Fighting for the Dead (23 page)

‘Make me lucky . . . I'll do a preliminary interview with Sunderland, then I'd like to be there when they “spin his drum”, as they say. In the meantime, Jerry, will you start trying to make sense of all this . . . you know, timelines, backgrounds, relationships, histories, pull a story together.'

‘Love to,' Tope said, relishing the prospect.

‘Bill, will you help him?' Bill nodded. Henry then addressed Flynn. ‘What do you want to do, Steve?'

‘Tag along with you, maybe?'

‘OK.' Henry looked at FB. ‘Boss?'

‘Just get on with it, Henry – do what you have to do and stop brown-nosing, OK?'

Flynn asked Henry, ‘So what was it?'

‘What was what?'

‘The mistake.'

‘Yeah, go on, Henry, tell us . . . pretty please,' Rik said.

‘Nothing really . . . just that when I went with Ralph to break the news to Sunderland that we'd found his wife, Sunderland said something that he couldn't have known and I picked up on it. The only person who could have told him was someone who knew exactly where the body had been recovered from . . . I just assumed Ralph had told him, but if it hadn't been Ralph, it must have been some other cop, probably. But it was him and I think they're deep into something which probably involves this Chechnyan ganglord, Malinowski. And, unfortunately, Joe Speakman's in that mix, too.'

For the time being Sunderland was content to be represented by a duty solicitor and was sitting alongside him as Henry entered the interview room and plonked himself opposite. After the tape formalities and necessary introductions, Henry explained this was just a preliminary interview to give Sunderland the opportunity to say something, if he so desired. Further interviews would follow later, after securing and preserving evidence.

‘What does that mean?' Sunderland asked.

‘The search of your business premises, where items of evidence will be seized, such as stolen Range Rovers.' Henry watched Sunderland's reaction to this – just a kink of the mouth. Then Henry said, ‘And your house will be searched, too.'

This news jarred Sunderland. His eyes rose and Henry saw apprehension in them and tension in his whole being. ‘You can't do that,' he said.

‘Just watch me.'

Sunderland turned to his brief. ‘He can't do that, can he?'

‘I'm afraid he can – with the necessary authorization.'

‘Which I've got,' Henry confirmed. He leaned on the table. ‘Why? Something to hide?'

Now Sunderland wouldn't lock eyes with Henry.

‘What am I going to find, Mr Sunderland? Want to tell me now?'

‘You'll find nothing.' Sunderland pinched the bridge of his nose.

‘You sure about that? It won't be a cursory search – I'll rip your place to shreds.' No response. Henry paused thoughtfully, sat back and folded his arms. ‘Mr Sunderland – what did your wife have in her possession that was so all-fired important? So important that two men committed serious assaults' – here Henry pointed at his own face – ‘and almost killed a man to find whatever it was?'

‘Don't know what you're talking about.'

‘What did you and her argue about the night she fell into the river?'

‘Nothing.'

‘How did she fall into the river?'

‘How would I know? I wasn't there. I've already told the police that.'

‘OK – how well do you know Joe Speakman and his wife?'

‘Only in passing.'

‘How about Yuri Gregorov and Vladimir Kaminski?'

Sunderland shrugged. ‘Never heard of them.'

‘What about a gangster in Cyprus called Malinowski?'

‘A gangster? What planet are you on? I'm a businessman.'

‘What's going to happen to those Range Rovers? Where are they destined?'

‘Don't know what you mean.'

‘How well do you know Ralph Barlow?'

‘Who? Does that answer your question?' he sneered.

‘OK,' Henry smiled wickedly. ‘Just food for thought, things for you to mull on.' He brought the interview to a close, sealed the tapes and stood up. ‘Going to search your property now.'

Henry and Rik walked through the narrow corridors and tight stairwells of Blackpool police station. Flynn tagged along behind them like a spare part, along for the ride but with no valuable input to give or job to do. He was feeling frustrated and out of place.

‘Search teams are sorted,' Rik was saying, ‘and they're all en route, one from Southern Division, one from Eastern and one of ours. I've emailed their sergeants copies of the search authorizations for Sunderland's and Barlow's houses.'

‘What about Sunderland Transport?'

Rik winced. ‘I've had the stolen-vehicle squad seize the Range Rovers but other than shutting the place down, I think we'll have to come back to that one. It's a busy place, lorries coming and going.'

‘Shut it down, then,' Henry said. ‘When we have enough people to search it, that is. If the Range Rovers have been seized, that's enough for the time being.'

‘Incidentally, Range Rovers are big business with the Russkies, according to the stolen-vehicle guys . . . big trade in them across Eastern Europe . . . could be where they're headed.'

Henry took that on board as they reached the lower floor exit into the police-station car park. ‘What have I missed?' he asked.

‘I think we're about covered,' Rik said. ‘It's just a matter of getting their stories out of them . . . they'll crack,' he said. ‘But what do you think it's all about?'

‘The usual – money, sex, greed, revenge, blackmail . . . and all the good things that make it worthwhile being a cop.' He looked at Flynn, then glanced at his watch and blanched. He had not realized how quickly time had passed since receiving the phone call from Flynn that morning with the ‘tell Christie to back off' warning that had galvanized him into action. Henry Christie didn't back off from anything.

Much had happened since. Something that had not happened – again – was Henry keeping in contact with Alison. He grimaced internally.

‘I need to make a call,' he said, suddenly annoyed with himself. Rik nodded, turned and went back down the corridor. Henry stepped out on to the car park, with Flynn behind him.

Flynn watched him with a wry smile as he shuffled off, pulling out his mobile phone and trying to get a signal in the high-walled compound, by holding up his phone high.

Flynn was beginning to feel like the proverbial spare prick at a wedding, but was loath to leave the party because of his deep involvement in everything that had happened since heaving Jennifer Sunderland's body out of the river. He thought that events gave him some sort of right to be here, but in reality he knew Henry was just being generous to him and he also knew FB was uncomfortable with him hanging around. Ex-cops were a pain.

Which brought Flynn to thoughts of Henry and his very much altered perception of the guy.

A thoroughly dedicated detective, Flynn was impressed by Henry's doggedness and attention to detail, even though he could tell that Henry's head was spinning with all the information being chucked at him. But he missed nothing and Flynn was sure that if Henry hadn't clocked Sunderland's river ‘mishap', none of the subsequent events would have been linked together so quickly, if at all.

Flynn felt a burgeoning respect for him. And beyond Henry's obvious skills as a jack, the incidents with the two mad Russians had shown Henry to be courageous and brave, and that impressed Flynn, too. As well as Henry's generosity about living accommodation.

‘Going soft on the bastard,' he thought. ‘Best to keep thinking of him as a bit of a twat, I reckon.'

‘All quiet on the Western front?' Flynn asked as Henry returned from making his call to Alison.

‘Yeah, thanks.' Henry was relieved – and suddenly extremely hungry.

‘What's the plan for me?' Flynn asked.

‘Whatever you want. I'm going to oversee these searches, pull in a whole bunch of detectives from across the county who I can brief and then get them interviewing.' He checked his watch again. Time was disappearing fast. ‘I'll get the searches started, see if we can find anything of interest, get these two bedded down for the night' – he was referring to the prisoners – ‘then really get into their ribs in the morning, after I've had some proper sleep.'

‘You think Sunderland killed his wife?'

‘Maybe, maybe not . . . but that's not the point. You were once a detective . . . what's the approach for any sudden death, even if it appears straightforward?'

‘Think murder.'

‘Bread and butter – and another mistake Barlow made, not treating it as murder to start with. Anyone else would have been hauled in if their missus had ended up drowned, but not his mate Sunderland.'

‘So, back to me.'

‘What do you want to do? You can stick with me if you want.'

‘Mm, maybe I'll check out the searches with you . . . but after that, I'll get back to why I'm here in the first place. So far I've not delivered on that. Should have let Mrs Sunderland drift away.'

‘You couldn't have, could you?'

‘Guess not.'

‘The bedroom offer is still open, by the way.'

‘Thanks, Henry . . . I almost said you're a pal.'

‘Let's not get slushy . . . how about some fast food? My blood sugar has dropped to a dangerous level and only a KFC will remedy it.'

I
t was 8 p.m. Henry and Flynn had been on the go for almost twelve hours that day, plus all the hours from the preceding night and day, so they were perilously close to empty in terms of adrenaline and energy. That despite the KFC meal bucket they'd shared, plus a coffee each. The energy rush was short-lived and though both men had full bellies, all the food did was make them want to crash out like lions after a kill.

Henry led the way out of Blackpool in the HQ pool vehicle, passing close to his house on an estate near to Marton Circle, the roundabout at the end of the M55. He hadn't been there in about a week and he hoped it was still standing. His youngest daughter, Leanne, had access and Henry envisioned her entertaining a series of boyfriends, following her fairly messy break up with her long-term bloke.

He was tempted to call in and drop into his own bed. That would have to wait. The duties and responsibilities of an SIO outweighed this need.

His plan was to check out how the search at Harry Sunderland's house was progressing, then wind them in for the night, securing and guarding the property, and recommencing in the morning. After carrying out this task, he intended to hare back to Blackpool and crash out at home so he wouldn't have a long journey to Blackpool nick when he got up. Both he and Flynn had discounted staying at headquarters.

It was all very well having the landlady of a country pub as a lady friend, but when the pub was so far out in the sticks, it was sometimes inconvenient geographically. The benefits did outweigh this minus point, though . . . and his mind drifted to Alison as he drove.

Behind him, driving Alison's car, was Flynn.

He realized he was supernumerary, just a bit of an annoyance to Henry, and whilst he was keen to stay involved, he knew he had no right to be under Henry's feet.

The decision he took was that when they reached Lancaster, he would flash Henry to stop and tell him he was taking a step out of it. He was going to go to the hospital to visit Colin, catch up with Diane, apologize for all the crap that had dogged him since he'd landed – not least the complete and utter destruction of their beloved narrowboat.

He had an idea that he would actually bed down in the chandlery itself. When he'd had an initial mooch around the place, he had found that upstairs, apart from the room used to store goods that had probably once been a bedroom, there was also a functioning bathroom with an old sink and a loo. It would be good enough for him, should keep him out of mischief and ensure he was right on the shop to look after it.

Damn, he thought . . . he was pining for the simple life he'd carved out for himself in Puerto Rico . . . sun, fishing, uncomplicated sex, more fishing . . . his mind drifted to the Canary Islands as he drove.

Flynn followed Henry up the M6 northbound and they exited at junction 34, north Lancaster, and turned towards the city. It was on this stretch of road that Flynn flashed Henry to pull in and stop. He could have used the mobile, but wanted to speak face to face.

‘What is it?' Henry growled irritably by the roadside. It was getting cold and a bit unpleasant and he was shivering.

Flynn grinned and decided not to rile Henry any further.

‘Look, Henry, I'm gonna cut and run here. I'm just a pain in the arse to you – no, don't say anything, I know you don't think that. I need to do what I came here to do. I keep saying it and then doing something different. Diane's going to need someone to sort out the salvage of the canal boat and I need to run that shop properly. I'm going to be here for the next week, if you actually need me, then I'm on the big silver bird back to the sunshine – where I belong.'

‘So you're going to trust me to do my job?' Henry said sardonically.

‘Yup.' Flynn again held back the urge to have a dig.

‘Thanks.' Henry tried not to show his relief, because even though Flynn had basically saved his life twice, having him hanging around the investigation was pushing it, ex-cop or not. ‘We still need to sit down and get your statements sorted and speak to CPS about stuff.'

‘As to whether I'm going to get charged with two murders, you mean?'

‘That won't happen.' Henry shook his head. ‘Trust me, I'm a superintendent. Are you going back to the Owl?'

‘Naah, but thanks. I'll crash down at the chandlery.'

‘You know you're welcome . . .'