Fighting for the Dead by Nick Oldham

Author:Nick Oldham [Oldham, Nick]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: cookie429, Kat, Extratorrents
Publisher: Severn House Publishers Ltd
Published: 2012-08-11T22:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

Eight hours later and exhausted beyond thinking, Henry Christie walked like a zombie through the corridors of Lancaster police station, pushed through the door leading to the rear of the public enquiry counter, lifted the hatch and stepped into the foyer.

Steve Flynn was behind him.

The woman sitting in the foyer with a terrified expression on her face stood up slowly and then rushed to embrace Henry.

‘Oh God, Henry,’ Alison snuffled into his shoulder. ‘You can’t believe how worried I was – am.’

Henry held her tightly for a moment, then she stepped back and looked at him. Suddenly he was a much older man after the night’s events, drawn, haggard, eyes sunken and red raw. It didn’t help that he was now wearing one of those god-awful forensic suits and slippers and looked more like a prisoner than a cop. He realized in that moment how much the age difference between him and Alison mattered. He was almost thirteen years her senior, which seemed a huge gap as he stood there with her.

She glanced at Flynn, reached past Henry and touched his arm tenderly. He too had aged and the scar that stretched from his forehead to temple, still oozing blood through the butterfly stitches, didn’t help matters. Nor did the bloodstained zoot suit, the second he’d worn that day. He was going through sets of clothing like nobody’s business.

‘Steve,’ she whispered. She handed him a pile of clothing that she’d brought for him. ‘These should fit you,’ she said.

He managed a weak smile and a thanks.

Henry fingertipped his face carefully, amazed his broken cheekbone was no worse than before. ‘We need to get some sleep, love.’

Alison nodded.

‘Apparently my car’s a write-off.’

‘I passed it on the way. It’s a wreck,’ she confirmed. ‘But you’re OK, that’s all that matters. Cars can be replaced.’

Henry just shook his head, wanting to cry. ‘Take me home, babe,’ he said, ‘and him too.’ He turned to grin at Flynn, who said, ‘I am never going to help anyone again. That,’ he continued, ‘was one hell of a night, Henry. Thanks for sharing it with me.’

Flynn lowered the dead man gently backwards into the stream, the legs still twitching as the last few signals shot down from his brain. Then he stood up, hands on hips, gasping, looking at Henry who, being older and less fit, was bent forward with his hands on his knees and gasping much more desperately than Flynn, sucking in air like it was going out of fashion.

‘Is he dead?’

Flynn nodded.

‘Good,’ Henry said.

‘Hell, Henry, you must have cut him up real bad to get a road-rage reaction like that,’ Flynn said, wiping the blood from his face.

‘Some people have no sense of humour.’ Henry turned to look at his car and grimaced. ‘And I’ve just lost mine.’ He glanced back at Flynn and the body at his feet and swore.

From that point in the night, after Henry had made ‘the’ phone call – the treble-nine – and had to deal with a

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