And this one was no problem. It clattered open, slamming back and connecting with Ralph Barlow’s back as he knelt in front of the toilet, fumbling with something and reaching for the flush.
Bill grabbed him just as his fingers touched the handle, dragged him by his collar out of the cubicle and deposited him at the feet of the still-shocked woman. The component parts of Barlow’s mobile phone came out of his hand and scattered across the tiled floor, front, back and battery.
Rik Dean came in just as Bill was heaving Barlow over onto his front and forcing his arms behind his back.
‘Trying to flush the evidence away,’ Bill gasped. ‘SIM card, I think.’
Rik saw the pieces of the dismembered phone. ‘Did he manage?’
‘Don’t think so. That one,’ Bill said, pointing into the cubicle.
Rik tutted, stepped over Barlow’s legs into the cubicle. He was holding his face, throbbing from Barlow’s punch. He squatted down and peered into the toilet bowl, which was fortunately filled with clean water, but could not see the SIM card.
Only one thing for it.
He unfastened his shirt cuff and pulled up his sleeve, then reached into the water, gently feeling along the porcelain U-bend with his fingertips, hoping he wouldn’t find anything other than a SIM card.
He touched something, small, rectangular, placed a fingertip on it and drew it carefully backwards all the way out of the water, then took it between his thumb and forefinger and thought, ‘Thank God you were right about this one, Henry Christie.’
Henry had known Robert Fanshaw-Bayley — FB — for almost thirty years now, having first encountered him in the very early 1980s when Henry was a uniformed PC in Rossendale, far to the east of the county of Lancashire. At that time FB was the local DI, ruling the roost like some sort of malicious demigod. Their relationship over the intervening years had been rocky, to say the least, but had survived many ups and downs.
Although he was now chief constable (and had reached the year of his obligatory retirement) FB had the word ‘Jack’ written through him like a stick of Blackpool rock. He had been a detective for most of his service, a good, if ruthless one — and like most cops of rank, still loved to ‘go out playing’ on the front line now and again.
Hence his decision to accompany Henry that day.
And now they were parked in the village of Slyne in the constabulary pool vehicle Henry had managed to coerce from the transport department, near the gates of Sunderland Transport. It was a rather beaten-up Vauxhall Vectra and when he picked it up he was warned to check the oil level because it burned the black stuff like an old steam train. FB sat alongside him.
Henry said, ‘Right, thanks,’ into his mobile phone and ended the call, then glanced at FB as he slid the phone back into his pocket. He pursed his lips and said, ‘It’s happening, boss, the call’s being made now.’
‘Let’s roll, then.’
A few minutes earlier, Steve Flynn, in Alison’s car, had pretended to do a mistaken turn into the car park at Sunderland Transport and had clocked that Sunderland’s Aston Martin was parked up in its usual position.
Flynn was here because Henry had decided to tell him what was going on and asked him along — in a purely observational capacity — to witness events unfold if he so wished. Although Flynn had only just opened up the chandlery, he could not resist and joined Henry in Slyne, where they worked out their not very complicated plan, including Flynn’s accidental turn around in Sunderland Transport to check out the lay of the land.
After he’d clocked the Aston, Flynn had parked discreetly behind Henry and settled down to see what transpired. He knew he should have been at the shop, but, having been nearly killed on more occasions in the last couple of days than almost all the time he’d been a commando in the Falklands war, he did not want to miss anything. And he promised Henry he would just watch, not get involved, even if Henry was getting his head kicked in.
As Henry pulled away from the kerb with FB, Flynn dearly wished it was himself in the passenger seat. Having left the force under an undeserved cloud he felt he had a lot of unfinished business. He had loved being a cop and still hankered for it and would gladly have forgone his life in Gran Canaria to still be one.
But it was not to be. Life had moved on. He allowed Alison’s car to roll forward a few feet and take up the space the Vectra had occupied. He watched Henry turn into the gates.
Henry instantly saw the Aston. He drove into one of the visitors’ parking bays and he and FB climbed out. They walked side by side into reception.
Harry Sunderland was behind the desk, tugging his jacket on hurriedly, explaining something to Miranda, the receptionist. He glanced up as Henry entered through the revolving doors, followed by FB. He did a double-take and his expression changed to that of the rabbit in the headlights, about to be mown flat. But it was only momentary — because he bolted out of the headlight beam and sprinted to a fire door behind reception, crashing through it, emerging at the side of the office building, skidding towards the car park.
Henry went after him. He vaulted the reception desk, virtually flying past the bewildered Miranda, who screamed and covered her head. Henry had slightly misjudged the width of the desk and had to scramble untidily off the far side, but he was not far behind Sunderland, who had slammed the fire door shut behind him.
FB did not run. He calmly did an about-turn and stepped into the revolving door.
Sunderland ran hard towards his car, fumbling for the keys and desperately trying to use the remote control to unlock it.
Henry was held back only seconds by the door, then he was through, only feet behind Sunderland, who reached his Aston and wrenched open the driver’s door. As he swung himself in, Henry caught up and manhandled him back out just as FB joined them.
‘What the fuck’re you playing at?’ Sunderland demanded, as Henry, relishing it, spun him and splayed him across the expensive bonnet of the magnificent sports car. He pinned him there, leant over and spoke into the man’s ear.
‘You’re under arrest,’ Henry growled as he fought to get the man’s arms behind his back to apply the rigid cuffs.
‘What for? I’ve done fuck all.’
‘We’ll start with murder.’
‘Of who, you knob?’
‘Your wife, Jennifer.’
Sunderland stopped his ineffective struggling. ‘What?’ he said incredulously.
‘You heard.’
‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘In that case, we can talk about other things… like corruption.’
Sunderland started to struggle again, which Henry thought was a good sign. He held him tight and glanced at FB.
‘Not sure what your plans are, Henry — but beating a quick retreat might be the order of the day here,’ FB said pointing.
Henry’s eyes followed the fat finger.
Two large men in oily overalls had emerged from one of the warehouse doors, each with a heavy wrench in hand — and they were jogging towards the scene of the arrest, looking menacing and possibly mistaking an official piece of police business for two men in plain clothes assaulting their boss.
Sunderland twisted his head up and saw them. ‘Better let me go, guys, or these two’ll enjoy whacking you.’
The men ran on, wrenches raised — just as Flynn sped in through the gates in Alison’s car and accelerated across the car park to position himself between the men and the arrest. He swerved the car to a stop on the gravel surface, throwing up stones like pebbledashing, his sudden appearance causing the two men to slow to an unsure jog.
Flynn dropped out of the driver’s seat, coming up to his full height and waited for the men to arrive.
He looked pretty awe-inspiring, with his beaten-up, stitched face atop his wide stature, and Henry thought he was definitely a good man to have behind you.
‘I’ll go for both of you guys,’ he said, not boasting, just stating fact. ‘Monkey wrenches or otherwise.’