Fighting for the Dead

by Nick Oldham

  Flynn lowered the dead man gently backwards into the stream, the legs still twitching as the last few signals shot down from his brain. Then he stood up, hands on hips, gasping, looking at Henry who, being older and less fit, was bent forward with his hands on his knees and gasping much more desperately than Flynn, sucking in air like it was going out of fashion.

  ‘Is he dead?’

  Flynn nodded.

  ‘Good,’ Henry said.

  ‘Hell, Henry, you must have cut him up real bad to get a road-rage reaction like that,’ Flynn said, wiping the blood from his face.

  ‘Some people have no sense of humour.’ Henry turned to look at his car and grimaced. ‘And I’ve just lost mine.’ He glanced back at Flynn and the body at his feet and swore.

  From that point in the night, after Henry had made ‘the’ phone call – the treble-nine – and had to deal with a succession of fairly unhelpful people before he ended up losing it and bawling down the line, he and Flynn just allowed things to happen.

  The first police to arrive on the scene came in the shape of a double-crewed traffic car, two very experienced cops experienced in dealing with serious situations, protecting scenes (usually just car crashes) and handling victims and witnesses. They soon had the road closed, a big accident investigation van on the way (with mobile scene lighting), diversions in place; next came the paramedics, who tended to Henry and Flynn and realized there was nothing they could do for the other man, who by that time had been dragged out of the stream and laid to rest on the bank, his head grotesquely askew.

  More uniforms arrived from Lancaster and scene management was taken over by the local inspector for the time being.

  DI Barlow turned up with a DC in tow . . . and then decisions had to be made about what best to do with Henry and Flynn.

  Both certainly needed medical treatment – again. Flynn’s gashed head bled openly and profusely and needed stitching properly.

  Henry took a step back so as not to influence anything. He just helped and waited for the decisions to be made, which came from Barlow as he was the most senior detective on the scene until others arrived and there was a lot of responsibility resting on his shoulders. He took Henry to one side.

  Henry was wrapped in a blanket from the back of the traffic car, as was Flynn. He told Barlow what had happened and why it ended up as it did . . . and weight was added to his retelling of events when a PNC check revealed that the Range Rover was in fact stolen and was on false plates.

  ‘Look,’ Barlow said, strained, ‘I don’t disbelieve a single word, Henry, but the fact remains there’s a dead man down there.’ He pointed to the stream. ‘And he’s been killed in a fight.’

  ‘Self-defence,’ Henry said. ‘I was part of it.’

  ‘I know, I know . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Go through the motions. Put us through the meat grinder. No choice,’ Henry said. ‘No matter who is involved.’

  Barlow nodded, looked relieved. ‘I want to keep you and Mr Flynn separate.’

  Henry’s mouth twitched sardonically. ‘So we can’t get our stories straight?’

  ‘Something like that . . . you know the score,’ Barlow said. ‘That in mind I’m going to get you taken to A&E in a cop car, and Flynn in an ambulance, then keep you apart at the hospital. Once you’ve been treated, I’ll have you brought to Lancaster nick separately.’

  ‘Under arrest?’

  ‘What do you think, Henry? Please don’t make this any harder than it has to be.’

  ‘I won’t. I’d do the same.’

  Barlow looked at Henry closely. ‘What’s this all about?’ he asked.

  ‘Dunno just yet.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Barlow sneered.

  Henry glanced over at Flynn, who was in the back of the ambulance being treated once again by the pretty lady paramedic who had dabbed his wounds following the explosion on the canal boat, looking deep into his eyes as she tended him.

  It was a long, tiring night. The two men were kept apart, as Barlow said, and given forensic suits to replace their own clothing. They were booked respectfully into the custody system and placed in cells at opposite ends of the complex so they couldn’t shout to each other.

  Neither elected to speak to a solicitor.

  They were interviewed under caution and on tape, a process that took most of the rest of the night. By dawn it was clear that their recollections tallied, almost word for word.

  Following this they were released from custody without bail.

  ‘Yeah, that was great fun,’ Henry said to Flynn. Flynn merely arched his eyebrows. They were outside the police station in the chilly dawn with Alison. ‘This won’t go anywhere,’ he assured Flynn. ‘The CPS will see what has happened.

  ‘Two deaths in two days,’ Flynn stated and pouted. ‘Doesn’t look good for me.’

  ‘Just a bad run of luck.’

  ‘A run of bad luck is when your car doesn’t start then a light bulb goes.’

  ‘Let’s just get some sleep,’ Henry suggested, ‘then reconvene and start digging and find out what this is all about.’

  ‘Yeah, good idea . . . but I won’t burden you tonight,’ Flynn said.

  ‘What do you mean? You’re very welcome to stay at the Owl, you know that,’ Alison said sharply.

  ‘I need some TLC,’ Flynn grinned and touched his still weeping wound.

  ‘I used to be a nurse.’

  ‘I know – but you’ve already got a very demanding patient.’ He nodded at the battered little Citroën that was pulling up on the road outside the police station. Henry peered at the driver and saw it was the paramedic who had treated Flynn.

  ‘Ahh,’ Henry said knowingly.

  ‘Apparently she has a flat down on St George’s Quay.’

  ‘Nice position.’

  ‘Yeah – overlooking the River Lune.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Henry said, his memory jarring at the mention of the river.

  ‘So – thanks anyway,’ Flynn said to Alison, ‘but needs must. I’ll get my head down for an hour or two,’ his eyebrows rose and fell in a ‘wink-wink’ way, ‘then I really need to go and open the shop in Glasson. I haven’t done a great job there, so far . . . and that’s where I’ll be if the cops want me.’

  ‘Don’t frighten the customers.’ Henry extended his right hand and the two men shook. Alison kissed Flynn on the cheek and he walked across to the car as the paramedic leaned over and opened the passenger door for him. Flynn dropped into the seat and the car sped off.

  Henry and Alison watched it turn right onto the main road, then Henry emitted a long sigh. He turned to Alison, saw the worry on her face and steeled himself for what he was about to say.

  ‘I know there’s never a right time and place for this, but if you want out, I won’t blame you.’

  Astonished, she said, ‘Out of what, exactly?’

  ‘Us . . . me, you . . . you know.’

  ‘Why are you saying that?’

  ‘All this shit, all this worry. The job. Coppering, y’know. It rules my life, always has and always will as long as I’m in it. And that’s a big mistake, one of many I made with Kate. I don’t want to make it again.’

  ‘Well don’t then.’ Her voice was like granite.

  There was silence between them. Both swallowed drily.

  ‘Trouble is, I love you,’ Henry admitted.

  Alison’s face quivered, her bottom lip tightening. ‘And I love you – so that’s settled then. Being a cop may rule your life, but that’s not what living’s about. That’s about us, you and me, and what we make of what we’ve got and what we’ll have in the future. And I don’t know about you, buddy,’ she poked him in the chest, ‘but I’m bloody well looking forward to it!’

  As much as he could, in spite of the swollen face and all the additional cuts and scrapes, Henry’s face softened. ‘Me too,’ he admitted.

  Alison shrugged an ‘I told you so’ shrug.


  ‘And I need my bed.’

  St George’s Quay was only minutes away from Lancaster nick, at the bottom of the city, by the River Lune.

  The lady paramedic, whose name was Liz, drove Flynn down and parked in a reserved bay behind an old warehouse converted into apartments.

  ‘We’re here,’ she said, switching off the engine.

  Flynn looked at her, trying to ignore the pain in his head.

  Then there was no problem ignoring it as with passionate groans from each of them, they plunged into each other’s arms, kissing madly, lips mashing, until their foreheads clashed and Flynn jerked away.

  ‘Sorry,’ she gasped. ‘I’ll have to be gentle with you.’

  ‘I’m sure you will be . . . that said, I hope you don’t think I’m being forward, but I could really do with a shower . . . I need to get out of this.’ He pulled distastefully at the paper suit. ‘Been a bit of a night.’

  Her eyes ran down him, looking at the baggy zoot suit. ‘I think I might be able to help you there.’

  In turn, Flynn eyed her green overalls under a very unflattering anorak, obviously slung on at the end of her shift. ‘Ditto,’ he said, feeling a surge of energy.

  ‘Sorry I said that. You know, about you and me splitting. It’s the last thing I want . . . I felt it just wasn’t fair.’

  ‘I know, Henry. You’re a good man.’

  Henry’s lips warped at that. He hadn’t been good to Kate and it constantly seared into his heart. He had allowed a combination of work and his inability to say no where women were concerned to blind him. Yet through it all – ‘all’ including a divorce and a remarriage – Kate had stayed with him. It was only in the past couple of years that he had tried to make serious amends, only to have her taken away from him.

  In his heart he knew he had ultimately done his best for Kate, but he still felt cheated by her death . . . the ‘unfinished business’ syndrome.

  Then he’d met Alison and started a serious relationship he did not want to jeopardize, not through work and definitely not through other women.

  They were sitting in Alison’s car on a street near the police station, having been kissing and holding each other.

  ‘Gosh, snogging in a car,’ she said. ‘Feel like a teenager.’

  ‘Mm,’ Henry said. ‘That’s something else to consider. Age difference.’

  Alison punched him gently on the shoulder. ‘I’ll just have to push you in a wheelchair, won’t I? Off a cliff if necessary.’

  ‘I’m going to retire,’ he said suddenly.

  She frowned. ‘Where did that come from?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ve got the time in. Been sort of considering it for a bit and I’d like to be with you all the time.’

  Their eyes locked. But then she pulled a face. ‘All the time? Would that be a good idea?’ she teased.

  ‘Hey, I’m house-trained. Quite fancy living in a pub with a busty barmaid . . . I’m sure I could pull a pint.’

  ‘What about your house . . . your girls?’

  ‘Sell it . . . sell them.’

  Alison shook her head. ‘This needs a long discussion, sweetie, not a rash decision.

  ‘I know.’ He sat back and exhaled shakily. ‘Shit, I was scared.’

  ‘I’ll bet you were . . . what’s it all about, Henry?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not the foggiest and for a few hours I’m not going to think about it.’ He shook his head, but knew intuitively that everything he had been investigating for the last couple of days was interconnected, things had happened so fast that it had been impossible for him to take stock properly, even though he’d tried, and work it all out with a proper plan of investigation. His plan for the time being, though, was to get some sleep, then look at everything with the help of a team of people he trusted – unless, of course, he was taken off the investigation because of the two incidents he was directly involved with. Those being what had happened at Joe Speakman’s house and on the road to Kendleton.

  Alison started the engine, Henry settled back into the passenger seat and closed his eyes, only to open them suddenly when there was a tap on the window.

  It was DI Barlow, who had been in charge of proceedings throughout the night.

  ‘Quick word before you disappear?’ he said through the glass and gestured with his fingers.

  ‘Won’t be a moment,’ Henry said to Alison and climbed creakily out of the car.

  ‘I’ve asked an ARV to spend some time in Kendleton,’ Barlow said. ‘Just in case, just to float around . . . you never know.’

  ‘Thanks, Ralph.’

  ‘But . . . a word to the wise, Henry. I’m thinking caution.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Erm . . .’ Barlow looked around furtively and drew Henry aside so he could speak into his ear. ‘There’s obviously something happening around here that’s a bit nooky and dangerous.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Barlow looked directly into Henry’s eyes. ‘Entirely off the record, Henry . . . I think you need to back off. It would be terrible if something did happen to you, you know?’ Barlow’s eyes went to Alison in the car, the returned to Henry.

  ‘No.’ Henry’s mouth was suddenly dry. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Look,’ Barlow said, searching for the right words as though it was a painful process. ‘It’s not much more than a feeling, but it might be best, say, if you handed this whole investigation to me . . . let me run with it. I’m sure I can solve it to everyone’s satisfaction.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Look,’ Barlow said for the second time, his voice hardening, ‘I’m doing you a favour here, Henry. This is a box of vipers and it needs a lid keeping on it. Just hand it over to me and I’ll make certain all the i’s are dotted and t’s crossed . . . and no one’ll get hurt. It’s got out of hand for various reasons and I’m pretty sure I can plug it.’

  ‘Plug what?’

  ‘It,’ Barlow said. ‘Just back off, eh? If you know what’s good for you. Same applies to Mr Flynn.’ Barlow’s voice was persuasive, not threatening. But Henry didn’t like it.

  I was right, he thought. ‘By the way – what you’ve just said? Not off my record.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Henry,’ Barlow whispered. ‘I’m protecting you here. Let me sort it.’

  Henry pulled away. ‘You’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life, Ralph.’

  Barlow gave a ‘whatever’ shrug of indifference and mouthed the words, ‘Off the record.’

  Henry got back into the car and said, ‘Let’s go.’

  Barlow watched the car pull away.

  Alison said, ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘I hate to think,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  Flynn’s shower had gone very well. He got cleaned up nicely, as did the lady paramedic – who had ‘perspired’ a little after a long shift – and once they were well and truly scrubbed, the shower moved on to a whole new different level.

  Then, after drying each other, they continued what they had started in the bedroom, going voraciously at each other, but also tenderly and with utmost respect until they finally disengaged and flopped back onto the bed, plum tuckered.

  ‘Jeepers,’ Flynn panted. ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Liz said dreamily, hardly able to keep her eyes open. She pulled the duvet over and snuggled down against him with a pleasurable murmur.

  His eyelids fluttered and they were both on the verge of dream world when Flynn’s mobile phone rang.

  Normally he would have ignored it in the circumstances, but the events of the last few hours and the possibility of news about Colin, his sick friend, made him reach out for it. The caller display said ‘number withheld’ and his heart sank. News about Colin, he assumed.

  ‘Steve Flynn,’ he answered.

  ‘Mr Flynn,’ a voice he did not recognize growled. ‘Friendly advice . . . tell Henry Christie to back off . . .’ The line clicked dead before Flynn could utter a word
.

  ‘Who was that?’ Liz mumbled sleepily.

  ‘No idea,’ Flynn said and dropped the phone onto the floor – but he knew now there was no chance of sleep. He reached out and picked it up again, dialled a number.

  ‘Henry? It’s me, Flynn . . . you hit the sack yet?’

  TWELVE

  ‘And that’s all he said? But you didn’t recognize the voice?’

  ‘Yes – and no.’ Flynn had written down verbatim the one-liner phone call from the unknown male.

  ‘You’re certain?’ Henry persisted, irritatingly.

  ‘I wrote it down with my crayon,’ Flynn said, making his point.

  Henry said, ‘OK, I need to make some calls, see some people across the way.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the headquarters building of Lancashire Constabulary.

  ‘And then will you tell me what the fuck is going on?’

  Henry made a helpless gesture with his arms. ‘As if I know,’ he said. ‘Lots of things have happened and they keep freakin’ happening before I can do anything about the last thing.’ He stood up.

  It was just over two hours since Flynn had called him and Henry had immediately decided he could not afford the luxury of sleep. Although the travelling distance had been a pain, he’d also decided that it would make more sense to convene at HQ, just to the south of Preston, rather than up at Lancaster nick. Apart from anything else, this was his own environment, a place he controlled, amongst people he knew, and where his office was, in what had once been a block of student accommodation at the training centre on the site. The whole building had been commandeered years before to house the SIO team, which subsequently became FMIT. His office was on the middle floor of the three-storey block and had been two bedrooms, now knocked into one decent-sized office. On some training courses way back when, Henry recalled he had slept in one of the bedrooms, although the term ‘sleeping’ could only be loosely applied. He’d sneaked a nubile and very willing policewoman into the room once – an act, then, against all the rules – and had a glorious but necessarily silent sexual encounter. Unfortunately he’d followed this by honking up in the washbasin, then later peeing in it because he couldn’t be bothered to traipse down to the toilet block at the end of a cold corridor.