The day after the disappearance the police had organized searches at ground level along the banks of the Lune accessible by foot, and with the force helicopter, but to no avail.
But the currents of the Lune estuary are unpredictable as well as dangerous. Henry had known of people being washed away and never seen again, others who had been half-drowned but survived, and others whose bodies had been deposited on sandbanks one day later, or ten days later. Sometimes they were in good condition — if dead and drowned could be described as good — others rotted away, chewed by fish and in a terrible state.
There were no set rules. The river and the sea made the running. In places like this, nature was the boss.
Up to the body being found, the disappearance of Jennifer Sunderland had been treated as an urgent but run-of-the-mill ‘missing from home’ enquiry, run by the local uniformed section and overseen by the detective inspector at Lancaster section.
There was every chance it would be wound up in the same way, with the uniforms supervising the post- mortem and all contact with the coroner. Not a job for FMIT.
Henry hoped it would pan out this way: just a tragedy, but not one he needed to be concerned about.
He locked his car and started to walk towards the scene. As he came off the car park another car pulled off the main road and parked alongside his Mercedes. He did a quick check to see it wasn’t too close to his pride and joy and irritably wondered why the driver hadn’t stopped somewhere else in the virtually empty car park. Other than that, he didn’t really give it much heed, other than to notice it was a big high-spec Range Rover with two men on board. He assumed they were going to the Stork, which was open for morning coffee.
The DI from Lancaster detached himself from the huddle of cops and paramedics and met Henry halfway. His name was Ralph Barlow.
‘Boss,’ the DI said, obviously knowing Henry, who knew every detective of rank in the county. The two men shook hands. ‘Nothing here for you, I’m afraid,’ the DI went on. He was a very experienced detective, mid-forties. He and Henry had crossed paths a few times, but Henry didn’t know much about him, other than he tended to grate a little and there were various unconfirmed rumours about his gambling habits. He was a brittle, self-opinionated man who Henry tried not to dislike. That said, he was a sound detective. ‘I actually told the FIM not to bother you. I’m quite capable of dealing with a drowning,’ he said grumpily.
‘Well, he did, but I’m here now… so I’ll just go through the motions.’ Henry understood the DI’s point of view. No doubt he was eminently capable.
‘Whatever,’ Barlow muttered.
‘What’ve we got, then? I know the general scenario.’
‘Aye, well, looks like she went in the water three days ago and turned up today.’
‘Yeah, got that much, Ralph. Did she fall or was she pushed?’
Henry watched Barlow’s mind tick this over for a second before saying, ‘Husband said she was a bit depressed, but not necessarily suicidal. No talk of ending her life.’
‘So who is she?’
‘Jennifer Sunderland… wife of Harry Sunderland?’ Barlow said this as if Henry should connect the dots. Instead he just looked blank. ‘Harry Sunderland, local, but big businessman? Haulage, property… you name it.’
‘As in Sunderland Transport?’ Henry guessed.
‘One and the same.’
‘Ahh.’ Henry had seen their lorries all over the place. Not as numerous as a company like Eddie Stobart, but still quite noticeable. And with a big international operation. Henry hadn’t made the connection, but there wasn’t any reason why he should have done. He wasn’t local to this area. ‘You’ve seen the husband, then?’
‘Yeah, when she went missing. She… er… went out in the rain, never came back.’
‘You happy about that?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Barlow said shirtily.
‘No reason. Just a question I’d ask of any detective, Ralph, and expect them not to get uptight about it… So what’s the crack here?’ Henry gestured to the hive of activity.
‘Guy out for a stroll spots the body swishing about in the tide and drags her out.’
‘And we’re sure it’s Mrs Sunderland?’
‘Oh, yeah… I knew her,’ Barlow said, then stopped himself.
‘You knew her?’
‘Well, only in passing. Seen her with hubby at one or two golf-club shindigs, that’s all.’
‘Oh, OK.’
‘Yeah, they have quite a high profile around here,’ Barlow explained smoothly. ‘Charities, businesses and all that shit, y’know
… Hey, thinking about it,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘you’ll know the guy who dragged her out of the water. I don’t know him, but he’s an ex-cop.’
By the time Barlow had said this, they were almost at the scene and Henry could see a half-covered body on the ground, feet sticking out, one with a Wellington boot on it. He had also spotted the biggest man in the group. His heart lurched slightly.
‘He’s the fella that was involved in all that stuff up in Kendleton a while back. The stuff you were involved in, too.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Henry said. ‘I know him.’
Flynn decided he’d had enough questions from the two keen young PCs now. Their eager enquiries were beginning to annoy him and because the weather was getting colder as a sharp wind increased from the west and zipped around, he was getting very cold. His trainers and jeans were soaking, as was the front of his jacket where he’d carried the dead woman. And this was all a bit of a problem because he hadn’t brought a change of footwear or jeans with him from Gran Canaria. Having travelled very light, not expecting to have to wade knee-deep in unpleasant, cold, muddy water and recover bodies, he’d thought that one pair of jeans would be enough to sustain him for at least a week.
At the very least, he needed to warm up.
‘Look, guys,’ he said, holding up his hands, ‘I’ve done my duty, you’ve got my current address, my mobile number and my details. I need to get out of these clothes, otherwise I’ll contract hypothermia and you’ll have another death on your hands. If you want to come to the chandlery about three this aft, I’ll happily give you a written statement… but first, change of clothing… somehow,’ he added wistfully and eased his way past the bobbies.
As he walked by the rear of the ambulance that had turned up, he caught the eye of a female paramedic and she smiled at him pleasantly. But then he glanced sideways, right into Henry Christie’s face.
Henry smiled grimly — very much the opposite of the paramedic. ‘Mr Flynn,’ he said, ‘we meet once more…’
Flynn emerged from the gents’ toilet, having spent a few minutes directing the hot-air flow from a wall- mounted hand drier downwards onto his jeans legs and socks. He had to perform a precarious dance/balancing act, lifting up one leg, then the other, in an effort to dry himself off. He had little success and came out carrying his trainers and socks and walked barefoot across the bar to where Henry Christie was sitting at a table by the roaring fire.
At Henry’s insistence they had retired to the Stork for a chat and a warm.
Flynn plonked himself opposite Henry and dropped his sodden trainers on the hearth with a splat. He laid his equally wet socks on the mesh of the fire guard. They started to steam immediately.
Henry had bought each of them a coffee and Flynn took a sip of his, grateful for the warmth.
The two men eyed each other suspiciously. Their pasts were intertwined. Flynn blamed Henry for hastening his departure from the police, a grudge he had borne for quite a few years, until he worked out that his own perception was skewed by the whole sorry affair. It had really been his own paranoia that had been his downfall. Flynn had also been involved in the blood-soaked scenario at Kendleton — through no fault of his own — and, more recently, had furnished Henry with some details he had stumbled across regarding terrorist activity in the UK.
Henry, for his part, had suspected that Flynn had helped himself to a share of a million pounds of drug- dealer’s money in a police raid that had gone spectacularly wrong. Since then, he’d come to believe it had actually been Flynn’s then partner who’d snaffled the money and disappeared and Flynn hadn’t seen a penny of it.
That didn’t make them friends, though, and they rarely saw eye-to-eye willingly, and tended to grate one
