Facing Justice (24 page)

Flynn had to be quick to see it because Tom covered it up well – a look of horror at the mention of Henry's name. But see it he did, and it made him think this outburst from Tom was a complete charade. ‘Why Henry Christie?' Tom demanded.

‘He's down at the pub.'

‘Why him?'

‘Just let me call him.'

‘What the fuck is Henry Christie doing here?'

‘He's probably asking himself the same question . . . come on, Tom – try to chill for a few minutes and I'll get him up here to explain things.'

‘Why can't you explain things?'

‘Because Henry's a cop and I'm an innocent bystander.'

He arrived in Flynn's hired Peugeot, which he noticed now was missing a driver's door mirror. He parked behind Tom's Golf and his heart sank a little at the task that lay ahead. He always thought that delivering a death message chipped away at something inside every cop, even though every cop knew it came with the territory. Henry had delivered many in his time – too many. Some of the toughest ones were linked to murders or suspicious and sudden deaths. By the nature of his role he often had to break the most awful news to families of people who had been brutally killed, their lives brought to unnatural and violent ends. Additionally, unless there was a suspect in mind, Henry also had to realize that the person he was delivering the news to could also have been the offender. It was a fine balancing line between empathy and cold calculation, compassion and evidence gathering, all these things running in parallel.

He thought briefly about what he knew of Tom James, detective and husband of the deceased. He knew Tom distantly in the way that SIOs knew the detectives who worked in the geographical areas for which they were responsible. Henry's area included the north of the county, which therefore included the city of Lancaster, where Tom worked as a DC. Henry had come across him on a couple of straightforward domestic murders that he'd overseen in his SIO role. Tom had been professional and his performance had been excellent. He guessed that one day, Tom might become a DS, maybe a DI in the fullness of time. He seemed steady, diligent and reliable, could talk to people, the latter skill being the most important criteria in a decent detective.

So, nothing much, nothing outstanding. Except for the additional information fed to him by Steve Flynn, a man of dubious character himself. He'd told Henry what Cathy had said in a desperate phone call: the marriage was going south and Tom was corrupt. And it could all be bullshit. Henry didn't know Cathy James well, could not comment on her character, but Flynn thought highly of her, for what that was worth.

Henry decided simply to bear these things in mind and, as ever, wing it. OK, he was dealing with the murder of a cop, but he didn't know her, nor did he know Tom well, so that was good – nothing personal to queer the pitch. No preconceived notions that would sway him. He would simply deal with this as he would any other case. Thing was, of course, as he had already discussed with Flynn, murder victims usually knew their attackers and often the killer turned out to be a close friend or relative.

He hoped that would not be the case here. He opened the car door, stepped out into the deep snow, trudging and leaving footprints all the way up to the front door. ‘Open mind,' he told himself firmly.

‘Christ boss, what the hell's happening?' Tom James asked desperately, having rushed to the front door to greet Henry, worry and fear pasted over his face.

‘Need to sit down and talk,' Henry said.

‘What's going on? Tell me, please.'

‘Living room,' Henry said firmly.

‘OK,' Tom said, tight-lipped. He walked stiffly into the front room.

Flynn was standing in the hallway. He gave Henry a shrug and Henry returned it with a shake of the head, followed Tom into the lounge and closed the door softly.

Tom sat primly on an armchair, wringing his hands.

‘This is going to be bad news, isn't it?' Tom said.

‘Tom, I want you to bear with me. I need to ask you some questions, to establish some facts. You know the score.'

‘Just tell me what's going on,' he pleaded.

‘Tom,' Henry said firmly, trying to judge the best way ahead, part of the balancing act. If Tom knew nothing, if he and Cathy had simply had a barney and she'd stormed out and he didn't know where she'd gone and it was as simple as that, Henry should just tell him that her body had been found and all the rest. However, if Tom was responsible for blowing his wife's brains out, Henry had to get some details first. Henry knew he really had no choice. Whatever he believed, Tom James had to be up there in the top two prime suspects, alongside the mystery poacher, if indeed that person did exist. It was like defusing a bomb. Lots of wires, one of them lethal. ‘When did you last see Cathy?'

‘Oh God,' he wailed, ‘she's dead, isn't she?'

‘Why would you say that?'

‘You being here. All this.' He waved his arms around wildly. ‘Her car, Flynn – I don't fuckin' know!'

‘I'm here by accident.'

‘Then if there's nothing going on, you don't need to be involved, do you? Can you see where I'm coming from?'

Henry pursed his lips. ‘Yeah, except I am here and I am involved, and you're right to be concerned.' Henry stopped a moment. ‘What has Steve Flynn told you?'

‘Nothing.'

Henry nodded. ‘Right – just answer me, when did you last see Cathy?'

‘Uh, yesterday, OK. We had a row, she split . . .'

‘And? Is there anything else I should know? What time did she go? What did she say when she left?'

‘Called me a tosser . . . and she said she was going to check out the report of a poacher, then she was leaving me. That was about half three, I guess.'

‘OK . . . Steve went looking for her because he was worried about her. He found her car in some woods near Mallowdale House . . .' Tom leaned forward tensely. Henry made a judgement call and went into bluff mode to gauge the reaction. ‘But there was no sign of Cathy, so I am somewhat worried about her. With the weather, the deep snow, it was obviously impossible to do any sort of search. It may be that she did challenge a poacher in the woods who could've been armed . . . maybe.'

Henry watched Tom's eyes and his facial muscles carefully. There was a crease of the forehead, a narrowing of the eyes and a sigh. He looked warily at Henry, as if he was choosing with precision what he was going to say.

At the same time, Henry's anus was twitching nervously. If Tom had no involvement with Cathy's death, Henry knew he could possibly have thrown himself into the mire with the lie about not finding her. But if Tom was involved, then keeping the discovery of the body from him could be worthwhile for the time being. Like poker, but with more at stake.

Henry watched the reaction. Tom had been so utterly and completely wound up that Henry could not quite work out what the sigh meant. Relief, yes, but from what? No body found, meaning Cathy was still out there somewhere, alive, or no body found, thank God, now I've got some manoeuvring space.

Henry hoped to hell he wasn't reading this all wrong. He was playing a game with someone's life here and if he misjudged it . . . he didn't even want to think about the implications.

‘So you haven't found her body?'

‘No,' Henry said. There, done it. Now be prepared to live with whatever the consequences might be. Was that a smile that twitched on Tom's face? Henry went on, ‘Steve Flynn found the car, but not Cathy. Her stuff was still in it, so it looks as though she could possibly have met someone she knew.'

‘Someone like Steve Flynn?'

‘It's a possibility, but whatever, I'm very concerned about her whereabouts. D'you think she's capable of doing something silly?'

‘Nah, not her. So why's that drunk in my house?'

‘He pulled a shotgun in the pub. Steve and I wrestled it from him and there was nowhere else to bring him,' Henry answered. ‘Where have you been since Flynn came to see you earlier?'

Tom shrugged. ‘Out and about.'

‘You told him you were going to work.'

‘Well, that'd never be possible. Getting over to Lancaster in this, no way.'

‘Did you tell them you wouldn't be in?'

‘Course I did.'

‘So where have you been?'

‘As I said, out and about – look, what are we going to do about searching for Cathy?'

‘Nothing until tomorrow. The night and weather are against us and we'll need extra resources, too.' Henry paused. ‘So you haven't seen her or heard from her or tried to contact her since yesterday. Is that right, Tom?'

‘Yes.' Tom's head sagged. ‘I hope she's OK.'

‘Mm,' Henry said, still trying to read him. ‘I'm sure she will be . . . What were you arguing about?' he asked softly.

Tom's eyes rose, met Henry's. ‘She was taunting me about having slept with Flynn once, years ago. I knew she'd been on the phone to him, then next thing, here he is in the flesh. Mr Ex-lover.'

‘The marriage was in trouble, then?'

‘I didn't think so. It came as a shock to me.'

And now I just know you're lying, Henry thought.

Flynn moved into the office when Henry and Tom went into the living room, excluding him. He sat at the desk on the revolving chair and looked at the sleeping prisoner, who had wet himself spectacularly. Flynn screwed up his nose at the reek.

Listlessly, he started to flick through the message pad from which he'd snaffled the message about the poacher.

Frowning, he took out the now very crumpled form from his back pocket and laid it out, flattening it with the palm of his hand. The message had been taken by Cathy at 15.30hrs on the day before. That was about an hour before she had called him whilst he was sitting in the beach bar in Puerto Rico, eating paella. Then he remembered something, the assumption he had made when he had first read the message, and what he had discovered when he'd had the chance to recheck it. The message under the one about the poacher, and most of the others underneath that, had been taken by Cathy. She had signed the pro-forma pads as the person receiving the message. But the handwriting on the poacher's message was not hers. It could only have been Tom's. Flynn had thought it was Cathy's writing, but clearly it wasn't. Tom had written this message, not Cathy.

Not sure whether this meant anything at all, he picked up the cordless phone and was glad to see it was a very up-to-date one that recorded the numbers, time and dates of all incoming and outgoing calls. He began to tab through the menu.

‘This is going to be a hell of a night. No way am I going to sleep.'

‘I don't think any of us are,' Henry said.

‘What are you thinking, Henry? That I've done away with Cathy?'

Henry's only response as a detective was, ‘Have you?' He would have been sacked if he'd said anything else.

‘Don't be a dick. I loved her.'

‘Loved? Or love? Present tense, past tense.'

‘Don't pervert my words. You know what I mean.'

‘What's going on in the village?' Henry asked, a quick change of subject.

‘In what way?'

‘What's Jonny Cain doing here?'

‘The Jonny Cain?'

‘The one and only.'

‘Didn't know he was.'

‘When he showed his face in the pub, that's when our drunken friend Callard tried to blow his head off.'

‘Jeez.'

‘What's the connection between Callard and Cain?'

‘Have you thought of asking them?'

‘I spoke to Cain – not very forthcoming. Callard's too drunk to speak to.'

Tom shrugged.

‘I'm told Callard's a driver. What do you know about him?'

‘Not much. Just a drunk who's lucky to have a job. Works for the company that own the quarries in the hills.'

‘That'd be Jack Vincent's operation?'

‘Yeah, yeah, him,' Tom said.

‘So what's Jack Vincent up to? I assume you know who he is?'

‘I do, but he's not on my radar. I'm just a small-town CID officer, catching burglars and car thieves. Big-time drug dealers aren't my remit. And I don't know what he's up to.'

‘Jack Vincent, Jonny Cain in town . . . do you think something might be happening?'

Tom sighed. ‘How would I know, Henry? And to be honest I don't give a toss. My wife is missing. That's what I'm bothered about.'

‘Coming back to the subject of Cathy . . .'

‘You really think I've done something to her, don't you?'

Well, Henry thought, I've got a dead policewoman on a meat slab in a butcher's shop and her husband sitting here in front of me and I'm not impressed by him. Being a detective doesn't make him innocent, but just because he's her hubby doesn't make him guilty either . . . Ahh, love the double negatives . . .

‘You know what it's like being a detective, Tom.'

‘You don't believe a word anyone is telling you, at least to start with . . . Look, we had a bust-up. Things weren't working out. We wanted different things. Then she brought up fuck-face in there—' He gestured angrily towards the door. ‘You know, the guy who was good enough to provide us with a free honeymoon. I'll bet he re-shagged her then. Yeah, it was going tits-up and she stormed out. And if you have nothing more for me,' he checked his watch, ‘I'm off to the pub for last orders because I feel pretty shitty. You just continue to use my house for whatever purpose you see fit. You seem to be doing that anyway.'

He made a move to stand up, just as a
rat-tat
came on the lounge door and Flynn poked his head around. ‘Quick word, Henry?' Flynn glanced at Tom, who scowled.

‘Yeah – look Tom, just hang on here for a few moments, will you?' Henry rose, as did Tom. ‘No,' Henry said firmly to him. ‘Stay here and I'll be back shortly.'