by Nick Oldham
Faye saw the cloud pass over his face and went on quickly, ‘Anyway, what’s going on? How come you’re over here?’
He settled himself at the kitchen table. ‘You remember Cathy Turnbull? Became Cathy James when she married a jack up in Lancaster?’
Faye frowned, then said, ‘Oh, yeah.’ She had no idea that Flynn and Cathy had had a brief fling all those years ago at the training centre. Flynn wasn’t about to enlighten her.
‘She was a mate, wasn’t she?’ Faye said, no hidden knowledge behind the words.
‘Yep.’ Flynn then explained Cathy’s strange phone calls, but before he could finish his story, a deep male voice behind him said, ‘I thought I heard you talking.’
Flynn spun. It was his son, Craig. Now fifteen years old, broadening out, shooting up, voice deepening, and on his way to becoming a bloody good-looking young man.
‘Pal!’ Flynn stood up and opened his arms, embracing the lad tenderly. ‘Jeepers, you’ve grown.’ They hadn’t seen each other in a few months and the teenager had noticeably expanded, but in a good, healthy way.
‘What are you doing here, Dad?’
‘Flying visit – and your mum was good enough to let me crash out here at short notice.’
Faye watched the two of them with a proud, sad smile. Flynn caught her eye, grinned back. ‘Can I take him to school?’ he asked.
‘Be my guest. What do you want for breakfast?’
‘Has the menu changed?’ Flynn knew that the kitchen wasn’t Faye’s most comfortable environment. She shook her head, again with that slightly crooked, heart-melting grin, taking no offence from Flynn’s slight mockery. ‘I’ll have toast then.’
‘Toast it is.’
Craig watched the exchange between the adults, his eyes narrowing. ‘You guys getting back together?’ he asked with cautious hope.
‘Only when hell freezes over,’ Faye declared and popped two slices of bread into the toaster.
Although extremely cold, the day had started bright and free of cloud, even though the wind was biting in its intensity. The two men trudged up into the Forest of Bowland, their faces into the wind, their bodies angled against it. Had this really been a forest there would have been some protection against the elements, but Bowland was only called a forest because it was once a royal hunting estate. Now it was wide open grouse moors and outcrops of millstone grit, and was designated an area of outstanding beauty.
The walk they had chosen to undertake wasn’t too foolhardy, though. In his younger days Henry had roamed these moors frequently, as well as the Lake District, and the route he and Donaldson had plumped for was one Henry had walked a few times many years before. Walking was something he’d grown out of, but he still had vivid memories of crossing an unspoilt area and seeing some of the wildest scenery in the UK.
Henry was a few yards ahead of Donaldson, walking on nothing more than a narrow sheep trail, in places quite boggy. Henry’s leg had sunk to mid-shin at one point and Donaldson had helped him slurp it out. Fortunately he was wearing gaiters and his foot stayed dry.
Henry stopped, his cheeks red with effort and the chill, waited for his friend to catch up. They had made slow but reasonable progress, had passed Brennand Tarn and were now making their way to Whitendale Hanging Stones.
‘You OK, bud?’ Henry asked, feeling it was a question he had posed many times that morning.
Donaldson still looked ill and Henry felt a little bit guilty, but, he reasoned, he had given Donaldson the opportunity to withdraw from the walk a couple of times and he’d refused.
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘Fit to go on?’
‘Yes,’ he said firmly.
‘Thing is, once we reach the stones, that’s about halfway, then it’s as broad as it is long.’
‘I get you.’ Donaldson took a mouthful from a bottle of water and wiped his lips. Henry watched him. Donaldson winced.
‘Sure you’re OK?’
‘Yeah, just a bit of wind, I guess. I’ll fart it out.’
‘Let’s push on.’ It was 8.45 a.m., and the day had only just started.
The last time Flynn had taken Craig to school was over five years before, when the lad had been nine or ten and at junior school. He had always enjoyed the experience, watching Craig run through the school gates. Now, though, Craig was no longer a kid and when Flynn dropped him off, there was just a fleeting wave as he went to stand with a group of his pals at the school gates. Flynn watched him for a few moments, bursting with pride, before pulling away into the four-wheel-drive traffic outside the school. At least his union with Faye had produced one good thing.
He drove back to Faye’s house. She had gone to work and had told him he could use the place if he needed a shower, which he did. He wandered slowly through the rooms, seeing how little had actually changed in the years he’d been excluded from the place. The dining room was still how he had decorated it, and so was the master bedroom. Craig’s room had been repainted and the main bathroom completely refitted. Flynn recalled that was an insurance job after a leak had caused a lot of damage when Faye had been away.
He undressed, showered and shaved in the en suite shower room off the main bedroom. He sat on the edge of the unmade bed after, drying himself off, when a surge of tiredness pulsed through him. He lay back and closed his eyes, thinking he would rest for a few minutes.
Half an hour later he jumped awake, cursing. He dressed quickly, using the underwear he had brought along in the flight bag, keeping on the jeans and shirt he’d worn the day before. Then he called Cathy on her mobile. It went directly to answerphone, frustratingly, as did the landline number she had given him.
He stood by the kitchen window overlooking the compact, overgrown back garden, a mug of tea in his hand. His mouth crimped in thought. He looked down at his mobile phone, weighing it all up, then decided to make another call, just on the off chance. He tabbed through the contacts menu, found the name he was after, pressed the green dial button with his thumb and put the phone to his ear.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I take it you don’t introduce yourself and your department for the sake of secrecy?’ Flynn said.
‘As I said, can I help you?’
‘Jerry, my old cocker, how the hell’ve you been, matey?’
For a moment it was as if the line had gone dead. Then, ‘What the hell do you want?’
‘You sound cautious, maybe not even pleased to hear from me,’ Flynn chuckled.
‘Last time I spoke to you, I ended up telling you things I shouldn’t have. Got me in the shit with my boss,’ DC Jerry Tope whined.
‘Ahh, Henry Christie? How is the twat?’
There was another pause. ‘What do you want, Steve?’
‘First of all, for you not to worry. What I need to know won’t compromise you this time.’ Flynn smiled to himself. ‘Unless of course you don’t tell me, in which case I’ll have to make a very delicate phone call . . . if you get my drift? How is the lovely Marina, by the way?’
‘Flynn, you’re the twat.’
Flynn cackled wickedly. He had known Jerry Tope for a very long time and they had been good friends when Flynn had been a cop in Lancashire Constabulary. So good that Flynn had done Tope a great favour once, lying to save Tope’s marriage. Ever since, Tope had been in Flynn’s debt. Flynn had never expected to become a debt collector but he had tapped into Tope’s role as an intelligence analyst the previous year when he was after some details of a couple of very bad men who were out to get him. Their friendship had not survived Flynn’s ignominious departure from the cops, but Flynn had found it useful to have someone on the inside who could search databases.
‘It’s different this time,’ Flynn said.
‘I seriously doubt it.’
‘Honest – Cathy James? You remember her. Cathy Turnbull as was?’
‘Yeah, we were all at training school together. Everybody wanted to get into her panties. Rumour had it that someone did . . .’
‘Yeah, lucky sod, whoever it was.’
‘You did, didn’t you!’ Tope exclaimed. ‘Jeez, you did. Now it all fits into place. Christ, if I’d known that,’ he said wistfully.
‘I didn’t, actually,’ Flynn lied. ‘But, yeah, Cathy James, née Turnbull.’
‘Mm, haven’t come across her for years. Do know she’s working a rural beat up in Northern Division. She married a jack from Lancaster. Tom James, good lad.’
‘Know much about him?’
‘No, just of him. Good thief-taker by all accounts. Used to be a traffic cop, of all things, but seems to have found his niche. I think Henry’s used him a few times on murders. And he recently got a chief cons commendation for busting a prostitution racket. Probably go far . . . Look, why?’
‘Oh, nothing. It’s just that I’m here on a flying visit and thought I’d drop in on Cathy.’
‘You’re back in Lancashire?’ Tope said it as though Flynn’s presence was something akin to a deadly virus.
‘Affirmative.’
‘Ugh. Why don’t you just call her up?’
‘Done – no reply.’
Jerry Tope sighed. ‘Hold on, I’ll check the duty states.’ Flynn heard the tap of his fingers on a keyboard, Tope accessing the computerized system that recorded the working hours of every officer on duty within Lancashire. ‘You back for good?’ Tope asked.
‘As I said, flying visit.’
‘Good . . . here we are . . . she’s down as being on a rest day today. Maybe she’s gone out for the day.’
‘What about Tom?’
More key-tapping. ‘Nine-five,’ which Flynn knew meant nothing as far as detectives were concerned. They tended to be loose about what hours they actually worked and the official system was often wrong. ‘Oh, what about yesterday?’
‘Yesterday? Um, Cathy, rest day, Tom, nine-five.’
‘Thanks, Jerry.’
‘That it?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Thank God for small mercies.’
Flynn hung up feeling ever so slightly guilty, but not so much that he wouldn’t use Tope’s knowledge and position again if necessary. Because there was no statute of limitations on adultery, Flynn’s knowledge of Tope’s one and only infidelity was something he would hold over him for the rest of his life.
He scribbled a note to Faye, thanking her for letting him crash out and use her facilities, left twenty pounds he could ill afford for Craig, collected his gear and locked the house, then jumped into his hire car. He hoped that he would be done with whatever problem was ailing Cathy by tomorrow and was already looking forward to going home to Gran Canaria, even if he was going to be sued for assault by the jumped-up Hugo. He was missing the feel of the boat under his feet and even though Faye 2 was going to be in dry dock for a couple of months, he wanted to be there, tending her, carrying out any necessary repairs and in general looking after his baby. Survival money would come from somewhere.
‘This is the centre of the known world,’ Henry Christie said grandly as he swung his rucksack off his shoulder and sat down on the ugly rocky boulders busting out of the heathland that were known as Whitendale Hanging Stones. ‘Well,’ he said, amending the claim as he delved into the rucksack for his steel flask and sandwiches, ‘the middle of Britain, anyway.’
He unscrewed the flask and poured himself a welcome coffee, sipping it as he admired the view from a vantage point that made him feel on top of the world.
‘Whaddya mean?’ Donaldson said indifferently. He dropped his rucksack beside Henry, sat down miserably and pulled his anorak hood over his head.
Henry looked at him, realizing what the term ‘green at the gills’ meant. Donaldson was not improving healthwise. If anything, he looked more unwell than earlier and it had been his excellent physical condition that had kept him going up to this point. They had been walking for three hours and when the sheep tracks had petered out, it had been tough going. The bogs were unforgiving and possibly treacherous to the unwary.
‘I mean that this position here is the geographical centre of the British Isles – if the four hundred and one outlying islands are included in the calculation.’
‘Oh.’ Donaldson sounded unimpressed. He had food and drink in his rucksack, but did not open up and get any, just sat there glumly.
It was very windy at this location, 496 metres above sea level, and icy blasts seared through their layers of clothing.
Henry sipped his hot coffee and bit into a Lancashire cheese sandwich, laced with piccalilli, as he surveyed the countryside. It was a truly magnificent vista, the hills of Bowland and Pendle lying like huge sleeping dinosaurs. He looked at the sky. To the south it was fairly clear, and across to the west he could still make out the pinprick that was Blackpool Tower on the coast. He swivelled around, then his eye caught a bird zooming across the moorland just below him. A frisson of joy shot through him.
‘Would you look at that?’
In his not misspent youth, Henry had been a bit of a birdwatcher and could still recognize most of the common species, as well as many birds of prey, which were always a favourite. And what he saw made his heart beat faster with excitement. An adult male hen harrier, grey plumage above, white underneath, showing its dark wing-tips as it shot past. It was a rare bird and still persecuted by ruthless gamekeepers.
Donaldson didn’t even look up, but said, ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Ooh.’ Donaldson hissed and doubled up, gripping his stomach. He scrambled to his feet, gave Henry a desperate look, and ran behind a rocky outcrop.
Henry looked to the north-east. The sight he saw filled him with some dread. Maybe thirty miles distant, the clouds were black, rolling and heavy. ‘Not good,’ he said.
A few moments later, Donaldson reappeared, his complexion grey.
‘You OK?’ Henry asked him again.
‘I’ve just had the shits on the middle of Britain,’ he said.
Flynn had driven out of Blackpool and dropped on to the M55, heading east across Lancashire. At the junction with the M6, he bore left and north, eventually passing Lancaster on his left, then the young offenders’ institution, exiting the motorway at junction 34. Then he’d gone right, heading in a vague north-easterly direction along the A683, following the Lune valley, the River Lune being Lancashire’s second river after the Ribble. He passed through the village of Caton, past the police house on the left, but before he reached the next settlement, Hornby, he took a right turn, picking up the signs for Low and High Bentham, then took another right following the sign for Kendleton.
The tight meandering roads rose steadily and at one point on the brow of a hill, he got a superb view of the hills across the Yorkshire Dales National Park in the next county.
The view was marred only by the approaching black sky – and if he wasn’t mistaken, Flynn was certain that flecks of snow were in the air. He cursed and thought of the magnificent weather he’d left behind, two thousand miles to the south.
SEVEN
The black Range Rover with smoked-out windows loomed large in Flynn’s rear view mirror. His hire car, a tiny Peugeot, had been the only vehicle on the road for the last four miles in any direction, but the big four-wheel drive had come up behind quickly and unexpectedly and almost attached itself to Flynn’s rear bumper. The road was narrow, widening very occasionally, but virtually impossible for overtaking, which is what the driver of the Range Rover obviously wanted to do.
The headlights flashed repeatedly but Flynn had nowhere to go, nowhere to pull off. On both sides of the road were either very spongy looking grass verges or deep drainage channels. Maybe if he pulled in tight and slowed right down, the Range Rover might be able to pass carefully.
Flynn’s eyes constantly checked the mirror, which was now completely filled with the front radiator grille of the following car. He gritted his teeth and began to seethe as the driver kept up the pressure on him. He had been just tootling up to that point, but the harrying from behind made him inc
rease speed involuntarily.
And then reduce it. He wasn’t going to be intimidated by some clown in a fancy motor. If the guy wanted to pass so badly, go ahead, welcome, and don’t blame me if you end up in a field. But Flynn wasn’t going to accommodate him by sinking his own wheels into a muddy verge, or worse running into a ditch.
‘Wanker,’ he breathed.
The guy didn’t let up, kept pushing.
Flynn’s hands gripped the wheel white-knuckle tight, still nowhere to pull in and let the car pass.
And then the inevitable happened.
Coming out of a right-hand corner, Flynn saw another car coming towards him, a Jeep or something, a similar size to the one clinging to his rear end. Whatever happened, this was going to be a squeeze.
Flynn had to jam on the brakes on the narrow road, which was just about wide enough for two standard-sized cars to pass carefully. He slowed right down, as did the approaching Jeep. Two cars approaching each other on a country road, the drivers showing courtesy towards each other. And behind him the impatient Range Rover.
Flynn signalled his intention to pull in.
But then the Range Rover swerved out and accelerated past, taking off his driver’s door mirror with a loud crack. Flynn jumped.
The Range Rover powered ahead, its offside wheels leaving tracks in the opposite bank and forcing the oncoming Jeep to veer left and on to that same bank with its nearside wheels. The Range Rover sped past, this time taking the driver’s door mirror of the Jeep and avoiding a scraping collision by what seemed only millimetres to Flynn.
And then, with a gush of exhaust smoke, it was gone, leaving him and the Jeep stationary, facing each other.
Flynn could see a woman at the wheel, another in the passenger seat. Leaving his engine running, he climbed out of the Peugeot and examined the door and the remnants of the damaged mirror which had been jaggedly snapped off. Broken bits of it, including shattered glass, were scattered on the road. He picked up the biggest piece, kicked a few other scraps of plastic and metal off the road and walked to the Jeep, seeing the debris of that vehicle’s door mirror strewn down the road.