Fighting for the Dead (16 page)

‘Hello, Flynn,' Henry said more formally. ‘How are you?'

‘For someone who's been half-murdered twice, OK.'

‘What's happening with you tonight?'

‘In what respect?'

‘Sleeping arrangements.'

‘Er . . . try to get a room in a Travelodge or something, I guess,' he said delicately.

‘You've nothing booked?'

‘Not as yet.'

Damn, Henry thought. ‘You're welcome to stay at the Owl,' he said, almost choking on the words. ‘I mentioned the possibility to Alison and she's fine with it.'

‘Brilliant, thanks,' Flynn gushed. ‘Slight problem.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yeah – Diane needed her car back, so I'm without wheels.'

Henry stifled a groan. ‘Where are you?'

‘At the hospital. I visited Colin and gave Diane the keys . . . just walking to the main exit as we speak.'

‘Come down to the mortuary. I'm down here now, just about to set off to Kendleton. I can bring you back across in the morning, but it'll be an early start.' Henry hung up and pulled his face distastefully.

It took five minutes for Flynn to arrive. Henry sat waiting in the Merc, listening to an old Rolling Stones track. He flashed him as he approached. Flynn slumped in, admiring the car for the first time.

‘Nice one, Henry. You must be doing well.' He clunked the door shut. ‘Super's wages and all that.'

‘It's financially crippling to run. I could buy a new Kia every year with what it costs to insure.'

‘Mmm . . . Kia . . . Mercedes,' Flynn said as though he was trying to balance something tricky in his hands. ‘Not much of a contest.'

‘I know,' Henry said, pulling out of the mortuary car park.

Flynn said, ‘Genuine thanks, Henry . . . I was probably going to bed down upstairs in the chandlery.'

‘Look upon it as victim support.'

‘So – not a friend thing.'

Henry almost choked. He drove up to the roundabout at the southern edge of Lancaster and headed north through the city, traffic still quite heavy in the mid-evening.

This was fortunate for the stolen black Range Rover, being driven on false plates, that slotted in three cars behind Henry's Mercedes. That meant it could follow him through the city without drawing attention to itself, something that would be harder, but not necessarily impossible, once out on the country roads.

‘Have you made any progress?'

‘Depends on what you mean?'

Flynn pouted. ‘Investigating the attempt on my life, or this morning's bloodbath, maybe.'

‘Forensics and CSI have been sorting the canal boat and I've had a few uniforms going house to house in Glasson – but I haven't had an update so far,' Henry admitted. ‘Been slightly busy with today's bloodbath, as you call it.'

‘So you're really throwing resources at it,' Flynn said with sullen sarcasm and a shake of the head. ‘I doubt you'll get much from the boat or from house to house. The nearest house to the boat is a quarter of a bloody mile away.'

‘I know, I know,' Henry said, not taking the criticism too well. ‘What are your thoughts?'

‘Depends on what you mean,' Flynn mocked Henry, who shot him a cold stare. ‘Have you identified this morning's baddie yet?'

‘No.'

Henry's mobile phone rang and he answered it on the Bluetooth connection speakerphone.

‘Henry? It's me, Jerry Tope. Been trying to contact you all day.'

Henry tutted and rolled his eyes, miffed at himself. Tope was one of the many calls he had decided not to take. ‘Yeah, sorry, Jerry, haven't had time, as you'll be aware.'

‘Hi, Jerry,' Steve Flynn butted in.

‘What . . . who is . . .?' Tope stuttered.

Henry said, ‘Steve Flynn's with me, we're in my car.'

‘Oh, can I talk?' Tope asked uncertainly.

Henry hesitated, glanced at Flynn, then said, ‘Yeah, go ahead.'

They were out of Lancaster now, heading towards Caton on the A683, passing underneath the motorway bridge at junction 34.

Tope went on, ‘I've done some checking with regards to the MO thing, like you asked. You know, the spray in the face?'

‘Oh yes?'

‘Not as common as it used to be . . . bit of a sixties/seventies London gangster thing. More associated with girlfriend/boyfriend fallouts these days. That said, I expanded my search criteria and bit by bit I found something that might be of interest to you.' Henry waited. ‘You still there, Henry?'

‘Yeah, go on, Jerry.'

‘Two guys operating around the fringes of the Mediterranean. Several gang-related enforcement attacks.'

Henry passed through Caton.

‘And when I say gangs, I mean organized gangs as in Russian.'

‘Russian?' Henry said.

‘Two very bad guys suspected of very nasty attacks in Majorca, Malta and Cyprus. People have been left blind. That said, guess what? They've never yet faced a court for it, because – guess what again? No one wants to give evidence against them. I've got the details of who they are suspected to be by plundering various intelligence databases.'

‘Names?' Henry said.

‘Yuri Gregorov and Vladimir Kaminski.'

‘Photos, prints, antecedents?'

‘On file. Just because they haven't been to court doesn't mean they haven't seen the inside of a police cell, rare though that is. They do have a couple of minor convictions, actually . . . and they do have another speciality. They steal cars to order, usually big four-wheel-drive ones.'

‘OK, thanks for that. You know what went on up at Joe Speakman's today?' Henry asked. Tope said he did. ‘In that case, link up with the scientific people and see if one of these guys is our dead shooter.'

‘You serious?' Tope said.

‘Deadly.'

‘Shit . . . sorry . . . can I add something?'

‘Yep.'

‘These guys are ex-military and ex-secret police – in the most recent incarnations of these things in the new Russia. Y'know, new versions of the KGB and all that? But now they allegedly work for a big Chechnyan ganglord called Oscar Malinowski, a guy who's grown very fat and rich in the last twenty years as Russia's crumbled internally. And they're both as hard as nails.'

Henry and Flynn glanced at each other.

‘Er . . .' Tope hesitated.

‘Spit it out,' Henry urged.

‘If they're up there, something's going on, Henry – something big and unpleasant. They operate as a team and if you have killed one of them, the other will be mightily pissed off. So just be wary, Henry. They're not above paying cops a visit. In fact they're suspected of maiming and blinding a detective in Cyprus . . . so watch it.'

‘That's if they are these guys,' Flynn cut in.

‘Yeah, maybe they're not . . .'

‘Anyway, Jerry – do some more digging for me, will you – as well as liaising with the scientific people to see if we do have a match.'

‘I will.'

‘What about that other job?' Henry asked Tope.

‘Much as I'd trust Flynn with my life,' Tope lied, ‘it's really just for your ears, Henry.'

Even though Tope had said nothing, the implication of his reluctance to speak made Henry suddenly feel slightly queasy – even more ill than hearing he might be prodding a hornets' nest full of Russian nasties.

‘No prob . . .' Henry's mind whirred. ‘Look, get me what you can on this gangster Malinowski will you and email me with everything else you've got . . . I'll pick it up on my Blackberry . . . and I'll speak to you in the . . . shit!'

During the course of the phone call, Henry had reached the village of Hornby and turned right to head out towards Kendleton in the unlit back of beyond. He had been aware that there was a vehicle behind him, but hadn't paid it much heed as it hadn't been right up his backside and his concentration was on what Tope was saying. Now, almost without realizing it, he was out on the tight, narrow country roads just wide enough for two vehicles to pass with care in opposite directions, a few inches to spare between wing mirrors. So far there had been no oncoming traffic and Henry's car and the one behind had been the only vehicles on the road.

Up to that moment, the car behind had kept to a reasonable distance.

As they hit a stretch of road clinging to a steep hill with one of the tiny tributary streams that fed the River Wenning down an almost perpendicular drop to their left, the main headlight beams of the following car came blazing on like aircraft landing lights and the car itself surged up behind the Mercedes just as he was talking to Tope.

There were four big headlights fitted along a cowcatcher attached the front radiator grille and Henry's car was brightly lit up, casting a long shadow ahead of himself. Then, on this tight, narrow, steep-sided and dangerous road, the vehicle swerved out, the horn sounding angrily, and moved to overtake.

That was the moment he said ‘Shit' to Tope.

He had nowhere to go to make space for the idiot who must surely have seen that a manoeuvre like this, on that stretch of road, was not an option.

Flynn twisted round in his seat, looking over his shoulder. He knew from experience that the road was not built for this because he'd once been all but forced off it by – spookily – a black Range Rover, the type of vehicle behind them now.

It wasn't the same car, nor quite the same stretch of the road, but it was the same move, and then it had been daylight and he could see. Henry, despite all the light surrounding him now, didn't have that luxury.

He gripped the steering wheel, hunkered down, decelerated and clung to his position on the road in the hope that the vehicle behind might get past without colliding. He knew that he could not afford to veer to his nearside, he'd be on the grass verge.

But passing clearly wasn't the driver's intention.

The Range Rover blasted its horn again as it came parallel, then deliberately shunted left with a crunch and tearing of metal on metal.

It was no accident. Not a misjudgement. It was a premeditated act.

The steering wheel was almost thrown out of Henry's grasp, but he hung on tenaciously, hardly daring to tear his eyes from the road ahead.

The Range Rover slammed left again.

This time Henry was forced off the road.

The Mercedes crashed through a low hedge, then plunged down the steep hill towards the brook at the bottom of a narrow valley.

Henry grappled with the wheel, fighting it as the front of the car bounced into and out of deep ruts in the banking, throwing him and Flynn around in their seats like they were on a high-adrenaline Disney ride.

Suddenly there was a sheep in the headlights, the beam catching its strange brown eyes. It gave Henry a look of astonishment, then fled into the night a second before the car would have flattened it.

Then the front wheels dropped into a deep rut. The body twisted, then it flipped over and somersaulted, crashed onto its roof, bounced, kept going, landed on all four wheels. But the momentum was too great and it did another three-hundred-and sixty-degree forward roll, moving with agonizing slowness, again thudding down on all four wheels right in the centre of the stream at the bottom of the hill. The engine stalled and died.

Henry was still holding the steering wheel, completely amazed he was still conscious and alive, cowering under the crumpled roof which, though extensively damaged, was magnificently still protecting the occupants. Even then, he thought, ‘German engineering.'

He looked sideways at Flynn. He was still conscious, too, but had a deep, jagged gash on his hairline from which blood gushed across his face. He wiped it away from his eyes.

For a few moments, both men were speechless and slightly confused.

Back up on the road, at the top of the steep banking, the Range Rover stopped diagonally across the road, the front wheels just over the edge in the gap that Henry's car had made in the hedge. The powerful headlights shone down on the Mercedes a hundred feet below.

Henry blinked as he looked stupidly upwards at them, his brain in turmoil, trying to work out what had just happened, wondering what the guy in the car was doing now.

In a matter of seconds he'd been forced off the road and was now in a fucking stream!

Then outline of a man shape stepped into the headlights, silhouetted by the beams.

Henry saw it and assumed the driver had stopped to give assistance after his dangerous driving. He had done a ridiculous, fucking stupid, dangerous overtake, lost control on the way past, clipped the car he was passing – and now his conscience had kicked in.

That's what Henry would have liked to think.

The fact that the shadow of the man clearly showed him to have a machine-pistol in his hands made Henry think differently.

Plus it was aimed at the Mercedes, which, though in the stream, was positioned broadside to him, presenting a great and easy target.

He was about to make sure he finished the job he had started.

Henry swore, his dumb brain clicking into gear.

‘Get out, get out,' he screamed at Flynn, who was already moving, having seen what Henry had seen, and after releasing his seat belt was cursing as he tried to force open the damaged and stuck passenger door with his shoulder.

The man fired. The muzzle flash exploded spectacularly against his black shape.

Four bullets smacked into the side of the Mercedes.

Flynn banged his shoulder desperately against the twisted door as Henry lurched across his knees to add the force of his hands and body against the door, which opened with a creak.

Flynn tumbled out into the stream.

Henry rolled out on top of him.

The man fired again. Henry heard three cracks as bullets hit his car and felt one whizz just above his head before it thudded into the grass bank opposite.

Flynn scrambled low along the stream, virtually crawling, Henry following in the ice-cold water.