Fighting for the Dead (27 page)

The two men regarded each other silently.

‘They're still on bail,' Gledhill said. ‘They have to come back. You still have a hold on them, time to build up your case.'

‘Did you ensure they surrendered their passports?'

‘No. I didn't think that was necessary. I was assured . . .' Gledhill's voice trailed off pathetically. ‘Sunderland is an upstanding member of the community. He won't be going anywhere. And Ralph Barlow has twenty-odd years of solid coppering behind him. He'll fight any allegation. Neither man will disappear.'

Henry shook his head. ‘This is just incredible bollocks and you know it, Tom. I'm going to walk out of here, find those two men and drag their carcasses back in.'

‘No you're not.'

Henry pushed himself up, Gledhill watching in disbelief. Henry turned at the door to say something, but Gledhill said, ‘Henry?'

‘What?'

‘Be careful.'

‘What does that mean?'

Gledhill's mouth clammed shut and Henry realized he wasn't going to say anything else. He went out.

As the door closed, Gledhill reached for his phone.

‘M
r Christie? This is Melanie Speakman . . . I'm really sorry to bother you.'

‘No, that's fine,' Henry said. There was a note of strain in her voice. And in his.

He was sitting in the pool car down in the police garage, brooding and attempting to make some sense of what had happened. The call from Melanie came on his mobile phone as he slumped there in the driver's seat, surrounded by bleak concrete walls, thinking the absolute worst of everyone in the world. He was completely gutted by the chief super's decision, but what was done, was done. Deal with it. Pick up the pieces. The underlying problem was that the force was always running scared of litigation, which always took a huge dent out of its budget.

An hour in unlawful custody easily equated to a thousand pounds for the poor soul, plus substantial legal costs that ensured the lawyers didn't starve. Over eight hours for two people meant a lot of dosh, potentially, so better to take the easy way out, especially when the people in custody had access to slimeball solicitors who enjoyed screwing the cops.

On critical reflection, Henry thought that maybe he had jumped the gun. Arresting people just to see what came out of the woodwork was maybe a little old hat. He should have got warrants first, then there would have been no argument. Or maybe Gledhill was part of the plot. Or am I just being paranoid, he wondered.

It was fortunate that Rik Dean had come in early to clear some of his own backlog, and picked up on what was happening. At least that gave Henry some warning.

His meanderings had been interrupted by Melanie Speakman, daughter of Joe. Dead Joe.

‘Can I help you in some way?' he asked.

‘I really need to see you . . . I've, I've just remembered something that could be important.' Her voice was shaky.

‘Can you tell me over the phone?'

She hesitated. ‘No, not really . . . but it's about that man we discussed?'

‘Malinowski? Henry said.

‘Yes,' she whispered, her voice barely audible.

She gave him the address at which she had been staying, her friend's home in Bispham, just to the north of Blackpool. It was a pleasant semi-detached house, close to a golf course, slightly dated, but not bad for that.

It took Henry about ten minutes to get there, his curiosity fully aroused.

Could this Russian gangster, the one whose name Jerry Tope had unearthed, be the key to all this? If nothing else, he was certainly an important cog in the scenario, but Henry dismissed him as a contender for being arrested. If he was based in Cyprus, then it would be hard to get him back here . . . if indeed he had done anything wrong. Henry was only speculating – a pastime that had just lost him two prisoners.

But maybe Melanie would have something for him.

He pulled up just up the road from the address, which was on a pleasant avenue. Her Porsche was parked a little way down the road.

He had regained control of himself now, got over the emotion, and was working out how to rescue the case. He walked to the front door, knocked and was greeted by Melanie. Instantly he saw terror in her eyes.

‘Are you all right?' he asked.

‘Mr Christie . . . please come in. Thanks for coming so quickly.'

She stood aside, let him pass and gestured for him to turn right into the lounge. He walked by her, unable to take his eyes off her face, wondering what the hell she had found out that was so important and fearful.

‘What is it?' he asked, concerned.

‘Please, please, sit,' she gestured with a dithery hand. He perched himself on the edge of a chair, whilst she remained standing awkwardly. ‘There's someone I need you to meet,' she said, turned slightly to the still open living-room door.

Henry's mobile began to ring.

‘Sorry,' he said, extracting it from his jacket pocket. The caller was Steve Flynn. He said, ‘I probably need to get this.' He put the phone to his ear and angled away from Melanie.

‘I'll have that!'

Henry turned back, the phone coming away from his ear as he saw the left hand of a man gesturing by wriggling his fingers. Henry's eyes jerked upwards and took in the whole shape of the figure who had just entered the room and snaked an arm around Melanie's shoulders. She seemed to shrink. In the man's right hand was a snub-nosed revolver, six shot, of the type that used to be known as a detective's special. It was pointed at Henry's head. ‘No – don't get up, Henry.'

‘Ralph,' Henry said. He could hear Steve Flynn's echoing and tinny voice coming from the mobile phone, saying, ‘
Hello? Henry? Hello?
'

Henry folded the phone shut, ending the call.

He reached out with the phone, handing it to Ralph Barlow, who switched it fully off – all the while keeping the gun pointed at Henry – and slid it into his pocket. He moved behind Melanie and slid his left arm around her shoulders, his hand hanging over her left breast in a curiously intimate gesture – but not a move that was reciprocated, as Henry could see from her eyes.

‘What's going on, Ralph?'

Barlow smirked at Henry, who hadn't moved from his perch, an eye on the gun, an eye on the people. Barlow curved his forearm around Melanie's neck and started to apply pressure to her windpipe. Her fingers circled the arm but could not pull it away. Barlow then placed the muzzle of the gun against her temple and a muted scream escaped from her lips. It was easy for him to hold on to her, his strength and weight outmatching her small stature. All the while, his eyes were on Henry, his mouth twisted.

‘Great detective, eh? Another judgement call gone to rat shit.'

‘I said, what's going on, Ralph?' Henry's eyes moved up and down, from Melanie to Barlow.

Barlow ignored him, keeping a tight hold of Melanie. ‘You never actually told me what it was, Henry. That thing that put you on to me.'

He screwed the muzzle deep into Melanie's skin, making her emit a squeak of pain.

‘And that wink – fuck me, that irritated me. Winking at me, you cocksure bastard. Trying to keep the mystique alive. So what was it?'

‘Harry Sunderland could not have known that his wife ended up in the River Conder, yet somehow he did, Ralph. And he said it when we went to see him.'

Henry saw the realization flood into Barlow's eyes. ‘And from that you decided to access my phone records?'

‘And all the other illegal stuff you were up to. It's the kind of thing you do when you're a detective, brilliant or otherwise,' Henry said, hoping the word brilliant would serve to wind up Barlow. ‘You dig, you uncover corruption and wrong-doing.'

‘Bloody hell, Henry. I bow to you. You really are good, although it pains me to say it. You don't miss anything, do you?'

‘I missed Tom Gledhill,' he said.

Barlow gave a short laugh. ‘Friends in high places come in useful.'

‘So he's part of this whole . . . whatever the hell it is?'

‘Duh – yeah.'

Then Henry remembered. ‘He was a friend of Joe Speakman's.' Drunk though he was at the time, Henry now recalled seeing Joe Speakman at Melanie's twenty-first-birthday bash. But there were a lot of other cops there too. And he was smashing his head with a tea-tray.

Barlow clicked his tongue and gave Henry a wink. ‘Now then, Henry, you've been a bit of a clever boy, haven't you?'

‘Probably. But I never know just how clever until the life sentences are dished out.'

Barlow guffawed. ‘Nice one, but somehow I don't think this is going to end quite like that. Don't get me wrong, it will end horribly for you.'

Melanie squirmed, then her eyeballs rolled backwards in their sockets and she fainted in Barlow's grip. He simply let her fall into an untidy heap at his feet, stepped back from her. Henry moved to get to her, but Barlow said, ‘Leave the bitch.'

Henry ground his teeth.

‘I'm reliably informed you found certain items of property at Harry's house.'

Henry tried to disguise the physical lurch in his guts. He said nothing.

‘I need to recover them,' Barlow said. ‘To, um, liberate them from the safe at Lancaster nick, which is why we've come to this.'

‘What's on the phone?' Henry asked.

‘Nothing I need to describe to you,' Barlow said. ‘My problem is that you, cheekily, left specific instructions that only you can sign out the property, the phone, the passports . . . I'm not fussed about the guns, obviously.'

‘I'm not going to sign them out for you, am I, if that's what you're thinking? So it's kind of a fuck up for you, isn't it?'

‘Not as much as you might imagine.' He aimed the two-inch barrel of his revolver at Henry, then pointed at the front window – indicating that Henry should turn and look outside.

The life of a landlady/hotel owner is far from glamorous, as Alison Marsh had discovered when she took over the virtually dilapidated business that was the Tawny Owl in Kendleton. The hours are horrendous, the work unremitting, the holidays non-existent, and it isn't a gold mine. In fact, it sucked money. But it was just what she needed when she left the army some seven years earlier following the death of her husband, also a soldier, in a horrific incident in Afghanistan.

She wanted to get out of the forces and do something that would be a long-term challenge and would keep her busy from dawn till dusk and beyond. The Tawny Owl had done that.

She bought it outright using savings and her husband's insurance payouts and dragged the pub right back into the heart of the community.

It had been a hard slog and included bringing up her husband's daughter, Ginny – Virginia – who was only twelve at the time.

But the slog had been worth it. It had been hard and emotional at times. There had been occasions when she would gladly have walked away, but her drive and determination had turned a failed business into a resounding success.

All the while she had kept men at arms' length.

There had been a couple of weak moments, but nothing serious until Henry Christie came along and changed everything. Not that he had been the one to make the running. It had been her doing, but that said, if Henry's wife Kate had still been alive, Alison would not have been with him. She wasn't a marriage-wrecker. But it was her who had made the first, tentative approach a few months after she'd learned of Kate's death. Things took off slowly from there, going from strength to strength.

What she hadn't bargained for were the horrendous hours that Henry worked, nor his passion for the job and his inability
not
to get involved. But she loved those things about him, too. And especially the way he often spoke with such feeling about seeing it as his job to fight for the dead, because they had no one else to do it for them.

She was thinking about Henry that morning after getting up slightly later than him and spending a grim hour in the cellar, playing a form of chess with the beer barrels.

She emerged into the bar area – where she and Henry had made love at midnight – and then went into the kitchen to fire up the cooker and grill for breakfast.

There were only two guests in overnight (she had fibbed to Henry, knowing that he definitely would not have got intimate in front of the fire had he known that people were staying) and she thought they would be last-minuters. She made herself a coffee and some crusty toast which she took out and ate whilst leaning on the bar and surveying her domain, working through the day ahead.

The front door of the premises was unlocked and a man entered.

Alison smiled and greeted him, unperturbed. People came and went at all hours and a visitor at this time of day was not unusual.

‘Good morning,' she said and placed down her coffee.

‘Good morning,' the man replied and Alison picked up an accent of sorts in the words.

‘Can I help you?'

The man was in his mid-forties, slim, extremely handsome in a chiselled, harsh sort of way. He had black hair and a nicely trimmed moustache, a hook nose and dark complexion.

‘Yes, I think so.' The accent again. Think said as ‘zinc'. ‘You are Alison Marsh?'

‘Yes,' she said brightly.

‘Good.'

He stepped towards her. He was wearing jeans, a black leather jacket, a T-shirt, black trainers and black leather gloves. There was no warning of it. He smiled. His teeth were beautiful and white and even. Obviously he had a good dentist. He pulled up each glove in turn at the wrist, tightening them on his fingers.

Then he hit Alison once. A driving, powerful blow of his right fist, into the centre of her face. She did not see it coming, but it landed with the force of a sledgehammer, crushing her nose and cheekbones, breaking them. It felt as though her whole face had imploded as she staggered back, shocked, disorientated, clutching at her face as blood flooded out of her broken nose.