Fighting for the Dead hc-18

by Nick Oldham

  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.

  FOURTEEN

  Silence.

  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 c
ouple 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.’

  ‘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 ri
ver?’

  ‘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.’