Fighting for the Dead (22 page)

‘I'll go for both of you guys,' he said, not boasting, just stating fact. ‘Monkey wrenches or otherwise.'

Their run slowed to a stop. They were ten metres away from him.

FB walked up. ‘Very commendable, guys,' he said, ‘but your boss is under arrest and unless you want to end up in the same cell complex, I suggest you down tools and go back from whence you came. Like now!'

‘And who the fuck are you, fatty?' one snarled at him.

FB did something he hadn't done for a very long time: he flashed his warrant card. Relishing the drama, whilst also feeling just slightly silly, he announced, ‘I'm the fucking chief constable.'

It would have been unwise to have lodged the two prisoners in Lancaster's cells. Henry needed to get them away from their home turf, particularly Barlow. He was a well-liked detective with a lot of friends at the station, a situation that could conceivably make things difficult for Henry.

To that end, Henry had already warned the custody office at Blackpool to be ready for two prisoners who were to be kept separate and given cells at the opposite ends of the big complex so they could not communicate in any way with each other. Henry did not reveal who the prisoners would be.

Henry had also arranged transport for them, having commandeered the services of two headquarters driving-school instructors, two plain cars and two uniformed constables from the public-order training unit in order to convey the prisoners to Blackpool.

Moments after Henry had made the arrest of Harry Sunderland and the possibility of being battered by Sunderland's wrench-wielding staff had passed, Henry called up the driving-school car that was on standby half a mile away.

When it arrived, Sunderland was pushed into the back of it alongside a burly riot-squad trainer.

Henry gave them certain instructions and assured them he would not be far behind.

Once Sunderland was on his way, Henry called up Rik Dean to confirm that DI Barlow had also been arrested and was on his way to Blackpool in the other driving-school car to Blackpool.

So far, so good. Henry liked smooth plans. He and FB looked at each other and grinned.

Then Henry realized that Flynn was nowhere to be seen. He looked around to see that he was climbing through a Judas door set in the larger door of the warehouse unit where the two employees had scuttled back to. Flynn had obviously followed them.

Henry tutted.

Flynn's head reappeared through the door and he waved for Henry to come over. Henry tutted again, but set off with FB in tow.

‘What is it?'

‘Feast your eyes,' Flynn said.

He pushed the door open and Henry climbed through into the warehouse, followed by FB.

‘Allo, allo, allo,' Henry said for the first time in his career.

In a row, facing him, stood three almost new top model Range Rovers, all in black. None bore a registration plate. They stood side by side, magnificent machines, like knights' chargers.

Henry had a swell of relief.

‘Bingo,' FB said.

‘Full house,' Henry confirmed.

S
ilence.

Background noise, yes. The sound of a cell door slamming shut. A shout of a prisoner, the response of a gaoler. The humming of the air conditioning. The hiss of the tape machine running.

But between the two men, silence.

It always came down to this, Henry thought – and relished the prospect.

Verbal jousting.

The tapping of a wedge, metaphorically speaking, into a tiny crack, then – tap, tap, tap – opening it up.

Or not.

It didn't matter to Henry. All he knew was that there were not many better feelings than being face-to-face with a prisoner, maybe two feet separating their faces across the interview table, and slicing them to shreds.

But, not far into this encounter, the prisoner had clammed up tight.

Henry wasn't perturbed. Silence didn't faze him. He revelled in it. ‘No comment' didn't even touch his radar. You want to say nothing, fine. Your prerogative. Say nowt.

Henry smiled and twitched his eyebrows, held his gaze on the man sitting opposite, a man who had almost as much experience as himself of the interview situation and maybe because of that thought he knew how to deal with it.

But not from that side of the table.

Often silence worked to the disadvantage of the interviewee. Usually they couldn't stand it, somehow felt obliged to speak, to fill the gaps, to drop themselves in it, tie themselves up in knots with convoluted tales that then unravelled like a ball of wool.

This man was different, as no doubt he had used silence as a tool himself – when he was sitting on Henry Christie's side of the table.

‘OK,' Henry said, smiling slightly. He nodded at Ralph Barlow, who was the man across from him, his solicitor sitting alongside him. ‘You've had the chance, now I'll lay it on the line for you.'

At this stage, Henry didn't have a problem with this tactic. He was fluid in his approach. Go with the flow – but always stay in control.

If Barlow knew he was screwed, that the ball was well and truly spinning in his direction, then it was up to him how he dealt with it.

Henry went on, ‘I'll lay out some bare, irrefutable facts for you.' He had a folder in front of him, which he opened, and cleared his throat. ‘Your mobile phone is paid for by the police. It's a tool of the trade. All detectives have mobile-phone accounts, paid for by the force, generally without question – unless the invoices are astronomical.' He extracted a few sheets of paper from the folder, invoices from a well-known service provider. ‘These are your bills for the last two years. On them I have highlighted numerous calls to a particular phone number. Also' – Henry slid out another sheet of paper – ‘I have this, a bang up-to-date record of the calls you've made in the last three days, including several to the particular number I've been talking about – times, dates, including this morning . . .'

Henry swished the sheet around so Barlow could see it. He didn't allow his eyes to wander. They were set, but unfocused, behind Henry's left shoulder.

‘Made whilst DI Dean was standing outside your office. You were making a frantic phone call to this number because I'd just phoned you to tell you about an intended arrest. I won't even talk about the comical debacle of you trying to dispose of your SIM card down a toilet. This is Harry Sunderland's number,' Henry declared.

Barlow sat there, unimpressed.

Henry shuffled the papers around and pointed to a highlighted series of calls to Sunderland's phone. ‘These calls were made the morning his wife was found in the river.'

He raised his eyes and looked at Barlow, whose eyes would not return the look. ‘And this call, using 141 to disguise you as the caller, was made to Steve Flynn's phone this morning, too.'

Henry slid the papers back into the folder. Underneath was a second one, which he opened, talking as he did. ‘I mean, the thing is you were pretty careless, but in the normal run of events, none of this stuff would have been spotted. We don't comb through mobile-phone accounts of our officers, do we, Ralph? Not unless we suspect something's amiss.'

‘It proves nothing,' Barlow said, breaking his silence.

‘It proves that when you get cocky, you get caught,' Henry said. ‘Now we come to this,' he said with delight. He laid his hand on the next folder and said, ‘As a divisional DI you wield a great deal of power, don't you? Not least in terms of the administration of crime reporting. Absolute power, I'd say.' Henry looked at him and saw a frown on Barlow's forehead – wondering, or knowing, what was coming. ‘You have the power to write off crimes, have them deleted from the system – or,
OR
, to invent crimes in order to facilitate criminal activity. You can cook the books, or burn the books, can't you?'

Barlow shrugged noncommittally.

‘See – problem is, once a ball starts rolling, it's usually very hard to stop. Interest is aroused. More digging begins. Unsavoury things are uncovered – and that ball turns into an Indiana Jones boulder which, even though you might not believe it, is what you are now fleeing from.'

‘I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Henry.'

The detective superintendent picked up another sheet of paper.

‘Crime forms – for a few very petty offences. Offences which never actually took place but were reported by you as a means to an end.'

Henry read through one carefully. ‘This is one from two years ago. Theft from the person. A bag-snatch. Not robbery. That would have caused too much interest. So, just a snatch and a run with the offender seen to jump into a black Range Rover. No arrest made. Nothing much done about it. But, as a result of this so-called crime, you did a PNC check for top-range newish black Range Rovers in the northwest and came up with' – he held up a sheet – ‘over twenty.' He smiled. ‘Should I go on?'

‘You'll have to, because you've lost me here.'

‘OK . . . eight of these Range Rovers were subsequently stolen – not all at once – but not one was ever recovered.' His good eye narrowed fractionally. ‘What are the odds of that? You'd expect a couple to turn up at least. But not a one?' He fished out another piece of paper. ‘This is a recent crime report submitted by you dealing with the theft of property from a building site. Something and nothing, a minor crime. Guess what? The offenders escaped in what was described as a black Range Rover. Then guess what? You did a PNC search for black Range Rovers, which threw up eleven very new ones in the northwest. Then guess what? Four of them got stolen.' Henry's voice became serious. ‘And now three of those four are sitting in Harry Sunderland's warehouse. And the fourth is in a police garage – because it was being driven last night by the man who tried to kill me and Steve Flynn.'

Silence – except for a cell door ominously clanging shut, something timed to accidental perfection.

‘These reports are all a matter of record, Ralph, as are your phone calls to Sunderland and to Steve Flynn. Now, thing is, his wife is dead and I have yet to be convinced she committed suicide or just had a nasty accident.' He ran his hand over his face, stretching his tired features. ‘And because you warned him I was coming to see him – which you did, didn't you – I'm deeply suspicious about her death now – which I wasn't before all this shit started happening.' Henry poked a finger at Barlow. ‘You are a bent cop, Ralph, and I'm going to unravel all this and you can either help or hinder, I don't care. But you need to care because, if Jennifer Sunderland was murdered and you knew about it, you've had it. And – big “and” – to add insult to injury, the man who tried to kill me and Steve Flynn was driving a stolen Range Rover that is on your PNC printout, and I don't like people trying to kill me, Ralph. It pisses me off.' Abruptly he said, ‘This interview is concluded for the prisoner to consult with his solicitor.' Henry took out the tapes and sealed them and had them signed, then rose to leave.

As he did, Barlow said, ‘What was it, Henry?'

‘What was what?'

‘What was my mistake?'

‘Apart from all this, you mean?' Henry indicated the files.

‘You know what I mean. What did I do or say to give it away? I'd just like to know what a great detective looks for,' Barlow said sarcastically. ‘And you're such a great detective, aren't you? But actually, we all know you're not. You make bad judgement calls and you've been flying by the seat of your pants for years now, all because you're up the chief's arse.'

‘Difference is, Ralph. I'm still flying – but you've crashed and burned.' He gave Barlow a subtle wink.

Henry took the coffee that was proffered as he entered the DI's office at Blackpool police station and took a grateful swig. He looked at the people assembled therein – FB, Rik Dean, Steve Flynn and Bill Robbins. They had been watching an audiovisual feed from the interview room on a monitor set up in Rik's office.

‘Well?' Henry said.

‘Things are moving quickly,' FB commented. ‘Though I didn't realize you were so far up my backside.'

Henry laughed. ‘If only they knew the truth.' He settled on the corner of the desk feeling excessively weary, his mind fizzing.

The door opened and Jerry Tope came in, a piece of paper in hand.

‘Two identifications,' he announced. ‘Well, ninety per cent certain . . . the guy at Joe Speakman's house was Yuri Gregorov; the guy who tried to kill you last night – Vladimir Kaminski, the two Russian enforcers, as we suspected. Oscar Malinowski's men.'

Henry ingested the news. ‘Russians,' he said quietly. He'd been face to face with bad Russians before and in his experience they were not pleasant.

‘What about Sunderland?' FB asked, referring to the other prisoner ensconced in a cell at the far end of the complex.

‘We . . . let me think,' Henry began uncertainly. Putting his thoughts in order suddenly became a chore. ‘We know what we've got. Dead girl in a mortuary, dead woman in a river, seemingly unconnected, but both having the same dentist in Cyprus. I don't know what the significance is of that, yet, by the way. Dead woman in river is thought to have something in her possession so valuable that Russian hit men come after it – so what is it? I know we've been through this before . . .'

‘Document?' Tope suggested.

‘Photo?' Bill suggested. ‘An incriminating one?'

Henry shook his head. ‘The way forward,' he said. ‘Husband's in custody, so let's ask him. Get into his ribs about why and how she ended up in the drink and what she might have had that was so important. In the meantime I want search teams at Sunderland's address, Barlow's address and I want a proper job done at Joe Speakman's house, too.'

‘Three search teams?' Rik said. ‘You'll be lucky.'