Facing Justice (8 page)

Half an hour later he jumped awake, cursing. He dressed quickly, using the underwear he had brought along in the flight bag, keeping on the jeans and shirt he'd worn the day before. Then he called Cathy on her mobile. It went directly to answerphone, frustratingly, as did the landline number she had given him.

He stood by the kitchen window overlooking the compact, overgrown back garden, a mug of tea in his hand. His mouth crimped in thought. He looked down at his mobile phone, weighing it all up, then decided to make another call, just on the off chance. He tabbed through the contacts menu, found the name he was after, pressed the green dial button with his thumb and put the phone to his ear.

‘Can I help you?'

‘I take it you don't introduce yourself and your department for the sake of secrecy?' Flynn said.

‘As I said, can I help you?'

‘Jerry, my old cocker, how the hell've you been, matey?'

For a moment it was as if the line had gone dead. Then, ‘What the hell do you want?'

‘You sound cautious, maybe not even pleased to hear from me,' Flynn chuckled.

‘Last time I spoke to you, I ended up telling you things I shouldn't have. Got me in the shit with my boss,' DC Jerry Tope whined.

‘Ahh, Henry Christie? How is the twat?'

There was another pause. ‘What do you want, Steve?'

‘First of all, for you not to worry. What I need to know won't compromise you this time.' Flynn smiled to himself. ‘Unless of course you don't tell me, in which case I'll have to make a very delicate phone call . . . if you get my drift? How is the lovely Marina, by the way?'

‘Flynn, you're the twat.'

Flynn cackled wickedly. He had known Jerry Tope for a very long time and they had been good friends when Flynn had been a cop in Lancashire Constabulary. So good that Flynn had done Tope a great favour once, lying to save Tope's marriage. Ever since, Tope had been in Flynn's debt. Flynn had never expected to become a debt collector but he had tapped into Tope's role as an intelligence analyst the previous year when he was after some details of a couple of very bad men who were out to get him. Their friendship had not survived Flynn's ignominious departure from the cops, but Flynn had found it useful to have someone on the inside who could search databases.

‘It's different this time,' Flynn said.

‘I seriously doubt it.'

‘Honest – Cathy James? You remember her. Cathy Turnbull as was?'

‘Yeah, we were all at training school together. Everybody wanted to get into her panties. Rumour had it that someone did . . .'

‘Yeah, lucky sod, whoever it was.'

‘You did, didn't you!' Tope exclaimed. ‘Jeez, you did. Now it all fits into place. Christ, if I'd known that,' he said wistfully.

‘I didn't, actually,' Flynn lied. ‘But, yeah, Cathy James, née Turnbull.'

‘Mm, haven't come across her for years. Do know she's working a rural beat up in Northern Division. She married a jack from Lancaster. Tom James, good lad.'

‘Know much about him?'

‘No, just of him. Good thief-taker by all accounts. Used to be a traffic cop, of all things, but seems to have found his niche. I think Henry's used him a few times on murders. And he recently got a chief cons commendation for busting a prostitution racket. Probably go far . . . Look, why?'

‘Oh, nothing. It's just that I'm here on a flying visit and thought I'd drop in on Cathy.'

‘You're back in Lancashire?' Tope said it as though Flynn's presence was something akin to a deadly virus.

‘Affirmative.'

‘Ugh. Why don't you just call her up?'

‘Done – no reply.'

Jerry Tope sighed. ‘Hold on, I'll check the duty states.' Flynn heard the tap of his fingers on a keyboard, Tope accessing the computerized system that recorded the working hours of every officer on duty within Lancashire. ‘You back for good?' Tope asked.

‘As I said, flying visit.'

‘Good . . . here we are . . . she's down as being on a rest day today. Maybe she's gone out for the day.'

‘What about Tom?'

More key-tapping. ‘Nine-five,' which Flynn knew meant nothing as far as detectives were concerned. They tended to be loose about what hours they actually worked and the official system was often wrong. ‘Oh, what about yesterday?'

‘Yesterday? Um, Cathy, rest day, Tom, nine-five.'

‘Thanks, Jerry.'

‘That it?'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘Thank God for small mercies.'

Flynn hung up feeling ever so slightly guilty, but not so much that he wouldn't use Tope's knowledge and position again if necessary. Because there was no statute of limitations on adultery, Flynn's knowledge of Tope's one and only infidelity was something he would hold over him for the rest of his life.

He scribbled a note to Faye, thanking her for letting him crash out and use her facilities, left twenty pounds he could ill afford for Craig, collected his gear and locked the house, then jumped into his hire car. He hoped that he would be done with whatever problem was ailing Cathy by tomorrow and was already looking forward to going home to Gran Canaria, even if he was going to be sued for assault by the jumped-up Hugo. He was missing the feel of the boat under his feet and even though
Faye 2
was going to be in dry dock for a couple of months, he wanted to be there, tending her, carrying out any necessary repairs and in general looking after his baby. Survival money would come from somewhere.

‘This is the centre of the known world,' Henry Christie said grandly as he swung his rucksack off his shoulder and sat down on the ugly rocky boulders busting out of the heathland that were known as Whitendale Hanging Stones. ‘Well,' he said, amending the claim as he delved into the rucksack for his steel flask and sandwiches, ‘the middle of Britain, anyway.'

He unscrewed the flask and poured himself a welcome coffee, sipping it as he admired the view from a vantage point that made him feel on top of the world.

‘Whaddya mean?' Donaldson said indifferently. He dropped his rucksack beside Henry, sat down miserably and pulled his anorak hood over his head.

Henry looked at him, realizing what the term ‘green at the gills' meant. Donaldson was not improving healthwise. If anything, he looked more unwell than earlier and it had been his excellent physical condition that had kept him going up to this point. They had been walking for three hours and when the sheep tracks had petered out, it had been tough going. The bogs were unforgiving and possibly treacherous to the unwary.

‘I mean that this position here is the geographical centre of the British Isles – if the four hundred and one outlying islands are included in the calculation.'

‘Oh.' Donaldson sounded unimpressed. He had food and drink in his rucksack, but did not open up and get any, just sat there glumly.

It was very windy at this location, 496 metres above sea level, and icy blasts seared through their layers of clothing.

Henry sipped his hot coffee and bit into a Lancashire cheese sandwich, laced with piccalilli, as he surveyed the countryside. It was a truly magnificent vista, the hills of Bowland and Pendle lying like huge sleeping dinosaurs. He looked at the sky. To the south it was fairly clear, and across to the west he could still make out the pinprick that was Blackpool Tower on the coast. He swivelled around, then his eye caught a bird zooming across the moorland just below him. A frisson of joy shot through him.

‘Would you look at that?'

In his not misspent youth, Henry had been a bit of a birdwatcher and could still recognize most of the common species, as well as many birds of prey, which were always a favourite. And what he saw made his heart beat faster with excitement. An adult male hen harrier, grey plumage above, white underneath, showing its dark wing-tips as it shot past. It was a rare bird and still persecuted by ruthless gamekeepers.

Donaldson didn't even look up, but said, ‘What?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Ooh.' Donaldson hissed and doubled up, gripping his stomach. He scrambled to his feet, gave Henry a desperate look, and ran behind a rocky outcrop.

Henry looked to the north-east. The sight he saw filled him with some dread. Maybe thirty miles distant, the clouds were black, rolling and heavy. ‘Not good,' he said.

A few moments later, Donaldson reappeared, his complexion grey.

‘You OK?' Henry asked him again.

‘I've just had the shits on the middle of Britain,' he said.

Flynn had driven out of Blackpool and dropped on to the M55, heading east across Lancashire. At the junction with the M6, he bore left and north, eventually passing Lancaster on his left, then the young offenders' institution, exiting the motorway at junction 34. Then he'd gone right, heading in a vague north-easterly direction along the A683, following the Lune valley, the River Lune being Lancashire's second river after the Ribble. He passed through the village of Caton, past the police house on the left, but before he reached the next settlement, Hornby, he took a right turn, picking up the signs for Low and High Bentham, then took another right following the sign for Kendleton.

The tight meandering roads rose steadily and at one point on the brow of a hill, he got a superb view of the hills across the Yorkshire Dales National Park in the next county.

The view was marred only by the approaching black sky – and if he wasn't mistaken, Flynn was certain that flecks of snow were in the air. He cursed and thought of the magnificent weather he'd left behind, two thousand miles to the south.

SEVEN

T
he black Range Rover with smoked-out windows loomed large in Flynn's rear view mirror. His hire car, a tiny Peugeot, had been the only vehicle on the road for the last four miles in any direction, but the big four-wheel drive had come up behind quickly and unexpectedly and almost attached itself to Flynn's rear bumper. The road was narrow, widening very occasionally, but virtually impossible for overtaking, which is what the driver of the Range Rover obviously wanted to do.

The headlights flashed repeatedly but Flynn had nowhere to go, nowhere to pull off. On both sides of the road were either very spongy looking grass verges or deep drainage channels. Maybe if he pulled in tight and slowed right down, the Range Rover might be able to pass carefully.

Flynn's eyes constantly checked the mirror, which was now completely filled with the front radiator grille of the following car. He gritted his teeth and began to seethe as the driver kept up the pressure on him. He had been just tootling up to that point, but the harrying from behind made him increase speed involuntarily.

And then reduce it. He wasn't going to be intimidated by some clown in a fancy motor. If the guy wanted to pass so badly, go ahead, welcome, and don't blame me if you end up in a field. But Flynn wasn't going to accommodate him by sinking his own wheels into a muddy verge, or worse running into a ditch.

‘Wanker,' he breathed.

The guy didn't let up, kept pushing.

Flynn's hands gripped the wheel white-knuckle tight, still nowhere to pull in and let the car pass.

And then the inevitable happened.

Coming out of a right-hand corner, Flynn saw another car coming towards him, a Jeep or something, a similar size to the one clinging to his rear end. Whatever happened, this was going to be a squeeze.

Flynn had to jam on the brakes on the narrow road, which was just about wide enough for two standard-sized cars to pass carefully. He slowed right down, as did the approaching Jeep. Two cars approaching each other on a country road, the drivers showing courtesy towards each other. And behind him the impatient Range Rover.

Flynn signalled his intention to pull in.

But then the Range Rover swerved out and accelerated past, taking off his driver's door mirror with a loud crack. Flynn jumped.

The Range Rover powered ahead, its offside wheels leaving tracks in the opposite bank and forcing the oncoming Jeep to veer left and on to that same bank with its nearside wheels. The Range Rover sped past, this time taking the driver's door mirror of the Jeep and avoiding a scraping collision by what seemed only millimetres to Flynn.

And then, with a gush of exhaust smoke, it was gone, leaving him and the Jeep stationary, facing each other.

Flynn could see a woman at the wheel, another in the passenger seat. Leaving his engine running, he climbed out of the Peugeot and examined the door and the remnants of the damaged mirror which had been jaggedly snapped off. Broken bits of it, including shattered glass, were scattered on the road. He picked up the biggest piece, kicked a few other scraps of plastic and metal off the road and walked to the Jeep, seeing the debris of that vehicle's door mirror strewn down the road.

Flynn had taken off his jacket to drive and was in short sleeves. The brutally cold wind pierced his bones as he reached the Jeep. The driver's door window opened slowly, revealing the woman at the wheel.

‘Are you all right?' he asked.

‘Yeah, yeah, reckless sod. Are you?'

‘Yeah. He'd been up my chuffer for a mile or two but I couldn't find anywhere to pull in.' He bent his knees and looked into the Jeep across at the woman in the passenger seat. ‘Are you unhurt?'

She nodded. ‘Thanks.'

Both were very attractive and neither seemed unduly frightened by their experience. Cool women, he thought.

‘Did you get his number?' the woman at the wheel asked.

He nodded and tapped his head. ‘Up here.'

‘Don't suppose there'll be much point in pursuing it,' she said.

‘Probably not. Mine's a hire car, so I'll have to pass on details to the company and report it to the police. It was a hit and run after all. Anyway, if I give you my details and you give me yours, maybe we could be witnesses for each other if it comes to it? Whether you want to tell your insurance company or the cops is up to you, but I don't want to get saddled with a bill I can't afford to pay. What d'you say?'