by Nick Oldham
Henry allowed Flynn his little rant and could not resist saying, ‘And when I hear shit like that coming out of your mouth, I realize Lancashire Constabulary is a much better organization without people like you in it.’
Flynn bridled like a prodded Rottweiler.
Henry went on quickly, sensing Flynn’s inner burning. ‘All I’m saying is that if we start messing around here and moving the body, we’re likely to lose evidence. You don’t get a second chance . . .’
‘At a crime scene,’ Flynn completed the sentence sourly for him, quoting the Murder Investigation Manual. ‘I know all that, but by implication you are actually suggesting that somehow her body should be left here until you can get the circus out to it. That could be . . . fuck knows when!’
‘I’m simply considering all the angles, pros and cons.’ Henry had to raise his voice against an ever strengthening wind. He jabbed his finger downwards at the body between them, already re-covered in snow after Henry had brushed some of it away only moments before. ‘She’s been murdered and I don’t want to lose any evidence that might help catch a killer. Especially as she’s a colleague.’
‘And that would mean leaving her here?’ Flynn demanded.
‘In an ideal world, yes. If the weather was fine and we could actually communicate with someone and I could get the circus out and I could protect it and leave it guarded – that’s exactly what I’d do.’
‘But none of those things apply.’
‘I know – but what I need to do is find out the true situation, OK? Our mobiles don’t seem to work out here, but are we actually cut off by road yet? Until I get to a landline and put a call through to headquarters I won’t know for certain. Can I get a helicopter up? Can I get a team here? Until I get those questions answered I won’t make a decision.’ Henry’s jaw jutted challengingly.
Flynn relented slightly. ‘Tell you what, you go to the village, use my motor, and see if you can contact your precious HQ and find out what the score is. I’ll lay odds nothing’s moving, not in this neck of the woods anyway. I’ll stay and cover the scene – if you’ll allow me to sit in the Shogun.’
And then there was the other aspect: Henry was also suspicious of Flynn, as he would be of anyone so closely connected to a murder victim. Did he do it?
As if Flynn could read Henry’s mind, he said, ‘No – I didn’t.’
They weighed each other up for a few moments, then Henry nodded and said, ‘Start the car to keep warm, but don’t touch anything.’
‘I was a cop for twenty years,’ Flynn said. ‘I know what to do.’ Henry handed him the torch. ‘And if you can’t get anyone out, this body is being moved, whatever the hell you say or want.’
Unfazed by Flynn, Henry said, ‘I’ll be making the decisions.’
Flynn watched Henry stumble back past the Shogun to the hire car, shaking his head at the detective’s back, somehow stopping himself from jerking a middle finger up at his back. Then he looked down at the body at his feet, squatted down and shone the torch beam on to her distorted face, or at least what was left of it. The top right-hand quadrant had been effectively blown off, undoubtedly from a shotgun blast at close range. The right eye had also been removed, but even though the force of the blast had caused the remaining three-quarters to be hideously misshapen, the lips baring the teeth, the cheek distended, Flynn could still clearly recognize Cathy James.
‘Oh babe,’ he whispered, trying to hold back his anguish, ‘who the hell did this to you?’ But even as he asked a dead body, Flynn was pretty positive that the husband had some very difficult questions to answer.
Henry dropped heavily into Flynn’s hire car and dragged the seat belt cross his chest.
‘What’s happening?’ Donaldson’s weak voice came from the rear. He was lying in a foetal position across the back seat, knees brought up tightly to his chest.
‘Tell you later. I’m going to get you down to the pub, then I need to get back up here.’
‘You found a body or something?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Oh,’ he said with little interest, showing how poorly he was.
Thick snow covered the windscreen, heavy and wet. The wipers had to work hard to clear the glass before Henry put the car into first and slowly eased out the clutch.
‘How’re you feeling?’ he asked. The car crept forward, off the forest track, on to the road. He turned left into the gradient and instantly the front wheels failed to grip. The car slewed in slow motion across the snow. Henry wrestled with the wheel, turned into the skid and corrected it. He realized that although there was only a couple of miles or so to go, it was going to have to be a slow journey.
‘Jeepers,’ Donaldson said, grabbing the back of Henry’s seat to stop himself pitching off his own seat into the footwell.
‘Sorry,’ Henry said.
‘And in answer to your question, not good. Ankle’s throbbing like it’s on a hotplate and the insides are still churning. Should I elaborate?’
‘No.’ Henry leaned forward as he drove, his chin almost on the rim of the steering wheel, nose nearly touching the screen as though this position made it easier to see ahead and control the car.
‘Who was that guy anyway? Why – how – do you know him?’
‘Ex-cop,’ Henry said. ‘I gave him a helping hand in the ex department.’
‘Ahh.’ Donaldson’s stomach cramped tightly. ‘Need a restroom,’ he said, and added, ‘pretty urgently.’
‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ Henry said, trying to concentrate on the road and not put the car into a ditch. Going at this snail’s pace required all his skill and focus, even though several other things were tumbling simultaneously through his mind, mainly the dead body of a cop and the presence of Steve Flynn, with whom he had crossed swords five years earlier and who had reappeared the previous year in connection with a case Henry had been investigating – a case that had links with the reason Flynn had left the police.
In respect of the body – the important thing – Henry knew the scene had to be protected, hence his quandary about how to proceed for the best. Despite being en route to check it out, he was as sure as Flynn that because of the atrocious weather, there would be no chance of turning anyone out to assist him. His call to HQ would serve no purpose other than to alert the powers that be that a colleague had been murdered and a team had to be on standby, ready to deploy as soon as the weather allowed. He really wanted to leave the body in situ, and the evidence-gathering part of him was convinced this was the sensible thing to do, for the reason he’d lectured Flynn: no second chance at a crime scene.
But Henry knew this was unlikely to be an option, either practically – who would guard the scene on the worst night of the year? – or from a humanitarian point of view. And because of the weather, evidence would be destroyed anyway. Based on that, Henry knew that, somehow, he had to recover the body and try to maintain the integrity of the scene at the same time.
As he corralled the car down the hill, Henry was suddenly confronted by the appearance of a black Range Rover coming up in the opposite direction, headlights blazing on full beam. Henry squinted and flashed his own lights, but the big car continued to hog two-thirds of the road and forced the smaller car on to the grass verge. Henry just managed to keep control.
He cursed, flicked the wheel this way and that, and the two cars passed within centimetres of each other. He added a few more colourful phrases, but the incident passed without anyone dying, so Henry stuffed it out of his mind and continued on, very bloody annoyed by everything: the adventure – two mates on a well-deserved walking break – had gone boobs-up and now he had to put on his Senior Investigating Officer cap when all he wanted to do was chill out and recover. He knew that this day was far from over.
Passing the snow-covered sign declaring he was entering the village of Kendleton – safe drivers welcome – he kept his eyes on scan, taking in a few things of interest that might be of assistance to him in the coming hours,
such as a tractor parked on the main road, before slithering to a stop outside the Tawny Owl. The old pub was a welcoming sight, promising warmth and comfort.
‘Let’s get you into your room,’ he said over his shoulder to Donaldson, who was emitting weak, pathetic noises as he clung on desperately to prevent a bowel movement. ‘Toilet first, though,’ Henry corrected himself.
He helped him out, in through the front door, and propelled him gently along in the direction of the loo before turning to the bar.
There were only a handful of customers, unsurprisingly considering the weather. Henry approached the bar, his finger-ends tingling as he took off his gloves, and the warmth of the roaring fire immediately caressed him. He peeled off his outer jacket, fighting the urge to order a double scotch and sink into the battered, empty armchair by the fireplace. The last thing he wanted to do was turn out again, but relaxation and recovery were distant concepts at the moment, and were soon to get further away.
The lady behind the bar turned away from the two men she’d been serving at the far end and came towards Henry. Even in his tired state he could not fail to appreciate her looks and figure and, as if by years of conditioning, he tilted his head slightly and gave her his boyish grin. On a man his age, it probably came across as more of a leer.
‘What can I get you?’
‘My friend and I have two rooms booked for tonight,’ he said. Instantly the expression on her face changed to one of horror.
‘Ahh,’ she said, drawing out the word.
‘Under the name of Christie,’ he added helpfully.
‘Mm, yes . . . unfortunately I’ve had to let the rooms to someone else,’ she said apologetically, dropping a bombshell.
‘Must be some mistake.’ Henry smiled, but his heart was beating just that little bit faster. ‘I booked the rooms through the Internet and I have a confirmation e-mail.’ He tapped his back pocket and kept his voice reasonable.
‘I know, I’m sorry.’ Henry saw her gulp. ‘I assumed that because of the weather you wouldn’t be coming.’ She shrugged awkwardly, not really knowing what to do with her body language.
‘I would have informed you if that had been the case.’ His voice had become as cold as the weather.
‘I’m sorry, but the rooms have been let to someone else now.’
‘We’ll have two more rooms, then.’
‘I have only the two rooms, unfortunately.’
Moments before Henry had been half-visualizing this woman naked, a sad trait he’d had, since being a penis-led teenager, of mentally undressing women as soon as he met them, and one that had stayed with him all his life. Now he was imagining tightening his hands around her throat.
‘I won’t even try to explain what my friend and I have been through today to get here. Just to say we need those rooms urgently. He’s very poorly and injured and as we speak he is affixed to a toilet bowl. I am exhausted. We need rest – and I have paid a deposit.’ He tried to hold it together, but he was cracking at the edges. The rising inflection in his voice gave the game away. His right hand had started a little jig of agitation.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Christie, I truly am.’ Henry saw something in her eyes that puzzled him: fear. ‘But I had no choice in the matter.’
‘So where does that leave us?’
‘I’ll refund the deposit, obviously.’
‘Is there another hotel in the vicinity?’
She shook her head and Henry tried to stop his own from jerking in exasperation. He tried to work through the immediate future: sick/lame friend, dead cop, crime scene, body, snow, ice, cut off from civilization, nowhere to fucking sleep! ‘Right,’ he declared, ‘as it happens I haven’t got time to argue the toss just at the moment. But at the very least, can my friend change into his dry clothing, maybe have a shower – i.e., use yours? And can he get sat down here in the warmth while I sort something out?’
‘What’s up with him?’
‘Food poisoning and a sprained ankle – both pretty extreme.’
‘He can change in the back and he can use my bathroom.’
‘It’s a start and it would be a big help for him.’
‘What about you? You look as though you could do with the same.’
‘A room would have helped.’ He gave her a pointed look. ‘But I have things to do first. What’s the weather situation?’ he asked, checking his phone for a signal at the same time, seeing no bars whatsoever.
‘Bad and getting worse.’
‘Is Kendleton cut off yet?’
She nodded. ‘The road in and out is blocked with snowdrifts.’
‘Great. Can I use your phone please? My mobile signal is non-existent.’
She handed him the cordless phone. ‘Be my guest.’ She looked contrite.
‘An ironic statement if ever I heard one.’ He snatched the phone and wandered across to the roaring fire, glancing crossly at the few customers, assuming they were locals, although the young woman sitting alone in one corner seemed slightly out of place. As he dialled, Donaldson limped into the bar, pale, ill looking. Henry gestured for him to take a seat and he slumped into a big old chair. As the phone dialled the number Henry had put in, he eyed the two men at the end of the bar, who were in deep conversation. Were they locals, or were they the bastards who had snaffled his rooms?
The connection was made and Henry was put through to the Force Incident Manager in the control room, who had an up-to-date overview of road and weather conditions in the county. The news was not good. The helicopter was grounded, all roads in the north of the county were becoming impassable as the snow fell. Councils, unprepared for the sudden change, were fighting to keep the main routes open and minor roads in the sticks were filling up with snowdrifts. Deflated, Henry briefed him of the situation he had encountered and gave him certain instructions to follow, putting a list of people on standby, but even as he went through this preparation, it seemed a futile exercise. No one could physically even get here before the morning, and even that was doubtful.
As he guessed, he was on his own.
TWELVE
Jack Vincent watched the Range Rover pull away from the front of his large house, head slowly down the gravel drive towards the automatic gates, which opened on its approach. It passed through them and turned towards the village. Vincent closed the heavy door with a clunk and turned to the two men behind him in the hallway.
Neither of these two men spoke. Breaking the silence was Vincent’s prerogative. He was the boss, almost.
He hustled back to the lounge where he poured himself a large shot of whisky and sat down on a wide leather armchair, his eyes blazing. He sipped the pale liquid, holding the glass tight to his lips, and stared dead ahead.
The two men had followed him, hardly daring to speak.
Eventually he turned his gaze to them. ‘Well?’ he said quietly.
Neither man had an answer, but both knew what Jack Vincent was thinking. Then another man, who had been keeping out of sight, came into the room and all eyes turned to him.
The sudden appearance had caught Vincent off guard, but not for long. He had fully expected Jonny Cain to come knocking, but not so soon. He’d anticipated the visit would come later, when it was realized that H. Diller and Haltenorth had not reported back. There was no way Cain could have had any inkling as to the crushing fate that had befallen the two enforcers, so Vincent guessed that the follow-up had been pre-planned, to keep him off balance.
Diller and Haltenorth had been the advance warning, Cain the real thing. Obviously Cain had expected that the two heavies would achieve nothing, Vincent not being a man to be threatened or intimidated, and they would not have returned with good news, so the idea to come in their immediate wake was designed to demonstrate how seriously – and personally – Cain viewed matters.
When the intercom on the gate had buzzed, Vincent had been at the dining table in the kitchen with Henderson, the fitter, a man called Chris Shannon who managed Vincent’s quarry, and another man. They
had been drinking strong coffee and discussing the situation.
Henderson rose and answered the intercom, next to which was a CCTV monitor on the kitchen wall. Henderson had also answered the intercom a short while earlier to a man who had purported to be on ‘police business’ but had been unable to flash any ID at the camera on the gate. On that occasion, Henderson had turned to his companions and asked if either knew the visitor. Vincent and Shannon said no, but the other man crossed to the screen, looked at the image and said, ‘I know him, but he isn’t a cop – tell him to get lost.’
Henderson had complied, a little more politely, and the man went.
But the appearance of Jonny Cain didn’t give Henderson that right.
‘Boss.’ Henderson flicked a finger at the monitor.
Vincent rose slowly and looked at the monitor linked to the camera at the gate. It was good quality equipment and clearly showed the stern-faced Jonny Cain, arms folded, staring expressionlessly at the lens.
‘Shit,’ Vincent said. ‘Let him in.’
‘But boss . . .’
‘Just do it.’
Henderson pressed the gate release button and they watched Cain get back into the Range Rover, then the vehicle entered the grounds.
Vincent greeted him at the front door.
Cain and another man got out of the car and came up the steps. The Range Rover did a full circle and headed back down the drive, tyres crunching the gravel.
‘Jonny, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ Vincent said.
‘I’ve told them to be back for me in half an hour,’ Cain said. ‘Now let’s cut the bullshit and get inside out of this shite weather.’ He ignored Vincent’s outstretched hand and walked past him into the house.
‘Hey, whatever,’ Vincent said, trying to keep a note of levity in his voice. ‘Nice to see you too, Jonny,’ he said under his breath, turning in behind his unexpected guest and almost colliding with him. Cain had stopped abruptly, having heard Vincent’s snide remark.
‘This isn’t a social visit, Jack.’