Henry was amazed to have been approached by the chief constable, begging him to stay on — ‘Another year at least, eh, mate?’ — and, ‘Oh, by the way, you’ve just inherited all of Joe’s ongoing cases and his other responsibilities.’
Henry had said yes, even though he’d made the chief squirm just a little bit. He could have refused and retired. No one could stop him doing that, and whatever the chief said, the force would have to manage. It always did because it had to, and Henry had never overestimated his position within it, just another disposable cog in the machinery. All that his staying on did was give a bit of breathing space for the force to train up the next few SIOs.
Also, he wasn’t sure what he would have done if he had retired.
He could have drawn his lump sum and his pension and life would have been OK, but he hadn’t made any plans as to how he would occupy his time. He knew he couldn’t be one of those who sat and did nothing all day, every day. Some of the time was fine. But mostly he wanted to be doing something, just hadn’t quite worked out what.
Maybe another year was about right. Time to get his head around some planning… and see how his new ‘relationship’ would pan out. That had quite a bearing on everything.
He smiled at the thought of the woman who at that moment was making him very happy indeed. Nice thoughts…
He sipped his coffee and shivered. It was a cold morning.
A voice behind him said, ‘I believe you want to talk to me about dead people and teeth?’
Midweek and Glasson Dock was quiet.
Flynn sauntered down the canal path, the yacht marina to his left on the opposite side of the canal, up to the dock itself, enjoying the stroll despite the chill. He was wrapped in a thick windcheater, jeans, trainers and a scarf thrown rakishly around his neck. He could not remember the last time he’d worn a scarf.
The large static caravan serving brews and snacks situated close to the swing-roadbridge spanning the sea lock was open for business. A couple of overweight middle-aged leather-clad bikers clutched mugs of coffee and exchanged pleasantries about their very hairy looking hogs parked nearby.
A double-masted yacht was in the lock and the water level was falling. Flynn watched the pleasant sight wistfully for a moment, then bore diagonally across the road to a row of buildings behind which was the River Lune. The tide was high, but Flynn could see it had begun to ebb. At one end of the row was a pub called the Victoria and at the opposite end was what used to be a pub — the Caribou — but was now converted into apartments. Between the two was a terrace consisting of houses and Flynn’s destination: the chandlery.
He entered the shop, inside much more spacious than the exterior suggested, and what was an Aladdin’s cave of all things relating to small boats and yachts.
Flynn had entered a little corner of heaven. Boats — in particular sport-fishing boats — were his world.
In Gran Canaria he was employed as the skipper of a sport-fisher called Faye2 and he had left her behind with reluctance to return to the UK, only because of the serious illness of his friend who owned this shop.
He approached the lady behind the counter, who was head down, frowning at some paperwork.
‘I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,’ Flynn said.
She looked up, her face instantly breaking into a smile, brightening up all at once. She came out from behind the counter and hugged Flynn, who patted her shoulder blades, and they parted with pecks on the cheeks.
‘Did you sleep all right?’
‘Pretty good… woke a bit chilly, though.’
‘I know… sorry about that. Later I’ll show you how the heating system works, and where everything else is.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Steve, I know I said it last night on the way back from the airport, but we are really grateful to you. Colin could only think of you and you dropped everything to help out.’
‘He’s an old mate and you’re a friend too, Diane. Least I could do.’
‘How did you square it with your boss?’
‘He likes me… but I’ve got ten days, max, then I have to get back. There’s a few repeat parties booked in on the strength of my ace personality,’ he said humbly. He gave Diane a wink. ‘So how is he?’
‘I haven’t seen him today, so far, but he goes into pre-op this morning, then down to surgery, which will last two to three hours minimum… but he’s keeping bright.’ She gave a helpless shrug, then her face seemed to implode and she burst into tears.
Flynn took her tenderly in his arms and held her just tight enough so she had room to sob and get it out of her system, before drawing back and wiping her eyes with the balls of her hands. She wasn’t wearing make-up, so there was nothing to smudge.
‘Sorry,’ she apologized.
‘Hey, no problem.’
She regarded Flynn critically. ‘Steve, you really are a good man, aren’t you?’
‘Some say otherwise.’
‘No — you really are.’
‘Aw shucks,’ Flynn said, breaking the moment. He gestured with his hands at the shop. ‘My task… the one I’ve accepted… is to look after the shop whilst you’re otherwise engaged… where do I start?’
Diane checked her watch. ‘You start today… but I haven’t got time to show you any of the ropes just now, if you’ll pardon the expression. I want to be with Colin before he goes into pre-op… hand-holding and such like… then stay for the operation itself.’ Her face creased a little at the prospect but she held it. ‘Which means I’ll be back here around three, probably. Then I’ll show you how it all works. In the meantime, the shop will be closed, but I’ll leave you the key and you can mooch around the stock, see what we have. Just kill some time however you like until I get back.’
Henry had recognized the pathologist in the mortuary as Professor Baines, the Home Office pathologist he had known for many years now. They had often met each other over the dead, then continued to discuss the dead over a pint or two.
Baines was at the mortuary to keep his hand in on more mundane matters than his usual murder victims. He was performing a post-mortem on a run-of-the-mill sudden death, an old man who hadn’t been seen for a few days and whose neighbours had alerted the police because of the terrible odour creeping out from his flat. This was the body that Henry had seen sliced open on the slab.
Baines had been so engrossed in his task — and impressing his lady assistant — that he hadn’t even noticed Henry, but Henry had recognized Baines and asked him for some advice about the dead girl. Whilst waiting for Baines to finish, Henry had got the slightly creepy mortuary technician to put the dead girl back into the chiller then bought a coffee and killed time.
The two men were now standing either side of the tray jutting out from the fridge while Baines carefully eased open the dead girl’s mouth and inspected the inside with the help of a mini Maglite torch.
Baines was an acknowledged expert on dental pathology, having single-handedly amassed a database about teeth over a long period of time. It was a little obsession that had begun when he’d spent time in Bosnia with NATO, investigating and trying to ID some of the thousands of people who had been murdered and dumped into mass graves. One of the main means was via dental records, which were mostly woefully inadequate. This frustration had been the starting point for Baines’s database of dentists, dental practices and methods for use in pathology. His work had resulted in him being awarding an OBE for his services to dental forensics.
Henry, who had never yet had to plumb this knowledge, knew that one day all this would come in useful as Baines peered knowledgeably into the dead girl’s mouth cavity, then looked up at Henry, then at the mortuary technician.
‘Sort her out and slide her back in,’ Baines told the technician. Then, to Henry, he said as he removed one of his gloves, ‘Time for another brew? I’ll just get washed up and be ready in five. Fancy a stroll into town?’