Free Fighting for the Dead by Nick Oldham

Henry began, then stopped momentarily and shot a quick glance at Barlow, before coming back on track and continuing, ‘All drownings have to be thoroughly investigated and I know you told the reporting officer what happened, but we need a statement from you now.’
    â€˜From some questions to a statement, is it now?’
    â€˜Is that a problem?’
    â€˜No . . . no, it isn’t . . . sorry for being abrupt. It’s just so much to take in. I sort of thought the worst, but hoped for the best, y’know?’ His face was tight with emotional pain. ‘It’s starting to hit me, I guess.’ He dropped his chin to his chest, rotating his jaw, clearly holding back the urge to break down. His bottom lip wobbled. If he was acting, it was pretty good.
    â€˜First things first, though, eh?’ Henry said. ‘We do need that formal identification and I’m afraid it’ll be a tough call, but I’d like you to come down to the mortuary now.’
    â€˜Now?’
    Henry said, ‘We’ll give you a lift down, if you like.’
    â€˜I’ll drive myself, I know where it is.’
    â€˜Do you have a relative or close friend who could accompany you – give you some support?’
    Sunderland shook his head. ‘No one I’d care to bring along,’ he said sarcastically.
    â€˜OK. In that case, how do you feel about coming down in an hour? That way we’ll have a bit of time to get things ready.’
    He nodded.
    Henry considered asking what his wife might have had in her possession that would end up with two violent men turning up at the mortuary. But he held back for the moment. He wasn’t sure how important it was, but the cynical side of him – the side that didn’t believe a damn thing anyone said until it was proved to be the truth, the side that made him a half-decent jack – thought it might be wise just to hang fire. It was a feeling, nothing more, maybe the ace in the ankle sock.
    He turned to Barlow. ‘OK?’ he said, and gave the DI a stare that was unequivocal.
It was OK
.
    â€˜Y-yes, boss.’
    They left Sunderland alone in his office.
    â€˜Seems straight up,’ Barlow said.
    Henry paused. ‘Yeah, suppose so.’
    â€˜You don’t think so?’
    â€˜Well . . . let’s do the job by numbers and see what transpires,’ Henry said. ‘And to that end, will you sort out the ID with him and then arrange to take a statement at some time, depending on how he’s handling it. If he’s in pieces, put it off until tomorrow, but arrange to do it at the nick and not his home.’
    â€˜Will do.’ Barlow understood the reasoning behind that. Police-station interviews gave the cops the psychological upper hand, and in cases of suspicious deaths, it was always best to have home advantage where possible.
    Henry eased himself into the front passenger seat of the CID car, Barlow got behind the wheel.
    There was a moment when Henry was going to say something. He actually turned square to him and opened his mouth, but stopped as Barlow looked at him and smiled. Henry hoped his transition was smooth, and instead of saying what he was going to say, he said, ‘I’ll try and get back into the X-ray queue because my face is actually killing me. Not that they’ll be able to do anything if the bone’s broken, other than to ply me with painkillers.’
    â€˜Yeah, no problems . . . were you going to say something else?’ Barlow had obviously realized Henry was about to say something, then halted.
    â€˜No,’ Henry said.
    And, as the saying goes, his arsehole twitched: ‘Half-crown, sixpence.’
    He was meek, mild and apologetic to the hospital staff and by overuse of his well-practised, but now slightly crooked and frankly scary, boyish and endearing grin – made so by his facial injury – on both male and female nurses, he was logged back