‘We’ll start with murder.’
‘Of who, you knob?’
‘Your wife, Jennifer.’
Sunderland stopped his ineffective struggling. ‘What?’ he said incredulously.
‘You heard.’
‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘In that case, we can talk about other things… like corruption.’
Sunderland started to struggle again, which Henry thought was a good sign. He held him tight and glanced at FB.
‘Not sure what your plans are, Henry — but beating a quick retreat might be the order of the day here,’ FB said pointing.
Henry’s eyes followed the fat finger.
Two large men in oily overalls had emerged from one of the warehouse doors, each with a heavy wrench in hand — and they were jogging towards the scene of the arrest, looking menacing and possibly mistaking an official piece of police business for two men in plain clothes assaulting their boss.
Sunderland twisted his head up and saw them. ‘Better let me go, guys, or these two’ll enjoy whacking you.’
The men ran on, wrenches raised — just as Flynn sped in through the gates in Alison’s car and accelerated across the car park to position himself between the men and the arrest. He swerved the car to a stop on the gravel surface, throwing up stones like pebbledashing, his sudden appearance causing the two men to slow to an unsure jog.
Flynn dropped out of the driver’s seat, coming up to his full height and waited for the men to arrive.
He looked pretty awe-inspiring, with his beaten-up, stitched face atop his wide stature, and Henry thought he was definitely a good man to have behind you.
‘I’ll go for both of you guys,’ he said, not boasting, just stating fact. ‘Monkey wrenches or otherwise.’
Their run slowed to a stop. They were ten metres away from him.
FB walked up. ‘Very commendable, guys,’ he said, ‘but your boss is under arrest and unless you want to end up in the same cell complex, I suggest you down tools and go back from whence you came. Like now!’
‘And who the fuck are you, fatty?’ one snarled at him.
FB did something he hadn’t done for a very long time: he flashed his warrant card. Relishing the drama, whilst also feeling just slightly silly, he announced, ‘I’m the fucking chief constable.’
It would have been unwise to have lodged the two prisoners in Lancaster’s cells. Henry needed to get them away from their home turf, particularly Barlow. He was a well-liked detective with a lot of friends at the station, a situation that could conceivably make things difficult for Henry.
To that end, Henry had already warned the custody office at Blackpool to be ready for two prisoners who were to be kept separate and given cells at the opposite ends of the big complex so they could not communicate in any way with each other. Henry did not reveal who the prisoners would be.
Henry had also arranged transport for them, having commandeered the services of two headquarters driving-school instructors, two plain cars and two uniformed constables from the public-order training unit in order to convey the prisoners to Blackpool.
Moments after Henry had made the arrest of Harry Sunderland and the possibility of being battered by Sunderland’s wrench-wielding staff had passed, Henry called up the driving-school car that was on standby half a mile away.
When it arrived, Sunderland was pushed into the back of it alongside a burly riot-squad trainer.
Henry gave them certain instructions and assured them he would not be far behind.
Once Sunderland was on his way, Henry called up Rik Dean to confirm that DI Barlow had also been arrested and was on his way to Blackpool in the other driving-school car to Blackpool.
So far, so good. Henry liked smooth plans. He and FB looked at each other and grinned.
Then Henry realized that Flynn was nowhere to be seen. He looked around to see that he was climbing through a Judas door set in the larger door of the warehouse unit where the two employees had scuttled back to. Flynn had obviously followed them.
Henry tutted.
Flynn’s head reappeared through the door and he waved for Henry to come over. Henry tutted again, but set off with FB in tow.
‘What is it?’
‘Feast your eyes,’ Flynn said.
He pushed the door open and Henry climbed through into the warehouse, followed by FB.
‘Allo, allo, allo,’ Henry said for the first time in his career.
In a row, facing him, stood three almost new top model Range Rovers, all in black. None bore a registration plate. They stood side by side, magnificent machines, like knights’ chargers.
Henry had a swell of relief.
‘Bingo,’ FB said.
‘Full house,’ Henry confirmed.
FOURTEEN
Silence.
Background noise, yes. The sound of a cell door slamming shut. A shout of a prisoner, the response of a gaoler. The humming of the air conditioning. The hiss of the tape machine running.
But between the two men, silence.
It always came down to this, Henry thought — and relished the prospect.
Verbal jousting.
The tapping of a wedge, metaphorically speaking, into a tiny crack, then — tap, tap, tap — opening it up.
Or not.
It didn’t matter to Henry. All he knew was that there were not many better feelings than being face-to-face with a prisoner, maybe two feet separating their faces across the interview table, and slicing them to shreds.
But, not far into this encounter, the prisoner had clammed up tight.
Henry wasn’t perturbed. Silence didn’t faze him. He revelled in it. ‘No comment’ didn’t even touch his radar. You want to say nothing, fine. Your prerogative. Say nowt.
Henry smiled and twitched his eyebrows, held his gaze on the man sitting opposite, a man who had almost as much experience as himself of the interview situation and maybe because of that thought he knew how to deal with it.
But not from that side of the table.
Often silence worked to the disadvantage of the interviewee. Usually they couldn’t stand it, somehow felt obliged to speak, to fill the gaps, to drop themselves in it, tie themselves up in knots with convoluted tales that then unravelled like a ball of wool.
This man was different, as no doubt he had used silence as a tool himself — when he was sitting on Henry Christie’s side of the table.
‘OK,’ Henry said, smiling slightly. He nodded at Ralph Barlow, who was the man across from him, his solicitor sitting alongside him. ‘You’ve had the chance, now I’ll lay it on the line for you.’
At this stage, Henry didn’t have a problem with this tactic. He was fluid in his approach. Go with the flow — but always stay in control.
If Barlow knew he was screwed, that the ball was well and truly spinning in his direction, then it was up to him how he dealt with it.
Henry went on, ‘I’ll lay out some bare, irrefutable facts for you.’ He had a folder in front of him, which he opened, and cleared his throat. ‘Your mobile phone is paid for by the police. It’s a tool of the trade. All detectives
