by Nick Oldham
‘Negative,’ Kirsten whispered.
‘He’s walking back towards us,’ Rik warned.
The figure walked past the van towards Rik’s car, then stopped outside the block of flats and looked up at them. Oxford’s flat was at the back of the building.
Inside the van, the three officers were silent and unmoving, hidden from view by a panel that divided the driving cab from the rear compartment where they sat. They could see the rider through a blacked-out window and slats cut into the side of the van.
The rider had not taken his full-face helmet off and so could not be identified.
‘Shit,’ Rik said.
‘What?’ Henry demanded, frustrated because he could see absolutely nothing.
‘He’s now walking very slowly past the van … Jeez!’
Rik’s latest blasphemy was because the rider had stopped at the van and was trying the driver’s door.
It was locked.
‘What?’ Henry demanded again.
‘Just tried the van door,’ Rik said. ‘Now he’s walking back to the bike.’
Rik writhed to get a better view and watched him run the bike off its stand, mount it, start it, engage gear and roll slowly forwards.
‘Looks like he’s going,’ Rik said.
The bike accelerated away, then spun around in the road and roared back towards the officers in the vehicles, stopping alongside the surveillance van.
‘He’s stopped by the van again,’ Rik said, then screamed, ‘you guys get down – he’s got a gun!’
The motorcyclist had reached under his leather jacket, and even from where Rik sat, he could see the unmistakable shape of a handgun in the biker’s right hand – which he pointed at the side of the van.
Rik saw muzzle flashes, heard the sound of the gun being fired as the figure pumped three shots into the side of the van. He tucked the gun away, revved the bike wildly and, with a spectacular, contemptuous wheelie, roared away into the night.
EIGHT
Henry arrived back at the Tawny Owl just as Alison was gently ejecting the last stragglers from the bar and was about to lock the front doors. He hurled his extremely battered Audi coupé in to the car park, just missing one of the regulars who staggered cheerfully away, none the wiser about his brush with death. He trotted up the front steps where Alison waited, arms folded.
‘I’m amazed,’ she said.
‘By what?’
‘That you actually came home. You’ve been on the go, like, forever,’ she accused him, but behind the words was some degree of admiration.
‘Things kinda got going, and when it happens you’ve got to stay on board … It’s a bit like surfing,’ he said, giving the impression that he was actually doing just that. ‘When a big one comes, you gotta ride it or drown.’ He ducked under an imaginary wave.
Her expression turned cynical. ‘Bollocks – now come in,’ she said and jerked her head towards the bar, making Henry wonder where the rolling pin was hidden.
‘Not before you give me a hug.’
She sighed despairingly, then opened her arms and sank tenderly against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled her neck, inhaling her sweet smell, which, even after working almost as many hours as he had, still lingered tantalizingly.
When they broke apart she said, ‘I’ve saved a portion of chicken and mushroom pie and some new potatoes, just in case.’
‘Famished – and hungry too,’ he admitted, grinning, so happy to be home.
‘The embers are still putting out some heat in the bar … Could I serve “sir” his food and drink in there? Then “sir” can tell me about his day?’
‘Be rude to refuse,’ Henry said, bowing gallantly.
The sex was wild and mad as Jake and Kirsten writhed, thrust and intertwined on her king-sized bed. Jake had never experienced her so desperate – desperate being the only word he could think of to describe how things had been from the moment he had arrived at her flat, just a few minutes after her.
But he knew what was driving her and understood.
She had been as close to death as she could have been when the helmeted biker pumped three rounds into the side of the observation van then raced away. It had been little short of a miracle that not one of the three officers inside had even been hit, let alone killed or seriously wounded, and that was only due to Rik Dean’s screeched warning over the radio for them to get down.
If there was one thing a firearms officer did when bullets were flying, it was to react instantly to any instruction that would save their life. All three had crashed on to the floor of the van as three holes appeared in the side at a level where, if they had remained in position, at least one of them would have been shot in the chest. As it was, each bullet entered one side and exited through the opposite.
In the aftermath of the moment, all three had been dithering wrecks, and Kirsten had vomited her fear by the side of the road. She could not wait to get off duty, unable to think about anything else other than getting safe.
Jake had followed her from headquarters, and after he’d found a discreet parking spot he’d entered her flat to find her tipping her second large scotch down her throat, which was immediately retched into the sink.
It was at that point, as she wiped her mouth dry with the back of her hand, Jake had snaked his arms around her and turned her to him, aware that her slim frame was shaking.
‘I was so scared,’ she admitted.
‘I know, I know,’ he cooed.
The whole thing between them became primal, and they devoured each other until, not many minutes later, they were lying spent and exhausted, panting for breath, their chests rising and falling.
It was no time to be eating, really, but Henry was dithery and ravenous and needed the energy boost provided by the beautiful pie and a pint of Stella Artois lager, all of which he consumed with gusto at one of the beaten-copper-topped tables in the deserted main bar in front of the dying embers of what had been a roaring fire. The heat still radiated from the hearth, and Henry thought there was nothing to compete with an open fire when it came to warming a human being, body and soul. Something primeval and comforting about it.
When the food was gone he sat back and smiled contentedly at Alison as a little wave of euphoria seeped through him, though its march was halted slightly by the look on her face. ‘What?’ he asked guiltily.
‘Have you done it yet?’
It was the question she asked him on a daily basis.
When Robert Fanshaw-Bayley had died on that terrible night, Henry had made certain promises to Alison concerning leaving the police and cementing their relationship with a wedding ring – or at least a date on which one would be slipped on to the appropriate finger.
Henry drew a deep breath – because they were promises he had yet to keep.
Before he could say anything, Alison said, ‘You promised there would be no more nights like this … ridiculous hours of work, a complete lack of communication with me. I didn’t know if you were coming home or not … Ah! Ah! Ah!’ She waved a rebuking finger at him before he could cut in and defend himself. Then she sighed. ‘I’m not having it, Henry. I’m not one to lay down the law, but you’ve got to stop this, get out of this horrendous cycle, for both our sakes … I want a life with you.’
‘I know,’ he admitted.
‘Does it really matter whether you’re in the job or not when Charlie Wilder comes to court? I mean, really? The case has even been taken from you. And as much as you’re in charge of the investigation into the disappearance of that policewoman, surely to God someone else can take it on? And the lad who was shot in Blackpool? You can’t let anything go, can you? There will always be something else that comes along, some other excuse to cling on to … Let it go.’
‘I’m shit at that, but I do know something: you are someone I will not let go.’ He saw her face begin to tremble. ‘I know that if I keep this up we’ll be torn apart, and that is not going to happen because I love you more than
– warning, corny line on the horizon – words can say.’ He paused. ‘As it happens I have arrested the person who killed the young lad … It just threw up some other things I needed to follow up. It happens,’ he said, shrugging.
‘OK,’ she said, relenting.
‘My eye has caught sight of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s behind the bar,’ he said cheekily. ‘If I pay for it in kind, how about a nightcap, miss?’
Eventually, Kirsten fell asleep. Jake’s arm was trapped underneath her shoulders, and he had to extract it carefully if he was not to wake her up. Jake sat on the edge of the bed for a few moments, before getting dressed and letting himself out of the flat.
Outside he stood on the path, listening intently, his eyes also roving the street to see if he was being watched. He felt as though he was, but he knew he was being paranoid and that Dave Morton – his ex-friend – would be at home now, probably deep into a bottle of whisky, because he had been just as shaken as anyone by the shooting. Surely, the last thing on his mind would be to follow Jake to Kirsten’s flat again?
The drive home through the deserted streets was tense for Jake, his heart pounding against his sternum. He turned into his avenue in Bispham and killed the car headlights for the last fifty metres before stopping outside his dark house. He let himself in as quietly as he could, knowing each creak of the door – the way it closed, the sound it made – and then he was in the hallway, standing erect, still, listening.
The kids would be in bed, sleeping soundly.
It wasn’t them he was worried about.
He slid off his work boots, then climbed the stairs softly, again knowing which ones creaked, where to put his feet to avoid this. When he reached the landing, he paused again, knowing he needed a shower to swill off the day and the musty aroma of the sex he’d just had. He berated himself mentally for not showering at Kirsten’s. He had considered it, but had not wanted to wake her either, just as much as he did not want to wake Anna.
Shit.
He knew he could not slide into bed alongside his wife without rousing her, without the light going on.
His face tightened as he thought it through, and he decided to go back downstairs and crash on the settee. When morning came, he’d claim he had not wanted to disturb her.
He turned just as the bedroom door opened, and Anna stood there in her nightie, pain fixed on her face. Her hair was messed up. Not long ago Jake would have found this look as sexy as hell. Now, to him, she just looked a state.
‘Anna.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘On a job. It got out of hand … shots fired, but no one hurt,’ he explained thinly. ‘Mopping up, you know.’
‘OK … are you coming to bed?’
‘Yeah, yeah … Look, you go back, tuck in … I just need a drink to steady my nerves.’
She nodded, her eyes darting all over him, searching him out. ‘I’ll go back then.’ She reversed into the bedroom and closed the door softly.
Jake exhaled before going down to find a bottle of whisky.
Alison and Henry’s love-making was long and slow, no rush until the last moments as they came together. Alison held Henry’s face gently between the palms of her hands, their eyes interlocked as the sensation grew and became almost unbearable, until finally Alison ground herself deeply on to him. They both came in a juddering orgasm that, at the end, had them both giggling when Henry rolled off her, and they lay side-by-side facing the ceiling, catching their breaths.
‘That was nice, thanks,’ Alison said.
‘Yeah, not bad … Life in the old goat yet.’ She punched him gently, and he responded, ‘Me being the old goat, that is.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, pulled up the duvet and within moments was asleep.
Henry was exhausted, and it was only moments later that he, too, was asleep.
The black dream came quickly. Blindness, a flood, a drowning sensation, mud. Being trapped deep underground, lost, the torchlight flickering. Henry ran against the rising water, panic and terror setting in as the level reached his waist. Then the voice next to him, mocking him, telling him he was useless. He flashed the dithering torch into the face of that man, only to see the whole side of his face had been blown away, that his shoulder, too, had been torn off … Next, Henry was free and stomping on another man’s head, trying to kill him.
Henry jerked upright with a muted scream, then caught his head in his hands, rocking forwards, gasping for air.
‘Henry?’ He had woken Alison. She sat up, slid her arms around him. ‘Not again?’ she asked anxiously.
He exhaled, trying to calm himself down. ‘Yes.’
‘Same one?’
‘Same.’
She held him tight, and he lay back in her arms. ‘It wasn’t your fault he died,’ she said.
‘I know … I know all that … I just can’t somehow bring myself to believe it isn’t. It’s like I led him on some idiotic, gung-ho mission into a lion’s den.’
‘You were not to know what was going to happen.’
He blinked. A tear formed at the edge of his eye. He wiped it furiously away. ‘Fuck!’
‘Let it go, Henry.’
‘Believe me, I’m trying.’ He uttered a harsh, snorting laugh.
‘What about seeing a counsellor?’ Alison suggested tentatively.
He responded with another snort. ‘Been there, done that … It’s like wading through treacle, all that mother-related shite.’
‘Think about it, though,’ she persisted. ‘A good one is worth gold … I’ve been there too.’
Henry looked at her in the half-light, knowing what she had been through. The loss of her soldier husband, stoned to death by Taliban supporters in an Afghan village. ‘Yeah, I know.’ He folded himself around her, held her, two people trying to make a future and shake off the past.
‘By the way,’ she whispered, ‘you didn’t answer my question.’
‘No, I didn’t.’ He snuggled in, feeling the soft contours of her body compressed against his.
‘So?’
‘I signed it and put it in the correspondence tray before I left work earlier. My “Intention to Retire” report has gone in … In just over a month’s time I’ll be a pensioner.’
Henry physically felt a change come over Alison. Without warning, she flipped him on to his back and straddled him. ‘That calls for a celebration,’ she said, reached down and slid him inside her before rearing up in a magnificent display and beginning to move to coax him back to life.
‘Jeepers,’ he responded, ‘I should retire more often.’
NINE
Henry could have slept forever, but did not get chance because daily life at the Tawny Owl began just before six a.m. in order to prepare for business. There were six guests in overnight, all wanting cooked breakfasts, and some local residents had also taken to calling in for a Full English too. So whilst he could have lounged in the nice, comfortable bed, he was grateful really that Alison got up so noisily.
He knew it would be another hectic day for himself, too, particularly in the aftermath of the drive-by shooting, which Henry was playing down as far as the media was concerned. In other words – lying. The official line would be that an unknown gunman had fired three random shots into a parked van, reason unknown. With the agreement of the three cops on board, Henry would not reveal that the van was being used for police surveillance and three constables had almost died. At least, not for the moment. He knew he had to play his cards close to his chest whilst deciding what his approach would be regarding Fraser Worthington – and that was only assuming the biker was him. Despite the circumstantial evidence, there was nothing to prove it was.
After a long, hot shower – one of the perks of country hotel living: the water was ceaselessly boiling – Henry shaved carefully, making sure his razor did not accidentally slice over any of his facial injuries. He dressed and made his way to the kitchen to find Alison already at work, on the phone to her vegetable wholesaler, whilst at the sa
me time mouthing instructions to the sous chef who came in for the breakfast run.
Another perk of hotel living was having the option of the full breakfast, but he tried not to make too much of a habit of this and had a crispy bacon bap instead … with a fried egg, obviously.
Clutching this and a mug of freshly brewed coffee, Henry made his way through the pub and out of the front door, where he inhaled the morning which had yet to dawn properly. A mist hung over the village green and woodland opposite, and occasionally Henry had been fortunate enough to spot a red deer sneaking through the village.
Not this morning.
He walked down the front steps and looked at his car. It had been attacked by a ferocious gang, wielding baseball bats, on the same night FB had died, and Henry had still not been inclined to get it repaired, mess though it was. This was another remnant from that awful night, and he knew he had to get it sorted.
As he inspected the car he heard a lorry approaching from the village. He looked up and saw the shape of a big, square animal transporter chugging unhealthily towards him along the main road, appearing through the apron of mist like a bull elephant. Henry stood back and watched it as he sipped his coffee.
As it came level with him he saw the livery declared the vehicle belonged to Bartle’s, and the stock trailer being pulled by the articulated unit was filled with what seemed like hundreds of fully grown pigs, their fat pink snouts pressed between the gaps in the slats in the side of the trailer, grunting and squealing irately.
The driver’s face turned to Henry, then jerked away, and the vehicle was gone up the hill and out of the village towards Thornwell.
Henry folded the last portion of his bacon bap into his mouth and washed it down with the coffee, whilst his nostrils flared thoughtfully.
‘Hi, sweetheart.’
Alison had appeared behind him. He turned, still thinking, and said, ‘Bartle’s Animal Transporters, Spencer Bartle at the wheel.’