Read Online Fighting for the Dead by Nick Oldham - Free Book Online

yourself.’
    â€˜Yeah, yeah.’
    â€˜I like to see the whites of their eyes.’
    Barlow skipped from lane to lane to make progress through the city. Soon they were heading across Greyhound Bridge, which spanned the River Lune, taking westbound traffic out of Lancaster towards Morecambe. Henry’s one eye got a good view of the river as he looked across to St George’s Quay and south down the river itself, under Carlisle Bridge, which was just a footbridge. At that moment the river was fairly low, but ebbing quickly, and he thought of the terrifying vortex of a journey Jennifer Sunderland must have had in the river. If she had fallen in at the Crook o’ Lune, where her house was – maybe a mile and a half north of Greyhound Bridge – she had been dragged and dumped five miles away at Glasson on the estuary.
    â€˜I wonder at what point she gave up struggling and accepted her fate,’ Henry mused out loud. She could have gone a long way, gasping and fighting, hoping to get snagged on an overhanging branch or washed up on the bank. Henry was reasonably familiar with the general geography of this area – as he was for most of Lancashire – and knew she had passed under seven bridges, including an aqueduct, and over a weir. She had been on a hell of a journey. ‘Unless she was unconscious before she went in,’ he added. ‘Or maybe she didn’t struggle at all. Maybe she just jumped in and killed herself intentionally.’
    Barlow filtered across more lanes of traffic and picked up the A6 to head north out of Lancaster. He did not reply to Henry’s first stabs at forming a hypothesis.
    Flynn trailed Diane around the shop, both of them with a mug of tea in hand. She showed him the ropes, literally and metaphorically, of how the chandlery operated. From how to use the till and credit/debit-card machine, to how items were priced, how stock was recorded and even how to bag up goods for customers, how to smile, make small talk, make them feel important, all that customer focus stuff.
    He was amazed at how much stock there was and the value of it, running to tens of thousands of pounds. Upstairs there was a large storage room that was once a bedroom, jam-packed with boxes and crates, plus an upstairs toilet and shower, but they didn’t go up there.
    He let her chatter on and could tell she was enjoying being distracted from the main issue in her life, which would very soon return to the forefront when she went back to the hospital.
    After this introduction and the opportunity to deal with a couple of customers, they sat at the back of the shop with new brews.
    â€˜I never asked how you are,’ Diane said. ‘I mean, pulling a body out of the river, for goodness’ sake.’
    Flynn blew out his cheeks. ‘Not really bothered,’ he said. ‘Done it before a few times – y’know, back in the day, as they say,’ he spoke wistfully. ‘I’ve even hooked my fair share of bodies out of the Atlantic . . . boat people from Africa, you know. Thousands come ashore in the Canaries . . . and hundreds don’t make it.’
    â€˜That must be awful.’
    Their conversation ran on for a while, going around the houses, studiously avoiding the important issue. Flynn could sense what was going on, so he said, ‘Do you need to go back to the hospital now? You can leave the place with me . . . I’ll muddle through. You do what you need to, Diane.’
    She stared at her tea, then raised her eyes. ‘Will you come with me?’
    The glaze of her tears did it for Flynn. He always considered himself to be a hard man, and in most instances he was. But Diane got to him and he had to swallow back his own tears.
    â€˜Course I will.’
    Slyne village lay a couple of miles north of Lancaster, straddling the A6. Henry knew it a little, that it consisted mainly of dwellings and rural businesses because this part of