Facing Justice (17 page)

‘You're a police officer?'

Henry nodded. ‘And I've a few things to do before I can chill out – or warm up, so please look after him. He's a big galumph, but he's pretty harmless.'

‘I will.'

Henry regarded her, liking what he saw. ‘I'm still miffed about the rooms and I need to sort something out.'

‘I'm sorry . . .' She seemed on the verge of saying something more, but held back, and Henry did not have the time to hang about.

‘I'll be back when I've sorted this –
thing
– out.' He went to Donaldson and squatted down by him. ‘The landlady's going to fix you up, hopefully. I need to go and see if anyone's in at the police house.' Donaldson stared uncomprehendingly at Henry, not far from being totally out of it. ‘Don't worry, I'll be back soon.'

He got up, patting his friend on the shoulder, slid himself back into his weatherbeaten coat and set off outside. As he emerged through the revolving door, the same Range Rover that had almost barged him off the road drew up in the car park, disgorging four occupants. Henry flicked his hood over his head and walked to Flynn's hire car, one eye on the four tough-looking guys who barged past him into the pub, in much the same way that the car had been driven, without a thought for anyone else.

With his hand on the cold car door, Henry watched the men entering the pub, waiting for each other to use the door. The last man stood in line patiently and glanced briefly in Henry's direction.

About thirty metres separated the two men. Snow was falling heavily, darkness was upon them, the street lights were on, the doorway to the pub was illuminated and Henry saw only three-quarters of the man's face for a maximum of three seconds before he looked away. Long enough for Henry to make an ID.

‘Holy shit,' he said, got into the hire car and drove off towards the police house.

The nature of coincidence was something that had always intrigued Henry. Things sometimes happened and people who knew each other could easily meet in unexpected circumstances of which they would never have dreamed. Such as the time he'd been on holiday in the Canaries and bumped into a man wanted by the cops in Lancashire. Or the time he'd been at a Rolling Stones concert and amongst eighty thousand other people, he'd met the only other person he knew, another cop who he never even thought could be a Stones fan. That sort of coincidence he believed in.

What he didn't believe was that it was a coincidence that Jonny Cain, a ruthless drug dealer and – unproven maybe – murderer, alleged hirer of contract killers to take out pesky rivals, had walked into a pub in the middle of nowhere with three of his hairy-arsed goons, whilst at the same time, lying there amongst the trees, was the dead body of the local rural beat officer, brutally slaughtered.

Jonny Cain just passing through –
and
a dead cop?

‘Call me a cynic, but I don't think so,' Henry breathed. ‘Highly friggin' unlikely.' He had an uneasy feeling about why his pre-booked rooms had been re-let, and to whom. He recalled the glint of fear in the landlady's eyes. ‘That is no coincidence, no freak of fate. If it is, I'll show my hairy buttocks in the local butcher's window . . .' A musing that gave him an idea.

He drove carefully along the main road up to the police house, the car slithering in the snow. Henry knew the location of the police house – he'd passed it on the way to the village anyway – as he did every police station, large or tiny, in the county. Thirty-plus years in the job ensured that crumb of knowledge.

He wasn't completely sure what he hoped to achieve by coming here. To find Tom James at home and break the awful news to him? And then what? Flynn had said that Tom wasn't home and Henry was relieved to find that was still the case. The house was in darkness, unoccupied. He didn't even bother to knock. He thought about Flynn again, what the man had said, or not said, about Cathy and Tom. He knew that he and the ex-cop would be having a long discussion when Henry had sorted out the issue of Cathy's body and what to do with it.

He spun the car around, heading back to the village, parking outside the pub. He committed the registration number of the Range Rover to memory and was pleased to see that the tractor he had noticed earlier was still parked down the road.

Re-entering he saw that Donaldson and both rucksacks were missing, nor was there any sign of the landlady. A bonny teenage girl was now on duty behind the bar. Neither was there any sign of Jonny Cain or the goon squad. Henry's mouth twisted acrimoniously. ‘In my room,' he mumbled, ‘no doubt.'

The two men who'd been at the bar earlier were still there, having a chat and a laugh into each other's ears whilst the barmaid pulled new pints for them. The lone girl was still sitting by herself near the fire, nursing what looked like the same drink. A couple of other snow-covered punters had also appeared and were parked in an alcove with their drinks. Henry sidled up to the men at the bar and asked, ‘Either of you two gents know who owns that tractor outside?'

Conversation interrupted, their heads turned slowly to him. He was close enough for their breath to catch him off balance, even in a pub.

One said, ‘Who wants to know?'

Henry flashed his warrant card. ‘Me. Detective Superintendent Christie, Lancashire Constabulary.'

‘And why would you be wanting to know?' the same man demanded. He was big, thickset, in his sixties, with no hair and bushy, ginger sideburns, a matching ruddy complexion and eyes as sharp as a hawk. He was dressed in a thick check shirt with rolled-up sleeves, loose corduroy trousers, wellington boots, with a heavy coat thrown over a stool next to him.
If you're not a farmer
 . . . Henry thought.

‘I need a favour,' Henry said, ‘and I presume it's yours.'

‘Yup.' He drew his right hand, the one holding his pint, up to his mouth. Henry laid a hand on his wide forearm, preventing the emptying of the glass down the man's gullet. ‘What the—?'

‘How much have you had to drink?'

‘This is my second pint – why? You going to breathalyse me?'

Henry studied him, guessing that two probably meant four in his language. ‘Like I said, I need a favour and it involves the tractor. Police business,' he added.

The man pouted. ‘OK,' he shrugged, then necked about half of the pint. Henry watched the beer disappear, trying not to look too concerned.

‘Would you also know if there's a doctor in the village?' he asked the man, who wiped his mouth dry.

‘That would be me,' the other man at the bar declared. He spun off his stool, staggered slightly and proffered his hand to Henry. ‘Doctor Lott, and for some reason, my younger patients have started calling me Pixie.' He pronounced the last word as ‘Pickshie' and Henry wondered how long he had been propping up the bar. ‘At your service.' He stifled a burp and looked up at Henry through a sea of thick facial hair.

‘I could do with your help, too,' Henry said, deciding that a pair of inebriated assistants would be preferable to none.

Both men looked expectantly at him.

‘What you wan' us to do?' the doctor asked.

‘One minute,' Henry said, raising a delaying finger. ‘I need a quick word with the landlady.' He asked the barmaid where she'd got to and was told into the living accommodation.

‘Aye, she took your big, good-looking mate with her,' Dr Lott said. ‘Lucky bleeder.'

With a despairing glance at his two new assistants, neither of whom stood particularly steadily, Henry said to the barmaid, ‘I need to have a quick chat with her, please.'

‘Are you Mr Christie?' Henry nodded. ‘She said you could go through if you came back.'

Henry gave her a nice smile and followed her to a very robust, thick wooden door marked
Private – staff only
. The barmaid entered a four-digit number on a security keypad and the door clicked open.

‘Door at the end,' he was directed by her. He went through and entered the living area, which he estimated made up a big chunk of the rear ground floor of the pub. He shouted hello as he walked down a long, poorly lit corridor, then through another door that opened into a large, comfortable, but slightly dated and careworn lounge. He repeated his greeting, heard a mumble of voices behind another door, which then opened. The landlady appeared carrying a large fluffy bath towel.

‘You're back soon.'

‘No one in. What've you done with my friend?'

The landlady smiled indulgently. ‘I'm running a hot bath for him. He needs it.'

‘That's very kind of you. He's had a bad day.'

‘I'll dry his clothes, and he can change into the clothes in his rucksack,' she said, then, ‘I'm a very kind person.'

‘No doubt. So kind you re-let our rooms.'

The smile faded. ‘You won't let me forget that, will you?'

‘Not in a hurry.'

‘Your friend said you found a body in the forest?'

‘Yeah. I need to try and sort some things out, a problem not made easy by the weather and the place being cut off.' He paused. ‘Quick question. Did my previously booked rooms, y'know, the ones I booked on the Internet and which I paid a deposit for, go to the four guys who came in just after I left?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then I sort of understand why you did it.'

‘You know them?'

‘Oh yeah,' he said dubiously. ‘You did right under the circumstances. I'm presuming they made you an offer you couldn't refuse?'

‘They were scary.'

‘Mm . . . look, I need to get back out and do a bit of police work. I'm not sure how long I'll be, but would there be any chance of me getting a shower later, and changing, and then some food?'

‘Of course. And you and your friend can bed down here, if you like. I'll sort out some bedding and stuff. One of you can use the settee.' She looked penitent. ‘Sorry about the rooms.'

Henry shrugged. ‘What's done's done . . . I notice there's a butcher's shop down the road. You wouldn't happen to know the name and address of the owner, would you? I could do with a chat.'

‘Better than that, he's in the bar. The man with the check shirt and red sideboards? Don Singleton.'

‘The tractor owner?'

‘One and the same.'

‘Three out of three,' Henry almost whooped.

‘Pardon?'

‘Nothing. I also wonder if I could just use your phone again. I need to check in at home . . . and also, do you have a digital camera I could borrow?'

‘Yeah, I do. Use that phone if you want.' She pointed to the phone on the sideboard, next to a bowl of fruit and a framed photograph.

Henry picked up the phone and glanced at the photo. It was a snap of the landlady, a girl he recognized as the one now serving behind the bar, although much younger, and a man. Obviously a family shot, all smiling happily at the lens. As he dialled the number, Henry said, ‘Nice photo.' He glanced at the woman, whose name he did not yet know – although he assumed she was the one named on the pub licence plate over the front door, Alison Marsh – and saw her mouth contract sadly. He was a little puzzled by the expression, but looked away from her as his connection was made.

Steve Flynn hunched forward in the front seat of the Shogun and twisted the heating control up another notch. He was sitting in the dark now, watching the snow fall steadily, the wipers clearing the screen every ten seconds. Initially he had sat there with the headlights on main beam, the light piercing through the snowflakes into the trees ahead, up to the point where Cathy James's body lay. But that view had soon depressed him, knowing that a very dear friend – and briefly lover – was lying murdered about thirty feet away. Although Henry had warned him not to touch anything, he couldn't resist checking the mobile phone, which showed a list of his unanswered calls to it.

Roger, the German shepherd, had jumped into the back seat, stretched out and fallen asleep, making grunting noises and chasing rabbits. Thanks to the strenuous exercise of going up the hill in search of Cathy, the old dog was whacked. Not that he'd been much use in rooting her out. That pleasure had fallen to Henry Christie.

He began to think about Henry and the history they shared.

Flynn had thought of himself fundamentally as a good cop, but had developed a hard-man reputation when dealing with criminals and had built on that by being seen as someone who also cut corners in the criminal justice system if he could. He loved catching crims, particularly career-minded ones who were professional and organized. He'd managed to get on the drugs branch, devoting his energies to nailing big-time dealers. He and his long-time partner, Jack Hoyle, were seen as tough cops who had brought down many criminal empires.

What Flynn didn't know – initially – was that Jack was both massively in debt and was also nailing his wife Faye behind his back.

All these things came to light following one of those shit-hits-the-fan raids when almost everything had gone wrong.

Naively Flynn, a detective sergeant, thought it would be a career-making bust. With Jack, he had been building a case against a major drugs dealer, Felix Deakin, and had identified a counting house in Blackpool where Deakin's takings were being collected. Flynn had decided to raid the house just as Deakin was paying it a visit. He turned up, the cops hit the place – and then it went wrong. A cop got shot and Deakin alleged that a million pounds in drugs money had disappeared into the pockets of bent cops – specifically Flynn's and Hoyle's.

Although Deakin was successfully prosecuted and jailed, and it was never proved that the million pounds actually existed, a very dark cloud of suspicion hung over Flynn and Hoyle. Both men were withdrawn from front-line policing and given tedious desk jobs at opposite ends of the county. Henry Christie was pulled in to investigate Flynn and although he could not prove anything against him, Flynn's life as a cop became untenable. So much shit, and much of it stuck. That, together with a private life that was unravelling faster than a reel of cotton, drove Flynn to quit the job and scuttle to Gran Canaria to try and rebuild his life.