Fighting for the Dead by Nick Oldham Page B

into the tea jar he found it empty, neither was there any coffee or milk. And the kettle had just boiled.
    â€˜Sorry – a bit scatterbrained at the moment,’ Diane said.
    â€˜I’ll get some supplies from the shop across the way.’
    â€˜OK – then I’ll try and show you how the shop works – even though you’ve already found your way around the clothing department.’
    Operating with one good eye, Henry cautiously drove his Mercedes from the mortuary car park to the police garage at Lancaster nick and parked in the already overcrowded premises. He didn’t want to leave his car unattended in the hospital grounds, which had a poor record for car crime. He was also a touch reluctant to leave it in the police garage, where the cars were jammed tightly together and there was every chance a police motorbike would topple over and cause extensive damage. It was the lesser of two evils.
    Ralph Barlow waited impatiently for him in the CID Astra. Henry dropped in alongside him, already regretting his decision to go AWOL from the hospital without getting his face X-rayed. It had swollen up even more and was bruising nicely purple now, throbbing like a pump, sending out pulses of agony. Definitely a cheekbone broken.
    Now he was suffering. The adrenaline that had flooded his system at the time of the incident had dissipated and all he wanted to do was place his head on a soft pillow. But no. He’d been too keen, didn’t want to miss anything even though he knew he could easily have let the DI deal with Harry Sunderland, which he was more than capable of doing.
    But Henry had an insatiable desire to witness people’s reactions to bad news first hand. He believed it was an intrinsic part of being a detective to judge how people dealt with things and the only way to do that properly was to deliver the news personally, watch, read, assess and feel. Especially in this case, as there was clearly not something right with the situation.
    From what he’d skim-read on the MFH file, Jennifer Sunderland had gone out for a walk, as she often did, apparently, down to the bottom of her garden and along the banks of the River Lune. It had been a bad night weather-wise, so the theory went that she must have slipped and gone into the fast-flowing, deep water . . . with something in her possession that two armed men wanted.
    Henry was therefore looking forward to seeing Harry Sunderland’s reaction to the news of her death confirmed. That was purely from a professional point of view. Not because he enjoyed delivering death messages. In fact that was an aspect of the job he had never been comfortable with. He had done it many times during his police service, but more frequently as an SIO, since it usually fell to the senior investigator to deliver the message because, sometimes, it would be to the actual murderer.
    He touched his face gingerly.
    â€˜You OK, boss?’ Barlow asked. ‘It looks really bad. Let me take you back to X-ray.’
    â€˜No, it’s fine,’ Henry shook his head. ‘I need to see Harry Sunderland’s reaction . . . then you can take me back and I’ll throw myself on the mercy of the nurses.’
    â€˜They don’t like people disappearing on them.’
    â€˜I know.’
    Barlow pulled away from the police station and eased the CID car into the traffic gridlock that was Lancaster’s one-way system.
    â€˜Where are we going?’
    Barlow said, ‘To Sunderland’s haulage depot out at Slyne. He’s most likely to be there. If not we’ll go to his house . . . you sure you don’t want me to ring ahead, Henry? Tell him we’re coming?’
    â€˜No. I want to see his unprepared reaction.’
    â€˜You think it’s more than a simple drowning accident?’
    â€˜I’m making no assumptions – but you know the score: always think murder, then you don’t make a tit of