Facing Justice

TWELVE

Jack 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.’