one of the paper forensic suits and slippers that balloon out like the Michelin Man.
‘I’ll have that,’ he said. Then, ‘So — who is that up there minus his head and what is this all about, Henry? Because he ain’t no burglar, that I do know,’ he concluded.
‘I don’t know who he is,’ Henry admitted.
‘And,’ Flynn pushed on, ‘how is this linked to Jennifer Sunderland’s death?’
Henry blinked. ‘I don’t know that it is. Why do you say that?’
‘Because…’ Flynn pointed to the house, ‘that is one of the guys who tried to fry me up last night. He’s the one whose mask I ripped off.’
It was going to be a very long day at the scene. Fortunately, because the house was detached and a little isolated, it was easy to seal off and the police were under no pressure to hurry up any processes and get the job done because someone was waiting. They took their time — and Henry made certain nothing was missed.
He turned out the whole circus: forensic and crime-scene investigators, search teams — including dogs — and detectives. Uniformed cops were tasked with house to house in the village.
Henry made it all happen with ruthless efficiency and once the wheels were in motion he appointed a detective inspector from FMIT to manage the whole scene and secure and preserve evidence.
At ten that morning, Professor Baines rolled up in his E-type Jaguar at about the same time as Ralph Barlow arrived in the CID Focus.
Barlow sought out Henry and said, ‘I’ve put the post-mortems on hold, like you asked, and I’ve told Harry Sunderland we’ll get back to him as soon as we can. I said something major had come up and he seemed to understand.’
Henry thanked him, then walked over to Baines, who was easing into a forensic suit over his clothes from his supply in the boot of the E-type.
‘Morning,’ Baines said, grim-faced.
Henry said, ‘Do you mind?’ He picked up one of the unopened forensic suits from the boot and ripped the packet open, started to climb into it.
When they were both suited, Henry gave him a nod and said, ‘Shall we?’
It was time to walk through the crime scene with the pathologist.
By 6 p.m., the bodies of the Speakmans had been transferred to Lancaster mortuary and their dog taken to a vet — to be examined later by Baines and the vet. In order to avoid any allegations of evidence cross-contamination the as yet unidentified body of the gunman had been taken to the mortuary at Blackpool Victoria Hospital, a decision Henry made. He had also decided that a cop would stay and guard it for the time being.
The scene at the house was still undergoing scrutiny but everyone was coming close to wrapping up for the day. It would be sealed and guarded overnight and the examination would continue next day.
By then Henry was feeling pretty rocky.
He had powered himself through the day, focusing on the crime scene, pulling everything together in terms of a murder squad — even though it seemed the murderer had been apprehended. He wanted to ensure he went through the motions and setting up a Murder Incident Room would ensure that happened, even if it was only short- lived. He also had the press to deal with, issuing a holding statement to keep them off his back for a few hours, and his own bosses who had to be briefed, all of whom knew Joe Speakman and his wife well. Some had been good friends.
He had not allowed his mind to wander to the possibilities of what might have been if Steve Flynn hadn’t bravely rugby-tackled the shooter and put his own life on the line. It didn’t bear thinking about, so he hadn’t.
But there was a dark shadow at the back of his mind that kept telling him it would hit him at some stage, that all the little brain barriers he’d erected would come tumbling down.
It didn’t help him that as the day progressed his face hurt more and more, despite the painkillers. What had begun as a controlled pulse grew steadily into a throb like a bass drum, especially as he became more tired and stressed.
At seven he was at Lancaster police station, having cadged a lift there from a section patrol.
He slid into the DCI’s office, the usual incumbent nowhere to be spotted, and settled into the comfortable chair behind the desk.
He exhaled, causing his face to twinge, and found a couple of tablets in his jacket pocket which he tossed into his mouth and swallowed with water from a bottle he’d bought from a dispensing machine.
‘Jeez,’ he hissed, all the energy draining out of him like air from a punctured tyre. He tried to concentrate again and not dwell on the fact that instead of sitting in an empty office he could easily have been laid out naked on an ice-cold mortuary slab with his friend Professor Baines about to perform a post-mortem on him. Sat there, he realized he wasn’t a particularly brave man.
‘It’s no good,’ he intoned to himself, ‘I’m here, I’m alive, I’m not dead — OK, same thing — and the bad guy is dead. So c’mon, move on.’
He sat forward and pulled a sheet of paper out of the tray in the desktop printer and hovered over it with pen in hand, marshalling his thoughts. There was a lot to do, to consider.
He scribbled five headings: VICTIM, OFFENDER, LOCATION, SCENE FORENSICS, POST MORTEM.
He divided the sheet into five columns, one underneath each word, and started to jot down some lines of enquiry, firstly under the heading of ‘Victim’.
— Lifestyle
— Routine
— Associates
— Relationships
Then he threw the pen down and leaned back in the chair, unable to prevent his mind from wandering, sifting over everything that had happened over the last couple of days. Starting with the cold-case review, the unidentified girl in the mortuary. Then Jennifer Sunderland’s drowning — if it was! The attack by masked men at the mortuary, the same two — probably — who almost murdered Steve Flynn in an unimaginably horrendous way, destroying his friends’ canal boat at the same time. The visit to Harry Sunderland… and the ‘something’ that wasn’t completely right about that… teeth… and stumbling on the double murder (triple, if dog included) and Steve Flynn’s claim that the guy with the shotgun was one of the two who’d tried to kill him the night before. Flynn said he was the one whose ski mask he’d ripped off. And if that was the case, he was also one of the two men who’d smashed Henry in the face at the mortuary searching for something that Jennifer Sunderland might have had with her when she drowned.
Dead girl. Teeth. Jennifer Sunderland. Robbers — one still at large. — Joe Speakman/wife. Harry Sunderland.
Henry scribbled it all down, hoping he hadn’t forgotten anything.
There was another name he was tempted to add, but did not want to commit it to paper. Yet.
He sat back again in the DCI’s chair, which was nice, big and comfortable, knowing his day was not yet over.
Then a grim thought hit him. He quickly got out his mobile phone.
The display showed many missed calls, the ones he’d chosen not to take, including four from Alison, together with three unread texts from her, and a voice message, all asking him to call.
Guilt cascaded through him and he punched his face mentally. One of the many ways in which he’d failed his late wife was that he did not keep in touch, keep her updated as to where and what he was up to, when he would be home, or when he was actually on his way home. He would get so engrossed in his work, so blinkered that everything else simply went out of the window. He didn’t want to make those mistakes again, or any of the others because he didn’t want to lose this gem
… but a ghastly feeling came over him as he looked at the list of missed calls and texts.
Maybe the leopard couldn’t change its spots.
He called the number and it was answered quickly. Almost as quickly Henry said, ‘I’m really sorry. It’s been a hell of a day, but no excuses.’
‘Maybe you’d better tell that to my mum,’ came the frosty voice of Ginny, Alison’s stepdaughter. ‘Shall I put her on?’
‘Better had.’ Shit.
The phones changed hands. ‘Henry?’
