Fighting for the Dead

NINETEEN

They crawled along the A6 into Lancaster, a city where traffic probably moved even more slowly than London.

‘I don’t want you to park on the police station car park,’ Barlow said. ‘Pull up on Marton Street, outside the nick, and we’ll use the public entrance for a quick in and out. The inspector’s office is just on the corridor behind the enquiry desk and that’s where the safe is. We walk in, acting all natural, you get the inspector to open up, you sign the property out, then we leave. Seriously, Henry, we’re in and out in five minutes and if you do or say anything ridiculous, she will die — that’s the pay-off for any stupidity. Do I make myself clear?’

Henry shrugged as the car hit the roundabout at the southern tip of the city — known as Pointer Island — and then headed down South Road into Lancaster proper. He took the offside lane at the traffic lights outside the hospital, then moved across again to bear right into Penny Street then first right on to Marton Street, at the end of which stood the crumbling nick that was Lancaster Police station, not the best-looking building in the world and continually in need of refurbishment.

Access to the public enquiry office was via steps and a ramp off the street and although there were double yellow lines, Henry parked up as instructed. In the rear-view mirror he saw the Mercedes pull in fifty metres behind.

‘What if we get a ticket? The traffic wardens are pretty keen around here,’ Henry said.

‘Getting a parking ticket is the least of your worries, Henry,’ Barlow said. ‘What we do is go in and tell the public enquiry assistant behind the counter that the car’s staying here for five minutes, just so she knows, and then we go in and do the business.’

‘OK — get out and let’s go do.’ He slid the gun into his jacket pocket, keeping hold of it with his right hand.

‘Don’t blow your foot off,’ Henry said. ‘No, sorry — please blow your foot off.’

Barlow shook his head at Henry and said, ‘Move, funny guy.’

Henry got out and the two men entered the station. There was no one in the foyer, but a PEA was leaning on the desk, filling in some forms. She looked up and smiled at Barlow. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi, Jane.’ He sidled up to her in a curiously intimate way, reminding Henry of himself a little. Jack the lad, streetwise detective. ‘Just in a bit of a rush, so we left the car on the double-yellows.’ He pointed outside. ‘We’ll be about five minutes, tops… but we need a quick getaway.’

‘I’ll keep nicks,’ she said conspiratorially.

‘Buzz us in, will you?’ he asked. She reached under the desk and pressed the button that unlocked the entrance door. Barlow pushed it open and allowed Henry through ahead of him.

Mobile phone in hand, Flynn was sitting in the mortuary office with Professor Baines. There was still no reply from Henry and while this wasn’t a problem he was beginning to find it increasingly odd due to the nature of the fast-moving investigation Henry was in charge of: surely it was incumbent on the SIO to remain readily available. Going off and being a lone wolf was all well and good — and he had no doubt Henry was capable of doing that — but not at this moment in time.

‘Ah well,’ he sighed, ‘best get going.’

‘Henry needs to know about this,’ Baines insisted. He pointed to the tooth on his desk. ‘Discovering the crime scene will be crucial in this case.’

‘I know,’ Flynn said. ‘I wonder if it might be worth bobbing into Lancaster nick. Maybe they have another number for him, or might know of his whereabouts.’

‘Good idea.’

Flynn had walked out to Alison’s car and seeing it, he had a minor brainwave. He sat in it and dialled the landline number of the Tawny Owl. Perhaps he’d contacted Alison and spoken to her recently.

The number rang out for a while and he was just about to hang up when a slightly breathless voice answered, ‘Tawny Owl, Kendleton.’

It wasn’t Alison, but Flynn recognized Ginny’s girlie voice. ‘Hi, Gin, it’s me, Steve Flynn.’

‘Oh, Steve, I’m really glad you called.’

‘Problem?’

‘Have you still got Mum’s car?’

‘Yes, actually. Does she need it back? Sorry.’

‘No, no, it’s not that,’ she said. Flynn noted a slight tremor in her tone.

‘What, then?’

‘If she had the car back and it wasn’t here, I’d know she was out in it. As it is I don’t know where she is.’

Flynn frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I know she got up this morning soon after Henry left for work and she did some stuff down in the cellar. Then she got the kitchen fired up and made herself a brew… and now I don’t know where she is. It’s like she disappeared, vanished. And the brew is half-drunk on the bar and her toast is still here, cold.’

‘Is your car still there? She hasn’t gone off in that, has she?’

‘No — it’s still here.’

‘Perhaps she went off with Henry.’

‘No — he definitely went to work alone.’

Flynn pouted. ‘Has she popped into the village for some supplies?’

‘I don’t think so. We don’t need anything — and I do that, anyway.’

‘Have you spoken to Henry, just in case?’

‘I tried his mobile, but there was no reply.’

‘Right — OK,’ Flynn said, frown deepening. ‘First off, don’t worry. There’s probably a simple explanation, but if you like I could come across. I’m just in Lancaster now at a bit of a loose end.’ And a shop to open and run, he thought.

‘Please… I’m a bit worried. It’s not like her just to disappear.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ Flynn assured her. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes or so.’ He swung his legs into the car and started the engine, reversing out of the parking slot.

They waited in the inspector’s office for the duty inspector to make his way up from the custody suite where he had been tied up doing prisoner reviews. His name was Drummond, a fine name for a fine man who did a good job and had no ambitions beyond that role. Henry had known him for a long time and Drummond nodded pleasantly at him, but came up short when he saw Barlow. His eyes narrowed fractionally. No doubt news of the arrest would have spread quickly, but of the release perhaps not too fast.

‘Hi, Jack,’ Barlow said affably.

‘Ralph,’ Drummond nodded unsurely.

‘We’ve come to pick up some property from the safe,’ Barlow explained. Henry noticed his right hand was still in his jacket pocket, holding the gun, but trying to appear calm and normal. Henry wanted to believe that this was the weak point, but he felt powerless to act, to rush Barlow and pin the fucker to the wall. He knew he could and if he had been alone in this shitty mess he would have done. Alison, he called, I’ll sort this. Be brave.

Barlow went on, ‘It’ll be marked for Detective Superintendent Christie only. It’s a mobile phone and some passports.’

Drummond nodded. ‘Yeah, I know — a support unit sergeant booked it in earlier.’ He had a set of heavy looking keys on a detachable fob linked to his leather belt. He unhooked them and selected one, a long, but sturdy one.

The big old safe was in the back corner of the room, not fixed to anything, but unlikely that it would ever move. It was far too heavy and would need specialist lifting equipment to drag it anywhere. It was used mainly to keep any monies that came into police possession and other small valuable items. Most everything else went into the property store.

Drummond bent down and slotted the key in the lock.

Barlow grinned at Henry. ‘You OK?’ he mouthed.

‘Fuck off,’ Henry mouthed back.

The safe door opened easily and the inspector pulled out the items, plus a single, cut-off Wellington boot. Henry swallowed at the sight of this and felt his fists bunch up. The phone and the passports were in separate envelopes across which had been written ‘ To be handed to Det. Supt Christie ONLY ’. Drummond ripped them open.

He handed the property — seven passports, mobile phone and boot — across to Barlow, still eyeing him suspiciously. ‘You need to sign for it all.’ Drummond gave Barlow the form, which he in turn handed to Henry.

‘You’ll be wanting to sign this, boss.’

‘I don’t have a pen,’ Henry said awkwardly.

‘Here.’ Drummond gave him one from his shirt pocket. Henry signed the form.

‘Thanks, Jack,’ Barlow said. ‘We need to get going now. Bodies to deal with.’ It was the sort of thing any cop might have said, but to Henry the words sounded ominous: whose bodies?

They walked out of the office and down the corridor. Henry saw Barlow drop the boot into a waste bin, something else so disrespectful to the dead that a shiver of horror went through him. Then they exited through the enquiry office door.

Once in the foyer, Barlow spun to the lady behind the desk who was now dealing with a member of the public.

‘All quiet, love?’ he asked her.

‘No sign of the yellow peril,’ she confirmed.

Henry went ahead of Barlow out to the car and walked around to the driver’s door, where he paused and leaned on the roof with his forearms.

The Mercedes was still there. Barlow gave the occupants a quick nod and said to Henry, ‘Get in.’

Henry stared in the direction of the Mercedes. Someone sounded an angry blast of a horn further down the street and it looked as though a car had pulled up without warning in front of another car, causing a problem.

Henry got in, as did Barlow.

‘That was nice ’n’ easy, wasn’t it, Henry?’

‘Jack Drummond wasn’t happy. He’ll be making phone calls now, you know. He’s not stupid.’

‘Fuck him. Drive,’ Barlow ordered and drew the gun out of his pocket. ‘Head north.’

Henry started the car, checked his mirrors and over his shoulder and set off. The Mercedes moved out to follow.

Flynn drove off the mortuary car park and onto the A588, where he turned left up to Pointer Island. The traffic seemed worse than normal, irritating him. He couldn’t remember the last time there had been a traffic jam in Puerto Rico, although it did have its moments.

His mobile phone rang and he answered it, securing it between his right shoulder and ear.

‘Flynn, it’s Rik again. Have you made contact with Henry yet?’

‘Tried but failed. I think he’s gone AWOL.’

‘Shit.’

‘Why? Is there a problem?’

Flynn edged forwards in the car and was two cars away from the roundabout. It was then he saw a car he knew pull onto the roundabout from the A6 and sail past him, some fifty metres away and then onto South Road towards the city.

Flynn said quickly, ‘Isn’t that DI Barlow supposed to be in custody?’

‘Ahh… why do you ask?’

‘Answer the question, Rik.’

‘He got released first thing this morning, as did Sunderland. Nothing to do with Henry. A done deal. Again, why?’

The word Fiasco rang in Flynn’s ears.

‘Because Henry’s just driven past me towards Lancaster — and Barlow’s sat right beside him. What going on, Rik?’

‘Double murder in Bispham,’ Rik said succinctly. ‘Two females, one of which is Joe Speakman’s daughter, Melanie. The other is her friend. Both shot in the head — and Henry’s warrant card was found at the scene.’

Flynn reached the roundabout, zipped around a more sedate driver and gunned Alison’s car down South Road, but was immediately caught up in more snail traffic at the red lights outside the front of the hospital — and he had lost sight of Henry.

He still had the phone to his ear. ‘You still there, Rik?’

‘Still here.’

‘I’ve lost him.’

‘Shit — try the nick.’

‘Will do. Oh, by the way, don’t know if this is significant, but Alison’s gone missing this morning. Henry’s Alison, that is. Done a disappearing trick. I’ll call you back.’ He cut the connection.

The lights seemed to stay on red for ever, but it was far too busy for Flynn to do anything rash, like race down the wrong side of the street against two lanes of oncoming vehicles.

Instead, he had to wait. Then they changed and he tailgated the car in front through the lights, veered into the outside lane on King Street, and then bore right into Penny Street and next sharp right into Marton Street where he almost ran into the back of a black Mercedes parked illegally on the double yellow lines on the left. He swerved, drove on and saw that Henry’s classy pool car was parked just as illegally on the double yellow lines outside the police station.

Flynn winced, not quite able to make a decision, but by the time he did he was at the junction at the one-way system again and because of vehicles behind him, he had nowhere to go but forward and edged out into the traffic stream again.

He cursed and picked his mobile phone up from the dashboard, where it was wedged. He didn’t have Rik’s number, so he had to go through the rigmarole of finding the ‘ recently received ’ calls menu to unearth it, then call him back. By which time he had moved a good twenty metres. Progress was not good.

‘Yeah, Flynn,’ Rik answered quickly.

‘The pool car’s parked outside the nick… I couldn’t find anywhere to park up, so I’m looping back round to see if I can on this run.’

‘Right… Flynn, what the hell’s going on?’ Rik asked.

‘That question gives me a feeling of deja vu,’ Flynn said. ‘I don’t know, is the answer… but nothing pleasant, I suspect. Why the hell would he be with Barlow?’

He was back at the junction with King Street again, and moving slowly north, into Sun Street, then ninety degrees right into Marton Street again, at which point the motorist in front of him jammed on his brakes and came to a sudden, unexpected stop, obviously unsure where he was going. Flynn almost upended Alison’s car as he slammed the brakes on.

Up ahead he saw Barlow and Henry emerge from the police-station door and go to the pool car. Henry walked around it and leaned on the roof, talking across to Barlow, looking back down the street in Flynn’s direction.

Flynn honked his horn at the guy in front, who still hadn’t made up his mind. The man’s arm appeared through his window and he gave Flynn the middle-finger salute. Flynn pipped again.

The car edged forwards and Flynn could not decide what the bugger was up to — and then it kangarooed to a stalled stop.

‘I don’t believe this,’ Flynn said and he saw now that Henry had got into the car with Barlow and was moving off and joining the traffic Flynn had just left. And behind was the black Mercedes.

Flynn was trapped. He crunched the car into reverse, lurched backwards, stopping only an inch from the car behind, which honked with an angry warning. He gave a ‘sorry’ wave, spun the wheel, mounted the footpath with two wheels and passed the dithering car driver.

By the time he reached the junction, Henry was just turning right, heading north up through the city.

Flynn pushed the nose of the car into the junction, but no one was willing to give way, so he simply barged out, causing a concertina of braking cars and a cacophony of horns which made it sound more like Rome than a Lancashire town.

Even though he had forced his way in, he was still restricted by the sheer volume of traffic. The only way he could have made quick progress would have been to get all four wheels on the footpath this time and mow down a bunch of pesky pedestrians.

Instead he had to seethe.

There was no way, either, that Henry could rush through the morning traffic, and its slowness was compounded by a set of roadworks on the one-way system that for about a hundred metres reduced two lanes into one and almost brought everything to a halt.

Not that he was rushing. He was purposely going as slowly as he could, not taking any advantage of gaps, but crawled deliberately, feeling a surge of positivity in him because he had seen Flynn in Alison’s car and for a moment longer than necessary he had kept his face turned towards him in the hope that Flynn would see him. Surely he had.

He checked his rear-view mirror. The Mercedes was right behind now and he tried to see inside it, but all he could make out were two male figures, a driver and back-seat passenger. Alison, he realized, must be being held down in the space behind the front and rear passenger seat.

‘What’s the plan?’ Henry asked.

‘Wait and see.’

‘You know that the last person seen with a murder victim is usually the one who did the killing,’ Henry said. ‘If I turn up dead, which I presume is the plan, they’ll come a-knocking on your door, pal.’

‘That’s if there’s a body,’ Barlow said scarily, sending a tremor of fear through Henry which felt like all his blood had rushed out of his feet.

Henry swallowed. ‘You know you have no chance with this, don’t you?’

‘I’ll control it,’ Barlow said.

‘Like you did Jennifer Sunderland?’ Henry sneered. ‘That went tits-up straight-off, dinnit?’

Barlow snapped. He slashed the gun in his hand sideways into Henry’s face, into his broken cheekbone, then forced the muzzle into Henry’s groin, twisting it hard into his flesh.

‘A mistake I won’t make again.’

Flynn, stationary, was still on the mobile phone to Rik Dean. ‘Sorry, pal, this traffic ain’t moving.’

‘Do your best to try and stay with him.’

‘If I can lay eyes on him, I will,’ Flynn said. He used the term ‘laying eyes’ when sighting a marlin out sport-fishing off the Canary Islands. ‘Hey, one thing, there’s the possibility of another car tagging on with him, a black Mercedes.’

‘A big black car was seen outside the murder victims’ house by one of the neighbours,’ Rik said. ‘No make, but it was described as fancy — why?’

‘There was one parked on Marton Street and I saw Barlow give it a thumbs-up when he and Henry came out of the nick, then it set off behind them.’

‘Could be… Look, I need to speak to some people. I’ll call you back.’

‘Ditto, when I’ve got something to tell you.’

Flynn got through the lights and on to King Street at last, but was met by two solid lanes of cars stretching down through the city and in the distance he saw a ‘ roadworks ahead ’ sign and groaned with the injustice of it all. There was literally no way of making progress. He could possibly cut across the traffic at this point and then do a rat run around the western side of the city, but there was no guarantee it would be any quicker.

But Flynn preferred to be on the move and it surely could not be any slower. He signalled left, nudged his way across the traffic and on to Aldcliffe Road that ran down by the Lancaster Canal and, hoping he could remember his way through the back streets and byways of the city, he threw the car quickly along these streets, over the railway line, down by the back of the castle, winding his way down on to St George’s Quay where he had spent a short morning of passion with a paramedic in her tiny flat overlooking the river. He knew he would have to rejoin the traffic at the bottom of the city at Cable Street.

He did keep moving and probably it was quicker and as he waited to turn left onto Cable Street, he knew he had jumped the queue a little.

But he could not see Henry’s car — and he also knew that he was making an assumption as to where he was headed. It was possible that he could have actually gone in a different direction and cut east across the city centre, but Flynn had the feeling he would still be heading north. Possibly heading towards Sunderland’s haulage depot.

But he could have been wrong.

He edged into the traffic which was moving more freely down here after bursting free from the city-centre bottleneck and Flynn motored along slowly, turning on to Greyhound Bridge to drive across the Lune. Traffic here had thinned out considerably and was moving quickly now across the one-way bridge.

As he checked his mirrors and swung across the lanes to keep heading north, he thought he had lost Henry.

But he suddenly found that he had actually beaten him through the traffic because as Flynn drifted across the three lanes, the pool car and the Mercedes came into view behind him.

Even though his left eye was streaming, and the broken cheekbone was emitting shock waves of pain, Henry saw that somehow Steve Flynn had managed to get ahead of him. The problem was that there were three lanes of traffic over Greyhound Bridge and Flynn moved across to the right-hand lane and Henry was now expected to pass him using the middle lane, then filter across to travel north, as per Barlow’s instructions.

This was a problem because they would drive within feet of Alison’s car and if Barlow looked across, he might easily recognize Flynn at the wheel, something Henry wanted to avoid, so he leaned forward to restrict Barlow’s view and also to distract him with more jolly conversation.

‘What do you think of the Millennium Footbridge?’ Henry asked and pointed left across at the pedestrian bridge that had been built to span the Lune at the turn of the century.

‘What the fuck are you on about?’ Barlow snarled.

‘Just chatting.’

‘Well fucking shut up.’

They were almost level with Flynn now. Henry did not even dare glance sideways.

‘It’s beautiful, yet modern,’ Henry said stupidly, a remark that unfortunately made Barlow look sharply at him — just as the two cars drew level. Henry put his foot down on the accelerator, but the expected increase in speed did not happen. Instead, a huge cloud of smoke billowed out of the exhaust, almost causing a smoke screen around the Mercedes, which was too close behind. A very unpleasant scraping noise came from the engine block followed by a loud ‘clank’ that sounded as if a very important piece of machinery had come loose in the pistons.

‘What the fuck have you done?’ Barlow bawled.

‘Sorry.’ Henry dabbed the accelerator, but there was no response and the car started to slow dramatically with a huge crunching, grating noise coming from the engine like the pistons were pounding pebbles. ‘I think the engine’s seized.’

‘Shit.’

The speed decreased, and suddenly there was no power in the steering.

And without having to use the braking system, the car suddenly came to a bone-jarring stop, throwing Henry against the steering wheel and Barlow against the front windscreen.

And the Mercedes ploughed into the back of them.

Flynn watched the approach of Henry’s car through the passenger-side wing mirror, and realized he was going to underpass him, which was a necessity for traffic on the bridge. It was the only way to cross it.

He slid low in his seat as the car came directly alongside, not daring to glance sideways — even though he did, seeing Henry point across towards the river and say something to Barlow in the passenger seat. Henry’s attempt at distraction.

Barlow then looked sharply at Henry and as he did Flynn jerked his head to the front, presenting a low profile to Barlow just in case he glanced across from car to car and spotted him.

Flynn braced himself, hoping he hadn’t been recognized, and Henry’s car edged ahead.

Then came the huge cloud of noxious smoke from the exhaust, enveloping the Mercedes, followed by a huge and horrible metallic crash that Flynn heard clearly and pinpointed it as, basically, the engine in the pool car decided that enough was enough, it needed oil now because there was none left, not a single drop, and engines don’t run all that well without it.

What surprised Flynn was exactly how instantly the car stopped. One moment it was going OK, then it seemed to slow just a little — then it stopped as though it had hit an invisible brick wall.

And the Mercedes slammed right into it.

Flynn drove on and veered in front of the car, stopping at a jaunty angle across two lanes, and leapt out of the car.

Then the pile-up started.

Another car hit the Mercedes, and bounced off into the left-hand lane. Another car hit that one. A car stopped in the right-hand lane — why, Flynn didn’t quite get — but the one behind it hit that one and then they started to stack up within seconds.

The passenger door of the pool car opened and Barlow rolled out, and staggered, blood on his head.

Flynn saw the gun in his hand.

Then Henry was out. He too loped drunkenly sideways, but gripped the roof of the car and turned to Flynn who was at the bonnet which had smoke and steam hissing out of the gaps and the front radiator grille.

Barlow ran across the left hand lane towards the side of the bridge, holding his side and also limping like an injured wolf.

Henry pointed urgently at him and screamed to Flynn, ‘Get him, get him…’ He yelled something else, but the sound of his voice was drowned out as, way further back, a truck hit a car with an almighty crunch.

As Barlow got to the footpath, he turned and fired the gun twice.

Flynn ducked instinctively, but the shooting seemed more like warning shots than anything. Running and keeping low he knew he would soon catch this man.

Henry hit the steering wheel hard with his chest, the pay-off for not wearing a seat belt. It drove everything out of him, every atom of his breath, and something snapped. Then the Mercedes impacted from behind and jerked him backwards, flicking his head against the head rest.

Barlow’s head smacked the windscreen and because he had been sitting sideways-on to Henry, the side of his ribcage connected with the dashboard. He too was then thrown backwards a second later as the Mercedes connected.

Wheezing painfully, Henry exited the car as quickly as he could, noting that Flynn had angled Alison’s car across the front of the pool car and was already out on the road.

Barlow got out of the car and started to leg it across the road. Henry shouted for Flynn to go after him, but to be careful, the guy was armed. He didn’t know if Flynn heard him.

Ignoring the pain and possible new injuries, Henry ran to the Mercedes, realizing that the poor condition of the pool car had changed matters completely. He tore open the rear passenger door, ignoring the driver, and instantly there was no pain in him, just an all-consuming anger as he saw Alison lying curled up in a foetal ball in the footwell behind the front passenger seat, unmoving.

Henry roared, ‘You bastards!’

The youngish, good-looking man in the back seat went for Henry. This was the man who had held Alison’s head up to the window, taunting Henry, then smashing her face against the glass, smearing it with her blood. Henry did not know who he was, nor what part he was playing in this whole scenario. He did not care.

Henry sidestepped, grabbed him and hauled him out of the car with a primeval strength he did not know he had. Powered by the red-mist rage, he started to pound his fists into the man’s face, punching him so his features were twisted and distorted, again and again, and then he stomped on him, with the man screaming, ‘No, no.’ Words Henry ignored.

The driver of the Mercedes, stunned for a moment by the accident, got out. Henry turned on him, now a terrible monster. Henry made for him, but he ducked and ran.

Barlow might have been running like an injured wolf, but Flynn simply jogged after him like a hunting dog, keeping a safe distance away, no way he was going to lose the guy, just run him into the ground. Easy.

Barlow reached the Millennium Bridge and started to run across towards St George’s Quay on the opposite side of the river. There was a lot of people on the bridge, many of whom had turned and were coming back against him to see what was happening on Greyhound Bridge, where there had obviously been a serious accident involving a number of vehicles, and was still stacking up.

By the time Flynn stepped onto the bridge, Barlow was about halfway across and Flynn thought this was as good a place as any to bring him down because there was nowhere else he could go, other than over the side.

Flynn upped his pace, as, noticeably, Barlow began to slow down and stagger, the effect of the accident now hitting him hard.

Flynn was ten feet behind him when Barlow did a quite spectacular pirouette, probably more by accident than design, at the same time bringing the gun around. Flynn dropped sideways, the gun discharged somewhere across the river, and Barlow fell to his knees, clutching his chest, breathing heavily and obviously painfully. The gun was still in his right hand, swinging to and fro.

Members of the public began to gather.

Someone shouted, ‘He’s got a gun.’

Flynn circled him and Barlow’s watchful eyes stayed with him all the way. The gun came up, but dithered, then he dropped it as he coughed up a mouthful of bright red blood from the internal wound in his chest.