Nick Oldham - Fighting for the Dead

An hour after arriving at the Tawny Owl with Flynn in tow, and Alison meeting, greeting and fussing over them both (did she fuss more over Flynn, though, Henry wondered), Henry was still up trying to chill out with the help of that third JD, but found it hard as his brain churned over the events of what was now yesterday.

His face pounded with pain, which also served to keep him awake.

Alison — once Flynn had been shown to his room (did she take too much time up there with him, Henry’s suspicious mind asked) — came back down, but was unable to tempt Henry to bed because of the spinning thoughts. Eventually she admitted defeat and left him sitting in front of the fire, glass in one hand, bottle in the other.

The owner’s living room was also the dining room and after a few minutes’ thought, Henry picked up his briefcase and shifted himself across to the dining table.

He clicked the locks open and took out the folder inside, which he opened and tipped out the contents.

This was a copy of the file regarding the unsolved murder of the unidentified young woman he’d been at the mortuary to look at. The murder investigation that had got nowhere almost six months down the line.

He placed glass and bottle on the table, started to read.

Flynn was impressed by the standard of the refurbishment and thanked Alison profusely. He asked her to pass on his thanks to Mr Grumpy, too.

‘Not a problem,’ she smiled.

‘Do you think our lives will be forever entwined, Alison?’

‘They will, but only you and I will ever truly know what happened that night.’

‘You’re right.’ She’d saved him from a killer and he’d saved her from the complexities of an ugly justice system that didn’t always work for real justice. But he also knew that Henry Christie had slotted the pieces together.

Meaning the three of them shared a very big secret.

‘I love Henry, by the way,’ she said, having seen a certain look come into Flynn’s eyes as they wished each other good night. ‘Madly.’

‘I can see that. He’s wild about you, too.’

‘We’re good for each other and nothing will get in our way,’ she said determinedly.

‘Point taken,’ Flynn conceded, even though he was dying to ask what Henry’s wife thought about the situation.

They had a quick hug and Alison left him to it.

First thing he did was head for the well-stocked minibar to liberate three Bell’s whisky miniatures which he poured into a glass and downed in one. This made him cough and bring something up from the back of his throat which was like a lump of black snot when he spat it into the toilet, result of smoke inhalation.

Then he peeled off his wet clothes and had a long shower which felt incredible after his immersion in the Lancaster Canal.

Dried off, heated up, and wearing the provided robe, he sat on the bed and helped himself to another whisky, which he sipped this time without coughing and mulled over his day.

His eyelids started to droop and he wasn’t far off sleep when it hit him.

‘The bugger,’ he said angrily. But there was nothing he could do about it at that moment. Instead he removed the robe, slid in between the wonderful cotton sheets and closed his eyes, thinking lustful things about a female paramedic.

Well rested and with his head feeling very clear, which surprised him after having been unconscious, even if it was for such a short time, and wearing his second set of new togs within two days, Flynn sauntered down for breakfast at eight next morning. His face was very swollen, cut, a puffy mess, but the pain was being kept chemically at bay by the painkiller slipped to him by his favourite paramedic — whose name he had failed to get.

A few other guests were at tables in the dining area, having breakfast served by Alison’s stepdaughter Ginny. When she saw Flynn, her face brightened. She gave a squeak of excitement and rushed toward him with a big hug, after which she perused him critically, her face wincing slightly at his injured visage.

‘Mum says you can have breakfast with us, if you like.’

‘That would be great.’

They exchanged pleasantries as Ginny led Flynn through to the private accommodation at the back of the pub, where Flynn found a jaded-looking Henry Christie slumped at the dining-room table, munching a croissant and drinking coffee, the unsolved-murder file open next to him. Something he closed as Flynn entered.

He looked at Flynn as though he hoped last night’s magnanimous gesture was just a bad dream and was devastated when it wasn’t.

Alison emerged from the kitchen and, just to wind up Henry, Flynn planted a smacker on her cheek and said, ‘Mornin’, lover.’

‘Stop it,’ she said with a smirk.

Henry watched, annoyed, especially when Flynn gave him a wink.

‘Take a seat and I’ll get you food. Full English?’

‘Love that,’ Flynn said, raising his eyebrows at Henry. He sat down at the end of the table, ninety degrees to Henry.

‘Help yourself to coffee,’ Alison added over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen. There was a filter coffee machine on the table and Flynn poured himself a steaming mug full of the superbly smelling brew, to which he added a dash of milk and sipped it appreciatively.

‘Morning, Henry.’

‘Morning, Steve.’

‘Sleep well?’

‘No — you?’

‘Like a tot plied with Calpol.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘You think I might call Diane? I’d better do that sooner rather than later.’

Henry indicated the handset on the table and said, ‘Help yourself.’ He picked up the remains of his croissant and folded it into his mouth.

Flynn called Diane at the hospital. She sounded exhausted and slightly bewildered. When Flynn said he had some bad news for her about the boat, it didn’t seem to register, so he didn’t push it. He did learn that Colin had slept well and that she was being picked up by her sister to get some sleep at her place and that Flynn could keep the Smart Car for the day. He thought it would probably be better anyway if he told her face to face that her beloved canal boat had been destroyed. And there was every chance she would hear it from another source anyway.

As he hung up Alison came back bearing a wonderful breakfast, the likes of which Flynn hadn’t seen for many a year. He gave an appreciative whistle.

‘All locally sourced, everything within a two-mile radius,’ she boasted proudly.

‘Fantastic. Thank you.’

Alison looked at both men and chuckled. ‘You could be bookends.’

‘What do you mean?’ Henry said.

‘With your faces. Sort of matching. But opposite.’

The men glanced at each other, neither enamoured by this idea, and Alison backed off, seeing she had hit a bum note.

Flynn chewed the end off a pork sausage. He said, ‘Henry?’

‘Mm?’

‘Tell me how you got your injury — y’know, your face.’ He pointed a fork at the detective.

‘Why?’

‘Seems hellish similar to mine, doncha think?’ Flynn leaned over and closely inspected Henry’s wound, part of which still bore the faint imprint of the weapon that caused it. ‘What was it? An automatic pistol of some sort? Two men?’ Henry kept shtum and let him speculate. ‘I know it was two men because it’s been on the local news. Just been watching it on TV in my room.’

Henry sipped his coffee.

‘Circumstances are a bit vague… something to do with the mortuary and the police spokesperson really had no answers as to why you were assaulted, but that two violent armed men are being hunted. Well, they didn’t give your name, but it was you, wasn’t it?’

Henry sighed. Waited. Deductions always intrigued him.

‘And if that’s the case, when exactly were you going to reveal to me that we were beaten up by the same men?’