Nick Oldham - Fighting for the Dead

Sixty was a long way away, but time flew, and you got old before you knew it.

‘Bastard,’ he hissed quietly into his beer. ‘How did he get someone like her? Wonder what his wife thinks about it?’

The beer went to his lips and half of it slid down his throat.

He glanced around the pub, which was moderately busy. A few couples and a few single oldish men propping up the bar. Flynn’s eyes paused on the couples, before tearing away and returning to the drink in front of him. He finished it in one fell swoop, then the chaser.

Actually, he reasoned, life wasn’t that bad. He enjoyed his life in Puerto Rico in Gran Canaria, had made some good friends, had regular sex with a few ‘no strings attached’ ladies, and had a great job he hoped he would do for the rest of his life. Skippering a sport-fishing boat was an awesome way to make a living and his plan was — eventually — to buy his own boat.

Lots of blokes would leap at the chance of leading his life.

Suddenly he felt better after his inner pep-talk.

He stood up, went to the bar, bought a couple of bottles of beer and went out into the night, which was cold and dark.

‘Boss, I thought you’d want to know — it’s definitely Sunderland’s wife,’ Ralph Barlow said. ‘Jennifer.’

Henry was sitting in the warm lounge of the owner’s living accommodation at the back of the Tawny Owl. On the journey across from Lancaster in Alison’s car, he’d got a call from Barlow but the signal had gone before they could talk — not uncommon out in the sticks — and he hadn’t been able to return it. He had called Barlow using the landline in the pub.

‘Thanks for that,’ Henry said.

‘He was pretty cut up about it. It must have hit him.’

‘Genuine?’ Henry asked.

‘Think so.’

‘What about a statement and interview?’

‘I’ve left it loose. Some time tomorrow.’

‘Might as well get the PM done first anyway. See if anything comes of that.’

‘Yeah, I thought that.’

‘Did you mention the robbery thing, the armed guys?’

‘You said not to.’

‘Yeah, I did, didn’t I?’

There was a slight pause as Henry’s brain ticked over whilst he mentally rechecked his list. Had everything been covered? Could everyone sleep tight tonight?

‘Boss?’

‘Just cogitating… anything on the two robbers yet?’

‘Not as such… but there could be some CCTV footage from the hospital cameras.’

‘Leave it for now, we’ll have a look tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow? You not reporting in sick, boss?’

‘Things to do.’

‘But you’re well hurt.’

‘I’ll be fine after an ice-pack, some JD, more pills, food and sleep… I’ll be in at nine-thirty.’

Henry hung up. The door opened and, as if on cue, Alison entered the room with a small ice-pack from the freezer, wrapped in a tea towel. She sat alongside him and brought the ice up to his face. He winced at the contact, but bravely hung in there, then took it from her, moulding it tenderly around the contours of the swelling.

‘You’re not really going to invite Flynn round, are you?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ It was a firm answer. Although she had no romantic ideas where Flynn was concerned, the two did have a bond that would connect them for the rest of their lives. She had saved his life and in so doing had been forced to take someone else’s. Flynn had covered it up but Alison was secretly aware that Henry knew what had happened but had never voiced his suspicions. She hoped he wouldn’t raise the subject now that Flynn was back on the scene. ‘You were a bit harsh with him, I thought.’

‘I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could chuck him, love. Y’know there’s over a million quid missing from a drugs raid he botched, years ago…’

‘I know, I know… let it go, will you?’

‘And, and,’ Henry went on, about to mount a very high horse. ‘All right, maybe he didn’t steal it, but his bloody cop-partner did and the money and his partner have vanished somewhere in the ozone layer.’ He looked at her.

‘Finished?’

‘And I know he fancies you,’ Henry admitted dully.

‘Ahh, the truth will out. The old green-eyed monster.’

Henry’s look became a guilty frown. ‘He’s a good-looking bastard,’ he said. ‘Tanned, fit… smooth.’

‘And I’m so easily seduced. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘You were by me.’

‘Henry, I love you… end of.’ It was a statement that broached no further argument.

‘Yeah, well,’ he muttered. ‘I need to make a few calls.’

‘And I need to get back to the bar, the locals are thirsty tonight.’ She touched the back of his hand gently, then left.

Henry picked up the phone and dialled with his thumb, a number he knew well.

‘Hello, Marina, it’s Henry Christie… is Jerry about?’ he asked.

‘One moment. I think he’s just distilling the home brew… Jerry!’

Henry held the phone away from his ear as she bawled out the name. Henry was calling DC Jerry Tope, who worked in the Intelligence Unit at headquarters. Tope had done a lot of good work for Henry over recent years, was an excellent Intel analyst. He was also an expert at hacking into computer databases — usually illegally. Tope had been headhunted by the FBI, so impressed were they after he’d drilled into their computer network, but Henry had managed to block the move. He guessed it would only be a matter of time before he left the cops for more lucrative pastures. For the time being, Jerry Tope was his and because he was so talented and useful, Henry tolerated the fact he was a grumpy bastard who showed little respect for rank.

There were a lot of rustling noises, some whispering, and suddenly Tope’s voice came on the line. Abruptly he said, ‘Two things. First it’s gone nine and I’m off duty. Second, I’m just sterilizing my wine bottles.’

‘And third,’ Henry cut in, ‘I’m your boss, you’re a DC, and if you don’t shut it, you’ll be on a school-crossing patrol in Bacup on Monday. Promise.’ It wasn’t really a promise or a threat, but part of the little ritual he and Tope often went through to kick off their conversations.

Tope grunted, ‘Whaddya want?’

Henry explained the two things. One was a fairly straightforward piece of research, the second something a little more delicate that required Tope’s computer skills and sensitive links with the Telephone Unit, because Henry wanted this doing via the rear entrance.

Tope did his usual ‘umming’, but didn’t ask why. The first request was easy, the second less so. He said he would get back to Henry next day.

Before hanging up Henry said, ‘Incidentally, I bumped into an old friend of yours today… Steve Flynn.’ Tope emitted a loud groan. ‘Just to warn you,’ Henry said. ‘I know he fishes for information from you, because of what he has on you. Don’t be tempted.’

Henry was certain he heard Tope’s Adam’s apple rise and fall in his throat. He hung up with a smirk — one that hurt his face.

Then he stretched out, tilted his head sideways and balanced the ice-pack on his cheek, and settled down for the night.

The wind slapped the halyards on the rigging of the yachts in the marina, making a lovely clanking noise. Flynn paused to listen to the sound that made him smile. He sighed, wishing he was back in Gran Canaria. It was in the same zone as the UK, difference being if he had been there he would have been dressed in a T-shirt, three-quarter-length pants and flip-flops, cruising from bar to bar in Puerto Rico’s commercial centre. The evening would still be young — and warm.

Instead it was bone-chilling, the wind zipping in up the Lune estuary.

He hunkered down and walked alongside the canal up to the barge, stepping over on to the rear deck. He immediately saw that the door leading to the living area had been smashed open and was hanging off its hinges. The door was pretty substantial and to smash it off must have taken some doing.