Facing Justice (25 page)

Tom hesitated and Henry thought he was going to kick off on the subject of being ordered about in his own home. Henry prepared himself, but Tom backed down and sank slowly on to the settee, his face telling the story of his unhappiness with the situation. Henry gave him a curt nod, left the room and followed Flynn into the office.

‘I thought you'd want to see this,' Flynn whispered. He had the crumpled, but flattened message on the desk next to the message pad binder. Henry looked, but his mind wasn't completely on what Flynn was showing him. The two men were standing side by side at the desk, two big men, but Flynn had the upper hand in terms of height, breadth, fitness, age and sun tan.

Almost without moving his lips, Henry said, ‘He tells me you and Cathy were lovers.' His eyes moved sideways, like an Action Man figure, checking Flynn's reaction. ‘Something you failed to mention . . . Oh, what a tangled web,' he added cynically.

Flynn's nostrils dilated and he coloured, his tan glowing extra red. ‘If you call a one night stand twenty-odd years ago at training school being lovers, and nothing since, just a distant friendship.' His face tilted a few degrees, eyes searching the detective's face.

‘Seems she didn't think the same.'

Flynn swallowed, clearly shocked. ‘BS. He's throwing you a line – and you know it.'

‘Bullshit you didn't care to share with me.'

‘As I recall, we were rudely interrupted by chummy here.' Flynn pointed to Callard. ‘Just as I was about to reveal everything. And it's not as if you needed to know.'

‘Oh, I think I did. Puts a whole different complexion on things, don't you think?'

‘She called me for help, as a friend – yesterday, when I was in Gran Canaria. I came, found her dead – who the hell do you believe? Me or him?'

Henry could not find it within him to respond instantly – a pause, a beat that told its own story, which made Flynn tut and roll his eyes with frustration. His history with Flynn and all the controversy surrounding his departure from the police had clearly soured him towards the man. He knew it, fought it, but could not hide the surfacing prejudice. ‘Put it this way,' he conceded, ‘I haven't told him she's dead yet.'

Flynn exhaled with relief. ‘You've been playing him.'

‘Oh yeah . . . So, what am I supposed to be looking at here?'

Pulling himself together, Flynn explained. ‘This is the message about the poacher, dated yesterday, anonymous caller, timed fifteen thirty hours.'

‘Why is it so crumpled?'

‘You don't need to know.'

‘I probably do, but go on.'

‘It's in Tom's writing.'

‘And your point is?'

‘I've checked through the phone's memory and there is no record of anyone having called here at that time. Someone called earlier about straying animals, which is logged, but the only other calls received here are the unanswered ones I made. There's no record of a call where the number is withheld and this phone does record them. No one called here at three thirty, anonymous or otherwise, unless it's been deleted.'

‘Could have been a personal caller at the door,' Henry ventured.

‘Or made up.'

As they were talking, the phone rang and Henry picked it up. ‘Yes, this is he . . . Oh, hello . . . go on . . .' Henry listened carefully, then said thank you and hung up.

‘As I was saying . . . I think this is a lie, made up by Tom for some reason. He sent her out to get killed, or something,' Flynn concluded hazily. ‘It doesn't add up, anyway.'

Henry nodded, trying to take in what Flynn was trying to say, and the content of the phone call just received.

‘That was Alison on the phone,' he said quietly. ‘She's been talking to Ginny, her stepdaughter . . . Apparently Ginny saw Cathy drive past the pub yesterday, just after five o'clock. In the Shogun . . . only she wasn't alone, Tom was with her. Thing is, she also saw Tom walk back about an hour later, alone . . . he told me she went out alone to the poacher.'

The two men digested the words, then slowly turned to a noise at the office door.

Tom James stood there, a tired, desperate-looking individual. But in his hands he held the sawn-off shotgun, the one that had been taken from Callard and which Flynn had left unattended in the kitchen. He raised the weapon to gut height and aimed it loosely at a point somewhere between the two men. His finger hovered over the double trigger.

‘Guys, you're too smart for your own good and I really don't have time for this.'

SEVENTEEN

H
e rocked the weapon. ‘Move back to the wall. Go on, or I'll blast you both.'

They hesitated, the initial shock on their faces now morphed into disbelief.

Henry, his mouth suddenly dry with fear, said, ‘Tom—'

‘Don't speak,' Tom barked.

‘You don't have to do this,' Henry said.

‘I said, shut your face.'

‘I don't know what's going on,' Henry said, ‘but I'm ordering you to put the weapon down.' By his own admission, Henry's voice was shaky and nervous, but he tried to sound authoritative, hoping for once in his life he could pull rank.

Tom laughed harshly. ‘Just get back to the wall,' he said calmly and gestured with the gun, making them realize that if it was discharged in this small area, both would be seriously injured if they were standing close to each other. Effectively they would form one big target.

Henry nodded. ‘Do as he says.' He touched Flynn and pushed him gently backwards and slightly away. His thought was that if there was some distance between them there would be more chance of survival and maybe the possibility of overpowering Tom. The latter option, though, was not Henry's favourite. Flynn picked up on Henry's chain of thought, taking a pace backwards and outwards away from Henry.

‘Stop,' Tom said. ‘Keep together, backwards, side by side, nice 'n' slow, then face the wall. If you go one foot apart from each other, I'll kill you. Simple.'

They backed off carefully.

‘You know the gun's not loaded, don't you?' Flynn said.

Tom gave him a pitying look, then said, ‘You screwed my wife.'

‘She wasn't your wife. Not then, not even close.'

‘But she rubbed it in my face. Hey – you stopped moving. Keep going, right back to the wall.'

‘What's going on, Tom? Is that what this is all about? Whatever it is, I can help you.'

‘Which cop drama did you get that line from?'

‘It's true. Whatever's happening, I can help.'

‘Henry – I very much doubt it.' Their backs were up to the wall now. Next to the radiator to which Callard was affixed. ‘Turn round, noses to the wall.'

Both men rotated slowly, the shotgun trained on them. Tom had moved with them, keeping the same distance away from them, just out of arms' length, enough of a gap for him to react if either should be foolish enough to make a heroic lunge. As they turned inward, their eyes met.

Henry's lips were an inch from the wallpaper and when he next spoke, his voice was muffled. ‘Are you going to shoot us in cold blood?'

‘The only way.'

‘Just like you did Cathy?' Flynn blurted.

Tom was directly behind them now. In a furious response he jammed the double muzzle of the shotgun into the back of Flynn's neck, screwing the roughly sawn ends into his flesh. He pushed hard and banged Flynn's mouth against the wall, knocking the inside of his lips against his teeth. Flynn screwed his eyes tight shut, tasting the blood, and imagining his throat being blown out. Tom leaned into him, mouth close to Flynn's ear, breath hot on it. ‘Yeah – just like that.'

‘What did she find out about you?' Flynn asked.

‘Too much, too much.'

‘You'll never pull this off,' Henry said, squinting sideways.

Tom backed away a few inches, the gun coming out of Flynn's neck. ‘Oh, I will. Thing is, you guys turned up too soon, before I could get everything tickety-boo, so I need to wing it now. And as you know, Henry, the beauty of being first detective on the scene is that you can do anything you want. Mr Callard here, such a bad man, gets out of his makeshift cuffs, finds the weapon and blasts the brave detectives who arrested him, but then kills himself in drunken self-loathing. Take a bit of doing, but it won't be a problem. As regards Cathy,' he shrugged, ‘Mr Callard here is a known poacher, so I'll pin that on him, too. Always planned to anyway. Him being dead will make that easy, too. Just another reason for him to take his own life, which was going down the shitter anyway.'

Henry tried to peer round at him. ‘Not a chance in hell, Tom – any detective worth his salt will see through that in a flash. It'll all get too complicated. Your lies will screw you – as they already have done.'

‘Nah – cops're thick.'

‘We'll see.'

Tom raised the weapon up to the side of Henry's face. Henry ground his teeth together and closed his eyes, but Tom swung the gun away in a short, flat arc and pointed it at Flynn.

‘For screwing my wife . . .'

Flynn gasped in terror as Tom's fingertip curled on to the trigger.

But then from his position on the floor, Callard kicked out and smashed the steel toecap on his right foot hard into Tom's shin, causing him to scream out in agony, twist around and discharge a single barrel upwards, tearing a huge hole in the ceiling above the men.

Flynn spun, as did Henry, as a cloud of white plasterboard poured over them.

Tom staggered backwards, but wasn't going to be put off his chosen course of action because of a kick on the leg. He tried to bring the shotgun down, but Flynn launched himself low and hard. Flynn was extremely fit and fast and he moved quicker than Tom could have anticipated, but he still clicked his finger back on the second trigger, firing the second barrel at a slight upward angle.

Henry jolted back with a scream, clutching his upper chest and left shoulder.

Flynn ignored this and powered into Tom, who hacked down at Flynn's unprotected head, catching him a glancing blow off the side of his head and cutting his ear. It knocked Flynn off track, and he smashed into the desk awkwardly.

Tom shrieked something incomprehensible, hurled the gun across the room, ran out of the office, slamming the door behind him, down the hallway to the kitchen.

Flynn came up into a one-kneed starting position and looked worriedly over at Henry.

Pale and wounded, Henry had crashed against the wall and slithered down, sitting there dumbly, his right hand holding his left shoulder. Blood oozed through his fingers.

‘Shit,' Flynn uttered and scrambled over on all fours to Henry, whose terrified eyes played over Flynn's face.

‘Just get him,' he said to Flynn. ‘Don't let him get away, whatever happens.'

‘You sure?'

‘What're you going to do – operate on me? Go!'

Flynn gave a short nod, glanced at Callard who, still drunk and glassy-eyed, was sitting up, a look of horror on his face. Flynn got up and ran to the door.

The pain in Henry's shoulder was incredible. It was like a dozen blunt needles had been hammered deep into his flesh. He took a long steadying breath and began to unbutton his shirt.

Flynn opened the office door cautiously, stepped into the hallway, paused, listened. He kept to the wall, using the staircase as part cover, and edged towards the kitchen, moved across the last gap and flattened himself against the wall next to the door frame. He reached for the handle, turned it slowly and opened the door a crack, trying to remember the layout of the room.

Pretty standard. A work surface immediately to the left of the door, on which he'd foolishly left the shotgun. Then ninety degrees to the sink and draining board, a gap where the back door was, another ninety degrees to another work surface, with cupboards along the walls, the door to the garage, cooker, and a huge fridge-freezer.

So – open the door and diagonally opposite, basically, was the back door.

Flynn felt something around his legs and his heart leapt. Roger, the German shepherd, had nudged him with his forehead. The old dog looked up kind of sadly.

‘I think you're going to be an orphan,' Flynn said and patted him.

But then the dog did what Flynn was hesitating to do – simply barged through the door into the kitchen.

Tom fired from the back door, two bullets smashing through the door panel by Flynn's head. Flynn leapt backwards, slamming the damaged door. Another door closed and he knew Tom had gone outside.

Roger sat at the back door on his haunches, big tail wafting back and forth like a feather duster. Flynn glanced through the door to check that Tom had definitely gone, then ran back into the office to find Henry still propped up by the wall, his shirt unfastened to reveal the nasty-looking wound. He was touching it gingerly with dithering fingers as if it wasn't real.

He looked up at Flynn, ashen, shaking. ‘I hope you've caught the bastard.'

‘Done a runner out back. Got another gun, a pistol of some sort I think.'

‘He seems pretty well armed.'

Callard, propped up on one arm, said, ‘He is.'

‘Is what?' Henry said.

‘Well armed. That shotgun's his. He gave it to me. They made me go and try to kill Cain.'

‘Ahh,' Henry gasped as his finger touched the injury.

Flynn squatted down by him. ‘Phew – lucky.'

‘This is lucky?'

‘Two inches to the right and I'd be taking you to the butcher's.'

‘Cheers . . . look, I think you need to find him . . . no, no, zap that. You don't have to put yourself in any more danger. Let him go and let's hope he goes to ground and not on a shooting spree. We'll get back-up tomorrow, whatever the weather.'

‘I have a horrible feeling he'll be back.'

‘Do you think you could get Alison back up here?'