Facing Justice

THIRTEEN

Having seated Donaldson by the crackling fire, Henry returned to the bar. ‘See,’ he said triumphantly to Alison, ‘he’s not well at all. He needs a room.’

‘I’m really, really, really sorry,’ she said. ‘I… I didn’t have a choice.’

Henry gave her his best grimace. ‘Whatever… look, I’m going to drive up to the police station, I have some business up there. I’d be really grateful if you could just keep an eye on him.’ Henry fumbled in his jacket. ‘I’m a detective superintendent, by the way, and he’s an FBI agent — honestly.’ He showed his ID.

‘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.

Only when two of Deakin’s heavies came along and asked him in fairly unpleasant terms where the million pounds was did Flynn put the sums together and realize that Jack Hoyle had stolen the dirty money right under everyone’s noses. Then things got very nasty indeed. Not just for Flynn, but for Deakin, too.

‘Felix Deakin,’ Flynn breathed out loud. ‘Jonny Cain… now that’s some connection.’

But Deakin was now dead, killed by a hit man’s perfectly aimed bullet; killed because he was supposed to have volunteered to give evidence against Cain, who had been up on a murder charge. Not being a cop any more meant Flynn didn’t know the complete background to all that, but what he did know was that Cain was acquitted of the original murder charge and as far as he knew, it was never proved that he’d hired someone to whack Deakin. And Cain had resumed his old ways.

And now Flynn had seen two of Cain’s lieutenants in Kendleton, which meant Cain wouldn’t be far behind. Chuck Jack Vincent into this little casserole. And a dead cop. ‘What the hell’s going on in this village?’ he asked himself.

And Henry Christie too… Flynn’s slightly disconnected thoughts focused on Henry again. Not his favourite character, but not many did like Henry. He had a tendency to rub even the most mild-mannered folk up the wrong way. Flynn closed his eyes. But instantly he was bathed in bright white light, as though a flying saucer had landed behind him. Startled, he jumped around in his seat as four beams of light burned into his retinas like four mini suns.

The tractor was massive. What’s happened to the tractors of my youth, Henry had thought when he climbed on to the running board of the huge machine. The ones that pottered amiably around country lanes with wobbly wheels and a stereotypical farmer hunched over the iron-rimmed steering wheel, often with a collie dog trotting at the back wheel, tongue lolling.

Now they were monsters. Complicated, powerful vehicles designed to carry out all manner of tasks.

‘Welcome aboard,’ Don Singleton, farmer and butcher, announced proudly, taking his seat in the centre of what Henry could only describe as a cockpit. He was amazed by its size and the relative comfort it offered, from the big leather driver’s chair to the two jump seats either side of it, set back slightly, for passengers. Henry sat in one of these seats and Dr Lott in the other, rubbing his hands together keenly.

‘This is a John Deere 5M,’ Singleton continued. ‘Lovely, lovely beast.’

He turned a key, pressed a button and the engine came to life — diesel, but as smooth as a car engine. All the lights came on, even the four positioned across the roof of the cab. He released the clutch and the beast on wheels moved. Henry was very much aware that the cab now reeked of exhaled alcohol. The only good thing was that there was no chance of a cop appearing, breath kit in hand.

From Henry’s description, Singleton knew exactly where he was going and the heavy tractor mashed its way easily through the deep snow, past the police house, then past the entrance to Mallowdale House. Following Henry’s last directions, Singleton came off the road and swung the tractor on to the forest track, stopping just behind the Shogun, out of which Flynn emerged blinking and shading his eyes, probably thinking that a plane had crash-landed behind him.

Henry swung down from the cab.

‘Got some help,’ he shouted to Flynn over the din of the powerful engine. Flynn opened his mouth to speak, but Henry cut him short. ‘Don’t ask. This is the local GP,’ Henry introduced Dr Lott, who had clambered down, ‘and the gent at the wheel is a farmer and butcher. The way I see it,’ Henry went on, ‘is that we’ll have to do the best we can under the circumstances. Obviously we can’t leave her here,’ he said, eyeing Flynn, ‘yet this is the scene of a serious crime that needs protecting.’

‘What are you going to do?’

Henry pulled out the digital camera that Alison had let him borrow. ‘I’ll try and record it as best I can and I’ll get the doctor here to pronounce life extinct and offer any opinions he may have.’

‘I can tell you she’s dead,’ Flynn grunted. ‘Don’t need a quack.’

‘Like I said, we’ll make the best of a tough job. We need a doctor’s certificate.’ Henry tapped Dr Lott on the shoulder and led him past the Shogun.

‘I’m not that good with death,’ the doctor admitted. ‘Old fogies are the most I usually deal with.’

‘I understand,’ Henry said. He had also snaffled a soft-bristled sweeping brush from the landlady’s utility room and he used it carefully to brush the newly dropped snow off Cathy’s body. Flynn and the doctor both held torches for Henry as he carried out this task.

‘Oh my lord,’ the doctor sobbed. Henry detected that he had suddenly become sober.

‘You all right?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ he assured Henry. ‘It’s just, I knew her. Not well, but I knew her,’ He lowered himself down and shone his torch on to Cathy’s disfigured face. ‘Oh my gosh, oh my gosh,’ he repeated. Henry knew that normal, run-of-the-mill doctors had very little contact with violent death and it could affect them as badly as any member of the public. Even more so when they’d had a drink or two.

‘Oh hell!’ Henry heard from behind as Singleton got his first view of the body. He guessed there was a difference in seeing butchered animals as opposed to human beings.

Dr Lott did a swift visual examination of the body, not touching it.

‘Just confirm the time and date you pronounced life extinct,’ Henry told him, ‘though any observations you might have could be useful.’

‘Yeah, um,’ the doctor nodded, clearly shaken. ‘I can confirm death at…’ He consulted his watch, read out the time and added the date. ‘Massive head trauma,’ he added, ‘consistent with a shotgun wound, I’d say.’

‘Thanks for that,’ Henry said. ‘If you can back off, I’ll do some photography.’

He moved everyone out of the way and started to take numerous shots of the body, the surrounding scene and the approach. The camera was twelve megapixels, of good quality, and the flash bright, but he was unimpressed by his results as he checked the screen. Not that they weren’t adequate, but he was no crime scene photographer.

And the snow still fell, the wind continued to blow.

‘What’s the plan for moving her and where is she going to be kept? Is there an undertaker’s in the village? Are they on the way?’ Flynn fired the questions like a Gatling gun.

‘In answer to the last part, there is no undertaker, but I’ve sorted out the next best thing and my plan for moving her is that.’ He pointed at the huge bucket affixed to the hydraulic lifting gear on the front of the John Deere.

Flynn’s eyes followed Henry’s finger. ‘You must be joking.’

Next to Cathy’s body, Henry laid out one of the tarpaulin sheets that had been folded up in the tractor bucket. The four men lifted her carefully, Henry gently taking her head and neck, and placed her on the sheet. She was light and easy to move.

‘She’s as stiff as a board,’ Singleton commented. ‘Rigor mortis?’

‘Frozen solid,’ Lott answered.

Henry took more photographs of her, then the sheet was folded over her. Between them they carried her down to the tractor and put her in the bucket. It was just a little too short for her and her legs stuck out.

All four men took a moment to consider their handiwork.

‘Talk about respect for the dead,’ Flynn commented.

Henry made a ‘Harrumph!’ noise, then walked back up to the scene. With Singleton’s assistance he unravelled a second sheet of tarpaulin which was about twenty feet square. They laid it over the spot where the body had been, and secured it using stones and chunks of rock.

Henry weighed up the job and shook his head in frustration. It was a far cry from what he would have preferred to do: erecting a crime scene tent, special lighting, the scientific teams, police search personnel, securing the scene… bringing in the circus, as Flynn had so disparagingly referred to the constituent parts of a murder squad. The professional approach, not this half-baked cockamamie crap. He prayed silently that what he’d done would not turn into an alligator ripping his arse to shreds sometime in the future. And the mantra, also sneered at by Flynn, ‘You don’t get a second chance at a crime scene,’ kept looping through his mind — because it was a good mantra.

‘It’s the best you’re going to do,’ Flynn said, picking up on his thoughts.

‘It’s rubbish,’ Henry said, ‘and goes completely against my professional instincts.’

‘You and your professionalism, eh?’

‘Yeah, bummer. Fancy wanting to get the job done right.’ The atmosphere between the two grew colder by a few degrees. ‘But you wouldn’t know about that, would you, Steve?’

A strong gust of snow-laden wind suddenly pushed both men off balance. They staggered against each other, almost into an embrace, in order to stay upright. They broke off the clinch with much facial distaste and bodily quivers of disgust.

‘Are we going, or what?’ Don Singleton shouted as he and Dr Lott climbed into the tractor cab.

‘OK if I use the Shogun?’

‘Yeah, sure, but don’t forget it could be part of the crime scene. Having said that, I suppose we can always eliminate your prints.’

‘Except that, as you know, my prints aren’t in the system, because, guess what? I don’t have any convictions. You’d have to take them specially.’

‘Yeah — bullet well dodged.’ Henry could have got in the Shogun with Flynn, but could not bring himself to do so. He hauled himself back into the tractor cab. Singleton reversed out of the forest, then headed back to the village. Flynn followed in the Shogun.

As Henry had noticed earlier when he’d driven into the village using Flynn’s car, there was only a handful of shops, one being a butcher’s. This was the one that had given him the idea. The fact that it belonged to Singleton was a bonus and made the facilitation of the matter that much easier.

Singleton slowed the John Deere down outside his shop, then expertly turned right into a narrow ginnel running down the gable-end of the shop, just wide enough for the tractor. From the way he handled the machine, even though he was well under alcoholic influence, Henry assumed he must have driven down the alley many times. Either that or the alcohol just made him blase.

Behind the shop he wheeled into a small customer car park and stopped.

‘Back entrance,’ he said. ‘Those double doors open into the cold storage room.’

Henry jumped down from the cab. Singleton and Lott followed. The butcher/farmer let himself in through the back door and a few moments later the double steel doors opened on what was simply a huge walk-in freezer, big enough to live in. Singleton pushed the doors wide, the strip lighting flickering on behind him. Slabs of meat swung from rows of ceiling hooks, lamb, beef, pork, venison and a long line of big fat turkeys. An icy mist seemed to surround everything spookily.

‘Wow,’ Henry said.

‘Health and safety nightmare, this,’ Singleton said. ‘A dead human.’

‘Needs must.’

Flynn pulled into the car park in the Shogun and trotted over to them. ‘The new public mortuary, eh?’

Henry gave him a sour look. ‘Help us,’ he said.

The four men went to the tractor bucket and lifted Cathy’s tarpaulin-swathed body out of it, carried it into the freezer and at Singleton’s direction, laid her on a steel slab in one corner that had previously been cleaned and disinfected ready for the following day’s business. They took a step back as Henry unfolded the sheet and revealed her.

He blew out his cheeks. Under the bright lights of the room, it was possible to see her injuries in much more detail. The head wound was horrific, much of her face having been blasted away at close range.

‘She would have been face to face with her killer,’ Henry said.

‘I agree,’ Lott said.

‘Talking to him or her?’ Henry asked himself, glancing down at the rest of her, noting she was dressed in jeans, a warm zip-up anorak over a tracksuit top, walking boots on her feet.

‘She looked prepared for the weather,’ Flynn observed. Henry glanced at him, seeing his face strained.

‘You OK?’

Flynn nodded.

‘What’s your plan, Superintendent?’ the doctor asked, no longer slurring his words in his new-found sobriety.

‘I need to take some more photographs,’ he said, his mind working things out. ‘Then I’d like this place to be secured?’ It was a question aimed at Singleton, who nodded, said it wouldn’t be a problem. ‘Then I need to report all this in, start a murder book and see if we can find Tom James.’ He turned to Flynn. ‘From what you said, he told you she stormed out after a domestic, so he could possibly have been the last person to see her alive…’

‘Or the first person to see her dead,’ Flynn said. ‘You know the stats.’

‘Yeah, most people are murdered by their nearest and dearest, or other close family members… but there is that message about the poacher.’ Henry turned to the local men. ‘Is there much to poach around here at this time of year?’

‘The deer come down from the hills in bad weather,’ Singleton said. ‘So yes, plenty.’

‘OK. I’ll get some photos, then we can lock up. Can I ask you gents to keep shtum about this for the time being? I know it’s a big ask, but the fewer people who know, the better at the moment.’ They both nodded and assured him of their silence. ‘And then, I’m afraid I need to get showered and changed before I start looking into this. Also need some food down me, which hopefully will come via the landlady at the Owl.’

‘Alison?’ Flynn said.

‘Never got as far as her name.’

Despite knowing that Karl Donaldson had recently stretched out in the same bath, Henry only took his time entering the hot soapy water so that he could enjoy every inch of his body’s response to the bliss. He eased himself carefully into the deep water, his bottom burning at first dip, slowly submerging the whole of his six-two frame and allowing the heat to permeate his freezing bones. He exhaled slowly and the tip of his nose started to burn strangely.

He was in the bathroom situated in the private living accommodation at the rear of the Tawny Owl and the room looked as though it had been recently refurbished, with a large question-mark shaped bath/shower, matching loo, bidet and wash basin. The walls were tiled in white from top to bottom. It was quite a feminine room, Henry observed in passing, no evidence of a man.

The landlady, Alison Marsh — Henry had thought it appropriate to ask her name as he was going to be using her facilities — had been kind enough to show him straight through to the bathroom, in which she’d unpacked his rucksack and laid out a change of clothes from therein. And run the bath. Fact was, she couldn’t do enough for him and Donaldson since the unauthorized re-letting of their rooms. She was trying her best to make amends.

Henry pinched his nose and sank under the water like a submarine, then surfaced like a whale, his head covered in nice-smelling bubbles.

He uttered a short laugh at the memory of the phone call he’d made to Kate before heading up to the crime scene on the tractor.

Neither she nor Karen, Donaldson’s expectant wife, had any inkling whatsoever of the peril in which their two men had found themselves. Since depositing them in the Trough of Bowland, they had dropped Henry’s car in Kirkby Lonsdale, then they’d driven like the clappers in the Jeep to the Trafford Centre in Manchester to have an indulgent shopping trip and they simply had no idea about the weather. Which was a good thing, Henry thought. There had been no worrying on their part and Kate had taken the news of Karl’s twisted ankle and food poisoning as though it was nothing. Neither did the fact that the men were now snowed in seem to bother her too much. She and Karen had booked into a hotel close to the Trafford Centre and were going for a meal, then catching a film at the multiplex cinema. There was no concern, either, when Henry told her about finding a dead body.

‘Henry,’ she said knowingly, ‘I wouldn’t have expected anything less.’

He shook his head, grinned, scooped the bubbles off his head, then shot bolt upright when someone knocked on the door. ‘Hello.’

‘It’s me,’ the landlady called. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I’ve brought that bath towel I promised — and I’ve got those photos printed off. Can I just stick my hand through and drop them in?’

‘Hold on.’ Henry gathered suds and built a pile of them to cover his nether regions. ‘OK,’ he said.

The door opened. Alison leaned in and dropped a towel, then a few sheets of A4 paper.

Henry, having to peer slightly over his left shoulder, caught her eye. She smiled shyly.

‘I hope the photos weren’t too upsetting for you. You really didn’t have to print them off. I would’ve done it.’ Henry had of course checked that Alison wasn’t Cathy’s closest friend and had warned her severely of the content.

‘Like I said, I’ve seen worse.’

Henry didn’t go there. ‘Well, thanks.’

She paused. Henry grinned self-consciously.

‘The food’s almost ready. I got the chef to prepare a roast beef dinner. I hope that’s OK. Whenever you’re ready, Superintendent.’

Henry chortled. He hated officers junior to himself addressing him by his rank, let alone a strange woman whilst he was naked in her bath. ‘That was a bit formal, all things considered. Henry will do nicely.’

‘Henry, then.’

She withdrew, closing the door softly. Henry leaned out of the bath, stretching to reach the towel, dragging it towards him with the photographs on top that Alison had kindly downloaded from her digital camera on to her PC and printed off. There were four photos on each sheet. He dried his hands, picked up the sheets, and settled back to examine what had been produced.

They weren’t brilliant, but they did the job well enough. He hoped there would be a chance of enhancing them later, just to sharpen them up. The ones of Cathy’s body in situ showed the scene well enough, but the ones he’d taken in the walk-in freezer were very clear, if not terribly well composed. He shuffled through them several times.

As well as his favourite mantra about only getting one chance at a crime scene, another one from the Murder Investigation Manual also went through his head: find out how they lived, discover why they died. For most murders he investigated, this held true. Often the circumstances of a murder reflected the way the victim had lived in the first place. So, he asked himself, how did this apply to Cathy James?

Was she merely doing her job, investigating the report of a poacher, and was she killed just because of that? Or was there something more to her death? Modern, organized poachers were violent men, Henry knew, but the killing of a cop was way extreme. Not that he would discount this theory, but he was already thinking that Cathy James’s death was more than a bad luck encounter.

He placed the photos back down on the bathroom floor, sank deep under the suds again, revelling in the sensation, wishing he’d stayed at home instead of turning out for a stupid walk. Donaldson would still have got food poisoning, but he, Henry, could be sipping Jack Daniel’s and watching a film without a care in the world.

He dressed in the change of clothing from the rucksack — light trousers, a polo shirt, trainers. The idea had been that they would have time to dry their outdoor clothing and change back into it the day after for the second half of the walk to Kirkby Lonsdale. Rubbing his close-cropped hair dry as he entered the landlady’s dining room, he found Donaldson sitting at the table next to Steve Flynn. Roger the dog was laid out asleep on the floor. Henry winced at the sight of Flynn.

‘You smell wonderful tonight,’ Flynn said. ‘All feminine.’

Henry ignored him. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked Donaldson, who had also changed after his bath and looked much better. His right foot was strapped up and propped on a dining chair.

‘Bit better. Guts still churning,’ he said, giving Henry a sit-rep. ‘But I’m hellish hungry and need some nourishment. The foot is very sore and swollen, but I don’t think it’s broken. Alison got the doctor to check it.’

‘Could he focus on it?’ Henry asked, settling at the table. ‘I see you two have met.’

‘Yep. You’re old friends,’ Donaldson said with irony.

‘Old somethings,’ Henry said.

Flynn eyed him malignly. ‘Whatever, he’ll always believe I took that million, won’t you, Henry?’

‘Until you can show different, I’ll find it hard to move on.’

‘You know it was my partner, Jack Hoyle.’

‘So you say.’

‘And I found him living the high life in the States.’ He exchanged a look with Donaldson. ‘Skippering a fishing boat out of Key West,’ he explained.

‘But yet, somehow he wasn’t to be found when the cops arrived to question him, detain him, whatever,’ Henry pointed out. ‘A real will o’ the wisp.’

‘Not my fault if the forces of law and order move with the speed of a tortoise.’

‘Whoa, guys! Knock it on the head, as they say,’ Donaldson interjected. ‘Leave it for another time.’

Henry shook his head despairingly.

A door opened and Alison came through balancing three plates on her arms, each with a succulent serving of beef steaming thereon. She placed one in front of each man, instantly picking up the tension. ‘I’ll be back shortly with the veg,’ she said and withdrew, but not before she caught Henry’s eye with a questioning frown, an exchange both Donaldson and Flynn noticed. They waited until she’d gone before speaking.

‘Nice woman,’ Flynn said.

‘Pity about the rooms,’ Henry said. ‘Don’t really fancy bedding down here for the night.’

‘Judging from that look, it’s only something me and Steve here will have to worry about.’ Donaldson arched his eyebrows.

Henry shot him a withering look. ‘I won’t be taking a leaf out of your book,’ he said, seeing Donaldson redden at the under-the-belt jibe at his recent indiscretion. Henry instantly regretted the dig, but at least it ended that line of conversation.

Alison reappeared with a couple of stainless steel serving dishes, crammed with steaming vegetables, and a gravy boat. ‘Help yourself, guys.’

They fell like ravenous wolves on the food.

Henry felt its immediate effect, warming him from the inside and meeting up with the outside warmth from the bath. Energy returned to him and though he was still shattered from the day’s exertions he felt more capable of dealing with the night ahead, which he knew might be very fraught and long.

They ate heartily and in silence, the main course being supplemented by a dessert of sticky toffee pudding and custard that had Henry purring with delight.

Once the food was over, Alison brought in coffee and Henry got down to business.

‘OK, Steve, let’s hear your story — all of it.’

Flynn squinted thoughtfully, arranging his brain, and began to relate everything from start to finish. From receiving Cathy’s frantic phone calls, the unpleasant encounter with Tom James, finding Henry and Donaldson and then Cathy’s body. At least that was his plan, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, Alison burst in.

‘I need some help,’ she said, clearly distressed. ‘There’s trouble in the bar.’