Facing Justice

by Nick Oldham

  He stepped to the desk and, as he expected, Diller moved – quickly. He shot up from the plastic chair and manoeuvred himself into a position between Vincent and the desk. At the same time, a handgun appeared in his right hand, a 9mm pistol of Chinese origin. Even with the gun jammed in the soft part underneath the cleft of his chin, Vincent recognized the weapon as part of a consignment he’d brought in and distributed two years before, one of his other sidelines. He wondered how many jobs it had been used on, how many lives it had taken, how much cash it had generated.

  ‘N-no, back away, pal,’ Diller said.

  Vincent tried to swallow, his throat rising and falling against the ‘O’ of the muzzle. He moved as requested.

  ‘Check the drawers,’ Diller said out of the corner of his mouth. Haltenorth was already on his feet. Diller pushed Vincent further back as the other man swooped to the desk and yanked open the drawers. He rifled through them, found nothing but papers and a money tin with a piece of paper taped to it that said ‘Petty Cash’.

  He took it out and showed Diller.

  ‘What did you expect, a shooter?’ Vincent asked.

  Diller removed the muzzle from Vincent’s neck, but couldn’t resist dragging the barrel up to his temple and pressing it hard against his skull, before withdrawing.

  ‘How much in tin?’ Diller asked.

  ‘Twelve hundred, give, take,’ Vincent shrugged, his face taut with tension.

  ‘Unlock it.’

  Vincent edged out of Diller’s proximity and sat down on the office chair. Diller and Haltenorth stood back to watch him. He fished a key out of his jeans pocket and inserted it into the lock of the box, which measured about six inches by nine, maybe four inches deep. As he did this, his knee touched the shotgun strapped underneath the desk. His mind whirled as he worked out his moves. The flaw in it all was the time it would take him to free it from the Velcro straps, turn, rise, aim it – the weapon was ready to fire, loaded with two twelve-bore cartridges – and take out two very streetwise individuals, one of whom already had a gun in his hand. No doubt the other was also armed but hadn’t yet shown his firepower. But they had expected to find a gun in the desk drawer, and hadn’t. Vincent could tell they’d dropped their guard. They’d relaxed. And that was all to his advantage. Plus they hadn’t killed him yet.

  ‘Why don’t you two guys sit back down?’

  ‘Nah, we’ll stand, because it won’t be enough. We had specific instructions, Jack. Oh yeah, don’t get me wrong, we’ll take the money – but you’re still gonna die. You had your chances, y’see. That was the last one and you didn’t come good.’

  Vincent slowly unlocked the money box, opened the hinged lid. It was stuffed with cash, many notes, all tightly rolled up. He removed the money from the tin, a bitter expression on his face, and bounced it on the palm of his hand. ‘How much to pay you guys off?’ he asked, playing the game.

  ‘What you mean?’ Diller demanded.

  ‘How much for you to go back to Cain and tell him I wasn’t here, you couldn’t find me? Eh?’ His eyebrows arched.

  Haltenorth checked out Diller, but the latter kept his eyes on Vincent, who continued with his subterfuge, because there was no way he would think about paying these guys off. ‘Follow me back down to my house. I got a couple more grand stashed away. You guys take this’ – he held up the money roll in his fist – ‘as a show of my good will, and I’ll give you the cash down at my house. Three grand, plus, in total. Not bad for a ride out to the back of beyond. It’ll give me more time to get stuff together. Do me now and Cain won’t be getting anything. How about it? Take the cash,’ he pleaded. ‘No one will be any the wiser.’

  His eyes darted between the two men. He could sense Haltenorth was up for it, but Diller wasn’t even wavering.

  ‘Mr Cain will still get his dues, man,’ Diller said, ‘even with you dead. We’ll just move on to your partner in crime. I’m given a job to do, I do it.’

  Haltenorth’s bottom lip dropped with disappointment. Clearly he wasn’t being paid anything like the money Vincent was offering now. Haltenorth had no loyalty in his bones. Vincent had placed doubt in his mind.

  ‘What about it, man?’ Haltenorth hissed to Diller.

  Diller turned slowly to him, unable to believe his ears. His gun drooped to one side and his face showed complete surprise.

  ‘I’ll tell you why, dumb-ass. You do not double cross Mr Cain. He don’t do double crossing. That’s why!’

  ‘But man, all that cali.’

  ‘I thought you were cool, man.’ Diller crashed his gun across the side of Haltenorth’s head, sending him spinning backwards.

  Vincent watched the short verbal exchange intently, saw the minute change in Diller’s body language that reflected his disbelief in what he was hearing, then saw the gun arc across his dim partner’s head. Even as the gun started to move, Vincent reached under the desk and slid the hanging shotgun out swiftly and neatly. It was a movement he had practised time and again whilst sitting at the desk. He spun on the chair just as Haltenorth stumbled backwards, holding the side of his bloodied head. Diller was angled slightly away from him, the gun in his hand pointing upwards and away from Vincent.

  It was a side-by-side double-barrelled sawn-off shotgun. A simple weapon. Vincent liked simplicity, because it rarely went wrong. Revolvers rarely went wrong, but sometimes pistols did. Sometimes pump-action shotguns that needed racking went wrong because their mechanisms jammed. But a simple, old-fashioned, pre-loaded one, safety catch off, never went wrong. The only drawback was that there were only two cartridges in it and he had to get this right first time. He would not be allowed the privilege of reloading.

  But here, in the confines of the cabin, with two targets less than six feet away from him, he had absolute confidence that he would be successful. He couldn’t miss. The trick was to ensure that he brought the two men down. There was the possibility they wouldn’t be killed straight away, but if they weren’t dead they would be severely injured enough that he would have time to reload.

  As he spun on the chair, he held the shotgun at the base of his belly, just above the groin, angled upwards.

  Diller’s face turned, a scream coming to his wide mouth as he tried to spin back and bring his gun around on Vincent.

  Vincent released the first barrel, the recoil thumping his tensed stomach muscles. The pellets exploded out with a huge bang and splattered across Diller’s upper torso, chest, neck and head. The cartridge wad hit his throat, punching a hole in it the side of a ten pence piece. The impact hurled him against the cabin wall like a stunt man on a rope.

  Vincent rose, aimed the shotgun again. Haltenorth, already stunned from the pistol whip across his head, held out his left hand beseechingly. ‘No, man, no,’ he cried.

  Callously, Vincent shot him too.

  FIVE

  Henry dropped unsteadily from the bar stool but kept his balance. Donaldson emerged from the gents’ toilet, wiping his mouth and walking towards Henry in a less than straight line across the pub. Henry watched him with a slightly warped grin.

  ‘You OK, pal?’

  ‘Yup.’

  The pub had closed an hour ago and all the customers, barring Henry and Donaldson, had left. The pair had been invited up to the bar by Clayson, the landlord, where he plied them with a couple of extra pints each and a few chasers.

  That meant they had each downed five pints plus numerous spirits. Henry held it quite well, whereas the American did not. He had allowed himself too many that night and it was taking its toll.

  There had been times during the evening when Henry’s little voice of reason told him that any over-indulgence was not a great idea. In the morning they planned to get out into the hills and do their walking trip and a skinful the night before was not the greatest of ideas. But his little devil was seduced by the ambience of the pub, the excellent taste of the beer – Clayson was proud to bursting over his clean pipes – and, of course, the offer of free drink. Their defen
ces were well and truly weakened. They had planned to be in bed at Henry’s house by eleven, but by the time they bade farewell to the landlord, who was even drunker than they were, it was quarter past midnight.

  As the extremely cold night hit them, Henry staggered back a pace and Donaldson almost fell over.

  ‘Just whoa there,’ the American said as though he was steadying a stallion.

  ‘You OK?’ Henry asked him again.

  ‘Yup . . . nope.’ He walked unsteadily over to a low wall by the car park and was copiously sick.

  At the same time as Karl Donaldson was emptying the contents of his stomach, Steve Flynn’s flight from Las Palmas touched down at Manchester Airport. It had been uneventful. He had read his book, nodded off a few times, visited the loo and not spoken to the people either side of him. A fairly typical flight.

  Although the plane docked right up to the airport terminal, Flynn could instantly feel the biting cold British night air as he stepped off the plane and entered the building via the walkway.

  With no luggage to collect, he went straight out through the green channel, nothing to declare. On the flight he’d bought a bottle of Glenfiddich but had nothing customs would be interested in. He sauntered into the arrivals hall and made his way to the overhead meeting board, expecting to see Cathy.

  She wasn’t there.

  Using his height he scanned around, but couldn’t spot her. Frowning, he wandered around the terminal for a few minutes and even stepped out into the night to check outside. He knew she liked an occasional cigarette and thought she may have sneaked out for a drag.

  There was no sign of her.

  He resisted the temptation to have her paged. Instead he switched on his mobile phone and waited for the signal to be picked up, expecting a text or voice message from her. Nothing landed.

  After fifteen further minutes, still nothing.

  After half an hour the arrivals lounge was virtually empty. Flynn stood alone, looking slightly forlorn under the sign, like he’d been stood up. Thinking he had given her enough time either to call him and explain why she was late, or actually turn up flustered and apologetic, he called her. It went straight through to the answering service. Then he called the landline number she had given him. After half a dozen rings, that too clicked on to answerphone.

  Cathy’s pre-recorded voice came on the line. ‘Hello, this is the police office at Kendleton, Lancashire. I’m PC Cathy James, your rural beat officer. I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now, but if you leave a message after the tone, I promise I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If you’re calling with an emergency, please hang up and redial 999.’

  The tone beeped. Flynn hesitated, but hung up without saying anything. He thumbed his end-call button, a very strange, uneasy sensation in his gut. He knew Cathy well enough to be sure that if she said she would be here to pick him up, she would be. And if she wasn’t, there would be one hell of a reason why not.

  One hell of a bad reason, Flynn thought.

  He spun on his heels and trotted over to a car rental desk, just in time to catch the booking clerk who was just about to pack up for the night. He gave the tired-looking woman his best smile and said, ‘I need to hire a car, please.’

  SIX

  Squinting unsurely at Donaldson, Henry pursed his lips. The big American looked pale and ill. Henry knew he had spent some time both on and over the toilet overnight.

  ‘You sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he said shortly. He hitched a medium-sized rucksack on to his back and stamped his feet. He didn’t look fine, certainly not up to a five to six hour hike across the moors of Lancashire.

  ‘We can do this another day, if you wish,’ Henry persisted.

  ‘Said I’m fine. Just had too much to drink, that’s all. Once I get walking, I’ll get it out of my system.’

  Henry backed off and swung his own rucksack over his shoulders, securing the straps comfortably. He squatted slightly and leaned into the driver’s window of his Mondeo, in which sat his wife, Kate. Behind Henry’s Ford was Donaldson’s excessively large four-by-four Jeep driven by Karen, his heavily pregnant wife. The two women had kindly consented to drive the men up to the starting point of their proposed hike, then take one of the cars to the finishing point at Kirkby Lonsdale, park it up and leave it for them to pick up when they finally got to their destination after two days of walking.

  ‘Thanks for this, babe,’ Henry cooed. He realized he would never have been able to do this ‘guy thing’ with Donaldson without Kate’s – or come to that, Karen’s – blessing. He had only managed to convince her by taking her away on a delayed holiday to Venice, which he had secretly extended to include four days in Tuscany, supplemented by the subtle use of flowers, the completion of chores and a lot of lurv. He knew she wasn’t fooled by the sudden surge of attention, but it seemed to work. He leaned in and kissed her.

  At the Jeep, Donaldson was doing much the same thing. ‘You gonna be OK, baby-doll?’ he said, leaning through the driver’s window. He reached in and lovingly patted the ever-expanding bulge that was her third, unexpected but eagerly awaited child. ‘And you too, blob.’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ she assured him. ‘But you look really pale.’

  ‘I’m OK. You know me and alcohol don’t mix.’ They kissed lingeringly, tongues and all. As a couple they’d had a rocky road to travel over the last few years, but that was now behind them. They were as passionately in love with each other as they had ever been.

  The men stood back and the women gave waves and kisses before the cars pulled away from the side of the road, leaving primitive man to his own devices. They waved until the cars disappeared over the hill.

  ‘Good,’ Donaldson said. ‘Now they’re gone, let’s end this charade and call a cab to take us to Blackpool for a night of debauchery.’

  Henry chuckled. ‘I think they would have seen through that ruse.’

  ‘Mm, maybe.’

  They surveyed their surroundings. They had been dropped off slap-bang in the centre of the Trough of Bowland, that remarkable chunk of wild countryside that forms the part of Lancashire between Lancaster and the Yorkshire Dales National Park. The intention was to walk across the Forest of Bowland, keeping due north until they reached the town of Kirkby Lonsdale. Henry estimated that, taking it reasonably easy, the journey would take two days with an overnight stop in the pretty village of Kendleton where they had booked a couple of rooms in the only pub in the village, the Tawny Owl. Henry, who had pored over maps and footpaths, estimated they would need to spend about six hours on foot each day, crossing terrain that varied from easy to difficult, but he knew both of them were well capable of completing the walk.

  Henry had got back to keeping himself fit by doing a three-mile run each lunchtime with a couple of weekly bouts of circuit training. He’d lost some poundage, down to about thirteen and a half stone, and was feeling pretty fit. He knew Donaldson was a bit of a fitness freak anyway, often pounding the London pavements as well as doing a lot of weights in the state-of-the-art gym at the American embassy where he was based.

  The only thing that might cause them problems was the weather. Initially it had been their intention to do the walk in autumn but because neither of them could marry up their diaries, it had dragged on until early December. Henry had made the unilateral decision that the walk would go ahead, even when Kate had warned him of the possibility of rotten weather. Henry had checked records and pooh-poohed her concerns. Winters had been mild for a long time now – ‘Global warming,’ he’d said knowledgeably. The worst that might happen was that they would get wet.

  As the two vehicles disappeared towards Dunsop Bridge, Henry made a quick mental checklist and was happy he’d brought along everything he needed for the walk, including a change of clothing and spare trainers for the evening in the pub, which was supposed to be a great, old-fashioned hostelry. He adjusted the strap on his rucksack again, pulled his bob cap down over his ears, then
set off across the road to the opening of a public footpath. The sign at the stile pointed to Brennand Tarn. Henry climbed over, flexing his toes in his recently acquired, but worn in, walking boots. As he dropped on to the other side he turned, expecting Donaldson to be right behind him, but he was still on the opposite side of the road – and had just been sick again on the grass verge.

  ‘Bloody hell, you sure you can do this?’ Henry called. ‘We can get the ladies back if you want.’ He held up his mobile phone and waggled it enticingly.

  Donaldson wiped his mouth. ‘Nahh, fine now. That was the last of it,’ he said as he jogged across the road and vaulted the stile spectacularly.

  Henry slid the phone back into his jacket pocket, but not before he noticed it wasn’t picking up any signal.

  ‘Thanks, I owe you one.’ Steve Flynn rubbed his tired eyes as at 8.15 that morning he padded into the kitchen where his ex-wife, Faye, was swilling dishes at the sink. She glanced over her shoulder and gave him the up-curved smile that once, years before, had melted his heart.

  He’d had a bit of a panic at the airport when Cathy had failed to show or respond to any of his calls and he was at a bit of a loss as to where he could bed down for the night. Having had to pay for car hire, his money had immediately dwindled and to get a room at an airport hotel was out of the question. Based on the flimsy fact that relations with Faye had thawed over the last few months, he took a chance and called her.

  She had been groggy with sleep and part of him thought that most of the conversation he’d had with her didn’t register. But when he arrived at her house – formerly their house – in a decent part of South Shore in Blackpool, the front door had been left unlocked and a pillow and some bedding dumped on the settee in the front room. He’d helped himself to a cheeky smidgen of whisky before settling down and dropping off to sleep almost immediately.

  ‘No problem,’ Faye said. ‘Good job I wasn’t entertaining a man friend, though.’ As the words came out, her contrite expression told Flynn that the words were instantly regretted. Yet a pang of annoyance still shot through him. A big part of their past marital problems had been the fact that she entertained a man friend, namely Flynn’s best mate and cop partner, an affair carried on behind his back for a long time.