Flynn rolled away, came up on to his knees, gasping, horrified, but unable to tear his eyes away from the bloody, faceless mask, who, although twitching horribly, and his right forefinger was still pulling back the triggers, was dead.
NINE
‘Here.’ Henry handed Flynn coffee in a mug. Flynn took it with a murmur of thanks and had a sip. It was hot and bitter. Good. ‘How’re you feeling?’
Flynn was sitting half-in, half-out of Diane’s Smart Car, still parked in the driveway of Joe Speakman’s house, now surrounded by an array of police vehicles of various descriptions.
He pouted and considered Henry’s question.
There was no doubt about it, Flynn was a tough guy.
As a teenager he had served as a Royal Marines Commando in the Falkland Islands conflict with Argentina and beyond that in various well-known and not so well-known campaigns.
In his subsequent police career, on the streets and as a detective in CID and the drugs branch, he had mixed it and faced up to some of the hardest, meanest guys out there, people to whom violence was second nature. Flynn’s physical prowess, courage and sheer determination — and delight at confrontation — had always seen him through. He had once been led away by two very professional hit men for questioning and then a bullet in the brain. He had emerged victorious and their bleached bones lay undiscovered, and probably would for another hundred years.
Not much got to him. He could dole it out and take it.
But a shotgun going off between himself and a man he was fighting to the death had made him a bit dithery.
Had the weapon been angled a few more degrees in his direction, it would have been his face removed, not the attacker’s. He would have been dead and no doubt Henry Christie would also have been dead.
‘I’m fine,’ Flynn responded. He took another sip of the coffee and the tiny shake of his hand was noticeable to no one except himself. He eyed Henry and wondered, ‘Are you going to arrest me for murder? I’d expect nothing less from you.’
‘Mm, good point,’ Henry toyed with him. ‘Are you going to do a runner, leave the country?’
‘Course I am… I live in the Canary Islands, not here.’
‘Will you make a statement before you go and then come back for any court hearings?’
‘Yep.’
Henry shrugged. ‘In that case, no arrest.’ His face became serious in a way that Flynn had never seen. He touched Flynn’s shoulder. ‘I know what you did. Thank you.’
‘I’d have done the same for any arsehole.’
‘I know you would.’
They held each other’s look for a deep and meaningful moment but broke it off before it became embarrassing.
‘I will need your clothing for forensics.’
‘You want me to strip now? I’m kinda running low on things to wear
… I’m down to socks and underpants and I don’t think it would be a good idea to help myself to anything from the shop again. Running up a bit of a tab there.’ Flynn glanced down at himself. ‘Although I think I’m going to have to.’
Even though the shotgun had gone off away from him and the force of the blast was also away from him, he had been splattered with blood as though someone had flicked a big paintbrush full of red paint across his upper chest.
Henry said, ‘If I get someone to follow you to the shop with some forensic bags, can you get changed there? How does that sound?’
Flynn nodded. Good idea. He had expected Henry to be awkward and demand he strip right there and get into 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.