Fighting for the Dead

by Nick Oldham

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘Late, I expect . . . need to sort out staff and a room and stuff like that.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Er, no.’ Food was something else he’d forgotten about, too. Coffee – fully leaded, as he called it – was what had kept him on the go.

  ‘Get a snack and I’ll have something hot and ready for when you land,’ she ordered him.

  Henry considered making a quip about the double-entendre but decided against it. ‘Thanks, darling.’

  ‘Darling! That’s a new one.’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘Meant it.’

  After a further selection of lovey-dovey exchanges, Henry brought up the thorny subject of Steve Flynn. He asked if it would be possible to accommodate him for a few more nights at the Owl. With surprise in her voice, Alison said it would be fine but could not resist asking why he was even asking. After all, didn’t he despise Flynn?

  ‘Yes, course I do . . . but . . . I’ll explain it when I get there.’

  The office door opened and DI Barlow poked his head around it. He mimicked a phone call, thumb to ear, little finger to mouth.

  ‘Got to go, sweetie . . . Yeah, you too . . . No I bloody won’t bloody say it!’ He hung up, aware of the redness creeping up past his collar.

  Barlow gave him a knowing look.

  ‘And?’ Henry demanded.

  ‘Joe Speakman’s son is on the line.’

  ‘Can you put him through to this number?’ He pointed at the DCI’s phone.

  Barlow retreated and Henry had to wait for the call, wondering how he was going to handle it. The Speakmans had two kids, son and daughter, both late twenties or early thirties. The son had moved to Cyprus and the daughter lived somewhere in the south of England. Steps had been taken to trace them and obviously the first to be contacted was the son.

  The phone rang. Henry said, ‘Mr Speakman, I’m Detective Superintendent Henry Christie . . .’

  ‘I know who you are . . . we met once way back, when I was a lot younger. What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m truly sorry to tell you this,’ Henry began, the words not coming easily.

  After dropping his blood-splattered clothes into the forensics bags, which were taken away, Flynn re-attired himself from head to foot from the clothing stock in the chandlery, then opened up for business, thinking this was the best thing to do for himself and Diane.

  He was surprised by the number of customers and a good deal of money was taken in the first couple of hours from local yacht-people. He closed for lunch so he could buy a sandwich from the static caravan caff and also had a trot along the canal to have a look at the canal boat.

  The sight made him shiver at the memory of his close call . . . the first of two close calls, as it happened.

  Daylight revealed the true extent of the damage. The boat was beyond any sort of repair, blown apart beyond hope.

  ‘Please be insured,’ he said to himself.

  Henry was frowning – not an uncommon facial expression for him – but this time there was a good reason for it as opposed to him just being a grumpy swine.

  Another death message delivered. And once more a reaction to it he felt he could not criticize, but which did puzzle him slightly.

  With much care, he reversed his Mercedes inch by inch out of the police garage, relieved it hadn’t been scratched in the tight space, then pulled onto the streets of Lancaster, intending to drive back to the mortuary where the bodies were piling up for the pathologist.

  The frown stuck on his face all the way there.

  Inside, the bodies of Mr and Mrs Speakman were on trolleys next to each other on the floor space by the refrigeration unit. The creepy mortuary technician was looking them over, scratching his slightly misaligned chin thoughtfully. He appeared to have fully recovered from his face-full of CS gas, or whatever had been sprayed at him. Henry asked him how he was doing and they had a short conversation about the attack.

  Henry went into the office to find Baines sitting at the desk, working on his laptop, transcribing notes from his portable tape machine. He gave a little gesture with his finger for Henry to take a seat, then another which meant, ‘Just hang on, I need to do this.’

  Henry sat. Frowning.

  Because of something Joe Speakman’s son had said. Three little-ish words: ‘Probably deserved it.’

  Three words – but three words too many because when Henry instantly queried them, ‘What do you mean by that?’ the line went dead and he could not get a reconnection.

  Probably deserved it, he mulled, eyes narrowing, lips pursing, and as he stared dead ahead but unfocused at a diagram of the human body on the office wall, he didn’t realize that Baines had finished and was looking intently at him.

  ‘Face still looks a mess,’ the doctor observed.

  Henry turned his head slowly. ‘As ever, your diagnosis is spot on.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Any news for me?’

  Baines shook his head. ‘Only that I’ll be starting the post-mortems shortly.’

  This caused Henry to check his watch. ‘Now?’

  ‘If I don’t, they’ll stack up and it’ll become impossible to catch up. And knowing you, if I don’t get them done, there’ll be a whole new batch tomorrow.’

  Henry chuckled, then sighed.

  ‘Well, I’ll do one, anyway,’ Baines said. ‘I reckon four hours for each.’

  Henry nodded.

  ‘But I do have some news – in between the crime-scene walk-through and now, I did Jennifer Sunderland’s PM – which is what I’m typing up.’ Henry waited for the bombshell. Baines said, ‘Drowned. Plenty of inhaled river debris. Lungs saturated.’

  ‘So she was alive when she went in the water?’

  Baines cocked his head at Henry. ‘Didn’t I just say that?’

  Henry smirked. ‘What about the head injuries?’

  ‘Inconclusive, but not especially serious and certainly not the cause of her death, and impossible to say whether she received the blows before or after immersion.’

  ‘So she could have been hit and fallen in?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘OK. Can I make a suggestion?’

  Baines waited expectantly.

  Henry checked his watch again. ‘Been a cruelly long day, so why don’t we start fresh tomorrow. There’s nothing spoiling – so long as there’s enough room for the bodies in the chiller . . . and, of course, there’s also the body to sort in Blackpool.’

  Baines stretched wearily. ‘You’re probably right.’

  ‘Selfish, too . . . I need to spend some time getting my head around stuff and do some planning – not least how I’m going to deal with Harry Sunderland.’ There was a huge amount to do, including the things that were nagging at his brain.

  He had started the ‘to do’ list in the DCI’s office, then got sidetracked by his own thoughts and calling Alison, then talking to Speakman’s son – who was supposedly in Cyprus, but in reality could have been anywhere.

  ‘I need to straighten a few things out here first,’ Baines said.

  ‘What time tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll dig in at ten.’

  That was fine by Henry. He had already decided to get home, partake in whatever food had been prepared for him, reconnect with Jack Daniels, then hit the sack, be up at six thirty, in the office at seven, sort things out, then be back in the mortuary at ten for a full day’s entertainment.

  He shook Baines’s hand and stood up.

  ‘Ahh, darn!’ Baines said. ‘There is one more thing.’ He shuffled through a stack of papers. ‘I talked about teeth – remember?’

  Only when I dig deep, Henry thought. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Dentistry work in the mouths of that dead girl and Jennifer Sunderland – even though the young girl has a few teeth missing from her assault.’

  ‘Yuh?’ Henry said.

  ‘Slapped what I had
into the database – came up with this.’

  He slid a printout to Henry who read it and went coldly excited, at the same time his anus tightening up. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Is this for real?’

  Baines smiled smugly. ‘Love it when a plan comes together.’

  Baines had already told Henry about the similarities in the mouths of the dead females, that the work had been carried out by the same dentist. The database search went on to say that at the time the information was entered into the computer, the dentist who had carried out the work had a practice in a place called Coral Bay.

  Coral Bay was in Cyprus.

  TEN

  By leaving it to the last minute, Henry secretly hoped that Steve Flynn would have found somewhere to bed down for the night other than the Tawny Owl. It wasn’t to be.

  He called Flynn as he left the mortuary.

  ‘Hi, Henry,’ Flynn answered quickly.

  ‘Hello, Flynn,’ Henry said more formally. ‘How are you?’

  ‘For someone who’s been half-murdered twice, OK.’

  ‘What’s happening with you tonight?’

  ‘In what respect?’

  ‘Sleeping arrangements.’

  ‘Er . . . try to get a room in a Travelodge or something, I guess,’ he said delicately.

  ‘You’ve nothing booked?’

  ‘Not as yet.’

  Damn, Henry thought. ‘You’re welcome to stay at the Owl,’ he said, almost choking on the words. ‘I mentioned the possibility to Alison and she’s fine with it.’

  ‘Brilliant, thanks,’ Flynn gushed. ‘Slight problem.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah – Diane needed her car back, so I’m without wheels.’

  Henry stifled a groan. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At the hospital. I visited Colin and gave Diane the keys . . . just walking to the main exit as we speak.’

  ‘Come down to the mortuary. I’m down here now, just about to set off to Kendleton. I can bring you back across in the morning, but it’ll be an early start.’ Henry hung up and pulled his face distastefully.

  It took five minutes for Flynn to arrive. Henry sat waiting in the Merc, listening to an old Rolling Stones track. He flashed him as he approached. Flynn slumped in, admiring the car for the first time.

  ‘Nice one, Henry. You must be doing well.’ He clunked the door shut. ‘Super’s wages and all that.’

  ‘It’s financially crippling to run. I could buy a new Kia every year with what it costs to insure.’

  ‘Mmm . . . Kia . . . Mercedes,’ Flynn said as though he was trying to balance something tricky in his hands. ‘Not much of a contest.’

  ‘I know,’ Henry said, pulling out of the mortuary car park.

  Flynn said, ‘Genuine thanks, Henry . . . I was probably going to bed down upstairs in the chandlery.’

  ‘Look upon it as victim support.’

  ‘So – not a friend thing.’

  Henry almost choked. He drove up to the roundabout at the southern edge of Lancaster and headed north through the city, traffic still quite heavy in the mid-evening.

  This was fortunate for the stolen black Range Rover, being driven on false plates, that slotted in three cars behind Henry’s Mercedes. That meant it could follow him through the city without drawing attention to itself, something that would be harder, but not necessarily impossible, once out on the country roads.

  ‘Have you made any progress?’

  ‘Depends on what you mean?’

  Flynn pouted. ‘Investigating the attempt on my life, or this morning’s bloodbath, maybe.’

  ‘Forensics and CSI have been sorting the canal boat and I’ve had a few uniforms going house to house in Glasson – but I haven’t had an update so far,’ Henry admitted. ‘Been slightly busy with today’s bloodbath, as you call it.’

  ‘So you’re really throwing resources at it,’ Flynn said with sullen sarcasm and a shake of the head. ‘I doubt you’ll get much from the boat or from house to house. The nearest house to the boat is a quarter of a bloody mile away.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Henry said, not taking the criticism too well. ‘What are your thoughts?’

  ‘Depends on what you mean,’ Flynn mocked Henry, who shot him a cold stare. ‘Have you identified this morning’s baddie yet?’

  ‘No.’

  Henry’s mobile phone rang and he answered it on the Bluetooth connection speakerphone.

  ‘Henry? It’s me, Jerry Tope. Been trying to contact you all day.’

  Henry tutted and rolled his eyes, miffed at himself. Tope was one of the many calls he had decided not to take. ‘Yeah, sorry, Jerry, haven’t had time, as you’ll be aware.’

  ‘Hi, Jerry,’ Steve Flynn butted in.

  ‘What . . . who is . . .?’ Tope stuttered.

  Henry said, ‘Steve Flynn’s with me, we’re in my car.’

  ‘Oh, can I talk?’ Tope asked uncertainly.

  Henry hesitated, glanced at Flynn, then said, ‘Yeah, go ahead.’

  They were out of Lancaster now, heading towards Caton on the A683, passing underneath the motorway bridge at junction 34.

  Tope went on, ‘I’ve done some checking with regards to the MO thing, like you asked. You know, the spray in the face?’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Not as common as it used to be . . . bit of a sixties/seventies London gangster thing. More associated with girlfriend/boyfriend fallouts these days. That said, I expanded my search criteria and bit by bit I found something that might be of interest to you.’ Henry waited. ‘You still there, Henry?’

  ‘Yeah, go on, Jerry.’

  ‘Two guys operating around the fringes of the Mediterranean. Several gang-related enforcement attacks.’

  Henry passed through Caton.

  ‘And when I say gangs, I mean organized gangs as in Russian.’

  ‘Russian?’ Henry said.

  ‘Two very bad guys suspected of very nasty attacks in Majorca, Malta and Cyprus. People have been left blind. That said, guess what? They’ve never yet faced a court for it, because – guess what again? No one wants to give evidence against them. I’ve got the details of who they are suspected to be by plundering various intelligence databases.’

  ‘Names?’ Henry said.

  ‘Yuri Gregorov and Vladimir Kaminski.’

  ‘Photos, prints, antecedents?’

  ‘On file. Just because they haven’t been to court doesn’t mean they haven’t seen the inside of a police cell, rare though that is. They do have a couple of minor convictions, actually . . . and they do have another speciality. They steal cars to order, usually big four-wheel-drive ones.’

  ‘OK, thanks for that. You know what went on up at Joe Speakman’s today?’ Henry asked. Tope said he did. ‘In that case, link up with the scientific people and see if one of these guys is our dead shooter.’

  ‘You serious?’ Tope said.

  ‘Deadly.’

  ‘Shit . . . sorry . . . can I add something?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘These guys are ex-military and ex-secret police – in the most recent incarnations of these things in the new Russia. Y’know, new versions of the KGB and all that? But now they allegedly work for a big Chechnyan ganglord called Oscar Malinowski, a guy who’s grown very fat and rich in the last twenty years as Russia’s crumbled internally. And they’re both as hard as nails.’

  Henry and Flynn glanced at each other.

  ‘Er . . .’ Tope hesitated.

  ‘Spit it out,’ Henry urged.

  ‘If they’re up there, something’s going on, Henry – something big and unpleasant. They operate as a team and if you have killed one of them, the other will be mightily pissed off. So just be wary, Henry. They’re not above paying cops a visit. In fact they’re suspected of maiming and blinding a detective in Cyprus . . . so watch it.’

  ‘That’s if they are these guys,’ Flynn cut in.

  ‘Yeah, maybe they’re not . . .’

  ‘Anyway, Jerry – do some more dig
ging for me, will you – as well as liaising with the scientific people to see if we do have a match.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘What about that other job?’ Henry asked Tope.

  ‘Much as I’d trust Flynn with my life,’ Tope lied, ‘it’s really just for your ears, Henry.’

  Even though Tope had said nothing, the implication of his reluctance to speak made Henry suddenly feel slightly queasy – even more ill than hearing he might be prodding a hornets’ nest full of Russian nasties.

  ‘No prob . . .’ Henry’s mind whirred. ‘Look, get me what you can on this gangster Malinowski will you and email me with everything else you’ve got . . . I’ll pick it up on my Blackberry . . . and I’ll speak to you in the . . . shit!’

  During the course of the phone call, Henry had reached the village of Hornby and turned right to head out towards Kendleton in the unlit back of beyond. He had been aware that there was a vehicle behind him, but hadn’t paid it much heed as it hadn’t been right up his backside and his concentration was on what Tope was saying. Now, almost without realizing it, he was out on the tight, narrow country roads just wide enough for two vehicles to pass with care in opposite directions, a few inches to spare between wing mirrors. So far there had been no oncoming traffic and Henry’s car and the one behind had been the only vehicles on the road.

  Up to that moment, the car behind had kept to a reasonable distance.

  As they hit a stretch of road clinging to a steep hill with one of the tiny tributary streams that fed the River Wenning down an almost perpendicular drop to their left, the main headlight beams of the following car came blazing on like aircraft landing lights and the car itself surged up behind the Mercedes just as he was talking to Tope.

  There were four big headlights fitted along a cowcatcher attached the front radiator grille and Henry’s car was brightly lit up, casting a long shadow ahead of himself. Then, on this tight, narrow, steep-sided and dangerous road, the vehicle swerved out, the horn sounding angrily, and moved to overtake.

  That was the moment he said ‘Shit’ to Tope.

  He had nowhere to go to make space for the idiot who must surely have seen that a manoeuvre like this, on that stretch of road, was not an option.