Facing Justice

SIXTEEN

With a touch of longing, Flynn watched Alison and Henry climb into her car and drive back to the Tawny Owl. He closed the door slowly and touched the repaired cut on his head, so tenderly fixed by Alison’s gentle fingers.

It had been some time since Flynn had been with a woman. He had lost interest, become bored and wary of the ‘man-woman’ love thing, preferred to concentrate on his job as skipper of the best sportfishing boat in the Canaries. He had a lot of ground to make up with Adam Castle, the owner, and had paid him back by effort and dedication to the cause, that being bringing in the biggest fish most consistently. The last customer had been somewhat unfortunate. Never assault a customer. Never — even if they deserve it.

Flynn had done some playing about in the foggy aftermath of the relationship with the woman he had so unexpectedly fallen in love with. One night stands, meaningless fornication with a succession of willing ladies, easily seduced by the hot weather, a muscle-bound, suntanned skipper and jugs of Sangria. But Flynn had soon tired of it. It was a lifestyle he’d once enjoyed, but the glint of the future he’d seen with ‘that woman’, as he now referred to his tragic lover, now made him want much more from a — the hated word — relationship. He’d retired into his shell and concentrated on work instead.

But Alison’s touch, her closeness, her breath, had stirred something inside him. And the signal it gave was that he now wanted to move on in his life, and possibly Alison might be just the lady to drag him out of his emotional doldrums.

That’s if he read her right. He knew he was a bit of a Neanderthal when it came to sussing out what the female of the species meant or wanted. So perhaps he’d got it wrong. Maybe she was just being nice.

And, he thought realistically, what chance would there be of any relationship with her? It would, by simple fact of geography, be a hit and miss job. She didn’t strike him as someone who would want a long-distance relationship, and to be truthful, nor did he.

‘Think I’m getting ahead of myself here,’ he muttered as he walked back into the office and checked on Callard. Still affixed to the radiator, asleep and making one hell of a medically dodgy noise. Flynn backed off into the hallway and picked up the sawn-off shotgun that had been left propped up there. He hooked his thumb under the trigger guard and carried it through to the kitchen, laying it gently on a worktop.

As he inspected it his mind shuffled back over the day he’d just had. He blew out his cheeks as his intuition told him that something very horrible was happening in this village. Not a great insight, bearing in mind what had happened so far on his watch, but incredible just the same. He dearly wanted to speak to Tom James again, because he knew, gut feeling, that he had a lot to answer for.

He was aware of the lights, the sound of a revving engine, the slamming of a car door.

Flynn stirred listlessly, shaking his head, not even remembering falling asleep on the settee in the front lounge. It must have come over him without warning. He rubbed his eyes, wondering how long he’d been under. He sat forward, trying to recall what had woken him, then jumped up and almost went headlong over the prone figure of Roger, spreadeagled at his feet, oblivious to any noise, in a deep slumber, not even reacting to Flynn’s feet.

Then he heard the front door crash open.

‘Cathy, Cathy, where the hell have you been?’ Tom James shouted angrily as he came into the hallway.

Flynn’s mind clicked into gear. Cathy’s Shogun was parked outside. The sound that Flynn had heard must have been Tom returning from wherever he’d been. He twisted into the hall and came face to face with the detective.

Flynn’s appearance caught him unawares. ‘You! What the hell are you doing here? Where’s Cathy?’ Then he saw Callard laid out by the radiator in the office. ‘What the fuck’s been going on here?’ he demanded. ‘Who’s that? What the hell’s-?

‘Hey, man, calm down,’ Flynn said peaceably. ‘That bloke’s a prisoner.’

Tom glowered. ‘Whose prisoner?’

‘Hey, long story, pal…’

‘Don’t you freakin’ “pal” me… where’s Cathy? Is she here?’ Flynn couldn’t find the words for a reply. ‘Well, come on, numb-nuts, what’s going on, where the hell is she?’ He barged past Flynn into the kitchen, calling her name and coming to a jarring halt when his eyes clamped on the sawn-off shotgun.

Flynn was behind him, at his shoulder.

‘What is that doing here?’ Tom asked coldly and turned slowly to Flynn. ‘What’s going on? Why is this gun in my house? Where is Cathy? What’s that bastard doing in my house? And why are you here?’

Roger, having eventually been roused from his deep sleep, snaked around Flynn’s legs, came between him and Tom, then rose delightedly on his creaky hind legs, placing his massive front paws on Tom’s chest, giving a little ‘woof’ of greeting.

Tom’s right forearm drove the dog roughly sideways, twisting his arthritic hips, so Roger went down awkwardly with a squeal of pain.

‘Fuck off, dog.’

‘Hey — no need for that,’ Flynn said.

Roger cowered, ears back, tail turned inwards between his back legs. If there could have been an expression of disbelief on his face, it would have been there.

Tom jammed a finger into Flynn’s chest. ‘My house, pal — now where is she?’ He had a rage that was becoming uncontrollable and Flynn was wondering why. Why would he be so incensed to find his wife’s car back home? Even if they’d parted on bad terms, surely Tom wouldn’t be so annoyed to have her return? OK, a drunken prisoner in the house might well infuriate him, especially as the stench emanating from that direction was telling them he had pissed himself. But under the circumstances, with the weather having cut the village off, Tom would surely have understood that if Cathy had been obliged to make an arrest, then she would have been just as obliged to keep the prisoner here.

Obviously Flynn knew what had happened to Cathy. But, he speculated as he listened to the policeman’s rant, did Tom also know? And was the sight of her Shogun and the shotgun a warning that her body had also been found? Was he now putting on an act?

‘You need to calm down,’ Flynn said evenly.

‘Why, exactly? Why do I need to calm down? I come home and find my house violated and you here.’ He pointed at Flynn, his face ugly with hatred. ‘Someone my bitch of a wife called and blabbed to, who then turns up like a puppy dog, because you shagged her, didn’t you?’

Flynn coloured uncomfortably. ‘That’s not why I’m here — and you know it.’

‘So why are you here? And where is she? And what’s going on with that prisoner? Who arrested him? It can’t have been-’ He stopped himself mid-sentence. ‘Start talking.’

Flynn sighed. ‘You need to calm down. Look, come and sit in the lounge and we’ll get all this sorted. I need to make a phone call.’

‘To Cathy? Where the hell is she?’

‘Just sit down, eh?’ Flynn was frantically using his hands in calming gestures. ‘Let me phone Henry Christie — it’s down to him to explain everything.’

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.’

Tom hesitated and Henry thought he was going to kick off on the subject of being ordered about in his own home. Henry prepared himself, but Tom backed down and sank slowly on to the settee, his face telling the story of his unhappiness with the situation. Henry gave him a curt nod, left the room and followed Flynn into the office.

‘I thought you’d want to see this,’ Flynn whispered. He had the crumpled, but flattened message on the desk next to the message pad binder. Henry looked, but his mind wasn’t completely on what Flynn was showing him. The two men were standing side by side at the desk, two big men, but Flynn had the upper hand in terms of height, breadth, fitness, age and sun tan.

Almost without moving his lips, Henry said, ‘He tells me you and Cathy were lovers.’ His eyes moved sideways, like an Action Man figure, checking Flynn’s reaction. ‘Something you failed to mention… Oh, what a tangled web,’ he added cynically.

Flynn’s nostrils dilated and he coloured, his tan glowing extra red. ‘If you call a one night stand twenty-odd years ago at training school being lovers, and nothing since, just a distant friendship.’ His face tilted a few degrees, eyes searching the detective’s face.

‘Seems she didn’t think the same.’

Flynn swallowed, clearly shocked. ‘BS. He’s throwing you a line — and you know it.’

‘Bullshit you didn’t care to share with me.’

‘As I recall, we were rudely interrupted by chummy here.’ Flynn pointed to Callard. ‘Just as I was about to reveal everything. And it’s not as if you needed to know.’

‘Oh, I think I did. Puts a whole different complexion on things, don’t you think?’

‘She called me for help, as a friend — yesterday, when I was in Gran Canaria. I came, found her dead — who the hell do you believe? Me or him?’

Henry could not find it within him to respond instantly — a pause, a beat that told its own story, which made Flynn tut and roll his eyes with frustration. His history with Flynn and all the controversy surrounding his departure from the police had clearly soured him towards the man. He knew it, fought it, but could not hide the surfacing prejudice. ‘Put it this way,’ he conceded, ‘I haven’t told him she’s dead yet.’

Flynn exhaled with relief. ‘You’ve been playing him.’

‘Oh yeah… So, what am I supposed to be looking at here?’

Pulling himself together, Flynn explained. ‘This is the message about the poacher, dated yesterday, anonymous caller, timed fifteen thirty hours.’

‘Why is it so crumpled?’

‘You don’t need to know.’

‘I probably do, but go on.’

‘It’s in Tom’s writing.’

‘And your point is?’

‘I’ve checked through the phone’s memory and there is no record of anyone having called here at that time. Someone called earlier about straying animals, which is logged, but the only other calls received here are the unanswered ones I made. There’s no record of a call where the number is withheld and this phone does record them. No one called here at three thirty, anonymous or otherwise, unless it’s been deleted.’

‘Could have been a personal caller at the door,’ Henry ventured.

‘Or made up.’

As they were talking, the phone rang and Henry picked it up. ‘Yes, this is he… Oh, hello… go on…’ Henry listened carefully, then said thank you and hung up.

‘As I was saying… I think this is a lie, made up by Tom for some reason. He sent her out to get killed, or something,’ Flynn concluded hazily. ‘It doesn’t add up, anyway.’

Henry nodded, trying to take in what Flynn was trying to say, and the content of the phone call just received.

‘That was Alison on the phone,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s been talking to Ginny, her stepdaughter… Apparently Ginny saw Cathy drive past the pub yesterday, just after five o’clock. In the Shogun… only she wasn’t alone, Tom was with her. Thing is, she also saw Tom walk back about an hour later, alone… he told me she went out alone to the poacher.’

The two men digested the words, then slowly turned to a noise at the office door.

Tom James stood there, a tired, desperate-looking individual. But in his hands he held the sawn-off shotgun, the one that had been taken from Callard and which Flynn had left unattended in the kitchen. He raised the weapon to gut height and aimed it loosely at a point somewhere between the two men. His finger hovered over the double trigger.

‘Guys, you’re too smart for your own good and I really don’t have time for this.’