reprimand.

Barlow had accompanied him back to A&E and hung around for a few minutes whilst Henry worked his frazzled charm. Then they walked back to X-ray – no wheelchair this time, that boat had sailed – whilst Henry ran through a few points he wanted Barlow to cover with Harry Sunderland, the ID and the subsequent statement. He also told him he wanted to get an update on how the operation had gone to find the robbers.

Barlow nodded patiently until Henry realized he was being a bit patronizing to a seasoned detective who knew his job. So he stopped yapping.

They had reached the double doors to the X-ray department.

‘OK, boss, I'll go and sort him out and see what's happening elsewhere.'

‘Thanks, Ralph.'

The DI turned away, but Henry said, ‘Oh, just one thing.'

Barlow paused. ‘Yeah?'

‘How well
do
you know Harry Sunderland?'

‘Not at all . . . like I said, just in passing at golf club events and such.'

‘But you have talked to him at these events?'

Barlow shook his head. ‘Not specially.'

‘Mm, OK . . . just wondering,' Henry said airily. He put a hand on the door. ‘See you later.'

Barlow looked at him for a second, then walked away down the corridor. Henry half-stepped into the doorway, watching the back of the DI, who fished out his mobile phone and put it to his ear, then turned out of sight.

Henry's mouth screwed up. He would have squinted thoughtfully, but his left eye was now as good as closed and he would have blinded himself had he done so. He shrugged, then peered at the warning sign on the door forbidding the use of mobile phones in the X-ray department.

Before he went through he had to make a personal call of his own.

Flynn drove Diane up to the hospital in her tiny Smart Car, into which he had to fold himself tightly, his knees almost under his chin. He walked with her to the post-operative unit in which Colin was being cared for and monitored following the surgery. He was in a poor and drowsy state, hardly aware of what was going on around him.

Flynn was shaken by Colin's appearance. They had known each other for many years as cops. Flynn had taken the detective route, but Colin, keen on all things motor vehicle, had gone on to traffic and motorcycles. Despite this divergence they had remained good friends. In fact Colin was one of the few people Flynn had been able to confide in when his own career went down the toilet. During the time when he was suspected of stealing a million pounds of drug-dealer's money, when the whole organization treated him like a pariah – including Henry Christie, who Flynn had thought hammered the final nails into the coffin that was his career – Colin had remained a good mate.

They shared a passion for sea fishing and boats and it was the least Flynn could do to help out in this hour of need.

Flynn also knew Diane well. Also a retired cop, she and Colin had hooked up on their initial training course over thirty years before and been inseparable since.

‘Someone here to see you,' Diane whispered to Colin, who stirred and opened his eyes, which were opaque and unfocused. He was attached to various machines, pumps and drips. The bed clothes were drawn back almost as far as his groin and a large dressing covered the lower half of his stomach where the operation had been performed.

Flynn swallowed at the sight, as Colin looked blankly across the room, Flynn thinking he couldn't see at all and was surprised when he said, ‘Hey, Steve,' and raised a dithery right hand off the bed, which Flynn shook, feeling the bones.

‘Hey, man, how're you doing?'

‘Another day above ground,' he said croakily. ‘Gotta be good, eh?'

‘Can't argue with that.'

Colin exhaled painfully and closed his eyes. Flynn and Diane exchanged glances. Then Colin's eyes opened again. ‘Thanks for coming . . . y'know, the shop and all that . . . appreciated.'

‘Not a problem.'

A great weariness seemed to enshroud him and he closed his eyes and fell asleep instantly.

Diane sat on a chair next to the bed and took her husband's hand. She looked desperately at Flynn, who did not know how to react to the expression.

‘Bugger,' he said.

‘Yeah,' she agreed.

‘Look, I'll go and have a mooch around and be back a bit later to see where you're at, eh?'

She nodded.

‘Shit,' Flynn said under his breath as he walked out of the unit with one last glance at Colin.

Following an interminable wait for an X-ray, Henry was back in the casualty unit for an equally long wait to be seen by a consultant. He sat miserably in the waiting area, but fortunately the pain was ebbing slightly after he'd been given some analgesics. He was eventually summoned to a curtained cubicle where he was told to lie on an uncomfortable couch and wait for a doctor who would be along soon. The whole unit was moderately busy, but being short-staffed, everyone was chasing their tails doing several jobs at once.

He tried to relax, lying back and thinking through the day.

It seemed such a long time since he had looked at the frozen body of the unknown murder victim, and he hadn't given her any consideration since. She had lain unforgotten for such a long time, he almost thought that another day would not make any difference. The more urgent incidents that had happened seemed to insist on being dealt with first . . . but Henry dismissed that idea.

Her death had to be investigated properly and it wasn't going to wait any longer. It would be all too easy to let the new stuff take precedence – after all, it was new and it had resulted in him being battered, and he was fuming about that – but he would not allow that to happen. Just by having her drawer pulled out of the fridge, he had obliged himself to get to grips with her murder.

Not that anyone would be bothered even if he did nothing for another two weeks. Except it did matter, would matter to her family, whoever and wherever they were. She deserved to be treated properly and professionally, and so far it looked as though that was not the case.

And that was one of the things Henry prided himself on . . . fighting for the dead.

Then he started to think about Jennifer Sunderland and what little he knew about her and her husband, Harry. Rich people, good life – on the surface. But what was there underneath, what would Henry find when he scraped away the veneer?

‘Behind closed doors,' he heard himself say and thought about Harry Sunderland, whose reaction to the news of his wife's death did seem genuine . . . except for one niggling thing . . . which was giving Henry a very strange sensation.

Could I be wrong? he wondered. But if he was right, what significance did it have?

He didn't know.

His face hurt – a lot – and all of a sudden he didn't care.

All he wanted was to get out of hospital and go to bed.

He opened his good eye when he heard the curtain swish back – and the most beautiful sight in the world stood before him.

‘Babe,' he whispered.

‘God, Henry,' Alison Marsh gasped on seeing his battered face. She swooped across the gap towards him, her eyes taking in all his injuries. ‘You didn't say you were hurt this badly,' she complained.

‘Looks worse than it is,' he lied.

‘I don't believe that,' she said, cutting through the fib. ‘I was a military nurse, you know.'

Alison Marsh was Henry's ‘lady-friend'. He wasn't exactly certain what the correct term was. ‘Girlfriend' seemed inappropriate, ‘partner' not quite right, because they didn't live together, yet ‘lady-friend' sounded like something from a Jane Austen novel. Whatever . . . the fact was they were together, madly in love with each other, and the future looked as bright as it could be.

Alison was the landlady-owner of a pub called the Tawny Owl in Kendleton, a village deep in the countryside far to the east of Lancaster. Henry had met her when he stumbled into the pub and the middle of a blood-soaked stand-off between rival gangsters.

Henry and Alison began their relationship tentatively after Kate's death, fully aware of the sensitivities surrounding it. Even now, several months after Kate's death and months after they had started seeing each other, Henry was still getting untold grief from his youngest daughter, Leanne; his eldest, Jenny, was much more sanguine about the matter.

Despite this, Henry and Alison were moving forward.

He guessed that one day, in the not too distant future, the question of marriage might be raised. Surprisingly for him, it didn't faze him at all. The prospect of living in a country pub was very appealing. As well as being with Alison, who he adored, of course.

‘Is there any part of you I can kiss?' she asked.