Facing Justice

TWENTY

Entering the Tawny Owl had been easy, simply because the front door next to the revolving door had been left unlocked unwittingly by Danny Bispham, whose mind had been on other things. They had parked their vehicles down the road and run silently through the snow, each of the three men in black, ski masks pulled down over their features, had gone in through the front door and into the bar which was in darkness, other than for the faint glow of some low-level security lighting. The bar itself was secured by a roll-down metal mesh, and all the chairs had been upended on to tables for cleaning purposes.

The men halted just inside the pub, allowing their vision to become accustomed to the relative darkness and the geography of the place.

Jack Vincent was lead, shotgun ready, fingertip laid across the trigger. He also had a semi-automatic pistol tucked into the waistband at the back of his black jeans.

‘OK guys,’ he said and began to move them forwards to the door which led up to the first floor accommodation. That was when the staff-only door had been flung open and the blood-soaked figure of Danny Bispham came out, dancing like a drugged-up raver. Vincent’s mind didn’t fully compute what it was seeing, the fact that Bispham was being held by someone else, but he reacted in the only way he could, by pulling the trigger and blowing a hole in Bispham’s chest.

Bispham’s absence was only noticed by Sim Riddick when he sat up on the double bed in urgent need of a piss.

The pair of them, Riddick and Bispham, were sharing one of the bedrooms that the group had muscled into and intimidated the landlady into allocating to them. Napier and the boss, Jonny Cain, were using the other — sort of. Cain had instructed his men in no uncertain terms that they had to keep awake and alert just in case Jack Vincent should try anything else. Napier had been posted outside Cain’s bedroom to keep guard on his boss. Out there in the corridor, miserable, Napier had slithered down the wall, knees drawn up and his forehead wedged on them. He’d had too much to drink to be much use as a watchman, as they all had, and he had fallen quickly asleep, annoyed by the thought of Cain lording it in comfort in the double bed. ‘Boss’s privilege,’ he muttered. The gun wedged in his waistband caused him discomfort but did not prevent his eyes from shutting, and he quickly nodded off.

In the other bedroom, Cain had ordered at least one of the men to keep watch from the window which overlooked the front of the pub, whilst the other crashed out. So long as one of them kept nicks, it didn’t matter if the other was snoring. They worked it out between them: Bispham would take the first couple of hours and Riddick could get some sleep.

All four men had been anticipating action that night, but Cain had knocked any thought of reprisals on the head because of the presence of the cop, Christie. Cain decided that his revenge could wait another day and take place in another arena, but he couldn’t say the same for Jack Vincent, which was why he ordered his men to keep on guard.

Bispham had pulled a chair to the window and lit up, despite the no smoking rule of the premises. He opened the window a crack and blew his smoke out of it in order not to activate the ceiling-mounted alarm and rouse the whole establishment.

He was also fuming internally. His humiliation at the hands of the big fucking American who had knocked him on to his arse and almost broken his nose was making him seethe with fury. Most people he met and had confrontations with either backed down with their tails between their legs, or he took them on and beat them mercilessly. Despite his stature — he wasn’t a big man — he had an evil temperament coupled with an innate joy at inflicting violence and had often pounded people to the ground, smashing them down, making them beg. He especially enjoyed abusing women.

But even Bispham knew he’d met his match with the Yank. Not only was he a very big guy, but he had a look about him and the eyes of a killer. Bispham realized he would get no revenge on him… but the girl, well, she was another matter.

His eyes glazed over lustfully and he stroked his ponytail and touched his throbbing face as he considered the ways in which he would assault her. That would be his revenge on the American — revenge by proxy.

Jonny Cain’s orders meant nothing to him sitting at that window, his rage smouldering. OK, Jack Vincent may well have sent some ludicrous drunk to have a pop, but the chances of anything else happening that night were slim to zero, especially with the weather being like it was, killing everything. Cain was the main man, Vincent and his pathetic cronies mere nothings. They wouldn’t dare try anything.

And that was how Bispham justified his decision. He flicked his cigarette out of the window, checked on Riddick who was spreadeagled on the bed, pants unzipped, already asleep. He was in a sequence of breathing that would lead to snoring.

Bispham stood up quietly, walked past the bed to the door, stepping out and stopping when he clocked Napier in the corridor, expelled from Cain’s room. He was also asleep. He trod quietly down towards the steps and came out on the ground floor in the bar area. To the left was the door leading to the living quarters.

He went outside to the Range Rover and got the tyre lever from the boot. Coming back into the pub he hadn’t even thought about locking the outside door. He then went to work on the inner door, prising it open around the keypad lock using the tyre lever as a jemmy. He’d broken through tougher doors in his past, and in a moment he was through into the corridor.

Already, in his excitement, the blood pulsed in his groin. He walked silently along the carpet, wondering how he would find the room he wanted. The sign on it, ‘Ginny Sleeps Here,’ was just a bit of a giveaway.

A growl came to the back of his throat. He opened the door and saw her all nicely cuddled up in bed, all warm, safe and ready for him.

Too many beers woke Sim Riddick. He sat up quickly, dreaming he had been urinating, but thankfully it was a dream. He swung out of the bed, groggy, then saw that Bispham had gone AWOL. Riddick guessed that his mate would be paying the waitress a midnight visit.

‘Tosser,’ Riddick murmured and went into the en suite to pee. Relieved, he came back into the bedroom, glanced out of the door and saw Napier asleep in the corridor. He padded over to the bedroom window where Bispham had been sitting, drew back the curtain and looked sleepily at the whitewashed view. At which point his heart nearly stopped.

The three masked figures, each carrying a weapon, running at speed up the road made him discharge an anguished cry of terror.

‘Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he gabbled, fastening his pants, stumbling around to find his shirt and shoes, then falling out of the room into the corridor. He booted Napier in the backside, then pounded desperately on Cain’s door, before barging through and yelling, ‘They’re here, for fuck’s sake, they’re here. And they’re tooled up.’

Cain sat up dazedly. Napier stood behind Riddick, a stupid expression on his face.

‘Get the guns,’ Cain said calmly after shaking his head.

‘What you reckon, boss?’ Henderson asked, his voice muffled by the ski mask that had slipped slightly askew and now covered part of his mouth.

‘That guy’s not one of ’em,’ Vincent said breathlessly, now hyper after shooting Bispham. He was referring to the man who had chucked the unfortunate Bispham at them, then retreated behind the thick door and locked it. ‘We’ve got one down, only three to go.’ His eyes shone wild and evil from underneath the ski mask slits.

‘The element of surprise has gone down the shitter,’ Henderson mumbled.

‘In that case, we move fast and hard, but remember, try not to kill Cain. He’s cat food.’ Vincent trotted to the door that opened to the narrow flight of stairs leading up to the first floor rooms. He pinned himself to the wall, opened it cautiously, then spun in and arced the shotgun through the tight angle in front of him. ‘Clear,’ he called and led the way, taking the stairs two at a time.

He emerged warily on to the landing, the corridor ahead, off which were the two guest bedrooms on the left side, about thirty feet from where he stood. Henderson and Shannon were lined up behind him, flattened to the wall.

But before they moved, the second bedroom door along opened and a man — Riddick — stepped out incautiously, saw the three of them and yelled something, caught completely by surprise.

Vincent fired the shotgun instinctively, catching Riddick in the right shoulder and spinning him away from the door across the corridor like a top. As Vincent racked the shotgun again, Henderson stepped out of line and fired a short burst at Riddick from the machine pistol he was brandishing. Even though they were badly aimed, a diagonal line of bullets sprayed across Riddick’s body.

Suddenly Napier contorted out of the bedroom and loosed a couple of rounds off with the heavy pistol in his hand, somehow catching Shannon at the back of the line, one bullet grazing along his forearm. Napier managed to duck back into the room before Vincent could fire the shotgun again, which he did, splintering off a chunk of door frame.

Shannon fell back with a scream, clutching his arm. ‘He fucking shot me!’

Vincent ignored him, ran on low, then pivoted as he passed the bedroom, catching Napier completely by surprise, not expecting such a fast and aggressive move. He had only stepped back a couple of feet into the bedroom, working up the courage to lean out again and have another couple of shots.

The shotgun was aimed low and the blast smacked into Napier’s lower belly and groin, hitting him like a steam hammer. The blast doubled him over and sent him back across the room where he sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, looking down at his wound with disbelief. This was replaced by agony and he fell back, screaming and writhing in agony, his hands covering his guts.

Vincent’s momentum carried him on past the door, almost tripping over Riddick’s convulsing body. He stopped, flattened himself against the wall next to the bedroom door. Henderson took up a position on the other side of the door, with Shannon still on his backside, desperately holding his wounded arm.

‘You want us to come in, Jonny?’ Vincent shouted.

‘Go fuck,’ Cain said from the bedroom.

‘You want to know what happened to H. Diller and Haltenorth? I stuck ’em in a crusher, now they’re in the foundations of a motorway bridge.’

‘That’s supposed to make me want to come out?’ Cain said. He was on one knee behind the bed. Napier was rolling and moaning back and forth across the bed, spreading vast amounts of blood across the sheets and calling for his mother.

‘If you come out, we can talk.’

‘About what? You owe me money, end of. I want it back.’

‘You’re not going to get it.’

‘Figured that. So what’s to talk about?’

‘Not much, I guess. Other than to tell you you’re out of business and we’re taking over.’

‘We?’

‘Yeah, me and Tom.’

‘Your tame cop?’

‘Whatever — anyway, the choice is yours. You can walk out of there alive if you want and then walk away, or we’ll just come in on the count of three and blast fuck out of you. You won’t even get the chance of a lucky shot.’ As he was talking, Vincent was expertly reloading the shotgun — back to a full load of five in the magazine and one in the breech.

‘I’ll walk out of this alive?’ Cain said. In front of him, Napier stopped rolling. His agony had passed now. He was dead.

‘It’ll make our takeover easier.’

‘Maybe I don’t want you to take over… and whatever happens here, pal, you’re dead men anyway.’

‘OK, fine,’ Vincent said, not really taking in the meaning of Cain’s words. ‘I’m going to start counting now, Jonny. I don’t do small talk. You get up now and throw your shooter down and come out and you’ll live. That’s it, chatter over… One… two…’ Vincent eyed Henderson, who was obviously ready.

Cain shouted, ‘I’m coming out.’

Vincent backed away from the door, stepped a third of the way across the width of the corridor, and trained the shotgun on the open door. Henderson mirrored his actions, so the two of them had weapons aimed diagonally at the open door.

Cain came to the door, hands clasped behind his head.

‘Face away from me,’ Vincent ordered.

With no fear in his face, Cain turned around. Vincent stepped smartly up behind him and smashed the butt of the shotgun on to the back of Cain’s closely cropped head, splitting the skin and sending him straight down to his knees. He followed this with another blow which pivoted Cain on to his face, but still did not knock him unconscious. The next four blows managed to accomplish this feat.

Another strong coffee in hand, two more painkillers down his throat, Henry sat on the dining chair that Flynn had positioned for him in the office doorway. The coffee was in a mug resting on his thigh and tasted wonderful, but even the caffeine wasn’t having the desired effect of keeping him alert. It worked for a moment, giving him a quick energy burst, but then his overwhelming tiredness cut in and rushed through him, unstoppable.

His head fell. He jerked it up with a mumble and tried to keep his eyes open, and glanced at Tom James who was watching him carefully. Tom hadn’t dozed, but seemed to be waiting for Henry to do so.

Henry was suddenly envious of Karl Donaldson, who he imagined to be curled up in Ginny’s comfortable warm bed, snoring contentedly.

‘You can’t afford to drop off,’ Tom warned him.

‘Don’t intend to.’

‘Neither does the car driver who falls asleep at the wheel. Then look what happens — a fatal.’

Henry sighed deeply and masked a yawn. The sudden inrush of oxygen brought him round a little, but he knew what Tom said was true. The way things were going he’d be asleep before he knew it, although the excruciating pain in his shoulder did help to keep him awake.

‘Top up?’

Alison had returned from the kitchen with a jug of newly filtered coffee. Henry downed what was left in the mug and held it up for a refill. She poured carefully, holding the cup in place, giving Henry a hidden smile.

‘Thanks.’ It was hot and strong. ‘Where’s Flynn?’ he asked quietly. Alison gestured with an upward spiralling movement of her head — upstairs.

‘He thinks we’re under siege,’ she said.

‘It sort of feels that way for some reason.’

Alison took the coffee back to the kitchen and returned with another chair, placing it next to Henry but out of line of sight of Tom.

‘You look whacked,’ she said, keeping her voice low.

Henry angled slightly towards her and their knees brushed gently. ‘I have never been so utterly knackered in my life.’

‘How’s the shoulder?’

‘Stiffening up. Getting sore, despite the drugs. Hurts.’

Alison leaned forward to check on Tom, whose forehead was now resting on his up-pulled knees. This meant she was touching Henry and their faces were just millimetres apart. She stayed in the position longer than necessary and Henry could smell the aroma of her hair, which almost touched his face. He could see the skin of her neck and feel the softness of her breast just touching him. His heart missed a whole bar of beats, but at least the contact brought him wide awake again as probably the last shot of adrenalin left in his system spurted out.

She sat back up. ‘I don’t throw myself at men,’ she whispered. ‘But after this is over, do you think we could meet for a coffee somewhere?’

‘I’ll have to come back for statements.’

‘Good,’ she smiled — and Henry suddenly felt very stupid. He knew there was no chance of anything going anywhere with her. He was happily married, second time around to the same woman, and he was going to do nothing to spoil that. But there was something in him that found it very hard to say no, something still quite juvenile and reckless. He harangued himself internally for even thinking about kissing another woman than his wife.

His thoughts were interrupted when from upstairs there was a crash of a door slamming shut and the sound of Flynn’s heavy footsteps. Tom raised his head, a sly, knowing look on his face. Flynn thundered down the stairs.

‘Henry, problem. Two guys approaching, blacked up, weapons,’ he said urgently, then explained, ‘I’ve been watching from an upstairs window.’

A bleary-eyed Laura Binney appeared at the top of the stairs, squinting as though she had just woken up. Roger was at her legs.

The phone in the office started to ring.

‘You sure?’ Henry said.

‘I know men in black carrying guns when I see them.’

Henry stood up, crossed to the office desk and snatched up the phone. Before he could say his name, Tom James sneered, ‘And so the fun begins.’

Donaldson dressed quickly, ignoring the recurring stomach cramps and ankle pain, then after instructing Ginny to stay well back, he approached the door leading out to the bar. He listened hard, but could hear nothing, being aware that the thickness of the doors and walls in this old pub meant hearing anything happening in any other part of the building was virtually impossible.

He drew the bolts back slowly, opened it a crack. He turned back to Ginny, who was peering fearfully out of her mother’s bedroom, and mouthed, ‘Lock it behind me.’ Holding his breath, he stepped out into the bar where the body of Danny Bispham still lay, but was not now twitching. The three masked men had gone but the door up to the first floor was ajar and he could hear voices and thumping noises, the sound of people coming back down the steps.

He did not panic, but stepped across into the darkness of the dining room and flattened himself against the wall in a position where he could see, but not be seen.

They came downstairs seconds later. Two of them dragged the semi-comatose Jonny Cain between them, their arms scooped under his armpits. The third guy followed at Cain’s outstretched feet, one of his arms held across his chest. Donaldson could see the man had been injured.

At the front door, one of the men holding Cain said, ‘Hang fire.’ He pulled his arm free, took a couple of steps towards the bar and raised the shotgun he was carrying. He fired four holes into the security mesh, the shot spraying out and shattering optics and glasses on shelves behind the bar. Then he turned back, grabbed Cain again and dragged him through the door.

Donaldson came out of the shadow, walked across to the front window and watched Cain being hauled through the snow of the car park. They dragged him to the back of his Range Rover, opened the back door and lifted him in. Two of them got into the Range Rover, the third, injured man jogged down the main street to a heavy goods vehicle parked a short distance away.

Donaldson stepped back over Bispham, then climbed the stairs to the first floor and walked along the corridor, sniffing the cordite from the shotgun discharges, noting bullet holes in the ceiling and the door frame splintered by the shotgun blast.

And, of course, Riddick’s body twisted and bloody at the far end of the corridor. Steeling himself, Donaldson looked into what had been Cain’s bedroom where he saw Napier’s body splayed across the bed, lying in vast amounts of dark blood, his guts blown out.

‘Oh my God!’

Donaldson spun, found Ginny behind him. He steered her away from the carnage, knowing there was nothing he could do for these men.

‘Got to call Henry,’ he said.

Henry listened as Donaldson succinctly described the events at the pub, his eyes flitting from Alison to Flynn and back. He had come out of the office with the phone to his ear and mee-mawed for Flynn to watch Tom whilst he spoke to the American.

‘Right — thanks, pal.’ He pressed the end call button and stared at Alison.

‘You got a problem, Henry?’ Tom shouted with delight.

‘Not as big as yours,’ Henry quipped.

Flynn had been standing close to Tom, peering through the Venetian blinds that he had closed after switching off the lights. ‘Behind the hedge now,’ he reported. ‘What was the call about?’

Even though he didn’t want to talk in front of Tom, Henry did not have much choice. ‘They’ve already paid a visit to the pub… no, it’s OK,’ he said, reacting to Alison’s gasp of horror. ‘Ginny’s all right… but three of Cain’s men aren’t and they’ve abducted Cain himself.’

‘I need to get back immediately,’ Alison said.

‘No, not yet,’ Henry snapped, ‘we need to see what’s happening here.’ He flicked off the hall light and went into the office to join Flynn at the window. Both men peered out through the crack. Flynn pointed out two black figures kneeling by the low hedge that formed the boundary of the garden. ‘I see them,’ Henry said tightly.

‘Henry, they’ve come for me,’ Tom explained. He began to get to his feet, but Henry slammed him back to the floor.

‘Stay there and keep quiet.’ Henry pointed a fairly meaningless finger at him.

Tom looked sadly at him. ‘Henry, this is too big for the likes of you. You need to let me go.’ He held up his wrists. ‘Let me go and no one else gets hurt — promise.’

‘You’re going nowhere, pal. Remember what I said about facing justice? Still applies.’

‘In that case, they’ll come by force, and people will get hurt. People like her.’ He jabbed a finger at Alison. ‘Do you want that to happen?’

Flynn took Henry by the uninjured arm and pushed him out into the hallway, stepping over Tom’s outstretched legs, giving the prisoner an aside as he passed. ‘Don’t give me a reason to rip your fucking lungs out, you bastard.’

Tom laughed.

In the hall Flynn whispered urgently. ‘Let’s get tooled up. Use the guns I found.’ He gestured to the kitchen. ‘We might need them and it’ll all be reasonable and justified if it all goes shit-shaped. If we have him covered, they might back off.’

Panic — that he tried to suppress — rose like bile in Henry and his overriding thought was that this was a real shitty end to a shitty day. ‘OK,’ he said heavily. Already his mind was a whirl of inquests, trials, cross-examinations, internal discipline boards, plus newspaper headlines, family crises and an uncomfortable future. ‘Make sure the guns are loaded, but they are a last resort, Steve, you know? Way down the line.’

‘I hear you — but it’s going to be a short line.’

Then there was a huge crash as something hit the front door, a rock, brick or stone, making everyone jump and duck, for it also sounded like a gunshot. Flynn dashed back to the front-room blinds.

One of the crouching figures was now standing in the driveway, holding up his hands to show he was unarmed. He was shouting something. Flynn relayed this latest scenario to Henry, who opened the front door an inch, then snaked past Henry to the kitchen to sort out the guns.

‘What?’ Henry called.

The figure was Jack Vincent. He cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice. ‘Just let Tom go, will you? That’ll be the end of this and we’ll be out of here, no probs.’

‘Not an option,’ Henry called back through the gap. ‘I suggest you back off now and start running so you can put some distance between you and the law. Give yourself a head start. That’s all I can offer you.’

‘Not good enough. If you don’t hand him over, we’ll just come and get him, then it’ll turn nasty.’

‘Why do you want him so badly?’

‘Because I like him.’ Vincent dropped his hands. ‘Look pal, just open the door and push him out.’

Flynn came up behind Henry. He fully opened the door and stood shoulder to shoulder with him, the very menacing-looking Skorpion machine pistol held across his chest. Henry saw it and quivered.

Vincent snorted and made a dismissive gesture. ‘Guys, if that’s the way you want it…’

He backed away and ducked out of sight behind the hedge.

Henry and Flynn reversed into the hall, closed and locked the door.

To Alison, Henry said, ‘You and Laura get into the dining room at the back of the house. I know you want to get back to the pub, but there’s no way you can go safely at the moment. Karl will look after Ginny — he will,’ he emphasized. ‘I’d trust him with my life.’

She nodded reluctantly and took Laura to the back of the house.

Henry got on the phone and called the FIM to bring him up to speed. As he was talking, the phone was ripped from the FIM’s hand and another voice came on the line, one Henry recognized instantly — the Chief Constable, Robert Fanshaw-Bayley. This was the man Henry had had a hate-hate relationship with for over twenty-five years. Normally Henry’s heart would have sunk without trace, but there was something reassuring in the gruff, unpleasant tones of FB, as he was known. He had obviously seen fit to turn out for this incident.

‘Henry, what the hell have you done this time?’ he demanded.

‘I’d argue nothing.’

‘Likely story. Look, you just keep calm. I’ve got a firearms team, a support unit serial, ambulance and fire service and the helicopter all en route to you. As far as they can go, that is. As soon as the council get off their fucking arse and get the snowploughs through, we’ll be with you.’

‘Thanks boss.’

‘In the meantime, keep a lid on it and tell that twat Tom James I’m going to have his guts when I get hold of him.’

‘I will.’ The call ended. Henry said to Tom, ‘The chief sends his regards.’ Tom scowled.

‘Did he have a message for me?’ Flynn asked.

‘Yeah, says you’re a twat.’

‘Ahh, I love him too.’

There was a noise. A noise that crept up on them from the background, building up. A vehicle. Getting louder as it got nearer. A big vehicle. Henry and Flynn frowned at each other. Flynn stepped over Tom’s legs again. Callard, still sleeping through everything, grunted something. Flynn looked out of the window.

‘Oh hell,’ he said, ‘remember that HGV that drove past?’ Henry recalled it. He joined Flynn at the window. ‘Well, it’s coming back.’

And there it was, bearing down on the house. Having turned off the road, it demolished the low garden wall and lumbered across the front lawn at the bay window of the lounge. It was the lorry that Vincent and his men had driven down to the village earlier. It came like a tank. At the wheel was Vincent’s injured man, Shannon, driving the huge machine easily despite his wound.

At the window, both men watched mesmerized as the lorry drove right into the bay window.

Vincent had taken up a position at the bottom of the drive, a machine pistol held at hip level. He pulled the trigger and sprayed the office window with a stream of bullets.

Henry pushed Flynn, who landed on Callard, as a line of bullets splattered through the window and thudded into the back wall.

The huge lorry plunged into the bay window with a crunching, cracking, grinding and howling engine noise, and that whole section of the house crumbled around the front of the vehicle like a pack of cards combined with a matchstick model.

Henry and Flynn untangled themselves, keeping down and scampering on all fours around the desk, only to see Tom’s legs and bottom as he did the same thing, but ahead of them. Taking advantage of the distraction, he’d crawled away. Henry lunged for him and got his fingers around an ankle. He held on, but Tom flicked himself over and kicked out repeatedly, one blow connecting hard with Henry’s wounded shoulder. He screamed and had to let go.

Flynn came up, trying to get the Skorpion ready for use.

Shannon slammed the lorry into reverse, and with another terrible crunching and tearing noise the vehicle backed out, leaving a huge hole in the front of the house as bits of concrete, stone, bricks and the PVC window frame crashed down.

In the hall, Tom rolled up on to his feet and threw himself at the living-room door, but he hadn’t accounted for Alison who had emerged from the dining room, terrified but needing to know what was going on. Behind her, the diminutive figure of Laura hovered. Alison had seen Tom kick Henry, then come to his feet and go to the door. She ran towards him and started to hammer punches on him.

At the same time, Vincent fired another burst from his gun, and bullet holes perforated a diagonal line across the front door. They were high and missed Alison, but one caught Laura and knocked her back into the dining room.

Alison automatically turned at Laura’s scream. Tom almost casually slid his cable-tied hands over Alison’s head, twisted with her, kicked open the lounge door, pulled her through behind him so she formed a shield then took her across the devastated lounge and out through the gap, ducking as a brick fell. She struggled, but Tom was big, strong and desperate.

Shannon had dropped out of the lorry, drawn a pistol and fired a couple of unaimed shots into the house, covering Tom as he backed away with Alison. ‘Come on, bitch, come on,’ he was saying into her ear.

Henry had seen her attempt to have a go at Tom, seen her distracted by Laura’s scream, but then had to drop to the ground instinctively as the bullets came through the front door, by which time Tom had taken Alison as a hostage.

Flynn came up behind Henry, crouched low.

Vincent put another half-magazine into the front of the house.

And then there was silence, followed by the sound of another vehicle drawing up.

‘Henry. Henry Christie,’ Tom shouted. ‘You can look — we won’t shoot.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Whatever… don’t fucking come for us, yeah? You haven’t got the manpower anyway — but if you do, Alison’s dead. Leave it twelve hours, then do what you have to do. Until then, if I see anything I don’t like, she’s dead, and I’ve seen how much you like her.’

A car door slammed, an engine revved.

From the back dining room, Laura screamed, ‘Oh God, oh God… help me.’

Flynn, still positioned on his haunches behind Henry, said, ‘You know she’s dead, don’t you? Whatever we do or don’t do — she’s dead.’

Callard, who had woken properly at last, raised his head and said, ‘He’s right.’