by Nick Oldham
‘Thank you.’ She turned away and closed her eyes.
Henry gripped the steering wheel tightly and concentrated on getting them both home.
TWENTY-THREE
Six months later.
Henry was sitting in what he thought was probably his most favourite place in the world, with his most favourite view. The front of the Tawny Owl with its vista over the village green, the stream and up to the woods beyond. In fact he realized he had spent so much time there either in the morning with his breakfast brew or in the evening with a whisky, he had decided to have a section turned over to decking and make it a proper area in which his customers could also sit.
It was now almost perfect.
He was sitting on one of the new garden chairs with his legs crossed, looking at the accounts for the pub. He was no great mathematician, but they were looking pretty good to his untrained eye.
It was seven thirty a.m. and he was sipping a coffee he had just brewed himself. It tasted wonderful in the cool spring morning.
He heard footsteps behind, looked and saw Ginny coming towards him with bacon on brown toast. He grinned. She was looking good, had recovered from her ordeal amazingly well and got on with her life. His only regret was that she had missed Alison’s funeral, but the two of them had made up for that by scattering her ashes on the village green and sponsoring a bench which bore her name, and always remembering her.
‘Here we are.’ She swooped the sandwich with a flourish on the table next to Henry and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
‘Thanks, sweetie,’ he said. ‘What’s it like in there?’
‘Four up already for brekkie. Two on the way.’
‘OK. I’ll be in shortly.’
She touched his cheek, then went back inside.
As he bit into the bacon butty Jake Niven pulled up in his Land Rover. Jake got out, as did Anna, who bade Henry good morning and went into the Owl to start work. Jake sat beside Henry and placed a briefcase on the table. It looked battered and weather-worn.
‘Thought you might like to see this,’ Jake said. ‘But only if I get a free brew first.’
Henry thumbed him to go in and get one. He came back a minute or two later and sat down.
‘Looking good around here now … nice decking,’ he said appreciatively.
‘Thank you. Now, what’s that?’
‘It’s a briefcase.’
Henry waited.
‘It was found by a gamekeeper on the moors, maybe a mile from where a certain light plane crashed, killing the occupant.’
Henry did not allow his expression to change.
‘He handed it in last night. Found it jammed in a split between some rocks, really well hidden. Only saw it because he was standing on the outcrop for a view of a sparrow hawk or something. Otherwise, he’d never have seen it. He says he hasn’t opened it, and I believe him. Looks like it hasn’t been opened for, what, six months, I’d say but it does look like it’s been protected from most of the bad weather, though.’
‘Jake, open the fucker,’ he said, desperate to look inside.
The PC produced a flat-bladed screwdriver from his pocket and began to prise it open, saying, ‘I’ve already had a go at the combinations, but they’re all rusted up to buggery, so it’s down to a bit of elbow grease.’
He got the screwdriver under one of the locks and slowly broke it off, did the same to the other, then looked at Henry.
‘I’ll let you open it,’ he said, and spun the briefcase towards Henry, who grabbed it, then slowly thumbed it open, recalling Jenkins’ denial about the briefcase. Maybe he had been telling the truth. Maybe they didn’t have it, maybe it wasn’t in the plane, maybe this was it.
Henry opened it and suddenly his arsehole slammed tight shut. He looked slowly at Jake and said, ‘OMG, Jake my boy, OMFG, looks like our Prime Minister’s in a whole lot of doo-doo.’