Facing Justice

by Nick Oldham

  ‘She’s Robert’s daughter from his first marriage, Robert being my husband. We’re kind of inseparable and when I left the forces and came up here, she tagged along. She’s a good lass. There.’ The final strip was applied and smoothed down, fully closing the wound. ‘You still need to go to A&E. It’s a while since I patched anyone up.’

  Flynn touched it gingerly. ‘Seems like a good job.’

  Their faces were only inches apart.

  Henry had completed the custody record. Separately he jotted down on a scrap of paper some notes which would form the basis of his arrest statement. When he’d done that, he phoned through to control room and spoke to the Force Incident Manager, brought him up to date. An incident log had been started from his previous call and Henry was keen to keep things updated, mainly to cover his own back.

  During the course of the conversation with the FIM he was told that Rik Dean was trying to get a message through and could Henry call him back as soon as possible.

  Henry gave Rik a call to his mobile, but it went straight through to voice mail. Henry left a short message, then sat back as a wave of exhaustion swept through him like the tidal bore on a river. He looked at Callard, attached by the plastic hoops to the central heating system. He had fallen asleep for a while, but had woken himself with a loud snore and was staring uncomprehendingly at Henry.

  Don’t spew and don’t piss your pants, Henry thought, recalling the days when he’d been a custody officer, one of the toughest jobs in the police, and one of the most unpleasant. Henry had cleaned up a lot of shit in his time.

  ‘It’s not over,’ Callard growled thickly.

  ‘What’s not over?’

  ‘Tonight . . . more to come.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  But Callard just closed his eyes and was instantly asleep again.

  Fending off the urge to kick him repeatedly, Henry stood up slowly, his limbs and muscles screaming with annoyance. All they wanted to do was curl up and go beddy-byes, as did his brain. The phone rang. He grabbed it.

  ‘Superintendent Christie.’

  ‘Henry – what the hell’s going on?’ Rik Dean demanded to know. ‘I’ve been trying to contact you for hours.’

  ‘I’m trapped in the middle of nowhere with a dead cop, a nutter with a shotgun and a sus ex-cop, so I hope what you have to tell me is important, Rikky boy.’

  ‘Uh – dunno then.’

  ‘Spit.’

  ‘You know I went to speak to Calcutt after the trial?’

  Henry screwed up his face, trying to recall. It seemed such a long time ago, but he remembered Calcutt, the professional killer, had asked to speak to Henry after the trial had ended. Henry, eager to get away, had delegated the job to Rik, then promptly forgotten about it. Calcutt, he reflected, suspected of being hired by none other than Jonny Cain to whack a rival. The only thing the trial had proved, and all that was needed, was that Calcutt had killed Deakin. The ‘why’ had never been established because Calcutt had admitted nothing. Henry tensed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, big dos, little dos, I only actually got to see him on remand at Manchester prison today. He spoke – actually spoke! Said he knew he was screwed, was going down for life and wanted to unburden himself.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Henry said in disbelief.

  ‘Exactly,’ Rik said. ‘And he told me nothing, except for one thing.’ Rik paused dramatically. ‘He said the world he operates in is very cloistered, y’know, Assassins Anon, and there are only a handful of people who do what he does and they sort of know each other-ish.’

  ‘The point, Rik.’

  ‘Told me that the person who hired him, the identity of whom we’ll never know, had hired someone else to do some more dirty work.’

  Henry waited for the revelation. It never came. ‘And?’

  ‘That’s it. Reading between the lines, he’s telling us that Jonny Cain has hired a hit man to whack some other guy.’

  Henry soaked this up. ‘Nothing else? Just teased us like that?’

  ‘Yes. Calcutt said that if he told us anything else, he would end up dead in prison.’

  Henry thanked Rik and hung up slowly, churning this new information. He sighed deeply, knowing that, interesting as it was, it probably had no bearing on what had happened or what was happening in the village on this snowy evening. But it was interesting, needed to be borne in mind.

  Callard was asleep, groaning, snoring obscenely. Henry went out of the office to find Flynn.

  The cough snapped the moment between Flynn and Alison. They jumped back from each other to see Henry standing at the bathroom door, a scornful expression on his face.

  ‘When you’ve finished,’ he said, his voice brittle.

  Alison ran her thumb across the butterfly strips on Flynn’s wound, then gathered the medical kit together, not looking at Henry.

  Flynn grinned triumphantly.

  ‘Callard’s asleep,’ Henry said. ‘I will go and speak to Jonny Cain. Do you think you can look after him?’

  ‘Not my problem,’ Flynn teased him.

  ‘I know, but if you don’t do it, I’ll be stuck here watching him all night and I’ll miss the chance to collar one of the country’s biggest drug dealers.’ Alison spun to look at Henry, shock on her face at this revelation. ‘And you were so desperate to nail him way back when, so I don’t want to miss the chance, yeah? Even if he only gets roped into this as a witness, at least we’ll have some hold over him.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  Alison stood up. ‘I’ll run you back down to the Owl,’ she said to Henry, who hid a smirk when he saw Flynn’s crestfallen face.

  FIFTEEN

  Even for a senior detective, actually coming face to face with a top-notch criminal was a rare treat. Such people were usually only spoken to – and usually by lower-ranking detectives – when all the background work had been done and it was time to move in. Only then did the cop and criminal, hunter and prey, come into contact.

  After Felix Deakin had taken the bullet that parted his hair, and Jonny Cain had walked free from a murder trial when all the other potential witnesses gave thought to their own futures – then suddenly developed severe memory loss – it was pretty obvious that Cain had ordered the hit on his rival. Even when Calcutt, the hit man, had been arrested, the link to Cain was never proved despite the lengthy investigation. Cain, of course, was interviewed but Henry did not meet him, did not carry out the interviews. That had been left to Rik Dean and other detectives on the team. It proved to be a useless exercise, but one that had to be carried out. It was simply going through the motions, knowing that unless he held up his hand and said fair cop and confessed, he would be walking.

  The cocky man had even presented himself at a police station for interview, with his solicitor, knowing that he would be laughing all the way to liberty. He had been relaxed, smug, confident, constantly saying, ‘I just don’t know what you’re talking about,’ and even gave Rik Dean a kiss-wave goodbye when he strolled out of the cop shop.

  Nailing Cain would have been great, but Henry was nothing if not pragmatic. As such, he decided to back off in the knowledge that in the future, Cain would do something that would seal his own fate. Plus, Cain was a Serious and Organized Crime Agency target and it was up to them now. Henry was an SIO and had his own workload to deal with.

  Two years down the line, Henry guessed, SOCA would probably have amassed enough to pull him in again. Until that time came, as Cain was known to be super cautious in his dealings, activities and communications, it was unlikely that any cop would come into personal contact with him.

  Which is why Henry, despite having to leave a prisoner guarded by a volunteer, was actually relishing the prospect of speaking to him. Any chance to get into his face was not to be missed, and Henry had a bloody good excuse to have words.

  It was the sort of confrontation Henry lived for. He loved baiting crims, didn’t do enough of it these days.

  Alison drove him back to the Tawny Owl.
>
  ‘You mentioned that Callard is one of Jack Vincent’s drivers?’ Henry said on the way.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you know about Jack Vincent?’

  ‘Not a lot. Runs a haulage business from the quarries he owns. Lives in Mallowdale House and owns a huge amount of land around it. And doesn’t like people trespassing – why?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Henry said. For he too knew of Jack Vincent. It was his job to know. Not personally, but knew Vincent was, or had been, a SOCA target too. Henry dredged his mind of what he knew about Vincent, but details were sparse and he had to admit he’d forgotten that Vincent lived out here in the sticks. He would have to find out more . . . two OC targets in one village, he mused.

  ‘I think you misinterpreted what you saw,’ Alison blurted, subject changed.

  ‘None of my business,’ Henry said genuinely. ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me.’ She glanced sideways at him and he caught her look. ‘What?’ he said, perplexed.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ she quipped with a laugh. ‘I don’t like him at all.’

  Henry gulped, knocked slightly off track. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Idiot.’

  They had reached the car park at the front of the pub and she pulled in alongside Cain’s Range Rover, Henry noticing some damage to the offside door mirror. Singleton’s tractor was still parked in the road and a few other vehicles had arrived, showing that movement in and around the village itself was possible – just not out of it. He climbed out and met Alison at the front radiator grille of her car. Still in his shirtsleeves, he shivered.

  ‘What you do is your own business.’

  She grasped the front of his shirt and pulled him towards her, so they were eyeball to eyeball. Now it was Henry’s turn to smell her perfume. Her lower jaw jutted slightly as her eyes played over his face.

  ‘If we get chance,’ she breathed, ‘you and me . . . can I make it any more clear?’

  Henry blinked, got a rush of blood, then she yanked him the extra six inches towards her, pulled him down and forced her full lips on to his.

  For a moment he was completely stunned. As he tasted her, felt her warmth against him, he responded before he knew what was happening. Fortunately common sense kicked in. He pushed himself gently away from her.

  ‘You no like?’ she asked, a wicked smile on her face.

  ‘Me like a lot . . . but I thought . . .’

  ‘Not my type. Brash, arrogant.’

  ‘Oh.’ Henry’s lips pursed and the ‘oh’ became an ‘Ooh!’

  ‘However, there are more pressing things to deal with.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Henry’s shivering returned.

  They walked side by side, silently into the pub. Henry sneaked a covert look at her and tried to get a grip of what had just happened. If nothing else, he thought meanly, it was a poke in the eye with a shitty stick for Flynn, and that gave him an immature glow of warmth.

  He stood aside, allowing Alison to enter ahead of him, their eyes meeting fleetingly, then followed her into the welcoming heat. The main bar in which the shotgun fracas had taken place was back to normal, with the exception of the shotgun pellet-peppered ceiling. The remains of the disco ball hung limply from a thread, and all the shattered fragments had been swept up by Ginny. With hindsight, Henry wondered if he should have asked for the area to be cordoned off somehow, but in the excitement of the tussle with Callard, protecting the scene hadn’t been his first priority. It was too late now. New customers were even sitting where the fight had taken place.

  The bar had filled up with a few more locals. On Henry’s entrance, the chatter died down for a few beats, but resumed when Alison let herself through to the living area and Henry went to his two assistants, the butcher/farmer and the GP. The bar was now propping them up.

  ‘Thanks for the handcuffs,’ Henry said to Singleton.

  ‘No probs. I always carry cable ties with me. Never know when they’ll come in useful in my trade – as has just been proven.’

  ‘Absolutely. Do you have any more?’

  Singleton pulled a tangle of them out of his back pocket and gave them to Henry. ‘Just in case,’ Henry said, slipping them into his pocket.

  ‘What’ve you done with chummy?’ Dr Lott asked.

  ‘He’s a bit tied up, shall we say?’

  ‘You know – and it’s just me talking aloud,’ the doctor said. ‘Putting two ’n’ two together, but Larry Callard is known to do a bit of poaching, and he had that shotgun . . .’ His bottom lip stuck out, he blinked repeatedly and shook his head.

  ‘It’s something I’ll bear in mind.’

  Alison had returned to the bar and taken up her usual position behind it. She pointed discreetly towards the dining room and mouthed, ‘In there.’

  To the left of the pub entrance, just inside the door, was a small dining room with a low-beamed ceiling. It held half a dozen tables, there was a roaring fire and hunting prints on the wall. Henry had to duck to enter. It was like stepping back in time, into a room that had managed, either by accident or design, to miss any modernization at all.

  This was where Jonny Cain and his three cronies, all of whom Henry knew from their files, were sitting around one of the tables that had been pulled in front of the fire, eating a hearty meal, with bottles of red wine and beer on the table. There were no other diners and as Henry entered the room he was reminded of a scene from the Hellfire Club, particularly when he saw Ginny, who was collecting some dishes, lean over the table and one of the men – the pony-tailed Danny Bispham – jab the blade of his hand up her short skirt, much to the raucous amusement of the other men.

  Red-faced and embarrassed, she scuttled past Henry, her eyes averted in shame. The men watched her retreat, then their faces turned to him, all with threatening expressions. Who else would want to dine alongside four such uncouth men, he thought.

  Bispham stood up and Henry’s assumption about why they were dining alone was confirmed. Bispham took two strides – he was a seriously violent-looking man with a rodent-like face – and growled, ‘This is a private function, no one’s allowed in here, so fuck off out.’ He actually laid the palm of his hand on Henry’s chest to stop any further progress.

  ‘Unfortunately for you, I’m a police officer and I have the power of entry into licensed premises, in particular where private functions are taking place.’ The last bit was slightly over-egging the pudding, but Henry was more than confident of the powers vested in constables to enter pubs, clubs and all other types of drinking establishments. ‘But I do know this isn’t a private function. Take your hand away, Danny,’ he added, pleased when Bispham responded with puzzled shock at the use of his name. People like him did not like to be known. He produced his warrant card and county crest and flashed it close into the guy’s face, then held it aloft so the others could also see it clearly. He wanted no misunderstandings. ‘Detective Superintendent Henry Christie,’ he introduced himself, ‘Lancashire Constabulary Force Major Investigation Team. And I want to speak to Jonny Cain.’

  ‘No Jonny Cain here,’ Bispham said defiantly.

  ‘In that case, I’ll speak to that man there.’ Henry pointed to Cain, whose attention had returned to his food, but was also keeping an eye on the interaction as he chewed on a thick steak. Cain sat back, wiped his mouth with a napkin. His jerked his head at Bispham, who retreated a half-step, scowling at Henry.

  ‘I like hurting cops,’ he hissed.

  ‘I like arresting shit-bags,’ Henry came back, unfazed, but realizing that in this situation, with no cavalry on the horizon, he would be in a very invidious position if things kicked off.

  ‘Stop the bollocks,’ Cain said irritably, ‘and check him.’

  ‘Pleasure . . . I want to see if you’re carrying.’

  Henry, dressed in his light trousers and a short-sleeved shirt, would have been hard pressed to secrete anything on him, but Bispham wanted to pat him down for concealed weapons. Henry said, ‘Don’t even thin
k of touching me again, Danny.’

  ‘Right now I’m thinking about beating the crap out of you.’

  ‘Just step aside,’ Henry said, holding his ground.

  ‘Henry? You got a problem here?’ an American voice came from the doorway. Karl Donaldson had put in an appearance, was standing a few paces behind him, with Alison and Ginny a little further behind.

  ‘Jeez,’ Bispham laughed contemptuously, ‘you brought your tame gorilla with you? What is this shite?’ He looked Donaldson up and down, sneering, then made a bad error by stepping up to him and calling him the most obscene word in the English language, a short, guttural insult.

  Donaldson moved so quickly that Bispham did not see anything coming, was just suddenly aware of a flash, then massive pain in his face, before he found himself on his backside on the carpet. He sat there for a moment, trying to figure out how he’d got there. Delicately he brought his fingertips up to his face, expecting to feel his nose – but it had been completely flattened by Donaldson’s huge iron fist. There was a rush through his brain and he fell backwards, unconscious, blood pouring out of his face.

  Henry had not quite been expecting it either, but went with the flow.

  Cain’s remaining two men, Napier and Riddick, pushed their chairs back, dropped their cutlery.

  ‘Guys, guys,’ Henry said placatingly, ‘you’d join him even before you got to your feet. Now shall we start again?’ he asked Cain.

  Cain gave a flat-handed calm-down gesture. ‘Get him cleaned up,’ he told Napier. The man screwed up his napkin and threw it angrily on to the plate, stood up and crossed to his colleague, who was groaning and trying to sit up.

  Henry walked to Cain’s table, spun a chair around and straddled it. Cain continued to eat his food. The steak looked excellent.

  ‘I know who you are,’ he said to Henry.

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Make it my business to know every cop who gets on my case. Everything. History, family, dislikes . . . weaknesses.’

  Henry bridled at the implicit threat. ‘In that case you’ll probably know my greatest weakness.’