by Nick Oldham
Barlow gave a dismissive, ‘Phtt.’ Then said, ‘Two fuckin’ hot heads.’
‘So you know them?’
‘Course, I do… well, knew them until you came along and that Flynn guy. Thing was,’ Barlow said, as though it was painful to speak, ‘if I’d gone to the mortuary instead of you, none of this would have happened. We’d all be happy pigs in shit — but because you wanted to maintain a chain of evidence, that meant I couldn’t go through her belongings. I didn’t get a chance at the scene of the drowning — too many people around — and I didn’t get a chance at the mortuary and those guys were getting jumpy and I couldn’t stop ’em, silly twats! I told ’em not to, but I’m not great at speaking in Russian.’
They had reached the left-hand fork for the M6 North. Henry crossed the lanes, the Mercedes two hundred metres behind. Henry glanced in his rear-view mirror, thought about what suffering Alison must be enduring in that car and again, a surge of anger passed through him.
‘And they didn’t find anything, of course,’ Henry said, ‘because there was nothing to be found.’
‘Exactly… and there was every chance it was lost in the river anyway, but you have to cover all the bases…’
‘Which is why they visited Flynn.’
‘Yup. I learned he had a chequered history — suspected of thieving — so there was every chance he might have helped himself to some of her property, even though he was the hero of the moment. Had to be done.’
‘He’s anything but a thief,’ Henry said, surprising himself.
‘Well, we know that now, don’t we?’
‘What’s recorded on the phone?’ Henry asked.
Barlow considered this question for a while, then said, ‘Ever heard of happy slapping?’
‘Uh — yeah. Kids, usually, videoing assaults.’
‘Think a step up. Think happy killing.’ A look then came over him and he turned square on to Henry and held the gun up to his head. ‘And you do not know how happy I’d be to kill you, Henry, you meddling fucker.’
‘With the exception of the swear word,’ Henry said, ‘that could be right out of Scooby Doo.’
Barlow clunked the muzzle hard against Henry’s temple. The car swerved slightly but Henry kept control, glad he had riled Barlow, but not wanting to push it too far.
‘Who did you kill?’
‘Someone who didn’t matter.’ Barlow turned to face the front again.
‘Just you?’ Henry probed.
Barlow looked at him. ‘Time to shut up, I think.’
‘Was that someone who didn’t matter a prostitute?’ Henry ventured.
Barlow’s head moved slowly around and he glared at Henry. ‘Just drive,’ he said, and placed the gun against Henry’s thigh, finger wrapped around the trigger.
Steve Flynn looked disgustedly at his mobile phone, annoyed by the fact that Henry had hung up on him and then — apparently — switched his bloody phone off. Possibly they hadn’t made as much progress as he thought they had in terms of their ‘relationship’. Although he flinched at the word, he supposed it was a relationship, but not the romantic sort. The prospect of kissing Henry made him queasy.
He was sitting in Alison’s car on the hospital car park, brooding about his snub, wondering what to do, but knowing that he had to speak to Henry as no one else would really do, or understand the significance of what he had to say.
It was always possible that Henry was just too busy to speak to him, but at least he could have had the manners to say that over the phone before hanging up. Flynn realized Henry would be ultra-busy today and that he would not know that Flynn had anything important to say to him, so with that in mind, Flynn composed a text which he sent to Henry, saying simply, ‘ Call Me — Urgent.’ He hoped it didn’t sound too needy. The last thing anyone needed in a relationship was a needy significant ‘other’.
He checked the time, and did a bit of mental maths. He considered taking Alison’s car back across to her in Kendleton, then cadging a lift back to Glasson, but maybe that was too big an ask. If she was busy, it would be an imposition too far.
Then his phone rang. It was from a number he didn’t recognize. He thought Henry must be returning the call. Flynn answered.
‘Steve — it’s Rik Dean here… Yeah, hi… Just wondering if you’ve heard from Henry, or know where he is?’ Rik’s voice was hopeful and he sounded unconcerned.
‘No. I rang him a minute or two ago, but he hung up. Is there a problem?’
‘No… I just can’t get hold of him, thought you might know where he was. He was at Blackpool nick not long ago and I wanted to catch up with him, but he’s gone now. Maybe heading back up to Lancaster after this morning’s fiasco.’
‘What fiasco would that be?’
‘Oh, nothing, nothing,’ Rik said quickly. Flynn got the impression Rik thought he’d blabbed too much. ‘If you hear from him, tell him to contact me, will you?’
‘Vice versa,’ Flynn said and hung up. Unable to contact Henry, he thought. Probably not an uncommon occurrence. And what was the fiasco, he wondered. Had Henry cocked up in some way? Again, probably not an uncommon occurrence, he chuckled.
Then he looked up and saw a classic car drive past him — a silver-blue E-type Jaguar. He watched it turn into the car park and drive to the far end, then carry on through the ‘Access Only’ signs, which he knew led down to the mortuary.
He’d never seen the car before, but knew the driver. He started up Alison’s car and sped after the E-type, which had driven on to the mortuary staff only car park and stopped, cheekily straddling two parking bays. Flynn pulled up alongside, but not too close for comfort, and was out before Professor Baines had even climbed out of the E-type.
Flynn met him at the driver’s door.
Baines looked at him critically, no recognition in his eyes. ‘Can I help you?’ he said cautiously.
Flynn knew Baines from the time he’d been a cop. He’d carried out the post-mortems of a couple of drug-dealers Flynn had once been investigating, when they fell foul of a ruthless rival gang from Merseyside and ended up dead on the Lancashire-Liverpool border. Flynn had been involved in the subsequent investigation and one of his tasks had been to attend the PMs. He had immediately recognized Baines when he drove past and knew he was involved with Jennifer Sunderland as Henry had talked about him, and mentioned his teeth fetish.
‘You remember me?’ Flynn asked.
Baines peered more closely. ‘Didn’t you leave the police in, um, slightly nooky circumstances?’
‘I’ll have that.’
‘What can I do for you?’ Baines reached into his car and heaved out his overweight medical bag.
‘You might know I’ve been involved in, er, some stuff that’s been going on recently. Henry Christie might have mentioned my name.’
‘He has and I recall you were the person who pulled the drowned lady out of the river. Plus being involved in two more deaths, both of which I will be looking into later today,’ Baines said haughtily, referring to the post-mortems he would be carrying out on two dead Russians. ‘Neither pleasant… I hope you haven’t come to kill me,’ Baines said. ‘Or to try to influence the result of the examinations.’
Flynn could have taken offence at that, but gave a short laugh instead. ‘Neither,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to have a quick look at this, if you have a moment.’ He held up the clear plastic money bag containing the tooth he had found earlier.
Baines looked at it laid out on the palm of his right hand. ‘Interesting,’ he said.
They drove in silence for the next five minutes until the service station at Forton, south of Lancaster, came into view with its huge saucer-shaped building that was a milestone for all travellers heading north or south.
Henry didn’t like the silence because he learned nothing from it, other than Barlow emitted body odour that made his nose twitch. A night in the cells.
‘What’s with the Range Rovers?’ he tried, working on the premise that theft of vehi
cles was a bit easier to chat about than killing.
Barlow looked at him and sighed. ‘You want to know everything, don’t you?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘That why you’re such a good jack — this need to know?’
‘It probably helps… but I’m not that good a jack, it’s just that the other side are piss-poor and always drop themselves in it or do something silly because they think they can get away with anything. I haven’t met a crim yet who thought he wouldn’t get away with it — have you?’ he asked pointedly.
Barlow sniggered. ‘No, guess not.’ He had missed Henry’s point.
‘Not even you,’ Henry said, driving it home. He glanced sideways and saw a dark look come over Barlow’s face. Riled again, Henry thought, very touchy. ‘So yes,’ he said quickly, ‘I do want to know everything.’
Barlow started to brood, then said, ‘You get involved in things, you know… things you shouldn’t, then you start liking what it brings. You do a favour, it gets returned, then you find yourself in debt and it just spirals and all the time you think, “I can handle this” — and at the time, you can.’
Henry screwed his face up at this. ‘Meaning?’ he asked.
But Barlow had gone silent again. ‘Next turn off,’ he said after a pause.
Baines led Flynn through to the mortuary office, where he took off his jacket and put a clean apron on over his shirt and trousers. Flynn had been to this mortuary occasionally, but it was just like all the others he’d had to visit in his time as a cop. Places best avoided.
‘Can you handle seeing dead bodies?’ Baines asked him. ‘If not, stay here. If you think you can — and I don’t want to have to deal with any silly fainting, y’know? — come with me.’ Flynn just looked at him. ‘Here,’ Baines said, handing him a surgical mask, ‘you have to put this on. But don’t touch anything.’
Baines started to fit his own mask and gloves and Flynn pulled on the one he had been given. He followed Baines out of the office and into the mortuary, over to the refrigeration unit. He glanced into the examination room and saw another pathologist at work on a dead body, just extracting a heart between his two hands like taking a delicate present out of a box.
Flynn clasped his hands behind his back and watched as Baines opened one of the chiller doors and drew out the tray on which was the muslin-wrapped body of the young unidentified female, Henry Christie’s cold case. Baines stood at one side of the drawer, Flynn the opposite.
As Baines unwrapped the shroud from around the girl’s head, Flynn drew a breath as he saw the horrific injuries that the girl had sustained. Henry had described them to him when they were on their way to have a look at the woodland area in which her body had been discovered. Henry’s understated description was nowhere near as awful as the reality. And once more Flynn’s respect for Henry as a detective notched up a few degrees, realizing that he had to deal with this kind of thing, day in, day out. The result of another person losing it and beating the life out of another for little or no reason, usually.
He wanted to exclaim something, but kept his mouth closed.
Baines tilted the girl’s battered head back and opened her mouth, then took the tooth Flynn had found. He spent a couple of minutes with his eyes right up to her mouth cavity, fiddling with the tooth, making odd, thoughtful noises, reminding Flynn of someone building a minute scale model.
Then he raised his eyes to Flynn over his mask and stood up slowly. He pulled down his mask, exposing his mouth. ‘This is one of her missing teeth,’ he stated. ‘Obviously I will have to do more work to confirm it one hundred per cent, but if there’s one thing I know, it’s teeth.’
Rik Dean cradled his desk phone and sat back. Not knowing where Henry was did not bother him too much; it was just frustrating because he needed to ask him things about the investigation and where it was going from here. Major things had happened with the release of the two prisoners and he had to know what was on Henry’s mind and how this was all going to be pulled back.
Rik’s PR was standing on his blotter, the volume turned down, a lot of morning chatter going on in Blackpool section, most of it mundane jobs. A minor car accident, a town-centre break in, some criminal damage, nothing really for him as a DI, other than how the crimes would affect the figures overall, which were skyrocketing.
Then the comms operator came on with an urgent tone to her voice asking for patrols to attend an address in Bispham where a neighbour had, apparently, discovered the bodies of two women — one of them the next-door neighbour — in the kitchen and lots of blood.
Two mobile patrols shouted up their attendance immediately. Sounded like a good, juicy job, and there was always competition to get to an incident like this first.
Rik perked up, grabbed his PR and said into it, ‘DI Dean here — can you repeat the address. I can attend, also.’
The comms operator thanked him and as she repeated the address for him, he was already on his way out of his office, keen for something to do. It was only as he walked down the steps towards the police garage that the address rang a very loud claxon for him.
‘Shit,’ he said — and started to run.
They hit traffic on the A6 north into Lancaster, slowing the journey down to a crawl. The Mercedes was two cars behind. Henry glanced in the mirror, keeping tabs on it, but trying not to think about Alison, dragged into this through no fault of her own.
‘How’s this going to work?’ Henry probed.
‘What, exactly?’
‘Are you going to let me walk into Lancaster nick and just get the property from the safe?’
‘No — I’ll be right by your side, Henry, then you won’t be tempted.’
‘OK,’ Henry said, trying to visualize the process. ‘Is the happy killing video of you?’ he threw in.
‘Me and others.’
‘Others being Harry Sunderland?’ Henry guessed. ‘I presume Jennifer Sunderland found it… a wife going through a husband’s phone, sort of thing? Is that why Harry threw her into the river?’
Barlow snorted. ‘Actually he didn’t throw her into the river, but that’s another story. And yeah, she found the phone, had a fuckin’ crisis and wanted to tell the cops.’
‘And it wasn’t as though she could tell you, is it?’ Henry said. ‘Does it show you and him kicking the girl to death? Stomping on her face? Half-strangling her? Was it your tie?’ He was relentless as he put all this together. ‘What the hell had she done to deserve that?’
‘Nothing really, but I enjoyed it, fuck did I enjoy it.’ Barlow’s eyes glazed over as he recalled the killing. ‘We all did.’
Henry felt sick.
Rik drove the CID car through the streets of Blackpool like a maniac and arrived at the Bispham address in minutes, before even the second of the two mobile patrols who had called up. One double-crewed car was there already, pulled up outside the house. A uniformed constable rushed to him, his face ashen.
‘What’ve we got?’ Rik asked, climbing quickly out of the car and walking with the officer.
‘It’s not nice. Two women, one the owner of the house, don’t know who the other is yet. Looks like they’ve both been shot in the head.’
‘Let’s see,’ Rik said. The officer led him to the front door and paused. ‘We’ve been in and out through this door and down the hallway only,’ he explained to Rik. ‘That’s as far as we’ve gone. Just looked into the kitchen and not in any of the other rooms yet.’ He was saying this because he was thinking of scene preservation.
‘Good.’ Rik followed him inside. At the kitchen door, the PC stood aside and allowed Rik to look in. He caught his breath as he saw the bodies and the blood, lots of blood from terrible head wounds sustained by both women, almost now covering the kitchen floor. His eyes roved expertly around the room, just a normal, well-equipped kitchen. Nice, but nothing special. Except for the death it now hosted.
Then he saw something on the tiled floor by the sink unit. A white laminated card, maybe an inch and a hal
f wide, three inches long. And even from where he stood at the kitchen door, Rik could see the Lancashire Constabulary crest on it.
Although wary of spoiling any evidence, Rik stepped across the first body, tiptoeing on tiled areas free from blood, and picked up the card.
It was Henry Christie’s police warrant card.
NINETEEN
They crawled along the A6 into Lancaster, a city where traffic probably moved even more slowly than London.
‘I don’t want you to park on the police station car park,’ Barlow said. ‘Pull up on Marton Street, outside the nick, and we’ll use the public entrance for a quick in and out. The inspector’s office is just on the corridor behind the enquiry desk and that’s where the safe is. We walk in, acting all natural, you get the inspector to open up, you sign the property out, then we leave. Seriously, Henry, we’re in and out in five minutes and if you do or say anything ridiculous, she will die — that’s the pay-off for any stupidity. Do I make myself clear?’
Henry shrugged as the car hit the roundabout at the southern tip of the city — known as Pointer Island — and then headed down South Road into Lancaster proper. He took the offside lane at the traffic lights outside the hospital, then moved across again to bear right into Penny Street then first right on to Marton Street, at the end of which stood the crumbling nick that was Lancaster Police station, not the best-looking building in the world and continually in need of refurbishment.
Access to the public enquiry office was via steps and a ramp off the street and although there were double yellow lines, Henry parked up as instructed. In the rear-view mirror he saw the Mercedes pull in fifty metres behind.
‘What if we get a ticket? The traffic wardens are pretty keen around here,’ Henry said.
‘Getting a parking ticket is the least of your worries, Henry,’ Barlow said. ‘What we do is go in and tell the public enquiry assistant behind the counter that the car’s staying here for five minutes, just so she knows, and then we go in and do the business.’
