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

Lancashire was predominantly countryside. Years ago he’d been to the two pubs on either side of the A6, but hadn’t visited the place recently.
    Barlow turned off the main road, left the houses behind and drove into the rolling hills, then swung a tight right into Sunderland’s haulage depot. It was a huge operation with at least four massive warehouses, surrounded by smaller units, and a long line of HGVs parked in a regimented row, all bearing the Sunderland Transport crest. Henry counted twelve, plus two pulled up at the doors of warehouses being filled with goods. He guessed there were a hundred more out on the roads. There were also possibly over fifty container units stacked high.
    The place had once been a farm. Some of the buildings were converted barns and the main office block had once been a large farmhouse.
    Barlow drew into a visitor’s parking bay and got out.
    To their right were some designated parking spaces, one taken up by a sleek silver-grey Aston Martin with a personalized number plate. It didn’t take a super-sleuth to make the connection between the registration plate and the owner of the company, Harry Sunderland.
    Henry climbed slowly out of the CID car. He and Barlow walked to the office entrance and through the revolving doors. There was a small foyer with a large desk where a female receptionist sat tapping away at a computer keyboard. It was a nice modern set-up inside an old house.
    As they entered, the receptionist glanced up from her work and her eyes instantly clocked Henry’s battered face. Her jaw dropped slackly and her lipstick-covered lips popped open.
    Henry rooted out his warrant card and flipped it for her to see.
    â€˜Apologies for the appearance,’ he said as he introduced himself. ‘We’d like to speak to Mr Sunderland, please.’ Henry saw that her name badge said Miranda, so he added, ‘Miranda.’ The personal touch.
    â€˜I’m afraid he’s busy at the moment.’
    â€˜I’m sure he’ll want to see us,’ Henry said firmly.
    â€˜Could I enquire what it’s about?’ Miranda’s hand hovered over the telephone.
    â€˜Very personal and urgent,’ Henry said.
    Miranda got the message. She picked up the phone.
    At that moment a door behind her opened and a man spun out from the office beyond with a mobile phone clamped to his ear.
    â€˜Look, I said no, OK?’ he insisted down the phone. ‘The consignment will be delivered as soon as practicable . . . Can’t be done any sooner . . . You have my word . . . Yep, yep . . .’ His face was angled down as he spoke, his head bobbing, his free hand gesticulating with annoyance.
    Harry Sunderland, Henry guessed . . . and not quite what he was expecting.
    He was dressed in a cheap white shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, and dark grey trousers that reminded Henry of a school uniform. His shoes – black and scuffed and unpolished – looked like lads’ shoes as well. His hair was blond, unkempt.
    Henry had been expecting more of an executive look, but seeing Sunderland and linking him to the type of business he ran, he immediately nailed him as a man who had made his money through hard graft and getting his hands dirty – literally – and didn’t give a stuff about how he looked. He was in an industry where appearances probably didn’t matter. Haulage wasn’t exactly banking.
    Sunderland was, however, a good-looking man in a charming, boyish way. Mid-forties, a bit stocky, the blond hair accentuated by a tan.
    He finished his call and slid the phone shut with the words, ‘Fuckin’ basic.’
    Only then did he look up and take in the two detectives standing at reception. He came up behind Miranda, who had swivelled on her chair to look at him, then positioned herself so she could point at Henry and Barlow.
    â€˜Mr Sunderland,’ she began