It was Flynn who relented. ‘Look, tell you what — you show me yours, I’ll show you mine. Let’s stop pussyfooting around, eh?’
‘You first,’ Henry said.
‘OK.’ Flynn cleared his throat. ‘They wanted what I’d taken from Jennifer Sunderland.’
‘And that was…?’
‘I dunno, because I didn’t take anything.’
‘Did they say what they were after?’
‘No, I had to guess.’
‘So what did you take?’
Flynn burst his fried egg, wishing it was Henry’s face he was driving his fork into. ‘I won’t even grace that with an answer. Now show me yours.’
‘They were after something in her property.’
‘I assume they didn’t find it.’
‘Not if they came knocking on your door later.’
Flynn concentrated on his breakfast, Henry his coffee.
Flynn broke the uncomfortable silence. ‘Have you spoken to Mr Sunderland?’
‘I have — but I haven’t asked him the obvious question.’
‘Is it in your plans to do so?’
‘Duh — yeah. I want to get the PM done first, though. See if that throws up any nooky questions for him. He’s due to be seen later today.’
‘I’d like to get involved in some way,’ Flynn said. ‘After all, I did see one of them when I yanked his mask off, even though it was only for a second before I got knocked out.’
‘Would you recognize him again?’
‘I think so.’
‘What about spending some time with a police artist?’
‘Give it a go.’
‘But I think that’s as far as your involvement should go,’ Henry said. ‘And about what you’ve just said, if you take the law into your own hands, I’ll get you, Steve.’
Once more the men stared rigidly at each other.
Thing was, Flynn believed him.
‘And anyway,’ Henry said more brightly, ‘don’t you have a shop to run?’
The phone rang and Henry answered it. ‘Tawny Owl, can I help?’
Flynn smirked as he heard this. Henry sounded like a Girl Guide leader. Henry shot him another chilling stare.
It was Barlow calling from Lancaster nick. ‘Yes, it is me, Ralph,’ Henry said. ‘Not good… Face still sore, swollen… Look, Mrs Sunderland’s PM is scheduled for ten-thirty this morning, can you cover it for me? I want to have a look at something and then speak to someone on my way in. It’s… I’ve been asked to take over that unsolved murder… Yeah, the young girl… I think you worked that, didn’t you? Hm, yeah… I want to check out the scene and also see Joe Speakman on the way in… Yeah, he lives in this neck of the woods… I know he’s retired, but I virtually pass his house on the way in, so I’m going to call on spec, get his perspective on it
… Bye…’ Henry hung up.
‘What was that?’ Flynn asked.
‘A cold case I’m reviewing.’
‘One of Joe Speakman’s? I know him, he used to be my DCI way back.’
‘Well, he retired earlier this year, without much notice.’ Henry suddenly had a thought and snatched up the phone and jabbed in a number. ‘Prof? It’s me, Henry — I’ve asked DI Barlow to attend Jennifer Sunderland’s PM in my stead… look,’ he dropped his voice conspiratorially, ‘I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention the teeth thing to him… Cheers… Don’t ask.’
Henry hung up and turned back to Flynn, who had a knowing smile on his face.
‘Keeping secrets?’ Flynn said.
‘Oh shit,’ Henry said.
‘What?’
‘My car! It’s at Lancaster nick… and there’s no way I can use Alison’s… it’s cash and carry day today.’
‘If you can fit your fat arse into the passenger seat of a Smart Car, I’ll give you a lift,’ Flynn said, an offer accepted with bad grace by Henry.
EIGHT
She had died a brutal death. Savagely beaten in a frenzied attack — particularly about the head — half- strangled, as Henry had seen at the mortuary. The strangulation had not killed her, but the brain trauma from the assault had.
The day before visiting the mortuary he had only half-perused the murder book, but had then read it thoroughly in the early hours of this morning before tumbling into bed with Alison and falling deeply asleep for the next few hours, before taking a convivial breakfast with Flynn.
Joe Speakman, the retired detective superintendent, had been SIO in charge of the investigation into the murder of the unidentified female.
Henry had got on well with Speakman, who was then one of the four detective superintendents heading FMIT. With all the swingeing cost-cutting going on, the chief constable had been looking at the possibility of reducing the number of superintendents on FMIT from four to three and Henry had been right in his cross-hairs. Slightly ahead of the other three in length of service, he was ripe to be pushed into retirement.
It had been a bit of a shock when Speakman had put his ticket in out of the blue. And a pleasant surprise as far as Henry was concerned. It gave him some breathing space. He didn’t want to retire just yet, had found a new lease of life as regards the job and personal life and was happy to be considering his options without the chief breathing down his neck.
But Speakman’s sudden departure had left quite a lot of unfinished business which had to be divvied out amongst the remaining detective supers and Henry had been dealt an unsolved murder. Which was absolutely fine by him.
His reading of the murder book — the book in which the SIO was required to maintain in every murder enquiry, recording decisions made, actions taken, reasons for doing things and a whole myriad of other things relating to the murder — left him slightly puzzled.
Not that there was anything intrinsically wrong with it. It just seemed… listless, lacklustre… Henry could not quite find the right word. It was like Speakman was bored by what he was doing.
Murder books were usually fascinating reading. As events unfolded, evidence was uncovered, suspects were identified, people arrested
… whatever… they could be as compelling as a thriller and often gave an insight into how the mind of the SIO worked.
Speakman’s murder book was just a bit sparse in every detail.
Maybe it was because he was winding down to retirement that only he knew about. Maybe his heart wasn’t in it and he was just contemplating how to spend his lump sum. Henry had half-heard that he had invested in property abroad.
Henry could not say… which is why he wanted to drop in on Speakman unannounced on his way to Lancaster and chat things through.
As he wriggled into the passenger seat of the Smart Car, trying not to look too embarrassed by its lack of street cred, his mind flipped over the contents of the murder book and the other related items he’d been reading.
The young woman’s body had been discovered by a dog-walker in Moss Syke wood, a smallish copse within metres of the southbound carriageway of the M6, south of junction 34, which was the Lancaster north exit. The
