Fighting for the Dead

by Nick Oldham

  The place had once been a farm. Some of the buildings were converted barns and the main office block had once been a large farmhouse.

  Barlow drew into a visitor’s parking bay and got out.

  To their right were some designated parking spaces, one taken up by a sleek silver-grey Aston Martin with a personalized number plate. It didn’t take a super-sleuth to make the connection between the registration plate and the owner of the company, Harry Sunderland.

  Henry climbed slowly out of the CID car. He and Barlow walked to the office entrance and through the revolving doors. There was a small foyer with a large desk where a female receptionist sat tapping away at a computer keyboard. It was a nice modern set-up inside an old house.

  As they entered, the receptionist glanced up from her work and her eyes instantly clocked Henry’s battered face. Her jaw dropped slackly and her lipstick-covered lips popped open.

  Henry rooted out his warrant card and flipped it for her to see.

  ‘Apologies for the appearance,’ he said as he introduced himself. ‘We’d like to speak to Mr Sunderland, please.’ Henry saw that her name badge said Miranda, so he added, ‘Miranda.’ The personal touch.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s busy at the moment.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll want to see us,’ Henry said firmly.

  ‘Could I enquire what it’s about?’ Miranda’s hand hovered over the telephone.

  ‘Very personal and urgent,’ Henry said.

  Miranda got the message. She picked up the phone.

  At that moment a door behind her opened and a man spun out from the office beyond with a mobile phone clamped to his ear.

  ‘Look, I said no, OK?’ he insisted down the phone. ‘The consignment will be delivered as soon as practicable . . . Can’t be done any sooner . . . You have my word . . . Yep, yep . . .’ His face was angled down as he spoke, his head bobbing, his free hand gesticulating with annoyance.

  Harry Sunderland, Henry guessed . . . and not quite what he was expecting.

  He was dressed in a cheap white shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, and dark grey trousers that reminded Henry of a school uniform. His shoes – black and scuffed and unpolished – looked like lads’ shoes as well. His hair was blond, unkempt.

  Henry had been expecting more of an executive look, but seeing Sunderland and linking him to the type of business he ran, he immediately nailed him as a man who had made his money through hard graft and getting his hands dirty – literally – and didn’t give a stuff about how he looked. He was in an industry where appearances probably didn’t matter. Haulage wasn’t exactly banking.

  Sunderland was, however, a good-looking man in a charming, boyish way. Mid-forties, a bit stocky, the blond hair accentuated by a tan.

  He finished his call and slid the phone shut with the words, ‘Fuckin’ basic.’

  Only then did he look up and take in the two detectives standing at reception. He came up behind Miranda, who had swivelled on her chair to look at him, then positioned herself so she could point at Henry and Barlow.

  ‘Mr Sunderland,’ she began hesitantly.

  Sunderland’s eye darted from one man to the other, trying to weigh them up. Henry spotted a flicker of recognition when he looked at Barlow that went as soon as it came. Sunderland’s brow knitted, then his face crumpled in horror.

  ‘You’re cops, aren’t you?’ Before either could answer, he uttered, ‘It’s about Jennifer, isn’t it?’

  FIVE

  They retired to Sunderland’s office behind reception. Henry sympathetically outlined the finding of a woman’s body in the river and that all indications – from clothing, other property and photographic comparison – were that this was his wife, Jennifer. It just needed a formal identification – and Henry was, of course, deeply sorry for his loss.

  Sunderland seemed stunned and his features became granite-like as the news permeated. Henry studied him carefully, but tried not to draw any hasty conclusions from the way the man took the news.

  There was no set of rules as to how people should respond. Henry had seen everything, from hysteria to cold-blooded anger and shouting; others were detached and practical. Most veered between extremes.

  Henry had much experience in delivering awful news both to the innocent nearest and dearest and to those who knew exactly what was coming – the killers of the deceased. The way these people took it was often over the top. Much weeping, wailing and gnashing of dentures, vowing revenge – reacting in a way they thought people should behave on hearing the devastating news. Often, they were very convincing and it was only subsequent good coppering that unearthed the truth.

  So what was Harry Sunderland going to do?

  If he’d pushed his wife into the river, then he would be mentally ready and would probably have rehearsed his reaction.

  If he hadn’t and still harboured hopes of her turning up alive, or even if he feared the worst, he would have given no thought to how he would take the news and it would be spontaneous, whereas if he was her killer it would appear to be spontaneous. There was a subtle and not very obvious difference and Henry had to try to work out which was which. Prepared or unprepared? Guilty or not? He watched Sunderland’s mouth, his eyes, any facial tics, the general body language . . . but he had to admit he couldn’t reach any firm conclusion. He was not Sherlock Holmes, after all.

  ‘When did you find her?’ Sunderland asked.

  ‘Two hours ago, maybe?’

  For the first time he made direct eye contact with Henry and said softly, ‘Thank you for coming to tell me.’ Then he noticed Henry’s injuries. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I’ll come to that.’

  Sunderland looked confused. ‘Is it something to do with my wife?’ he asked. ‘Your injury?’

  ‘In a way . . . look, Mr Sunderland, because this is a sudden and unusual death . . .’

  ‘Unusual?’ he butted in.

  ‘Not that many people drown,’ Henry said. Sunderland nodded, understanding. ‘As I was saying, because of the circumstances, we will need you to do a formal identification and we will have to ask you some questions and the coroner will want an inquest.’

  ‘Some questions?’

  ‘About the night your wife went missing, what went on, that sort of thing. It will have to be quite detailed.’

  ‘I told the bobby everything who reported it . . . and this detective has also been to see me . . .’ He indicated Barlow, who was standing by a window that overlooked the nearest warehouse unit.

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘So what then? It was obviously accidental . . . clearly she must have slipped into the river . . .’ His voice trailed off wistfully. ‘She liked walking by the river . . . and the tides must have washed her into the Conder.’

  ‘I know what you’re saying,’ Henry began, then stopped momentarily and shot a quick glance at Barlow, before coming back on track and continuing, ‘All drownings have to be thoroughly investigated and I know you told the reporting officer what happened, but we need a statement from you now.’

  ‘From some questions to a statement, is it now?’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No . . . no, it isn’t . . . sorry for being abrupt. It’s just so much to take in. I sort of thought the worst, but hoped for the best, y’know?’ His face was tight with emotional pain. ‘It’s starting to hit me, I guess.’ He dropped his chin to his chest, rotating his jaw, clearly holding back the urge to break down. His bottom lip wobbled. If he was acting, it was pretty good.

  ‘First things first, though, eh?’ Henry said. ‘We do need that formal identification and I’m afraid it’ll be a tough call, but I’d like you to come down to the mortuary now.’

  ‘Now?’

  Henry said, ‘We’ll give you a lift down, if you like.’

  ‘I’ll drive myself, I know where it is.’

  ‘Do you have a relative or close friend who could accompany you – give you some support?’
r />   Sunderland shook his head. ‘No one I’d care to bring along,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘OK. In that case, how do you feel about coming down in an hour? That way we’ll have a bit of time to get things ready.’

  He nodded.

  Henry considered asking what his wife might have had in her possession that would end up with two violent men turning up at the mortuary. But he held back for the moment. He wasn’t sure how important it was, but the cynical side of him – the side that didn’t believe a damn thing anyone said until it was proved to be the truth, the side that made him a half-decent jack – thought it might be wise just to hang fire. It was a feeling, nothing more, maybe the ace in the ankle sock.

  He turned to Barlow. ‘OK?’ he said, and gave the DI a stare that was unequivocal. It was OK.

  ‘Y-yes, boss.’

  They left Sunderland alone in his office.

  ‘Seems straight up,’ Barlow said.

  Henry paused. ‘Yeah, suppose so.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘Well . . . let’s do the job by numbers and see what transpires,’ Henry said. ‘And to that end, will you sort out the ID with him and then arrange to take a statement at some time, depending on how he’s handling it. If he’s in pieces, put it off until tomorrow, but arrange to do it at the nick and not his home.’

  ‘Will do.’ Barlow understood the reasoning behind that. Police-station interviews gave the cops the psychological upper hand, and in cases of suspicious deaths, it was always best to have home advantage where possible.

  Henry eased himself into the front passenger seat of the CID car, Barlow got behind the wheel.

  There was a moment when Henry was going to say something. He actually turned square to him and opened his mouth, but stopped as Barlow looked at him and smiled. Henry hoped his transition was smooth, and instead of saying what he was going to say, he said, ‘I’ll try and get back into the X-ray queue because my face is actually killing me. Not that they’ll be able to do anything if the bone’s broken, other than to ply me with painkillers.’

  ‘Yeah, no problems . . . were you going to say something else?’ Barlow had obviously realized Henry was about to say something, then halted.

  ‘No,’ Henry said.

  And, as the saying goes, his arsehole twitched: ‘Half-crown, sixpence.’

  He was meek, mild and apologetic to the hospital staff and by overuse of his well-practised, but now slightly crooked and frankly scary, boyish and endearing grin – made so by his facial injury – on both male and female nurses, he was logged back into the system with just a mild reprimand.

  Barlow had accompanied him back to A&E and hung around for a few minutes whilst Henry worked his frazzled charm. Then they walked back to X-ray – no wheelchair this time, that boat had sailed – whilst Henry ran through a few points he wanted Barlow to cover with Harry Sunderland, the ID and the subsequent statement. He also told him he wanted to get an update on how the operation had gone to find the robbers.

  Barlow nodded patiently until Henry realized he was being a bit patronizing to a seasoned detective who knew his job. So he stopped yapping.

  They had reached the double doors to the X-ray department.

  ‘OK, boss, I’ll go and sort him out and see what’s happening elsewhere.’

  ‘Thanks, Ralph.’

  The DI turned away, but Henry said, ‘Oh, just one thing.’

  Barlow paused. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘How well do you know Harry Sunderland?’

  ‘Not at all . . . like I said, just in passing at golf club events and such.’

  ‘But you have talked to him at these events?’

  Barlow shook his head. ‘Not specially.’

  ‘Mm, OK . . . just wondering,’ Henry said airily. He put a hand on the door. ‘See you later.’

  Barlow looked at him for a second, then walked away down the corridor. Henry half-stepped into the doorway, watching the back of the DI, who fished out his mobile phone and put it to his ear, then turned out of sight.

  Henry’s mouth screwed up. He would have squinted thoughtfully, but his left eye was now as good as closed and he would have blinded himself had he done so. He shrugged, then peered at the warning sign on the door forbidding the use of mobile phones in the X-ray department.

  Before he went through he had to make a personal call of his own.

  Flynn drove Diane up to the hospital in her tiny Smart Car, into which he had to fold himself tightly, his knees almost under his chin. He walked with her to the post-operative unit in which Colin was being cared for and monitored following the surgery. He was in a poor and drowsy state, hardly aware of what was going on around him.

  Flynn was shaken by Colin’s appearance. They had known each other for many years as cops. Flynn had taken the detective route, but Colin, keen on all things motor vehicle, had gone on to traffic and motorcycles. Despite this divergence they had remained good friends. In fact Colin was one of the few people Flynn had been able to confide in when his own career went down the toilet. During the time when he was suspected of stealing a million pounds of drug-dealer’s money, when the whole organization treated him like a pariah – including Henry Christie, who Flynn had thought hammered the final nails into the coffin that was his career – Colin had remained a good mate.

  They shared a passion for sea fishing and boats and it was the least Flynn could do to help out in this hour of need.

  Flynn also knew Diane well. Also a retired cop, she and Colin had hooked up on their initial training course over thirty years before and been inseparable since.

  ‘Someone here to see you,’ Diane whispered to Colin, who stirred and opened his eyes, which were opaque and unfocused. He was attached to various machines, pumps and drips. The bed clothes were drawn back almost as far as his groin and a large dressing covered the lower half of his stomach where the operation had been performed.

  Flynn swallowed at the sight, as Colin looked blankly across the room, Flynn thinking he couldn’t see at all and was surprised when he said, ‘Hey, Steve,’ and raised a dithery right hand off the bed, which Flynn shook, feeling the bones.

  ‘Hey, man, how’re you doing?’

  ‘Another day above ground,’ he said croakily. ‘Gotta be good, eh?’

  ‘Can’t argue with that.’

  Colin exhaled painfully and closed his eyes. Flynn and Diane exchanged glances. Then Colin’s eyes opened again. ‘Thanks for coming . . . y’know, the shop and all that . . . appreciated.’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  A great weariness seemed to enshroud him and he closed his eyes and fell asleep instantly.

  Diane sat on a chair next to the bed and took her husband’s hand. She looked desperately at Flynn, who did not know how to react to the expression.

  ‘Bugger,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ she agreed.

  ‘Look, I’ll go and have a mooch around and be back a bit later to see where you’re at, eh?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Shit,’ Flynn said under his breath as he walked out of the unit with one last glance at Colin.

  Following an interminable wait for an X-ray, Henry was back in the casualty unit for an equally long wait to be seen by a consultant. He sat miserably in the waiting area, but fortunately the pain was ebbing slightly after he’d been given some analgesics. He was eventually summoned to a curtained cubicle where he was told to lie on an uncomfortable couch and wait for a doctor who would be along soon. The whole unit was moderately busy, but being short-staffed, everyone was chasing their tails doing several jobs at once.

  He tried to relax, lying back and thinking through the day.

  It seemed such a long time since he had looked at the frozen body of the unknown murder victim, and he hadn’t given her any consideration since. She had lain unforgotten for such a long time, he almost thought that another day would not make any difference. The more urgent incidents that had happened seemed to insist on being dealt with first . .
. but Henry dismissed that idea.

  Her death had to be investigated properly and it wasn’t going to wait any longer. It would be all too easy to let the new stuff take precedence – after all, it was new and it had resulted in him being battered, and he was fuming about that – but he would not allow that to happen. Just by having her drawer pulled out of the fridge, he had obliged himself to get to grips with her murder.

  Not that anyone would be bothered even if he did nothing for another two weeks. Except it did matter, would matter to her family, whoever and wherever they were. She deserved to be treated properly and professionally, and so far it looked as though that was not the case.

  And that was one of the things Henry prided himself on . . . fighting for the dead.

  Then he started to think about Jennifer Sunderland and what little he knew about her and her husband, Harry. Rich people, good life – on the surface. But what was there underneath, what would Henry find when he scraped away the veneer?

  ‘Behind closed doors,’ he heard himself say and thought about Harry Sunderland, whose reaction to the news of his wife’s death did seem genuine . . . except for one niggling thing . . . which was giving Henry a very strange sensation.

  Could I be wrong? he wondered. But if he was right, what significance did it have?

  He didn’t know.

  His face hurt – a lot – and all of a sudden he didn’t care.

  All he wanted was to get out of hospital and go to bed.

  He opened his good eye when he heard the curtain swish back – and the most beautiful sight in the world stood before him.

  ‘Babe,’ he whispered.

  ‘God, Henry,’ Alison Marsh gasped on seeing his battered face. She swooped across the gap towards him, her eyes taking in all his injuries. ‘You didn’t say you were hurt this badly,’ she complained.

  ‘Looks worse than it is,’ he lied.

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ she said, cutting through the fib. ‘I was a military nurse, you know.’