Facing Justice

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Have you checked the fuse box?’ She pointed to a rectangular box on the wall by the back door with a pull-up lid. Flynn had glanced at it, recognized it for what it was, but thought no more. The box was maybe eighteen inches long, a foot high and protruded about four inches from the wall.

  Unimpressed, he lifted the lid, the hinges on the top so it opened upwards, and yes, there was the fuse panel. ‘Too small,’ he said, and added, ‘but your theory isn’t a bad one.’ He shot Alison a look, as something caught his eye at ground level – the bottom panel of a cabinet that abutted the skirting board at right angles. It was slightly misaligned with the next panel along. Flynn tapped one end of the panel with his toe and it moved. He bent low and dug his fingertips into the end of the panel and pulled. It scraped out and revealed a cavity underneath the base of the cabinet and the floor.

  ‘Henry, you brilliant bastard,’ he said begrudgingly. He dropped even lower, to mouse eyeline, stared into the darkness, gave a short laugh and reached inside.

  Henry tossed a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt at Tom. He had found them in a wardrobe.

  ‘Not exactly a zoot suit, eh?’ Tom smirked, turning his back to Henry, bending down and pulling up the pants. He was referring to the forensic paper suits given to prisoners when their own clothing had been taken for scientific analysis.

  ‘It’ll do. I imagine you were wearing something different when you killed Cathy.’

  Tom turned slowly, putting his arms in the T-shirt. ‘Is this an interview? Is that an allegation? I don’t see my brief present, do you, Detective Superintendent? In fact, I don’t see much in the way of any police procedure so far, do you?’ He sounded cocky and self-assured.

  ‘Things will work out for the best, you mark my words,’ Henry smiled.

  Outside, a large lorry went past the house, one of the few vehicles that had driven past. Tom turned and watched it, then looked back at Henry and slitted his eyes. ‘Best hope you don’t nod off tonight, eh?’ he taunted.

  Henry held up a cable tie. ‘Time to fasten up.’

  Tom approached Henry with arms outstretched, inner wrists touching. ‘Something else not quite right, eh?’

  ‘The handcuffs?’ Henry looped the plastic around the wrists and crimped them up. ‘Violent and unpredictable prisoners get them.’

  Tom simply raised his eyebrows. ‘Not too tight. You wouldn’t want me to lodge a formal complaint about excessive force, would you?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ Henry said. And with each passing second and each interaction, Henry was more and more convinced that Tom James was a corrupt and dangerous individual. He gave a flick of the thumb and Tom went out of the room ahead of him. A sudden shock of pain in Henry’s shoulder made him scrunch up his face.

  Flynn withdrew his hand, his fingers wrapped around the barrel of a Skorpion machine pistol, black, ugly, dangerous looking, a twenty-round curved magazine slotted in it. He placed it carefully on the kitchen floor and slid his hand back inside the secret compartment.

  ‘If there’s any spiders in here, I’ll scream.’

  ‘You’ve already found a scorpion,’ Alison said.

  ‘You know your guns,’ he said.

  ‘Afghanistan does that to a girl.’

  Next he withdrew a semi-automatic pistol, indeterminate make and origin, but probably Chinese, Flynn guessed. He placed this next to the Skorpion and went searching again, pulling out a box containing shotgun cartridges of the exact type used in the sawn-off shotgun taken first from Callard and then from Tom. The next handful was a medium-sized plastic food bag stuffed with 9mm calibre rounds of ammunition. Another foray produced a tight roll of twenty-pound Bank of England notes, causing him to give a whistle of appreciation. The last find was a bag of white powder, about as big as a kid’s pencil case.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said, pushing himself on to his knees and smiling at Alison’s astonished face. ‘Welcome to the land of the corrupt cop.’

  Tom reached the bottom of the steps ahead of Henry. Flynn stood in the hallway by the kitchen door and he and Tom exchanged venomous looks. Henry came down the last step and pushed Tom gently ahead of him towards the office door.

  ‘Do you want to see what I’ve found?’ Flynn asked Henry.

  ‘Is it interesting?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Does he need to see it?’ Henry nodded at Tom.

  ‘You probably need to see his reaction.’

  Tom said, ‘What’s this, another set-up by my wife’s lover?’

  ‘Let’s look anyway,’ Henry said and gripped Tom’s elbow. He walked him along the hall to the kitchen. Flynn backed into the room, Alison already standing at the back door, then revealed all: the two weapons, the ammunition, the roll of cash, the white powder, all still on the floor next to the panel that plugged the hidey-hole underneath the cupboard.

  Henry took in the find, then looked at Tom. ‘Let me remind you, you’re under caution. Anything to say at this moment?’

  ‘Yeah – this is all bollocks and I’m being set up by this twat here.’

  ‘And I did it all from Gran Canaria,’ Flynn said.

  Henry said to Alison, ‘Can you back this up? Can you be a witness to what Steve found and how he found it?’ She nodded. Henry, who had not released Tom’s elbow, tightened the grip and pulled him back out of the room and steered him towards the office. They walked past the open living-room door in which the young woman with the missing boyfriend still sat, hunched up, looking wretched on the settee, Roger’s head still in her lap.

  Tom spotted her. She saw him at exactly the same moment. The expressions on both their faces changed dramatically. But then they passed and Henry edged Tom into the office, sat him down in a chair.

  ‘Some big questions coming your way, Tom,’ Henry warned him. He made no reply.

  ‘Sir, excuse me.’

  The young woman was now standing at the office door, a fearful look on her face, her eyes darting from Henry to Tom and back again.

  ‘I’m sorry, love,’ Henry said. ‘I had some things to do. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Sit down, just give me a few more minutes.’

  ‘No – you don’t understand. Him!’ Her forefinger pointed accusingly at Tom. ‘It’s him . . . he’s one of them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My boyfriend,’ she blabbed, trying to find her words, but everything in her mind was obviously jumbled.

  ‘You need to think very carefully about what you’re going to say, darlin’,’ Tom said. There was more than an undercurrent of menace in his voice, accompanied by a pointed, meaningful look.

  ‘Shut it,’ Henry growled. ‘This man’s your boyfriend?’ Henry asked.

  ‘No, no . . . last time I saw my boyfriend,’ she tried to explain, ‘he was with him, he was one of them . . .’

  ‘One of who?’

  ‘One of the ones that came for him, to take him away.’ She got a grip on herself and said clearly, ‘Last time I saw my boyfriend, he was with this man.’ She jabbed her finger at Tom again. ‘And I’ve never seen or heard from him since.’

  ‘And what’s your boyfriend called?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Massey,’ she said, her lips quivering, ‘Wayne Massey.’

  NINETEEN

  On the morning of his death Massey had woken up heavy-headed from the previous night’s excess. He had disturbed his girlfriend when he jumped quickly out of bed and teetered to the toilet, where he vomited noisily and copiously. After swilling out his mouth, he came back to bed, sat on the edge, head in hands, making soft moaning noises. He looked around at her when she reached across and touched his naked back with her fingertips.

  ‘You OK, babe?’

  ‘Yuh,’ he answered. They had been together a couple of months now, much to everyone’s surprise. Laura Binney was a quiet, reserved girl who had pretty much avoided the pitfalls that came with an upbringing on one of Lancaster’s most deprived council estates. She was not th
e most intellectual of girls but could see beyond the prospect of living on benefits, like her older sister Linda, or getting a dead-end job on a supermarket till. A streak of stubbornness inside her got her work in administration with the local council. It wasn’t the greatest job in the world, but there was the possibility of advancement and it provided enough money for her to rent a little flat on St George’s Quay by the River Lune. Cash was tight – only occasionally did she allow herself a blast night out with the girls – but strict budgeting ensured she survived.

  She had known Wayne Massey for a while. He had gone out with Linda, a short tempestuous relationship that ended acrimoniously when she accused him, justly, of stealing cash from her.

  From the sidelines, Laura secretly fancied him. He was a known drug dealer in the city, a hard man, even though he was only twenty-three, and he possessed a mysterious, dangerous aura that fascinated Laura, even though it went against her sense of sanity.

  It was on a girlie night out with Linda and others that she bumped into Massey in a club where, it was rumoured, he controlled the drug trade.

  He had a stand-up squabble with Linda over their failed relationship and she flounced off, carrying her high heels. But Massey caught Laura’s eye and the bottle of champagne he sent over fuelled a feeling of naughtiness. She had just broken up with her own feckless boyfriend and was on the lookout for a physical encounter just for the hell of it.

  The champers got them chatting. And at three that morning they were fucking like there was no tomorrow in her flat by the river. It was the beginning of an intense relationship for Laura, who found herself inexplicably obsessed by Massey and the way he threw himself around the city like he owned it. Pretty soon she thought she was in love, as he seemed to offer excitement she had never before experienced.

  Despite a stark warning from Linda – ‘He’s a dangerous, unpredictable fuckwit and knocks about with dangerous people and he’ll screw every penny out of you’ – Laura was certain that once she got her hooks into him, she could change and mould him.

  When Massey disappeared for a couple of days once without contacting her, she became worried, but he returned haggard-looking on the doorstep. He refused to tell her where he’d been, but did promise her he had not cheated on her, all she needed to hear. He screwed her dispassionately that day, a cold, clinical fuck, and just once she caught him looking at her in a way she did not quite understand. But it was only a fleeting glance, a moment of uncertainty, before they climaxed together.

  Post coitus, she lay tucked into him, her head on his chest, her hand holding him gently, willing him to become hard again.

  ‘Babe?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘Yeah, look, I need to borrow some money. I hope that’s OK.’

  ‘From me? I don’t have anything.’

  He chortled. ‘I need a few grand to tide me over.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just a bit overstretched.’ It was a complete understatement.

  ‘I haven’t got that sort of money. You know that.’

  He took her hand from him and pushed her away as he sat up. He took hold of her chin in the V of his right hand, where his thumb and forefinger connected. ‘Don’t fucking lie.’

  She jerked herself away. ‘I’m not lying.’

  ‘Honey – some very bad men think I did the dirty on them, y’know, short changed them. If I don’t pay back, I’m going to suffer.’ She blinked. ‘And I know you’ve got money in a building society account.’

  ‘You’ve been through my things,’ she accused him.

  ‘Yeah – and you’ve got three big ones stashed away. I need it.’

  ‘Honey, it’s my money. I’ve been saving it for years.’

  ‘Do you want me to get my head kicked in?’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘Then trot down to the building society and draw it out.’ His voice softened. ‘I’ll pay you back, you know I will.’

  Laura was now sitting on the edge of the bed, her mind tortured, but knowing she would do as asked. She withdrew the money later and handed him the cash.

  ‘I need it back,’ she said.

  ‘Trust me,’ he said, reassuringly.

  The money was never mentioned and their love life returned to normal, until that morning three days ago. The day on which he would die.

  Massey had been out the previous night, without Laura, having returned very drunk to her flat at 3 a.m. He stumbled into bed and slept with his mouth agape, snoring horribly, ensuring that Laura got no sleep for the remaining hours in bed.

  When he returned to bed from vomiting, she had touched him and asked if he was OK. He had just uttered the words, ‘Yeah, yeah,’ when she heard the first crash at the door. A massive smashing sound that initially puzzled her. It was followed by another.

  Massey, however, seemed to know exactly what was happening. He screamed an obscenity, fell to his knees by the bed, forced his hand between the mattress and bedstead, frantically searching for something.

  In the short hallway there was another crash.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Laura demanded. By this time she was on her feet, wide eyed, terrified, the duvet clasped around her.

  ‘Where is it, where is it?’ he chuntered, his voice rising, his right hand still groping under the mattress.

  ‘What’s going on, what are you after?’

  Massey extracted a snub-nosed revolver from its hiding place, spun around with it as the bedroom door was kicked off its hinges and two men, followed by a third, burst into the room. The first pair were carrying baseball bats and as Massey swung the gun towards them, shouting something incomprehensible, they were on him. A bat smashed down on his wrist and the gun dropped from his fingers. The second man kicked it out of reach and the third stepped forward as Laura watched the spectacle, horrified.

  This man carried a semi-automatic pistol and as the first two men hauled the cowering Massey to his feet between them, the weapon was ground into Massey’s cheek, and the man’s face leered into Massey’s.

  ‘Time to face the music,’ said the man she later identified to Henry as Tom James.

  The story had been told falteringly, with certain parts omitted, to Henry Christie in the living room of Tom James’s house in the snowbound village of Kendleton in north Lancashire. Tom himself was handcuffed in the office across the hallway, watched by Steve Flynn, whilst Henry listened to the tale behind a closed door.

  ‘You’re sure it was Tom James? The guy in there?’

  She nodded. ‘I didn’t know his name, or who he was, but that is him. Yeah, he got Wayne to get dressed and then the other two men walked him out between them, and that’s the last I saw of him.’

  ‘Three days ago?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you contact the police?’

  Laura dropped her eyes. ‘I was too frightened. I knew this was a gangland thing.’

  Henry ruminated a moment. ‘What brought you here?’

  ‘I did make some enquiries,’ she said defiantly. ‘I asked questions of the people I’d seen Wayne with in the clubs. No one wanted to say much, really, but a guy eventually told me that Wayne was selling drugs for a guy called Jack Vincent. Then someone else told me the rumour was that Wayne had skimmed loads of money and drugs from a deal and that this Vincent guy was after his blood. He was in serious trouble. I think that’s why he borrowed from me, to pay Vincent back, so I can’t understand why Vincent kidnapped him. Surely he must have paid him with my money, otherwise . . .’ A dawn of realization crossed Laura’s young, innocent face. ‘Unless he blew it, and didn’t pay them off, otherwise why would they have . . .?’ she said. All Henry could think was, you poor deluded woman. Men like Wayne Massey have self-destruct buttons where money is concerned.

  Henry doubted two things. First that she would ever see her money again, that was long gone. Second that she would see Massey again.

  ‘I heard something else, too,’ she said meekly. Henry waited.
‘That Jack Vincent owns a leopard or mountain lion or something – and he feeds people to it.’

  Henry stared at her, his initial disbelief replaced by a shiver running down his spine as he recalled the ghostly shape behind the fencing on the hill and the effect it had on Roger, the German shepherd dog. He laughed it off. ‘Sounds rubbish that,’ he said, but his voice didn’t even convince himself.

  After a second urgent visit to the toilet, Donaldson curled up in Ginny’s comfortable bed, certain the worst was over, that his insides were completely evacuated. The pains had all but gone, a faint twinge now and then. His ankle continued to throb, but the elastic tube bandage that Alison had found for him held it firmly, yet gently.

  He tapped off the bedside light and snuggled into his favourite position, sleeping mode as he called it, on his right-hand side, left leg drawn up, right extending, hands palm to palm underneath his face.

  A few things whirled through his mind. The day’s terrible walk, Ken’s infected chicken, his wife and the baby growing in her tummy, the evening’s events and whether Henry was coping without him. But his meanderings circled back to his future child, sex still unknown. That was going to be a surprise for both of them. He started to drift off, working through lists of names.

  He came awake with a start at the sound of a click. His whole body tensed as he listened, his brow furrowing, certain he had heard something. The click, then a creak. Then a footstep – soft, but definitely a footstep. Donaldson held his breath. Someone, he was positive, had entered the bedroom. Ginny, he wondered. Forgotten something? Not wanting to disturb him?

  He was facing away from the door, so opening his eyes didn’t help.

  Another shuffle, then he was aware of a presence by the bed. He heard a rasping breath, then smelled cigarette smoke and body odour and he knew this was an intruder, someone who should not have been there.

  ‘Now then, you foxy bitch, I’m going to continue what I started,’ the voice croaked.

  Donaldson relaxed, a smile spreading across his face, and what little light there was in the room caught the mischievous twinkle in his eye.