Fighting for the Dead hc-18

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Alison said, peering. ‘Look, Henry.’

  Henry could not see the detail, but he was fascinated by the X-ray that clearly showed his skull — cranium, jaws, teeth. Pretty ugly and an unsettling insight into what he would look like once the maggots had eaten away his flesh.

  The doctor lowered the sheet. ‘There’s not much we can do about it, unfortunately. Can hardly put a plaster cast around your head, can we?’ he chuckled. ‘It’ll be down to time and good pain relief.’

  ‘Like last time,’ Henry said.

  ‘It’s been broken before?’ Henry nodded and the doctor examined the X-ray closely again. He sighed. ‘Can’t see the previous break, so it could be in exactly the same place. But it should still heal well.’

  ‘Didn’t last time.’

  ‘I’m sure it will this time,’ the doctor answered him.

  A few minutes later after being given a prescription for a string of painkillers, Henry was discharged. The suggestion that he might have to stay in for overnight observation was thankfully not raised, and he didn’t remind them.

  Hand in hand, he and Alison walked towards the exit, discussing what to do about his car. Because of the size of the swelling and the fact it had closed one eye, he had been advised not to drive. The prospect of leaving the Merc in the police garage wasn’t appealing, though. It would be safe from thieving, but not damage — and Henry didn’t want to abandon it there.

  Alison pulled Henry to a jarring halt. ‘Look, I’ll drive you to the Owl in my car and we’ll collect yours in the morning when the swelling might have gone down,’ she insisted.

  ‘I can drive. One eye’s plenty good enough. I know where I’m going.’

  ‘The country roads have no street lights — so you can’t.’

  ‘I can so.’

  She gave him her best look of disdain, then shook her head at his stubbornness and glanced down the corridor to see a figure walking disconsolately towards them from the surgical wards. She was about to give Henry a piece of her mind, but did a double-take.

  ‘That looks like… oh my God, it is. Steve Flynn.’

  ‘Is it?’ Henry reckoned to peer at him.

  ‘Yes, it is… Steve,’ she called.

  If there had been stones or pebbles on the floor, Flynn would have been kicking them forlornly along. He stopped and raised his head at the sound of his name.

  ‘Alison?’ he said uncertainly.

  She released her grip on Henry’s hand. ‘Steve… it’s so good to see you,’ she said genuinely, pacing away from Henry and giving Flynn an enormous hug, the sight of which opened Henry’s good eye with infuriation. Flynn had met Alison at the same time as Henry in Kendleton.

  ‘You look really well,’ she said, drawing away and inspecting him from tip to toe. Flynn always looked well. A deep Canary Island tan on a well-proportioned and extremely fit body, six-two, and looks to match. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Hasn’t he told you?’ Flynn indicted Henry with a sneer, then a double-take as he saw Henry’s face.

  Alison gave Henry an accusing look. ‘No, he hasn’t.’

  He responded with a wimpy shrug. ‘I haven’t had time — and why would I, anyway?’

  Flynn scowled at Henry, but instantly changed his expression to pleasant when Alison looked at him. ‘I’m just here helping out a poorly mate,’ he said, then frowned. ‘So… you two?’ He pointed at them, his finger rocking back and forth.

  Alison’s face softened proudly. ‘Yes — us two.’

  Flynn wasn’t the best of men to read lovey-dovey body language, but he couldn’t help it in this instance as it was clear that Henry and Alison were very much an item. What he didn’t understand was why they were so brazenly public about it. Flynn thought Henry was married.

  ‘Oh, right, nice one,’ he said quickly. To Henry he said, ‘What happened to you since I last saw you?’

  ‘Bumped into a door,’ Henry said shortly, no desire to enter into a discussion with Flynn about anything.

  ‘No he didn’t,’ Alison said, knowing full well the two men did not rub along nicely. ‘He’s been assaulted.’

  ‘Well, fancy that.’ Flynn stifled a laugh. ‘Can’t imagine anyone wanting to hit you.’

  Henry held Flynn with a one-eyed stare, then said to Alison, ‘Time we were going.’

  ‘How long are you here for, Steve?’ Alison asked, ignoring him.

  ‘Not sure. Not long.’

  ‘If you get the chance, come out to the Owl. Have a meal and a drink and I’ll put you up for the night. All the bedrooms have been refurbished now. They’re really nice.’

  ‘And the bloodstains wiped up?’

  A shadow crossed Alison’s face at the memories evoked by the remark. ‘Yes, they’ve gone,’ she said darkly, then bucked up. ‘Done wonders for trade, actually. Appeals to people’s dark side, I guess. Seeing where murders took place. Anyway… it’d be nice to have a catch-up.’ She placed a kiss on Flynn’s cheek and Flynn saw Henry’s bristling reaction to it, like a male lion being challenged by an upstart. So Flynn returned it with a kiss of his own and gave Henry a smug sideways grin.

  Then, to add insult to injury, he said to Alison, ‘I’ll definitely come.’ He gave a quick wave, but Henry stopped him from going.

  ‘Quick word.’ He edged Flynn out of Alison’s earshot.

  ‘Is this a warning to steer clear of her?’

  ‘Not necessary… that woman you dragged out of the water?’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Did you take anything from her?’

  Flynn’s face hardened instantly, offended. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Did you take any property from her? I’m asking. I’m doing my job — remember?’

  Open-mouthed, Flynn said, ‘Do you want the other side of your face to match up?’

  ‘Just answer the question… did you take anything from her?’

  ‘How dare you ask me that, Henry? Fuck off!’ He spun away and stalked through the sliding door of the main hospital entrance, furious that Henry had the nerve to ask the question.

  Henry watched his back and muttered, ‘He doth protest too much.’

  SIX

  By the time Flynn re-entered earth’s atmosphere, having been flung fuming and furious into orbit by the insinuation of Henry Christie’s question, he had driven the Smart Car all the way back to Glasson Dock. He’d parked outside the chandlery and was halfway through a bar meal at the Victoria, which was accompanied by a very chilled pint of Stella Artois and a Glenfiddich chaser.

  The food was good, simple and filling. The lager was excellent, the whisky tremendous… the ideal combination to re-enter from the stratosphere without completely burning up.

  It was only as he cleared his plate, sat back and started to sip his second pint and chaser did his emotional temperature start to fall.

  Such was the effect Henry Christie had on him. Although Flynn had initially laid most of the blame on Henry for hastening his departure from the force and he had learned the truth of the matter later — that Henry had actually covered up a lot of the incriminating stuff he’d unearthed about Flynn — the damage to their relationship was pretty much done. They just didn’t like each other, never would.

  The two men had come into contact a few times in recent years, in situations not compatible with endearing themselves to one another. It didn’t help that when they’d met up in Kendleton, Flynn had thought he’d had a chance at getting something together with Alison. Circumstances and geography dictated otherwise — not least that Alison did not fancy him — but to find Henry walking hand-in-hand with her, like two lurv-struck teenagers, really piqued him. That Henry knew he fancied his chances with Alison and was probably now having a ‘right good chuckle’ to himself, also made him seethe.

  He sipped his beer and as he thought about things, he realized his problem went far beyond simple jealousy.

  Yes, he was envious of Henry, but what really irked him was his own inab
ility to find and keep someone for himself.

  He had been in love once recently, the only time since his acrimonious divorce some years earlier. But it had ended in tragedy and he had been unable to pick up the pieces since.

  Now he was starting to get worried about facing a future alone.

  The big, rough, tough man of action wanted a serious relationship.

  ‘Diddums,’ he thought to himself.

  What falling in love had taught him — after vowing never to do so after his divorce — was that it was wonderful, confusing, compelling — and something he needed. He thought he could handle being alone, indeed had done so for a few years, but now the prospect of hitting sixty and single frightened the crap out of him, more than swimming with a hammerhead shark.

  Sixty was a long way away, but time flew, and you got old before you knew it.

  ‘Bastard,’ he hissed quietly into his beer. ‘How did he get someone like her? Wonder what his wife thinks about it?’

  The beer went to his lips and half of it slid down his throat.

  He glanced around the pub, which was moderately busy. A few couples and a few single oldish men propping up the bar. Flynn’s eyes paused on the couples, before tearing away and returning to the drink in front of him. He finished it in one fell swoop, then the chaser.

  Actually, he reasoned, life wasn’t that bad. He enjoyed his life in Puerto Rico in Gran Canaria, had made some good friends, had regular sex with a few ‘no strings attached’ ladies, and had a great job he hoped he would do for the rest of his life. Skippering a sport-fishing boat was an awesome way to make a living and his plan was — eventually — to buy his own boat.

  Lots of blokes would leap at the chance of leading his life.

  Suddenly he felt better after his inner pep-talk.

  He stood up, went to the bar, bought a couple of bottles of beer and went out into the night, which was cold and dark.

  ‘Boss, I thought you’d want to know — it’s definitely Sunderland’s wife,’ Ralph Barlow said. ‘Jennifer.’

  Henry was sitting in the warm lounge of the owner’s living accommodation at the back of the Tawny Owl. On the journey across from Lancaster in Alison’s car, he’d got a call from Barlow but the signal had gone before they could talk — not uncommon out in the sticks — and he hadn’t been able to return it. He had called Barlow using the landline in the pub.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ Henry said.

  ‘He was pretty cut up about it. It must have hit him.’

  ‘Genuine?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Think so.’

  ‘What about a statement and interview?’

  ‘I’ve left it loose. Some time tomorrow.’

  ‘Might as well get the PM done first anyway. See if anything comes of that.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought that.’

  ‘Did you mention the robbery thing, the armed guys?’

  ‘You said not to.’

  ‘Yeah, I did, didn’t I?’

  There was a slight pause as Henry’s brain ticked over whilst he mentally rechecked his list. Had everything been covered? Could everyone sleep tight tonight?

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Just cogitating… anything on the two robbers yet?’

  ‘Not as such… but there could be some CCTV footage from the hospital cameras.’

  ‘Leave it for now, we’ll have a look tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow? You not reporting in sick, boss?’

  ‘Things to do.’

  ‘But you’re well hurt.’

  ‘I’ll be fine after an ice-pack, some JD, more pills, food and sleep… I’ll be in at nine-thirty.’

  Henry hung up. The door opened and, as if on cue, Alison entered the room with a small ice-pack from the freezer, wrapped in a tea towel. She sat alongside him and brought the ice up to his face. He winced at the contact, but bravely hung in there, then took it from her, moulding it tenderly around the contours of the swelling.

  ‘You’re not really going to invite Flynn round, are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ It was a firm answer. Although she had no romantic ideas where Flynn was concerned, the two did have a bond that would connect them for the rest of their lives. She had saved his life and in so doing had been forced to take someone else’s. Flynn had covered it up but Alison was secretly aware that Henry knew what had happened but had never voiced his suspicions. She hoped he wouldn’t raise the subject now that Flynn was back on the scene. ‘You were a bit harsh with him, I thought.’

  ‘I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could chuck him, love. Y’know there’s over a million quid missing from a drugs raid he botched, years ago…’

  ‘I know, I know… let it go, will you?’

  ‘And, and,’ Henry went on, about to mount a very high horse. ‘All right, maybe he didn’t steal it, but his bloody cop-partner did and the money and his partner have vanished somewhere in the ozone layer.’ He looked at her.

  ‘Finished?’

  ‘And I know he fancies you,’ Henry admitted dully.

  ‘Ahh, the truth will out. The old green-eyed monster.’

  Henry’s look became a guilty frown. ‘He’s a good-looking bastard,’ he said. ‘Tanned, fit… smooth.’

  ‘And I’m so easily seduced. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘You were by me.’

  ‘Henry, I love you… end of.’ It was a statement that broached no further argument.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ he muttered. ‘I need to make a few calls.’

  ‘And I need to get back to the bar, the locals are thirsty tonight.’ She touched the back of his hand gently, then left.

  Henry picked up the phone and dialled with his thumb, a number he knew well.

  ‘Hello, Marina, it’s Henry Christie… is Jerry about?’ he asked.

  ‘One moment. I think he’s just distilling the home brew… Jerry!’

  Henry held the phone away from his ear as she bawled out the name. Henry was calling DC Jerry Tope, who worked in the Intelligence Unit at headquarters. Tope had done a lot of good work for Henry over recent years, was an excellent Intel analyst. He was also an expert at hacking into computer databases — usually illegally. Tope had been headhunted by the FBI, so impressed were they after he’d drilled into their computer network, but Henry had managed to block the move. He guessed it would only be a matter of time before he left the cops for more lucrative pastures. For the time being, Jerry Tope was his and because he was so talented and useful, Henry tolerated the fact he was a grumpy bastard who showed little respect for rank.

  There were a lot of rustling noises, some whispering, and suddenly Tope’s voice came on the line. Abruptly he said, ‘Two things. First it’s gone nine and I’m off duty. Second, I’m just sterilizing my wine bottles.’

  ‘And third,’ Henry cut in, ‘I’m your boss, you’re a DC, and if you don’t shut it, you’ll be on a school-crossing patrol in Bacup on Monday. Promise.’ It wasn’t really a promise or a threat, but part of the little ritual he and Tope often went through to kick off their conversations.

  Tope grunted, ‘Whaddya want?’

  Henry explained the two things. One was a fairly straightforward piece of research, the second something a little more delicate that required Tope’s computer skills and sensitive links with the Telephone Unit, because Henry wanted this doing via the rear entrance.

  Tope did his usual ‘umming’, but didn’t ask why. The first request was easy, the second less so. He said he would get back to Henry next day.

  Before hanging up Henry said, ‘Incidentally, I bumped into an old friend of yours today… Steve Flynn.’ Tope emitted a loud groan. ‘Just to warn you,’ Henry said. ‘I know he fishes for information from you, because of what he has on you. Don’t be tempted.’

  Henry was certain he heard Tope’s Adam’s apple rise and fall in his throat. He hung up with a smirk — one that hurt his face.

  Then he stretched out, tilted his head sideways and balanced the ice-pack on his cheek, and settled d
own for the night.

  The wind slapped the halyards on the rigging of the yachts in the marina, making a lovely clanking noise. Flynn paused to listen to the sound that made him smile. He sighed, wishing he was back in Gran Canaria. It was in the same zone as the UK, difference being if he had been there he would have been dressed in a T-shirt, three-quarter-length pants and flip-flops, cruising from bar to bar in Puerto Rico’s commercial centre. The evening would still be young — and warm.

  Instead it was bone-chilling, the wind zipping in up the Lune estuary.

  He hunkered down and walked alongside the canal up to the barge, stepping over on to the rear deck. He immediately saw that the door leading to the living area had been smashed open and was hanging off its hinges. The door was pretty substantial and to smash it off must have taken some doing.

  In spite of the beer and whisky, he became alert, although he had no reason to suspect this was anything other than the work of kids. He placed his beer bottles on the deck and walked to the door. He did not expect anyone to be inside but if there was he had already alerted them to his presence when he came noisily aboard.

  Three steps led down to the door. He went sideways down them and pushed the door away from him. Although the interior of the boat was in darkness, Flynn’s eyes were fairly well adjusted from having strolled back from the pub and he could immediately see the disarray inside. Galley cupboards were open, pots, pans and utensils were scattered around, and the furniture overturned.

  Flynn swore. He bowed his head and ducked in order to get inside and fumble for the light switch that was somewhere to his right. His fingers ran down the wall, his arm stretched out.

  It was at that moment the two men moved in for him — one from behind, one from the front.

  Flynn saw the blur of movement ahead of him. A dark shape, a hooded man moving quickly, and also the swish of something moving through the air, a stick or a bat, perhaps. It connected to his outstretched forearm, smashing against his ulna, sending a jarring spasm up past his elbow to his shoulder.

  He didn’t see the man behind him, just felt the flat-footed kick against the base of his spine that jerked his whole body and catapulted him onto his knees down the steps, crashing hard on to the wooden floor, where he sprawled out at the feet of the man in front of him.