Nick Oldham - Fighting for the Dead

‘That must be awful.’

Their conversation ran on for a while, going around the houses, studiously avoiding the important issue. Flynn could sense what was going on, so he said, ‘Do you need to go back to the hospital now? You can leave the place with me… I’ll muddle through. You do what you need to, Diane.’

She stared at her tea, then raised her eyes. ‘Will you come with me?’

The glaze of her tears did it for Flynn. He always considered himself to be a hard man, and in most instances he was. But Diane got to him and he had to swallow back his own tears.

‘Course I will.’

Slyne village lay a couple of miles north of Lancaster, straddling the A6. Henry knew it a little, that it consisted mainly of dwellings and rural businesses because this part of Lancashire was predominantly countryside. Years ago he’d been to the two pubs on either side of the A6, but hadn’t visited the place recently.

Barlow turned off the main road, left the houses behind and drove into the rolling hills, then swung a tight right into Sunderland’s haulage depot. It was a huge operation with at least four massive warehouses, surrounded by smaller units, and a long line of HGVs parked in a regimented row, all bearing the Sunderland Transport crest. Henry counted twelve, plus two pulled up at the doors of warehouses being filled with goods. He guessed there were a hundred more out on the roads. There were also possibly over fifty container units stacked high.

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?’

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.’