by Nick Oldham
Flynn stood and looked at it, his mind working through it and constantly returning to the one fact that made him feel weak: the memory of the snippet of conversation that he’d had with Diane, just a throwaway remark. Two pieces of information that Diane had revealed to him openly and innocently.
One, that Colin had once worked for Harry Sunderland as a driver; two, that this property had been bought from Sunderland.
Flynn’s face remained impassive despite the fact that his brain was coming to conclusions that were deeply unsettling him.
‘Utter bollocks,’ he said out loud. He looked at the tooth again and thought, ‘Surely not.’
Grim-faced and angry, Henry screwed the HQ pool car down the M6, leaving plumes of unhealthy looking blue-black smoke behind him, reminding him he needed to check the oil.
He still hadn’t heard back from the divisional commander. The man was someone he knew quite well and respected. Henry could not imagine he would buckle under pressure from any solicitor, slick or otherwise. And Henry could not work out why he himself had not been contacted about any of this. That was an extra worry. Was he being cut out of the circle, and why?
The mobile phone was slotted into the crux of his right shoulder and ear as he tried to call Blackpool police station. There was no Bluetooth or hands-free connection in this basically appointed car, so it was back to breaking the law. It rang out for ages before someone in comms answered and Henry asked to be put through to the chief superintendent.
The man’s secretary answered and fielded off Henry’s insistence to be connected to him. He tried to keep his cool as he spoke to the lady who was a very effective firewall. In the end he gave up and ended the call, then tried to call Rik Dean, holding the phone in his left hand, steering wheel in the right, and thumb-tabbed through his contacts list to find Rik’s number and trying to keep the car safe at 80 mph.
He found the number, pressed call and jammed the phone between shoulder and ear again, waiting for the connection. Which never came: number unobtainable.
In frustration, Henry threw the phone onto the passenger seat and almost had a seizure when it bounced sideways off the seat and dropped down into the gap between seat and door with a clunk.
He swore and reached across with his left hand but it was just too far for his fingertips and he had to shoot upright when a car pulled out from the centre lane without warning and Henry had to anchor on, and swerve from the fast lane into the middle to avoid a collision.
The driver of that car was completely clueless that an angry maniac was in the car he’d just cut up.
Henry coaxed more miles per hour out of the vehicle than he thought possible. Hoping there was enough oil in its system to get him to Blackpool without the engine seizing, he overtook the offending car on the inside and gave the other driver a look of incomprehension. The man didn’t even glance sideways at Henry, who was fuming enough to give him the international ‘dick head’ gesture if they’d made eye contact.
Instead he just threw up both hands, grabbed the steering wheel again and shook it, pleading for more speed. None came. Eighty-five was tops.
And then, just to taunt him, his out-of-reach mobile phone started to ring.
Flynn was having breakfast, a bacon sandwich and large mug of coffee from the dockside cafe. He sat on a table outside, even though the morning was chilly, and watched the activity along the quayside at Glasson as the day came to life. A large yacht was working its way through the sea lock, the water draining down to the level of the dock. He watched the boat gradually disappear from view into the lock, until just the tip of the mainmast remained visible from where he sat. The lower lock gates then began to open.
Normally he would have loved watching this magnificent sight.
This morning it meant nothing to him as he munched through his tasty — but to him, tasteless — breakfast butty.
He watched the yacht leave the lock and motor slowly towards the dock gates, pass through them into the Lune estuary, where it went out of sight.
Flynn stood up and walked despondently back to the chandlery, knowing he wasn’t going to open up that morning after all. He stood outside the shop and pulled out the clear plastic money bag from his pocket that he’d found by the till, in which was the tooth.
He held it in the palm of his hand, trying to convince himself that there was a simple, rational, non-criminal explanation for the presence of the tooth and the blood stains. Try as he might, he wasn’t that persuasive
He made his decision and got into Alison’s car, which was parked in front of the shop.
Henry hurtled into the custody office to cast his eyes over the prisoner dry-wipe board affixed to the wall behind the custody officer’s desk. As ever, the cells at Blackpool were full to bursting — almost. Henry scanned the names twice and it took a few moments for him to realize that the ones he wanted to see up there — Sunderland and Barlow — were missing.
His knees went to lead and he was rooted to the spot. They had gone. Released. It wasn’t just a terrible joke.
He inhaled a steadying breath, walked past the short queue of prisoners waiting to be booked in, went behind the custody desk and caught the eye of the sergeant, whose face fell as he recognized Henry.
He was booking a prisoner in. He nodded worriedly at Henry and said, ‘One minute, boss.’
Henry walked into the tiny office behind the desk and stood waiting for him to finish up. The sergeant appeared a few minutes later. The expression on his face told Henry he knew everything.
‘What happened?’ Henry demanded.
‘I couldn’t do anything,’ the sergeant pleaded.
‘Just tell me what happened.’
‘I came on at six and the chief super and a solicitor came in and told me to release your two prisoners.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘Unlawful arrest. Not working expeditiously enough to investigate the case.’
‘And you let them go?’
‘I’m not going to say no to the chief super, am I? But they’re still on police bail — back in a week. I had to argue for that.’
‘By which time they’ll be long gone.’ Tight-lipped, Henry said, ‘Not your fault.’
‘It’s all documented on the custody record,’ the sergeant said. ‘There was all sorts of talk about civil litigation and I think the chief super was just covering his arse. Sorry, boss.’
‘I’ll go and see him now.’
‘There’s something else,’ the sergeant hesitated.
‘What?’ Henry said suspiciously.
‘Something I overheard… about the house searches…’ Henry’s guts whipped over and a fist seemed to crush them. ‘About them being illegal, too, and the chief super saying he would cancel or stop them.’
‘Shit… thanks, buzz me out, will you?’
Henry barged past him and went out into the police garage where he had half-abandoned the pool car. Here he found a signal on his mobile phone and called the support-unit sergeant in charge of the search at Sunderland’s house.
‘It’s Henry Christie… has anyone contacted you about stopping the search, Dave?’
‘No, should they have?’
‘They might do… look, what I want you to do is this…’ Henry gave him some instructions and at the end of the call he leaned against the pool car. The engine was still creaking as it cooled down from boiling point and a horrible whiff emanated from it. He shook his head, wondering what the hell was happening and who was on whose side.
Steeling himself, he walked back into the station, deciding to take the stairs up to the level on which the chief superintendent’s office was located instead of the lift.
Being early in the day, it was easy to find a space in the hospital car park. Flynn walked in and made his way through to the ward, off which Colin was now being cared for. As he turned into the ward, a nurse emerged from an office and asked if she could help.
Flynn’s nice smile and general charm worked wonders and alth
ough it was well out of normal visiting hours, she said he could have ten minutes — max — with the patient, who was awake and actually eating for the first time since his operation.
Colin looked better than when Flynn had last seen him, but was still exhausted and drawn.
‘Flynn!’
‘Hi, Col, how you feeling?’
He was sitting, propped up by pillows. Scrambled eggs on toast were on a plate across his knees.
‘I’m actually famished and feeling as good as can be expected, as they say. But famished is good. So, what’s new? Shouldn’t you be minding the shop?’
‘Yeah, I should,’ Flynn said, knowing that Colin knew nothing about the occurrences of the last few days. Flynn regarded his old mate with a puckered brow.
‘Problem?’ Colin asked.
The secretary rose defensively as Henry barged through the door of the divisional commander’s outer office.
‘I want to see Mr Geldhill,’ he said, and made to his right to pass her on the wing to get to the divisional commander’s office door.
She moved quickly and positioned herself between Henry and the door, shaking her head. ‘He’s busy. Someone’s in with him.’
‘Margery,’ Henry said, he had known the battle axe for quite a few years, ‘I don’t give a toss.’
‘You can’t go in, Henry.’
Henry shot her a pitying look. ‘I think you’ll find I can,’ he said petulantly.
‘Henry, please.’
‘Just tell him you couldn’t stop me. Tell him I was rude and elbowed my way past you — which is what I am and what I’m going to do.’
She saw ire and determination in Henry’s whole being, could see he was shaking. She wilted and moved sideways, allowing him to pass, a glint of apprehension in her eyes.
He did not knock, simply opened the door and let himself into the chief super’s office.
Tom Gledhill was sitting behind his wide desk, a uniformed inspector sitting opposite him. From their body language they seemed to be having a fairly informal discussion. Gledhill looked up and the instantaneous change in his demeanour was visible, becoming upright in his chair, tense suddenly.
Henry stood there, not saying a word.
Gledhill said, ‘Excuse me?’ Still Henry did not speak. ‘Henry, can’t you see I’m busy here?’
Henry knew he was trembling. He pointed a finger at the inspector. ‘Get out,’ he said.
Dumbfounded, the inspector’s mouth actually dropped open in complete horror. He looked for guidance from the commander.
‘We’ll continue this later, Gerry.’
The inspector stood and sidled warily around Henry, looking at the detective superintendent with a mix of awe and contempt, unable to make up his mind one way or the other.
‘And shut the door,’ Henry snapped. The poor man reacted as though he’d been slapped by a wet towel in a changing room and jerked out of the office.
Henry’s gaze settled on Gledhill, who picked up his desk phone. ‘Margery, definitely no interruptions now. Yes, I know.’ He glanced at Henry. ‘He is, you’re right.’ He cradled the phone. ‘Sit.’
Henry sat on the recently vacated chair. ‘What’s going on?’
‘With regard to your prisoners?’
‘Tom, no — with regard to the situation in the Middle East. Please, don’t fuck me about.’
Gledhill’s face hardened. ‘And don’t you forget you are talking to someone of senior rank,’ he bristled, but not terribly convincingly. Sometimes, even in the modern day and age, rank was pulled.
‘Fair enough,’ Henry relented. ‘Don’t fuck me about — sir.’
Henry saw the man was needled. His jaw muscles worked as though he was chewing something tough and unpleasant. ‘Like I said,’ Henry repeated, ‘what’s going on. Sir?’
‘I was dragged out of bed at five this morning by an irate solicitor, demanding that he be heard and that his clients were to be released forthwith, following their unlawful arrests.’
‘OK — so why wasn’t I contacted about this? I would have gladly turned out to defend the position.’
‘Henry, I tried to call you several times — no reply.’
Henry held up his phone. ‘No missed calls on this,’ he said.
Gledhill shrugged. ‘I take it you were ensconced with your tame landlady, out in the wilds where the phone signal is non-existent. Not good for an SIO. Hardly professional, eh?’ Gledhill was trying to bounce it back to Henry.
‘If you knew where I was, why didn’t you call the landline?’
‘It doesn’t really matter now, does it? Fact is I got dragged out of bed, you were uncontactable and someone had to make a decision.’
‘So you took the line of least resistance?’
‘I did the correct thing under the circumstances, and with regard to the Police and Criminal Evidence Act and the Codes of Practice.’ He waited for Henry’s challenge.
‘Utter cock!’
‘The solicitor argued that the arrests were purely speculative, with no evidential foundation or reasonable suspicion. The force was in a very bad position.’
Henry studied the senior officer, senior in terms of rank, not years. He was not impressed. ‘Tom — Harry Sunderland probably killed his wife. Ralph Barlow has been feeding him confidential information which was used to commit crime. They could both be linked to the unsolved murder of a teenage girl and the search of Sunderland’s house has uncovered some pretty fucking damning evidence about him sheltering two killers.’
‘Henry, this is not the good old days, like when you worked down the Valley. You cannot lock people up on a whim and then go looking for evidence, just because you think they might be guilty. That was a seventies trick and you know it. And how come the searches are still going on? I specifically instructed Rik Dean to contact the search teams to call them off.’
Henry held back a smirk. ‘Guess the message mustn’t have got through — bad reception up there.’
‘What have you found?’
‘A camera phone which could contain evidence.’
Gledhill rolled his eyes at this. ‘Could?’
‘Passports relating to the two men who tried to kill me and Steve Flynn, and guns.’
‘Shit,’ Gledhill breathed.
‘Yes, shit.’
The two men regarded each other silently.
‘They’re still on bail,’ Gledhill said. ‘They have to come back. You still have a hold on them, time to build up your case.’
‘Did you ensure they surrendered their passports?’
‘No. I didn’t think that was necessary. I was assured…’ Gledhill’s voice trailed off pathetically. ‘Sunderland is an upstanding member of the community. He won’t be going anywhere. And Ralph Barlow has twenty-odd years of solid coppering behind him. He’ll fight any allegation. Neither man will disappear.’
Henry shook his head. ‘This is just incredible bollocks and you know it, Tom. I’m going to walk out of here, find those two men and drag their carcasses back in.’
‘No you’re not.’
Henry pushed himself up, Gledhill watching in disbelief. Henry turned at the door to say something, but Gledhill said, ‘Henry?’
‘What?’
‘Be careful.’
‘What does that mean?’
Gledhill’s mouth clammed shut and Henry realized he wasn’t going to say anything else. He went out.
As the door closed, Gledhill reached for his phone.
SEVENTEEN
‘Mr Christie? This is Melanie Speakman… I’m really sorry to bother you.’
‘No, that’s fine,’ Henry said. There was a note of strain in her voice. And in his.
He was sitting in the pool car down in the police garage, brooding and attempting to make some sense of what had happened. The call from Melanie came on his mobile phone as he slumped there in the driver’s seat, surrounded by bleak concrete walls, thinking the absolute worst of everyone in the world. He was completely gutt
ed by the chief super’s decision, but what was done, was done. Deal with it. Pick up the pieces. The underlying problem was that the force was always running scared of litigation, which always took a huge dent out of its budget.
An hour in unlawful custody easily equated to a thousand pounds for the poor soul, plus substantial legal costs that ensured the lawyers didn’t starve. Over eight hours for two people meant a lot of dosh, potentially, so better to take the easy way out, especially when the people in custody had access to slimeball solicitors who enjoyed screwing the cops.
On critical reflection, Henry thought that maybe he had jumped the gun. Arresting people just to see what came out of the woodwork was maybe a little old hat. He should have got warrants first, then there would have been no argument. Or maybe Gledhill was part of the plot. Or am I just being paranoid, he wondered.
It was fortunate that Rik Dean had come in early to clear some of his own backlog, and picked up on what was happening. At least that gave Henry some warning.
His meanderings had been interrupted by Melanie Speakman, daughter of Joe. Dead Joe.
‘Can I help you in some way?’ he asked.
‘I really need to see you… I’ve, I’ve just remembered something that could be important.’ Her voice was shaky.
‘Can you tell me over the phone?’
She hesitated. ‘No, not really… but it’s about that man we discussed?’
‘Malinowski? Henry said.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, her voice barely audible.
She gave him the address at which she had been staying, her friend’s home in Bispham, just to the north of Blackpool. It was a pleasant semi-detached house, close to a golf course, slightly dated, but not bad for that.
It took Henry about ten minutes to get there, his curiosity fully aroused.
Could this Russian gangster, the one whose name Jerry Tope had unearthed, be the key to all this? If nothing else, he was certainly an important cog in the scenario, but Henry dismissed him as a contender for being arrested. If he was based in Cyprus, then it would be hard to get him back here… if indeed he had done anything wrong. Henry was only speculating — a pastime that had just lost him two prisoners.
