Facing Justice (21 page)

‘I'll come with you,' she announced. She held up the bag. ‘First aid kit, and Dr Lott's given me some butterfly strips, so I'll fix you up,' she said to Flynn. ‘The doctor's too drunk to do anything. He'd probably stitch your eyelids up . . . I did used to be a nurse, in case you were wondering.'

‘Yeah, thanks,' Flynn said gratefully. ‘It really needs sorting.'

Henry shook his head at Flynn's sudden desire to seek medical attention.

‘I'll follow in my car,' she said and pointed to a Hyundai four-wheel drive. ‘I'll bring that dog back up, too . . .'

‘What the fuckin' hell you bastards doing?' Callard demanded from his face-down position in the back seat.

Henry looked sadly at the Shogun, realizing that if the car did have any connection with Cathy's murder, any evidence inside it was now completely screwed.

The police house was still in darkness, no sign of habitation. Flynn parked the Shogun in the snow-covered drive, wondering where the hell Tom James had disappeared to.

Henry was sitting alongside Callard in the back seat, having righted him for the journey. The shotgun had been placed in the front passenger footwell, out of reach. On the way Henry had made sure Callard understood exactly that he was under arrest and cautioned him, giving him the ‘full hit', though the words did not seem to mean much to him at that stage. He hung his head miserably and avoided all communication. Henry had gone on to ask questions in a conversational way, but Callard stonewalled him, refused to speak and stared at his knees, his jaw rotating, his facial features angry and grim.

By the time they drew up to the house, Henry didn't know anything more than what he had personally witnessed and been involved in: Callard pulling a shotgun from underneath his jacket and blasting it in the general direction of Jonny Cain, who had just appeared in the bar. That, again, was no coincidence, not one that Henry would ever believe. That Callard was just a madman with a festering grudge against society in general who'd decided to wreak havoc and death in the community in which he lived, a sort of Hungerford massacre . . . Was it simply fortunate that Henry and Flynn had been on hand to prevent it happening?

Henry doubted it. He was certain that if Ginny had not spotted him concealing a weapon, a bloodbath would have ensued, but only the eight pints in Jonny Cain would have been spilled.

Cain again, Henry thought. The catalyst, something it didn't take a nuclear physicist to work out.

They heaved Callard out of the back seat and propelled him roughly up the drive. Whatever Callard's motive had been, whoever his intended target had been, Henry still didn't feel terribly warm and fuzzy towards him and he got a bit of pleasure from shoving him between the shoulder blades. Inside, he was still worked up about the incident and knew it would be quite hard to keep his hands off the prisoner, remain detached and professional. Hence the flat of the hand between the shoulder blades.

Flynn opened the up-and-over garage door, flicked on the light to illuminate the empty garage. Henry continued to shove the cable-tied Callard ahead of him.

Behind them, Alison had arrived. She followed them into the house, having brought Roger the dog back with her. Flynn led them through the connecting door into the kitchen, then into the hallway, switching on lights as he went. Roger wormed his way through, went into the living room and crashed out.

‘You think this'll be all right?' he asked Henry over his shoulder.

‘Using the house, you mean?' Flynn nodded. ‘Well, it's police owned and I can't believe for one moment Tom would object, even in the present circumstances.'

‘Got some news for you,' Flynn said. ‘Cathy and Tom bought the house from the county when they got spliced. It's theirs, not the force's.'

‘Bugger,' Henry said. ‘Didn't think of that. Why didn't you—?'

‘Just remembered.'

‘Ah well, needs must, eh? Let's suck it and see. The county must provide some of the costs for the office bit.'

As he said this, Flynn opened the office door. Henry pushed Callard through and forced him down on to the plastic chair on the public side of the desk. He sat awkwardly and complained, ‘These things are digging into my skin. You have to take them off. I know my rights.'

‘You pull out a gun, you ain't got no rights,' Flynn blurted angrily, the ball of his hand pressed on to the cut, trying to stem the bleeding.

Henry gave him a ‘shut it' look and perched himself on the corner of the desk. Unfortunately the bastard did have rights and Henry would make sure he got them as best he could under the circumstances. However, taking off the makeshift handcuffs did not enter the equation.

‘I'll sort out your rights as and when. At the moment you need to know you're under arrest for many serious offences and you're going nowhere, and you're too drunk to have your rights given to you anyway.'

‘I am fuck!'

There was a radiator on the outside wall of the office, with short copper pipes coming out of the wall. Henry smiled. Just as he predicted, that was where the prisoner was going to be fastened. He pulled out the half-dozen or so cable ties that Don Singleton had given him as he'd left the pub with Callard.

‘My advice to you is get your head down,' Henry told Callard, who was now attached to the radiator pipe via a series of looped cable ties, one around the pipe, another looped into that one and a final one around Callard's right wrist. It was not ideal, but the ties were strong and could not be unfastened by hand, although if he kicked off again, he was probably capable of ripping the radiator off the wall. However, Callard was now sitting dumbly on the carpet, scowling at Henry, seemingly resigned to his fate.

‘Henry – can I have a word?' Flynn said into his ear. He beckoned Henry into the office doorway, out of whispering earshot of Callard who watched them all the time, but then started to work himself into a prone position. Henry had provided him with a pillow and he grumbled as he adjusted himself and stretched out on the floor. ‘You need to question him, urgently,' Flynn said.

Henry shook his head. ‘Nope. If he was locked up properly, we'd not be able to interview him even then, because he's so pissed. As far as I can see, the moment of violence has passed, no one else is in danger, so I couldn't even justify an urgent interview if he was in a police cell. You know all this.'

‘Because I was a cop?'

‘Exactly.'

‘But I was bent – apparently.'

‘Let's not get into that.'

‘OK then, what about the shotgun? He's got a shotgun, Cathy was murdered with a shotgun, by the looks. Uh?'

‘And we have the shotgun, we have Cathy's body and we have someone to interview – when he sobers up and he's in a real interview room with a real solicitor and all that garbage. For now, nothing.'

‘You're just going to keep him here?'

‘It's not ideal. I didn't order the fucking weather.'

‘You need to speak to Jonny Cain,' Flynn insisted.

Henry gave Flynn a withering look. ‘I know – but I've got a prisoner and I can't leave him, unfortunately.'

‘I'll look after him.'

Henry considered Flynn, his mind going back to his previous dealings with the man in whom Henry saw much of himself reflected. The desire to lock up high-class criminals, the way Flynn had approached his job when he'd been a cop. The big difference had been Flynn's excessive use of violence and intimidation. Deep down, Henry knew Flynn was honest, but there was too much of a cloud over him, especially when a million pounds in cash of drug dealer's money went missing on a botched-up raid. Henry hadn't personally made Flynn's life in the cops unbearable. The organization, together with Flynn's paranoia, had done that.

‘We can get Jonny Cain here, if we—'

‘We?' Henry butted in.

‘OK, you. Whatever. What's he doing here? Why did this idiot try and shoot him, an idiot who incidentally drives for Jack Vincent? Y'know, what's going on here? Two top crims in one location – why is that?' Flynn said. ‘We might be trapped here by the weather, but so are they and it gives us – you – a chance to grab 'em by the balls. I was after Cain for years and I'd still like to get him nailed.' Flynn was almost shaking as he spoke. ‘It's not often you know where he is, for cryin' out loud! You know something big's happening here, don't you?'

‘I'll think about it.' Henry's lips pursed tightly, bringing the conversation to an end. ‘Anyway, how do you know Jack Vincent?' he queried.

‘I used to be a drug squad detective,' Flynn blustered. Truth was, he'd only just learned of Vincent's existence following his phone call to Jerry Tope in the intelligence unit, but Henry didn't need to know that. Flynn was happy to have him believe that he still had a finger on the pulse of the drug scene.

‘Hm,' Henry said doubtfully. ‘I need to make some phone calls, bring the control room up to date and start the paperwork.' The two men's eyes clashed for a moment, then Henry went back into the office, started looking for some forms to fill in.

‘And what's more – what happens when he wants a piss?' Flynn asked.

Henry gave him a blank stare and Flynn shook his head with frustration.

Henry found an unused custody record in a drawer, sat down at the desk and started to complete the form. His mind wanted to shut down, really. He'd had food and a bath, but he was exhausted. He knew though that he couldn't allow himself the pleasure of switching off. He also knew that the night was yet young.

Flynn sat on the edge of the bath, presenting his profile for Alison, who cleared away the blood from his cut, then dabbed the wound clean, applied antiseptic cream, which made him recoil slightly, and started to seal the cut with butterfly strips.

As she worked on him, their faces were only inches apart. Flynn could smell her perfume and it reminded him of a tragically lost love from his recent past. Exactly the same heady aroma worn by the woman he had loved, albeit briefly. He could not remember what it was called, though. He went slightly misty-eyed at the memory.

‘Are you OK?' Alison asked, drawing back slightly, concern in her eyes.

He half smiled. ‘Yeah, fine . . . your perfume . . . I kinda know it.'

‘Just Chanel Number 5.'

‘Ah, yes.'

‘Sweet memories?'

‘Bittersweet.'

Alison smiled as she laid a butterfly strip across the cut, pulling the skin together in what seemed to Flynn a very intimate, caring act. ‘What happened?' she asked quietly.

‘I screwed it up, drove her away,' he said ruefully. ‘It was a while ago now.'

‘Was marriage in the air?'

‘I had been married once, screwed that up, too. Then this woman came along who I'd known for years and suddenly, click! In love.' Alison applied another strip. ‘But as I say, I messed it up.' He pouted. ‘What about you? You said you were a nurse.'

‘In the army. I was a soldier first, then trained as a nurse.'

‘Oh – I was a Marine as a kid.'

‘I'm impressed.'

‘And . . . go on,' he encouraged her.

‘I met my husband in the army. It was a short marriage. He was killed in Afghanistan when his unit were trapped in a village and the population came out and beat them to death.' She peeled another strip and placed it over the wound.

‘How long ago was that?'

‘Six years, give or take.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Shit happens.'

Flynn's brow furrowed. ‘Is Ginny your daughter? I noticed a photo . . .'

‘She's Robert's daughter from his first marriage, Robert being my husband. We're kind of inseparable and when I left the forces and came up here, she tagged along. She's a good lass. There.' The final strip was applied and smoothed down, fully closing the wound. ‘You still need to go to A&E. It's a while since I patched anyone up.'

Flynn touched it gingerly. ‘Seems like a good job.'

Their faces were only inches apart.

Henry had completed the custody record. Separately he jotted down on a scrap of paper some notes which would form the basis of his arrest statement. When he'd done that, he phoned through to control room and spoke to the Force Incident Manager, brought him up to date. An incident log had been started from his previous call and Henry was keen to keep things updated, mainly to cover his own back.

During the course of the conversation with the FIM he was told that Rik Dean was trying to get a message through and could Henry call him back as soon as possible.

Henry gave Rik a call to his mobile, but it went straight through to voice mail. Henry left a short message, then sat back as a wave of exhaustion swept through him like the tidal bore on a river. He looked at Callard, attached by the plastic hoops to the central heating system. He had fallen asleep for a while, but had woken himself with a loud snore and was staring uncomprehendingly at Henry.

Don't spew and don't piss your pants, Henry thought, recalling the days when he'd been a custody officer, one of the toughest jobs in the police, and one of the most unpleasant. Henry had cleaned up a lot of shit in his time.

‘It's not over,' Callard growled thickly.

‘What's not over?'

‘Tonight . . . more to come.'

‘Meaning?'

But Callard just closed his eyes and was instantly asleep again.

Fending off the urge to kick him repeatedly, Henry stood up slowly, his limbs and muscles screaming with annoyance. All they wanted to do was curl up and go beddy-byes, as did his brain. The phone rang. He grabbed it.

‘Superintendent Christie.'

‘Henry – what the hell's going on?' Rik Dean demanded to know. ‘I've been trying to contact you for hours.'

‘I'm trapped in the middle of nowhere with a dead cop, a nutter with a shotgun and a sus ex-cop, so I hope what you have to tell me is important, Rikky boy.'