Facing Justice

SEVENTEEN

He rocked the weapon. ‘Move back to the wall. Go on, or I’ll blast you both.’

They hesitated, the initial shock on their faces now morphed into disbelief.

Henry, his mouth suddenly dry with fear, said, ‘Tom-’

‘Don’t speak,’ Tom barked.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ Henry said.

‘I said, shut your face.’

‘I don’t know what’s going on,’ Henry said, ‘but I’m ordering you to put the weapon down.’ By his own admission, Henry’s voice was shaky and nervous, but he tried to sound authoritative, hoping for once in his life he could pull rank.

Tom laughed harshly. ‘Just get back to the wall,’ he said calmly and gestured with the gun, making them realize that if it was discharged in this small area, both would be seriously injured if they were standing close to each other. Effectively they would form one big target.

Henry nodded. ‘Do as he says.’ He touched Flynn and pushed him gently backwards and slightly away. His thought was that if there was some distance between them there would be more chance of survival and maybe the possibility of overpowering Tom. The latter option, though, was not Henry’s favourite. Flynn picked up on Henry’s chain of thought, taking a pace backwards and outwards away from Henry.

‘Stop,’ Tom said. ‘Keep together, backwards, side by side, nice ’n’ slow, then face the wall. If you go one foot apart from each other, I’ll kill you. Simple.’

They backed off carefully.

‘You know the gun’s not loaded, don’t you?’ Flynn said.

Tom gave him a pitying look, then said, ‘You screwed my wife.’

‘She wasn’t your wife. Not then, not even close.’

‘But she rubbed it in my face. Hey — you stopped moving. Keep going, right back to the wall.’

‘What’s going on, Tom? Is that what this is all about? Whatever it is, I can help you.’

‘Which cop drama did you get that line from?’

‘It’s true. Whatever’s happening, I can help.’

‘Henry — I very much doubt it.’ Their backs were up to the wall now. Next to the radiator to which Callard was affixed. ‘Turn round, noses to the wall.’

Both men rotated slowly, the shotgun trained on them. Tom had moved with them, keeping the same distance away from them, just out of arms’ length, enough of a gap for him to react if either should be foolish enough to make a heroic lunge. As they turned inward, their eyes met.

Henry’s lips were an inch from the wallpaper and when he next spoke, his voice was muffled. ‘Are you going to shoot us in cold blood?’

‘The only way.’

‘Just like you did Cathy?’ Flynn blurted.

Tom was directly behind them now. In a furious response he jammed the double muzzle of the shotgun into the back of Flynn’s neck, screwing the roughly sawn ends into his flesh. He pushed hard and banged Flynn’s mouth against the wall, knocking the inside of his lips against his teeth. Flynn screwed his eyes tight shut, tasting the blood, and imagining his throat being blown out. Tom leaned into him, mouth close to Flynn’s ear, breath hot on it. ‘Yeah — just like that.’

‘What did she find out about you?’ Flynn asked.

‘Too much, too much.’

‘You’ll never pull this off,’ Henry said, squinting sideways.

Tom backed away a few inches, the gun coming out of Flynn’s neck. ‘Oh, I will. Thing is, you guys turned up too soon, before I could get everything tickety-boo, so I need to wing it now. And as you know, Henry, the beauty of being first detective on the scene is that you can do anything you want. Mr Callard here, such a bad man, gets out of his makeshift cuffs, finds the weapon and blasts the brave detectives who arrested him, but then kills himself in drunken self-loathing. Take a bit of doing, but it won’t be a problem. As regards Cathy,’ he shrugged, ‘Mr Callard here is a known poacher, so I’ll pin that on him, too. Always planned to anyway. Him being dead will make that easy, too. Just another reason for him to take his own life, which was going down the shitter anyway.’

Henry tried to peer round at him. ‘Not a chance in hell, Tom — any detective worth his salt will see through that in a flash. It’ll all get too complicated. Your lies will screw you — as they already have done.’

‘Nah — cops’re thick.’

‘We’ll see.’

Tom raised the weapon up to the side of Henry’s face. Henry ground his teeth together and closed his eyes, but Tom swung the gun away in a short, flat arc and pointed it at Flynn.

‘For screwing my wife…’

Flynn gasped in terror as Tom’s fingertip curled on to the trigger.

But then from his position on the floor, Callard kicked out and smashed the steel toecap on his right foot hard into Tom’s shin, causing him to scream out in agony, twist around and discharge a single barrel upwards, tearing a huge hole in the ceiling above the men.

Flynn spun, as did Henry, as a cloud of white plasterboard poured over them.

Tom staggered backwards, but wasn’t going to be put off his chosen course of action because of a kick on the leg. He tried to bring the shotgun down, but Flynn launched himself low and hard. Flynn was extremely fit and fast and he moved quicker than Tom could have anticipated, but he still clicked his finger back on the second trigger, firing the second barrel at a slight upward angle.

Henry jolted back with a scream, clutching his upper chest and left shoulder.

Flynn ignored this and powered into Tom, who hacked down at Flynn’s unprotected head, catching him a glancing blow off the side of his head and cutting his ear. It knocked Flynn off track, and he smashed into the desk awkwardly.

Tom shrieked something incomprehensible, hurled the gun across the room, ran out of the office, slamming the door behind him, down the hallway to the kitchen.

Flynn came up into a one-kneed starting position and looked worriedly over at Henry.

Pale and wounded, Henry had crashed against the wall and slithered down, sitting there dumbly, his right hand holding his left shoulder. Blood oozed through his fingers.

‘Shit,’ Flynn uttered and scrambled over on all fours to Henry, whose terrified eyes played over Flynn’s face.

‘Just get him,’ he said to Flynn. ‘Don’t let him get away, whatever happens.’

‘You sure?’

‘What’re you going to do — operate on me? Go!’

Flynn gave a short nod, glanced at Callard who, still drunk and glassy-eyed, was sitting up, a look of horror on his face. Flynn got up and ran to the door.

The pain in Henry’s shoulder was incredible. It was like a dozen blunt needles had been hammered deep into his flesh. He took a long steadying breath and began to unbutton his shirt.

Flynn opened the office door cautiously, stepped into the hallway, paused, listened. He kept to the wall, using the staircase as part cover, and edged towards the kitchen, moved across the last gap and flattened himself against the wall next to the door frame. He reached for the handle, turned it slowly and opened the door a crack, trying to remember the layout of the room.

Pretty standard. A work surface immediately to the left of the door, on which he’d foolishly left the shotgun. Then ninety degrees to the sink and draining board, a gap where the back door was, another ninety degrees to another work surface, with cupboards along the walls, the door to the garage, cooker, and a huge fridge-freezer.

So — open the door and diagonally opposite, basically, was the back door.

Flynn felt something around his legs and his heart leapt. Roger, the German shepherd, had nudged him with his forehead. The old dog looked up kind of sadly.

‘I think you’re going to be an orphan,’ Flynn said and patted him.

But then the dog did what Flynn was hesitating to do — simply barged through the door into the kitchen.

Tom fired from the back door, two bullets smashing through the door panel by Flynn’s head. Flynn leapt backwards, slamming the damaged door. Another door closed and he knew Tom had gone outside.

Roger sat at the back door on his haunches, big tail wafting back and forth like a feather duster. Flynn glanced through the door to check that Tom had definitely gone, then ran back into the office to find Henry still propped up by the wall, his shirt unfastened to reveal the nasty-looking wound. He was touching it gingerly with dithering fingers as if it wasn’t real.

He looked up at Flynn, ashen, shaking. ‘I hope you’ve caught the bastard.’

‘Done a runner out back. Got another gun, a pistol of some sort I think.’

‘He seems pretty well armed.’

Callard, propped up on one arm, said, ‘He is.’

‘Is what?’ Henry said.

‘Well armed. That shotgun’s his. He gave it to me. They made me go and try to kill Cain.’

‘Ahh,’ Henry gasped as his finger touched the injury.

Flynn squatted down by him. ‘Phew — lucky.’

‘This is lucky?’

‘Two inches to the right and I’d be taking you to the butcher’s.’

‘Cheers… look, I think you need to find him… no, no, zap that. You don’t have to put yourself in any more danger. Let him go and let’s hope he goes to ground and not on a shooting spree. We’ll get back-up tomorrow, whatever the weather.’

‘I have a horrible feeling he’ll be back.’

‘Do you think you could get Alison back up here?’

‘Yeah, good idea. I think I need her again.’ He touched his ear that had been cut by the shotgun and rubbed the back of his neck where the muzzle had been skewered into his skin.

‘I meant for me… and can you let Karl know what’s going on?’

Flynn grinned, looked at Henry’s shoulder, feigned an ‘Ooh’ of pain. ‘Now do you believe me?’

‘I’d shrug, only it hurts too much.’ Henry winced. Sweat drizzled down his forehead; his face went a grey-blue shade.

‘Whatever,’ Flynn said and headed for the door, where he paused and turned to Callard. ‘Thanks mate — you saved us all.’

‘Unph,’ he grunted. ‘He’d’ve shot me too.’

‘Oh, for definite.’

Flynn left the room and went back into the kitchen, slid the bolt across the outer door, dropped the blinds over the windows. Roger was still there, watching him with interest.

‘If only you could talk,’ he said. The dog responded with a deep bark and a wag of the tail. ‘Maybe you can.’ Flynn patted his head and made his way back into the hall to the front door. He opened it slowly, looking at the snow-encrusted vista, his eyes drawn to Tom’s VW Golf behind Cathy’s Shogun on the drive. The inner light was on.

Then he saw the bob of a head just before the light went out.

‘He’s made it to his car,’ he yelled for Henry’s benefit, before bolting out. The Golf’s engine screamed as Tom reversed down the drive, slewing backwards, glancing off the back of Flynn’s hired car that Henry had parked on the road.

Flynn ran through the snow, unsure of what to do. Leap on the bonnet? Or the roof? The Golf slithered to a stop at an acute angle, then Tom slammed it into first, revved the engine and let out the clutch. The front wheels spun, tried to grip, sending a shower of slush up against the mudguards. The car veered forward as Flynn skated down the driveway and came alongside the car.

Tom raised the pistol and fired. The window shattered but the bullet missed, though only because a split second before Tom pulled the trigger, Flynn had completely lost his footing and smashed down on to his backside in the snow. He was sitting there, his jeans getting soaked, as he watched the Golf eventually get some grip and speed off. He sat there, watching the rear of the car, his mouth popping like Toad of Toad Hall.

He swore and clambered to his feet, brushing himself down in disgust, his eyes on the car as it gathered speed. Too much speed.

He was heading towards a mild right-hand twist in the road. Under normal circumstances it was nothing more than a kink, hardly even noticeable. But in the present weather conditions, combined with travelling too quickly, not concentrating properly as a result of all the other things that must have been swirling through Tom James’s mind, he yanked the steering wheel down, expecting the car to go where instructed. It did no such thing. So he slammed on and exacerbated the situation.

The car mounted the kerb with a sickening thud and smashed head first into the lamp post on that ever-so-slight curve.

Actually, he wasn’t travelling that quickly, maybe had got up to twenty-five miles per hour, but as he wasn’t wearing a seat belt, was only holding the wheel with one hand, a gun in the other, he could not even brace himself firmly for impact.

He was tossed forward in his seat and his lower face impacted on the rim of the steering wheel.

Then the crash was over.

Flynn made his way carefully to the car, approaching the last few yards at a crouch, coming in behind Tom’s right shoulder. Tom was slumped over, but moving, and just before Flynn got there, he opened the door and swung his legs out of the car. He saw Flynn, raised the gun, before his whole being turned to mush. He sagged, sank to his knees, still waving the gun, which he then dropped.

Blood oozed from a cut around his chin. He spat out a gobful of it on to the white snow.

‘I’m hurt,’ he said plaintively.

‘Tough,’ Flynn responded. He kicked the gun away into the snow, grabbed Tom’s bloodied shirtfront and pulled him roughly to his feet, then frogmarched him back to the house.

As Henry sat miserably on the side of the bath, stripped to the waist and shaking, Alison dabbed his wounded shoulder, squeezing out the disinfected cloth into the bloodstained water in the wash basin. Henry tensed himself for each touch, but the pain was less than it had been, thanks to some powerful, quick-acting analgesics Alison had produced from the medical kit she had liberated from Dr Lott.

Most of the time, Henry had his eyes closed. He didn’t mind the sight of blood, unless it was his own. Since first checking the wound he’d studiously avoided looking at it.

Alison had hurried back to the house on receiving a phone call from Flynn and had gasped when she’d seen Henry slumped by the wall in the office, blood running down his chest, splattered on the wall behind him. He’d tried to give her one of his famous — at least to himself — lopsided grins and tried to act brave, but it was a thin veneer. She had helped him up to the bathroom, where she had cleaned the wound after administering the painkillers.

She did a last wipe with an antiseptic pad and stood back. The pellet holes wept and seeped blood like a series of mini-taps, but it didn’t look as bad as at first. He could still move his shoulder and it seemed that the shot may have only entered the fleshy part and not penetrated the joint. It was not serious — at the moment — but still required proper hospital treatment, as at least half a dozen pieces of shot were embedded in him and Alison had no way of removing them. She was about to bandage the shoulder.

‘The sooner you get to a hospital the better,’ she told Henry. ‘There’s a real chance of infection and one way or another, you need to get there in the morning at the latest.’

‘Weather dependent.’

‘Stuff the weather,’ she said.

‘Yeah, OK. Thanks,’ he said pathetically.

‘It’s a good job Dr Lott was still in the pub. I was just about to shout last orders and clear the place when Steve phoned.’

‘Why didn’t he come, Dr Lott that is?’

‘It’s his weekly inebriation. He’s fit for nothing except dealing drugs. He just handed his whole kit over.’ She started to bandage the wound.

‘You’ve seen worse than this, then? Ow!’

‘Much. This is nothing, so stop being a baby.’

‘OK, nurse. What’s happening down at the pub, by the way?’

‘I’ve left Ginny to lock up, et cetera. She’ll be all right, she’s done it before.’

‘And Karl?’

‘Sent to bed. He wanted to come, but he’s really ill. He needs more TLC than you.’

‘And your guests, the ones in my rooms?’

‘Causing no trouble at all.’ She pulled the bandage tight, Henry juddered. ‘There, how does that feel?’

He gave her sad, puppy-dog eyes, although the pathos of his expression was tempered with the heavy bags of an old bloodhound, which probably spoiled the overall effect. She pecked him on the cheek, stood back and looked tenderly into his eyes, then with an even sadder inflection said, ‘I wish,’ and sighed.

Henry swallowed — which actually hurt. He hadn’t realized that his throat had a direct connection to his shoulder.

Flynn barged in, holding a tea towel to his ear. ‘What’s your plan of action, Henry?’ he demanded, then his face fell as he realized he had stepped into a moment. He said nothing, but his demeanour changed.

Henry inhaled deeply. A shiver of pain arced through his shoulder. He tried to ignore it, and applied his mind to more pressing matters.

Alison busied herself by swilling out the blood-splashed wash basin.

Henry wanted to go to bed, too. Instead of admitting that, he got up stiffly and reached for a clean shirt Alison had liberated from Tom’s wardrobe, easily big enough to fit Henry. He carefully slipped his arms through the sleeves.

‘First things first. I need to tell Tom formally that he’s under arrest for the attempted murder of you and me. Then I’m going to break the news to him about Cathy, although I suspect he knows we’ve found her. I’ll arrest him on suspicion of that.’ He turned to Alison. ‘We’ll need a statement from Ginny, by the way, saying she saw Cathy and Tom drive past, then only Tom came back.’ Alison nodded. Henry went on to Flynn, ‘I want to start a custody record, too.’

‘Locked up in his own home,’ Flynn quipped.

‘You’ve heard of house arrest, haven’t you?’

‘The cells are certainly filling up. Then what?’

‘Hold on to him until the cavalry arrives. I won’t be questioning him, or Callard. They’ve got some connection over the shotgun, if what Callard says is true about Tom giving him the gun…’

‘Which also connects Tom to Jonny Cain?’

‘It hadn’t escaped me.’

‘Let me talk to him,’ Flynn suggested.

‘Talk or torture? Anyway, you’re not a cop now.’

‘I never tortured anyone, not even close.’

‘Let’s not go there, eh?’ Henry buttoned up his shirt.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Flynn said.

‘Forget it.’ Henry tried to walk past him, his legs unsteady. But Flynn didn’t budge, blocked the way threateningly.

‘I said…’

‘Steve,’ Henry said tiredly, ‘when I investigated you, I turned over lots of stones.’ He arched his eyebrows pointedly. Flynn’s lower lip tightened. ‘OK,’ Henry relented, and glanced over to Alison, who was transfixed by the interaction. ‘The broken jaw of a witness against you in Rossendale?’ Henry held Flynn’s stare. ‘The drug dealer held over a balcony in Morecambe?’ Still they remained eye to eye. ‘A sock full of pennies on the guy in Preston… need I go on?’

Flynn’s expression changed subtly. His eyes dropped and, defeated, he stood aside for Henry to pass.

‘Now then, let’s have speaks with Tom James, soon to be ex-detective of this parish.’

As he was a man of action, being debilitated was driving Karl Donaldson crazy, especially with all the excitement going on at the police house. It was almost destroying him that he hadn’t been there in amongst the thick of it backing up Henry who, he had come to realize over the years, usually needed all the help he could get. He hoped that Steve Flynn was as handy as he appeared to be.

But Donaldson was more exhausted than he’d ever been in his life. Even when he’d been recovering from the gunshot he’d taken from a terrorist, he’d had more energy to deal with things. It had taken every ounce of his will power to put on the tough-guy act behind Henry when he’d been challenging Jonny Cain and his assorted rag-tags.

Now all he could do was think of sleeping.

The combination of food poisoning — an affliction intense and fatiguing like nothing else he had experienced — and the sprained ankle that had ballooned to double its normal size, had simply floored him. That, plus the ill-conceived walk across the moors through conditions that would have been a test even in the rudest of health.

He did have a lot to thank Henry for, however, although his friend’s reading of the weather could have been a mite more accurate.

‘This is my room.’ Ginny, Alison’s teenage stepdaughter, led him down the corridor towards the living room and stopped in front of a door.

‘Look, honey,’ Donaldson drawled, ‘I’m happy to crash out on the sofa. I don’t really want to put you to any trouble.’

‘Honestly, it’s not a problem. My mum has a huge bed and I’ve slept with her before, on girlie nights.’

‘If you’re sure…’

‘Course — and thanks for, y’know, flattening that arsehole. He deserved it.’ Ginny opened the bedroom door, revealing a sumptuous room in various shades of pink, with a very inviting three-quarter width bed. There was an en suite off to one side, and lots of teddies. She stepped in and Donaldson followed. ‘Well, this is it,’ she said shyly.

‘It’s great,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Thanks.’

She paused at the door before leaving. ‘Those men,’ she said, ‘they’re dangerous, aren’t they?’

Donaldson nodded.

‘Mm, thanks again.’ She collected her PJs and left Donaldson in the room. He tossed his rucksack on to the bed, then sat on it himself, feeling his bottom sink into its softness.

‘Ooh, nice.’ He eased off his trainers, swung up his legs and, still fully clothed, closed his eyes. Within moments he’d drifted off.

Tom had been put in the main bedroom across the landing from the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the wide bed, hunched sullenly over, his cable-tied wrists between his legs. He glowered grimly at Henry as he came into the room, blood from the gash he’d received in the car accident smearing his face, some drops on the light-coloured carpet.

The two men stared at each other, judging, until Tom looked away.

Flynn stood behind Henry, filling the door with his big frame.

‘This is shit,’ Tom said.

Henry did not bother with any preamble. He told Tom he was under arrest on suspicion of murdering Cathy James, plus various offences including the attempted murder of himself and Steve Flynn. He cautioned Tom and asked him if he understood what had been said.

‘No — how can I have murdered her?’

‘We’ve found her body, Tom.’ Henry waited for the reaction, but all he got was a subtle change in facial expression.

‘And you didn’t tell me? You didn’t tell me about my wife?’

‘I didn’t, but now I have.’

‘And you think I shot her?’

‘How do you know she was shot?’

‘Assumption,’ Tom said quickly.

As much as Henry would have liked to pick up on that little error, and what Tom had let slip when he was threatening him and Flynn with the shotgun, he knew this was not the time or place. Tom had to be taken to a proper cop shop and processed scrupulously by the book.

‘What’s happens now?’ Tom asked.

‘You’re under arrest and you won’t be going anywhere, and you won’t be dealt with until I can get you into a custody office. I won’t be questioning you, so we’re all going to have to sit tight until the weather clears and we can get out of the village.’

‘What a joke. Suppose I just get up and walk?’

‘You won’t,’ Henry promised him.

‘I want a phone call.’

‘Who to?’

‘A friend.’

‘Which friend?’

‘Just a friend.’

‘Denied,’ Henry said.

‘I want a doctor.’

‘Alison will take a look at you.’

‘I said a doctor.’

‘She’ll have to do.’

‘And I want a brief.’

‘Who would that be?’

‘Jacobson in Lancaster.’

‘I’ll find the number for you.’

‘And I want a shower. I need to clean off this blood.’

‘That can be arranged.’

‘I want it now,’ Tom insisted and held up his connected wrists. ‘Cut these things off, please. I can’t shower with them on.’

Henry, Flynn and Alison were on the landing. Henry was weak and woozy, the pain in his shoulder severe. Tom had been allowed to use the shower in the en suite off the main bedroom, which was where he presently was. They could hear the sound of the shower running, hear the combi gas boiler firing up to heat the water. Henry leaned against the wall and glanced at his shoulder. Little flowering spots of red were blossoming through the clean shirt like tiny flowers as the peppered wound continued to seep.

‘Are you going to hang around and help out?’ The question was directed at Flynn. ‘Once I know, then I can plan a bit better.’

‘I’m staying,’ Flynn said. ‘He killed my friend.’

‘OK, but no rough stuff. I think he’ll continue to be a handful, but I don’t want any OTT reactions. Everything measured, everything justified. I want to hit him as much as you.’

‘Fine.’

‘Right… what I need to do is call all this in and bring control room up to speed, see what the latest weather forecast is and find out how soon we can get assistance. Then I think it’ll probably be easier to get Tom downstairs, cuff him to a chair in the office and keep an eye on both men in one location. Even though I’d like to keep them apart, it’ll be easier for us.’

‘I’ll have that,’ Flynn agreed.

‘Alison.’ Henry turned to her. ‘If you’d be good enough to dress Tom’s cut face, that’d be great. Then you can head back down to the pub. You don’t have to stay here and I imagine you’d rather be down there with Ginny anyway. You’ve done more than enough. Thanks.’

‘Are you saying you don’t want me?’ she said, mock offended.

‘Not at all.’

‘I’ll see. I’ll phone Ginny after I’ve seen to Tom.’

‘OK.’ To Flynn, Henry said, ‘Can you stay up here with one foot in the bedroom? When he’s finished showering, have him get dressed, then bring him down to the office.’

‘Will do.’

‘And thanks,’ Henry said genuinely.

Flynn shrugged modestly. He glanced at Henry and Alison, sensing something between them, which meant he didn’t stand a chance with her. He shrugged mentally as Alison smiled at him.

The two went down the stairs, leaving Flynn at the bedroom door.

In the hallway, Henry paused and turned to her. ‘I hope this doesn’t sound sexist, but I could really do with a coffee. Would you mind seeing if you could rustle something up in the kitchen? I know I sound a bit pathetic, but I need a shot.’

‘Not a problem.’

Henry glanced into the office and saw Callard on the floor by the radiator. After all the action, he had fallen asleep again and was snoring. Something else caught Henry’s eye, but before he could even begin to realize its significance, there was a knock on the front door.

He opened the door.

On the front doorstep stood a young woman, no hat, the snow covering her head and shoulders. She looked forlorn, lost and unsure. Henry thought there was something familiar about her, but could not quite place her. At the same time, his mind was elsewhere, nagging him about what he had seen in the office, and even as the girl was on the step in front of him, he knew he wasn’t giving her his full attention.

‘Yes?’ he asked sharply.

‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ she said apologetically.

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Are you a policeman?’ Her eyes took in his appearance, widening as they saw his blood-speckled shoulder.

‘Yes.’

‘Please can I come in?’

‘Er, yeah, sure, sorry.’

She stepped into the hallway and stomped the snow off her boots. Henry put her at about twenty years old. She had a pretty face, spoilt slightly by an angular chin and a harsh look in her eyes.

‘What can I do for you?’ Henry asked, hoping it was nothing. He glanced distractedly into the office again, frowning.

‘My name’s Laura Binney.’

Henry forced his attention back to her. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Christie.’ Then he pointed at her and exclaimed, ‘You’ve been sat in the pub all day.’

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘I’m looking for my boyfriend.’

‘Right… and?’ A domestic situation was the last thing Henry needed. He estimated it would only be a few more seconds before he was propelling her back out the door. ‘Look,’ he said apologetically, ‘I’m just a bit busy right now. Can it wait?’

Her eyes moistened and searched Henry’s face. Her mouth quivered. ‘No.’

‘I’m afraid it might have to.’

Without further warning, she burst into tears with a loud wail, surprising Henry. ‘Hey, what’s up? Surely it can’t be that bad. You had an argument with him.’

‘It is bad,’ she blubbered through a torrent of tears. ‘I think he’s dead, I think he’s been murdered.’

The words, important as they were, desperately as they had been spoken, did not really register in Henry’s distracted mind. The thing that had caught his eye in the office suddenly made sense to his worn-out brain.

‘Shit — sorry love, hang on one second.’ He held up his right hand, palm out, in an ‘I’ll be back’ gesture, and rushed into the office. There was a cordless telephone on a base on the desk and a tiny red light on the base unit was flashing — blink, blink — indicating the line was in use somewhere else in the house. ‘Sugar,’ Henry uttered, thundered back out of the office, past the emotional and bewildered young woman, who watched him slack-jawed.

Alison came to the kitchen door, a puzzled expression on her face. ‘What is it, Henry?’

‘He’s got a phone up there,’ he said, then yelled upstairs, ‘Flynn — he’s got a phone in there.’ He started to leg it up, jarring his injured shoulder painfully with each footfall.

By the time he reached the bedroom door, Flynn was already at the door of the en suite, trying the handle. ‘Locked,’ he said.

‘Boot it down,’ Henry ordered, crossing to him and glancing at the bedside cabinets, noticing the empty base of a cordless phone on one of them. Somehow Tom had managed to sneak the phone into the shower room.

Flynn stepped back. He had kicked down lots of doors in the past, loved doing it. Something he missed. He lined himself up and flat-footed the door by the gold-plated handle. It was a flimsy interior door and splintered spectacularly as it disintegrated and crashed back on its hinges, which only just stayed screwed to the frame.

Henry pushed his way past and found Tom, who had not even stepped into the shower, though he had turned it on in order to fool Henry. He had the cordless phone in his hand and his thumb was frantically pressing buttons. Henry strode to him.

‘Give me the fucking phone,’ he demanded and tried to snatch it.

Tom jerked it away, thumbed the last button, the phone beeped, and then he handed it calmly to Henry, with a sly grin of triumph.

‘Who’ve you phoned?’ Henry asked.

Tom simply gave a weak shrug. ‘Just exercising my legal right,’ he said smugly.

Nine weapons were laid out on the table. Four pistols, four machine pistols. They varied in make, origin and quality. They had however been oiled, cleaned and loaded with ammunition that had been home produced in a back-street industrial unit in Manchester. Each gun had two spare magazines that had been emptied and reloaded so there was certainty that they were full, even if the quality of the bullets was occasionally suspect.

The ninth weapon was a five-shot sawn-off pump action shotgun, made in China, but with professionally produced cartridges.

Jack Vincent put down the phone. He looked at the other two men, Henderson and Shannon. ‘We’re one down, guys,’ he announced gravely. The men said nothing, their faces impassive. ‘But it makes no odds. We’re still going in because that fool Callard couldn’t do a simple thing, and then we’ll have another job to tack on immediately afterwards.’

‘And that would be?’ Henderson asked laconically.

‘To get the boss out of jail.’