Facing Justice (16 page)

The lady behind the bar turned away from the two men she'd been serving at the far end and came towards Henry. Even in his tired state he could not fail to appreciate her looks and figure and, as if by years of conditioning, he tilted his head slightly and gave her his boyish grin. On a man his age, it probably came across as more of a leer.

‘What can I get you?'

‘My friend and I have two rooms booked for tonight,' he said. Instantly the expression on her face changed to one of horror.

‘Ahh,' she said, drawing out the word.

‘Under the name of Christie,' he added helpfully.

‘Mm, yes . . . unfortunately I've had to let the rooms to someone else,' she said apologetically, dropping a bombshell.

‘Must be some mistake.' Henry smiled, but his heart was beating just that little bit faster. ‘I booked the rooms through the Internet and I have a confirmation e-mail.' He tapped his back pocket and kept his voice reasonable.

‘I know, I'm sorry.' Henry saw her gulp. ‘I assumed that because of the weather you wouldn't be coming.' She shrugged awkwardly, not really knowing what to do with her body language.

‘I would have informed you if that had been the case.' His voice had become as cold as the weather.

‘I'm sorry, but the rooms have been let to someone else now.'

‘We'll have two more rooms, then.'

‘I have only the two rooms, unfortunately.'

Moments before Henry had been half-visualizing this woman naked, a sad trait he'd had, since being a penis-led teenager, of mentally undressing women as soon as he met them, and one that had stayed with him all his life. Now he was imagining tightening his hands around her throat.

‘I won't even try to explain what my friend and I have been through today to get here. Just to say we need those rooms urgently. He's very poorly and injured and as we speak he is affixed to a toilet bowl. I am exhausted. We need rest – and I have paid a deposit.' He tried to hold it together, but he was cracking at the edges. The rising inflection in his voice gave the game away. His right hand had started a little jig of agitation.

‘I'm sorry, Mr Christie, I truly am.' Henry saw something in her eyes that puzzled him: fear. ‘But I had no choice in the matter.'

‘So where does that leave us?'

‘I'll refund the deposit, obviously.'

‘Is there another hotel in the vicinity?'

She shook her head and Henry tried to stop his own from jerking in exasperation. He tried to work through the immediate future: sick/lame friend, dead cop, crime scene, body, snow, ice, cut off from civilization, nowhere to fucking sleep! ‘Right,' he declared, ‘as it happens I haven't got time to argue the toss just at the moment. But at the very least, can my friend change into his dry clothing, maybe have a shower – i.e., use yours? And can he get sat down here in the warmth while I sort something out?'

‘What's up with him?'

‘Food poisoning and a sprained ankle – both pretty extreme.'

‘He can change in the back and he can use my bathroom.'

‘It's a start and it would be a big help for him.'

‘What about you? You look as though you could do with the same.'

‘A room would have helped.' He gave her a pointed look. ‘But I have things to do first. What's the weather situation?' he asked, checking his phone for a signal at the same time, seeing no bars whatsoever.

‘Bad and getting worse.'

‘Is Kendleton cut off yet?'

She nodded. ‘The road in and out is blocked with snowdrifts.'

‘Great. Can I use your phone please? My mobile signal is non-existent.'

She handed him the cordless phone. ‘Be my guest.' She looked contrite.

‘An ironic statement if ever I heard one.' He snatched the phone and wandered across to the roaring fire, glancing crossly at the few customers, assuming they were locals, although the young woman sitting alone in one corner seemed slightly out of place. As he dialled, Donaldson limped into the bar, pale, ill looking. Henry gestured for him to take a seat and he slumped into a big old chair. As the phone dialled the number Henry had put in, he eyed the two men at the end of the bar, who were in deep conversation. Were they locals, or were they the bastards who had snaffled his rooms?

The connection was made and Henry was put through to the Force Incident Manager in the control room, who had an up-to-date overview of road and weather conditions in the county. The news was not good. The helicopter was grounded, all roads in the north of the county were becoming impassable as the snow fell. Councils, unprepared for the sudden change, were fighting to keep the main routes open and minor roads in the sticks were filling up with snowdrifts. Deflated, Henry briefed him of the situation he had encountered and gave him certain instructions to follow, putting a list of people on standby, but even as he went through this preparation, it seemed a futile exercise. No one could physically even get here before the morning, and even that was doubtful.

As he guessed, he was on his own.

TWELVE

J
ack Vincent watched the Range Rover pull away from the front of his large house, head slowly down the gravel drive towards the automatic gates, which opened on its approach. It passed through them and turned towards the village. Vincent closed the heavy door with a clunk and turned to the two men behind him in the hallway.

Neither of these two men spoke. Breaking the silence was Vincent's prerogative. He was the boss, almost.

He hustled back to the lounge where he poured himself a large shot of whisky and sat down on a wide leather armchair, his eyes blazing. He sipped the pale liquid, holding the glass tight to his lips, and stared dead ahead.

The two men had followed him, hardly daring to speak.

Eventually he turned his gaze to them. ‘Well?' he said quietly.

Neither man had an answer, but both knew what Jack Vincent was thinking. Then another man, who had been keeping out of sight, came into the room and all eyes turned to him.

The sudden appearance had caught Vincent off guard, but not for long. He had fully expected Jonny Cain to come knocking, but not so soon. He'd anticipated the visit would come later, when it was realized that H. Diller and Haltenorth had not reported back. There was no way Cain could have had any inkling as to the crushing fate that had befallen the two enforcers, so Vincent guessed that the follow-up had been pre-planned, to keep him off balance.

Diller and Haltenorth had been the advance warning, Cain the real thing. Obviously Cain had expected that the two heavies would achieve nothing, Vincent not being a man to be threatened or intimidated, and they would not have returned with good news, so the idea to come in their immediate wake was designed to demonstrate how seriously – and personally – Cain viewed matters.

When the intercom on the gate had buzzed, Vincent had been at the dining table in the kitchen with Henderson, the fitter, a man called Chris Shannon who managed Vincent's quarry, and another man. They had been drinking strong coffee and discussing the situation.

Henderson rose and answered the intercom, next to which was a CCTV monitor on the kitchen wall. Henderson had also answered the intercom a short while earlier to a man who had purported to be on ‘police business' but had been unable to flash any ID at the camera on the gate. On that occasion, Henderson had turned to his companions and asked if either knew the visitor. Vincent and Shannon said no, but the other man crossed to the screen, looked at the image and said, ‘I know him, but he isn't a cop – tell him to get lost.'

Henderson had complied, a little more politely, and the man went.

But the appearance of Jonny Cain didn't give Henderson that right.

‘Boss.' Henderson flicked a finger at the monitor.

Vincent rose slowly and looked at the monitor linked to the camera at the gate. It was good quality equipment and clearly showed the stern-faced Jonny Cain, arms folded, staring expressionlessly at the lens.

‘Shit,' Vincent said. ‘Let him in.'

‘But boss . . .'

‘Just do it.'

Henderson pressed the gate release button and they watched Cain get back into the Range Rover, then the vehicle entered the grounds.

Vincent greeted him at the front door.

Cain and another man got out of the car and came up the steps. The Range Rover did a full circle and headed back down the drive, tyres crunching the gravel.

‘Jonny, to what do I owe this pleasure?' Vincent said.

‘I've told them to be back for me in half an hour,' Cain said. ‘Now let's cut the bullshit and get inside out of this shite weather.' He ignored Vincent's outstretched hand and walked past him into the house.

‘Hey, whatever,' Vincent said, trying to keep a note of levity in his voice. ‘Nice to see you too, Jonny,' he said under his breath, turning in behind his unexpected guest and almost colliding with him. Cain had stopped abruptly, having heard Vincent's snide remark.

‘This isn't a social visit, Jack.'

Cain declined the offer of strong drink, opted for coffee instead. Vincent had shown him into the lounge, trying to display a measure of confusion and pleasure at Cain's presence.

‘Nice.'

‘Colombian,' Vincent said with a grin. ‘Obviously.'

The drink was in a large mug and Vincent winced when Cain, still holding it, settled into the soft, expansive leather of the armchair that was his own, placed the mug on the chair arm and dug it into the surface of the leather. It was part of a four-piece suite that had cost Vincent almost ten grand and that particular chair was his favourite.

It was just Cain displaying the top-dog psychology of the moment. He was the man and wanted Vincent to be completely aware of that. And Jonny Cain did not usually turn out to deal with things in person. That was why he had underlings, so if he had taken the trouble to show his face, it meant big trouble.

Vincent reined in his response to the mug wind-up.

‘You'll already have had a visit from my men,' Cain started without any prologue.

Vincent frowned, glanced at Henderson who hovered by the door. ‘No,' he said, puzzled. ‘No, I haven't.'

‘Really?' Cain said, unfazed. ‘It's a good job I've come to see you then, isn't it.' He smiled.

‘Why are you here, Jonny? Not social, you say?'

‘No, it isn't.' He took a sip of the coffee. ‘Purely fucking business.'

‘And that business would be?' Vincent asked, acting dumb.

‘Debt collection.'

Vincent pouted. ‘Debt collection?'

‘Jack, I'm not playing around with words or playing fucking games here. You owe me and I've come to collect.'

‘You know as well as I do that I – we – were ripped off by a mule. A guy who thought he could get away with it. He's been dealt with now, Jonny. He won't be ripping anyone off again, but as to the loss . . .' Vincent opened his arms as if to say,
That's life, get used to it.
What he actually said was, ‘The money's gone, the drugs've gone – irrecoverable . . . shit happens.'

Cain listened patiently. His accomplice, a man called Danny Bispham, stood at the back of the room, six feet away from Henderson, watching him like a hawk.

Cain balanced the coffee cup on the arm of the chair, stood up and walked around the room, looking at the displays in glass cases – stuffed birds of prey, mostly protected species, each one standing over a kill, a small bird or rabbit. He paused in front of one, a superbly mounted hen harrier. ‘This is nice,' he said.

‘I like predators,' Vincent said.

Cain sighed and turned. ‘You know the sums.'

‘The money doesn't exist any more, it's gone. I was ripped off and the guy who did it has had his head ripped off for his trouble. Quid pro quo, I think they say. The circle of life. If you want the money back, claim on your insurance,' Vincent guffawed.

Cain's narrow, harshly lined face remained expressionless. He checked his slim, gold wristwatch, which probably cost more than Vincent's suite. ‘My other two men are securing rooms down at the local pub for the night. You have five hours to get the money. I'll settle for eighteen grand today and the rest in produce. The rest later.'

‘I owe you nothing, Jonny.'

‘Yes you do. How you handle your business is your business and dealing with a bent mule doesn't make the money you owe me vanish. If you don't show up with the money, we will be back, Jack, and then I'll mount your head in one of these glass cases.' His eyebrows angled upwards. ‘Five hours – max.'

The Range Rover arrived on time to pick up Jonny Cain and Vincent watched it drive away. Back in the lounge, he looked at his colleagues, Henderson and Shannon. ‘Well?' Vincent had asked, his eyes flickering between the two men, neither of whom ventured an opinion.

A door opened and another man entered the room. He had been listening to the exchange and Vincent now looked at him.

‘You heard it all?' Vincent said.

‘Every word,' the man confirmed.

‘And? From a police perspective, what's your opinion?'

Without hesitation, Tom James said, ‘Well, now that he's out in the open, I think it would be wise to do the decent thing, exactly what we've been planning to do for the last six months. Kill him and then take over his business.'

THIRTEEN

H
aving seated Donaldson by the crackling fire, Henry returned to the bar. ‘See,' he said triumphantly to Alison, ‘he's not well at all. He needs a room.'

‘I'm really, really, really sorry,' she said. ‘I . . . I didn't have a choice.'

Henry gave her his best grimace. ‘Whatever . . . look, I'm going to drive up to the police station, I have some business up there. I'd be really grateful if you could just keep an eye on him.' Henry fumbled in his jacket. ‘I'm a detective superintendent, by the way, and he's an FBI agent – honestly.' He showed his ID.