Facing Justice (33 page)

Henderson was at the wheel, Vincent in the front passenger seat and Shannon was alongside Tom in the back seat, cradling his wounded arm. His feet were also pressed on to Alison.

The Range Rover moved easily through the multitude of rutted snow tracks up towards the house.

‘Plans?' Vincent asked, looking at Tom.

‘Get back to the house, pack up and go.' Tom sounded cool and in control. ‘We can outfox these numb bastards for ever,' he said dismissively.

‘But we're stuck here,' Henderson pointed out.

‘We can get out through the quarries, even in this weather,' Tom said. ‘The Shoguns will get us across the hill.'

‘What about Cain?' Vincent said. ‘I thought he could feed Kitty.'

‘Don't think we have time,' Tom said. He leaned over the back seat and looked at Cain for a second. Then he leaned forward and waggled his fingers at Vincent and said, ‘Gimme.' Vincent handed him the pistol he'd been using. Tom twisted round and fired two shots into Cain's head. ‘Too much like a problem,' he said. ‘How much d'you reckon we've got?' he asked Vincent.

‘Four mill, give or take. Same in gear,' Vincent said.

Tom nodded, thought for a moment, then quickly placed the gun against Shannon's temple and pulled the trigger twice more, jerking him against the side window, blood spraying out across the glass.

‘Fuck, Tom!' Vincent shouted.

‘Three of us is enough,' he explained. ‘Give us a good start, that money – South America, yeah? Just a suggestion.'

Shannon's body slumped down, his dead eyes inches above Alison's upturned face, blood gushing out of his head wound over her.

‘They're good to go,' Flynn announced with certainty.

‘Let's see.' Donaldson inspected the weapons, checked each one with an expert eye and touch.

‘What the hell do you know about guns?' Flynn asked.

Donaldson gave him a quick glance and Henry blanched. Even he didn't know the answer to that one for sure, but he had a damned good idea that the American knew far more than Flynn about weapons.

‘Bit of FBI training,' Donaldson said modestly, his lips curling into a tight smile.

Flynn watched him carefully, trying to read the expression but failing, even though he did get the impression that Donaldson had a greater, more dangerous depth than the slightly dim Yank he portrayed himself as.

Henry backed out of the kitchen and tried to hold himself together physically and mentally, going into the dining room where Laura was being tended by Dr Lott and Ginny. The patient had been covered by a quilt, the wound had been dressed and she'd been drugged up. But she was the colour of puce, trembled and moaned frighteningly.

‘This isn't good,' Lott said. ‘The practice nurse is on her way up here on foot, via the surgery. I don't want to take the chance of moving her, but at least I'll be able to get a drip into her and other medication. But what she needs—'

‘Yeah, a hospital,' Henry finished. ‘I know. Ginny – you holding up?' The young girl looked stressed beyond measure.

‘I'm worried about Mum.'

‘Yeah, yeah,' Henry said inadequately. He wanted to promise that she would be OK, but didn't dare. Fortunately the office phone rang again and Henry went to answer it.

‘Henry, it's me.' Henry immediately recognized the voice of DC Jerry Tope, the intelligence analyst who Henry often used to good effect, and who was also beholden to Flynn. Tope was the last person Henry had expected to hear from.

‘Jerry, nice to hear from you.' Henry sat down weakly at the desk, trying to roll his ever-tightening shoulder, which radiated pain. ‘I'm just a tad busy right now – y'know, bullets and broads and all that.'

‘So I hear,' Tope said, unimpressed. ‘And I've been dragged out of my pit by FB to do some digging around the archives for you.' He sounded desolate. ‘FB asked me, no – fucking ordered me – to look into Jack Vincent, Tom James and Jonny Cain. Thought the background might be of some use to you.'

‘Is it?'

‘Take it or leave it, but from an initial sweep, I've come up with some connections, and I know you love connections.'

‘Fire away.'

‘Six years ago, as a uniformed PC, Tom James arrested an up-and-coming drug dealer and haulage contractor by the name of Jack Vincent for various vehicle licensing offences and tax disc fraud – but no charges were ever brought. The custody record was marked off as not enough evidence . . . one interesting connection, yeah?'

‘Their first link, maybe?'

‘Additionally, at that time, Tom was massively in debt – horses, usual shit. According to some credit ratings databases I've accessed, not long after that arrest the debts had vanished.'

‘OK, he's connected to Jack Vincent. I get it. Keep digging, mate, and if I survive the night, I'll give you a pat on the back.'

‘There's more. After that arrest, Tom's arrest record suddenly went through the roof. He could do no wrong, got transferred on to CID on the strength of it . . . coincidence? My view is that Vincent was feeding him stuff, whilst Vincent himself managed to keep lily-white, if I'm allowed to say that.'

‘So they scratched each other's backs?'

‘There's more. Jonny Cain – he was up for murder, the one he was acquitted of, and you'll remember that the investigation was overseen by your old mate Dave Anger.'

‘Yes,' Henry said. Dave Anger, a name to conjure with. Anger had been a detective chief superintendent, a sworn enemy of Henry Christie, and was eventually toppled after Henry uncovered some very nasty things about him. That said, Henry was pretty sure that Anger's investigation into the murder allegation against Jonny Cain was above board. The trial had only collapsed after Cain ordered the hit on Felix Deakin and the other witnesses suddenly lost their memories.

‘Tom James was a DC on the murder squad. He was part of the intelligence and financial analysis team, which gave him a very interesting insight into Jonny Cain's activities. In other words, he knew virtually everything about Cain, how much he was worth, how much he was making, where the money went, everything.'

Henry put his head in his hands, still with the phone to his ear. ‘And he and Jack Vincent maybe decided they wanted Jonny's pile?'

‘I dunno – that's for you to find out. Something else, too. Jack Vincent became a National Crime Squad target. I've been doing a bit of delving into Tom James's work computer and found out he's been accessing NCS files on Vincent by a very clever route.' Tope paused, obviously wanting Henry to say, ‘Not clever enough for you, though.' He went on. ‘He knows about ongoing and proposed operations concerning Vincent, and strangely enough Mr Vincent hasn't been caught or convicted of anything for many a year now.'

Henry took all this in and said, ‘And then Tom married Cathy, who must have discovered all this somehow . . . thanks, Jerry. Speak later.' Henry was about to hang up, but before he could, Tope said quickly, ‘Be careful, boss – you might have a tiger by the tail here.' Henry suppressed a giggle at the irony of that and ended the call, turned to see Flynn leaning on the office door watching him. He lifted up the phone and said, ‘Your mate Jerry Tope.' He knew Flynn and Tope were old friends. ‘Tom and Vincent go way back, and it transpires that Tom knows just about everything there is to know about Jonny Cain's operation.'

‘I gathered – I eavesdropped.'

Henry slumped back in the chair, his shoulder feeling as though it was being squeezed by six tiny vices. He gasped.

‘You OK?' Flynn asked. Henry shook his head. Then, in the hallway, Donaldson hurried past clutching his stomach and ran upstairs, saying, ‘You know I said I had an hour? So wrong.'

Flynn's head went from one man to the other in disbelief.

Donaldson came downstairs a few minutes later, shaking his head despondently, entered the office and said, ‘Hell, I thought I had that beat.'

Henry, who had been sitting at the desk with his eyes closed, trying his best to deal with the pain, the feeling of sickness and dizziness, also shook his head.

‘We're not going to be much use,' he admitted.

‘No,' Donaldson agreed, ‘so where do we go from here?'

Henry's whole body deflated, a feeling of defeat overpowering him, something he had rarely experienced. One thing he always did was keep going to the bitter end, never gave up. Being shot in the shoulder shook that up somewhat. ‘Where's Steve?' he groaned. ‘We need a conflab.'

‘Kitchen, I guess.' Donaldson walked down the hallway, peered into the dining room at the worried faces of Dr Lott and Ginny, still tending Laura, who looked very ill, but was now awake and talking. He went into the kitchen saying, ‘Steve . . . we need to— Shit,' he said as he saw that the Skorpion machine pistol and the Chinese-made semi-automatic pistol had gone, as well as the bag of ammunition. Nor was there any sign of Flynn.

TWENTY-TWO

I
t was tough going. The snow was deep, and trudging through it in jeans and trainers was energy-sapping and unpleasant. Flynn followed the tyre tracks up the road until they veered off and disappeared underneath the gates at the end of the driveway leading up to Mallowdale House. The high, wooden electronically controlled gates were closed. Flynn surveyed them for a moment, then looked up at the CCTV camera with which he'd had a conversation about a million years before.

He knew assumptions were bad things to make, but he guessed that under the present circumstances it would be unlikely that the security system was on and the CCTV was being monitored. Tom and Jack Vincent, plus cronies, would be scurrying around like rats to get out of the place. They were hardly going to settle down and bust open a bottle in celebration. They had to get moving soon, although Flynn didn't quite see what their plans for escape might be. But that wasn't his problem. They'd made the play, killed people, shot cops, destroyed a house, sprung a man from lawful custody and the rest. They'd opened that particular door and had to accept whatever it was that came charging through.

In this case, Steve Flynn. A man driven by the fact that one of his best friends of the last twenty-odd years had been murdered and he did not wish to see the murderer get away. If Tom did escape somehow, then there would be no chance of Flynn ever coming face to face with him again, which would be a tragedy. Flynn wanted to get his hands on him now, not have to sit back whilst the cops carried out a manhunt that would probably be a shambles. People like Tom and Jack Vincent, Flynn suspected, knew how to evade the police and it was highly likely they would be out of the country within hours.

He stood in front of the gate, then unslung the Skorpion he'd snaffled and flung it over. He scrambled up and over and dropped untidily on to the other side, where he crouched in the shadows, getting some of his breath back and brushing the snow off the machine pistol.

He'd thought of using Alison's four-wheel drive to get him up to Mallowdale House, but decided it would be more trouble than it was worth. Although it was a fair distance from the police house to the gates, he thought approaching on foot would give him the greater advantage.

First, if he had used the car it would have alerted Henry Christie instantly. As it was, with Donaldson firmly rooted to the toilet and Henry half-comatose from the shotgun wound, sneaking off on foot probably gave him the lead he wouldn't otherwise have had. Also, if he turned up in a car, it might have alerted Tom straight away. As tiring as it was on foot in the snow, to Flynn this seemed the better option all round and he knew his fitness would see him through.

So far, so good. He was on Mallowdale House property and hadn't yet been spotted, he hoped. But he did have a slightly queasy feeling about the big cat that had cropped up in conversation a few times, the one Jack Vincent was supposed to own. Did it really exist? If so, where the hell did he keep it? Did he allow it to roam free? Flynn doubted it was real, sounded like a local myth. And if it was a mountain lion, that didn't bother him too much anyway. He knew they were cowardly cats where humans were concerned . . . but if it was some other species . . . He dismissed the thought.

He cut into the trees by the driveway and made his way slowly and carefully to the house, a distance of about two hundred metres, following the snaking drive like a river. Then the tree line stopped and the drive cut through a wide lawn, opening out into a semicircular gravel-covered parking area at the front of the house.

Flynn crouched, keeping cover. There were external lights on the house walls which would normally have illuminated the building, but they were all switched off and the house was a big black shadow. As Flynn's eyes adjusted and took in the light available, he could make out the features of the building, and the fact that Jonny Cain's Range Rover was parked directly between himself and the front door, which provided some cover for his approach to the house.

He remained perfectly still for a minute, watching, listening. There was no movement, nothing to hear, just his heart pounding against the wall of his chest, the throbbing pulse in his temple.

He thought he heard a swish of movement behind him. Gritting his teeth and not allowing any sound to pass from him, he turned slowly, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. There it was again, up in the branches. A large, dark shape, and he relaxed and exhaled. An owl.

Stop it, he told himself.

He took another moment to control his breathing and get ready. The Skorpion was slung across his chest at an angle, the iffy Chinese pistol tucked down the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. Keeping very low, he emerged from the cover of the tree line and ran towards the Range Rover, maybe fifty yards away from him. He ran quickly, scrunching the gravel underneath the snow, then dropped by the vehicle, twisted and leaned against it, once more catching his breath. He'd only come a short distance, but it had felt like a quarter of a mile, exposed, and fully expecting to be picked off by a sniper at one of the house windows, or brought down by a fucking lion.