Facing Justice

EIGHT

During his time as a cop, Flynn had hammered on many doors, especially when he’d been on the drugs branch. Somehow an instinct was acquired as to whether anyone was at home, but on this occasion it didn’t take the greatest detective in the world to work out there was a reasonable chance someone was inside. The car in the garage was a bit of a clue, as was the presence of the dog. Maybe. Or maybe Tom was at work, had got a lift in, and no one was inside.

Flynn shrugged mentally. He thumped the side of his fist on the door, rattled the letter box and stuck his finger on the door bell, making enough noise to raise the dead.

They pushed against the worsening weather, heads bowed, for as they trudged northwards, the north-easterly came in at them from forty-five degrees to the right, continually buffeting them and making walking along some stretches of the narrow paths quite dangerous.

Henry led, Donaldson bringing up the rear, trapped in his own world. To the American it had all become a bit unreal and he was focused on nothing more than the function of putting one foot in front of the other and the huge effort that it took. What he wanted to do was succumb to the awful way he was feeling, the nausea that enveloped him, the pain that weakened him every time it shot across his lower guts, and the fact that he dared not even fart. He even chuckled at that thought — and then the pain wracked him again and sapped more energy. His knees were weakening all the time, his muscles beginning to feel soft and pudgy. He pushed on, hoping his physical fitness and his mental attitude would be his saviour.

Henry was maybe ten feet ahead of him, but as the sleet turned to proper snow and the wind whipped it around, it became a series of interplaying curtains in front of his eyes, making it hard to keep Henry in view.

A sudden panic came over Donaldson. He was a tough guy and had been in many life-and-death situations, but they had always been on level playing fields or, more usually, Donaldson had had the advantage. And with the exception of one major blip — when he’d come face to face with one of the world’s most wanted terrorists and almost lost his life — he had always come out on top. Because he was fit, healthy, strong and hadn’t eaten bad chicken the night before. He could hardly believe how terribly it was affecting him, how vulnerable it was making him feel.

Henry disappeared in a snow flurry. Donaldson shouted his name desperately.

And then he was back in sight, had turned and was waiting for him to catch up. ‘Jeez, man, I thought you’d gone.’

‘No mate, still here,’ Henry reassured him. ‘How’s it going?’

Donaldson shook his head. Not good.

Persistence paid off. Flynn saw the twitch of the curtain at the bedroom window and knew for certain. He waited patiently but when the door was still not opened he began banging again, using his knuckles for a short rat-a-tat, often more irritating than the bass drum knock with the side of the fist.

The dog continued to bark.

There was a shout from inside the house and the dog fell silent. Flynn heard a movement, a door closing, footsteps. Then behind the frosted glass inlaid in the UPVC door he saw a shadowy figure, heard the key turn in the lock and the door opened a couple of inches on the security chain.

Tom James’s face appeared at the crack, but not the clean-cut face Flynn remembered from last year’s honeymoon. The eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, bleary and shot with blood. He was unshaven and even from where he stood, Flynn could smell the body odour. At knee level, the dog’s long nose poked through the gap, sniffing, growling.

Tom didn’t even look directly at Flynn, just said, ‘What the hell d’you want?’ A whiff of stale booze came to Flynn’s nostrils.

Flynn hesitated. ‘Tom, it’s me, Steve Flynn.’

The detective’s eyes rose wearily. A glint of recognition came to them, but not friendliness. He did not unlatch the chain, simply said, ‘What’re you doing here?’ There was suspicion and challenge in the voice.

‘I was over here visiting family,’ Flynn fibbed. ‘Just had the chance to pop over and catch up with you and Cathy. On the off chance, y’know?’

‘Oh, very nice.’ Tom did not budge.

‘Is she about?’

Tom shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Right,’ Flynn said, expanding the syllable to indicate disbelief. ‘Er, any chance of getting a brew?’ he suggested. ‘It’s brass out here.’ He wrapped his arms around himself to prove his point and exhaled a steamy breath.

Tom considered him, put the door to and slid the chain free. ‘Come in,’ he said reluctantly.

‘The weather’s turning real nasty,’ Flynn observed.

The door opened. Tom was dressed in a dressing gown over a T-shirt and shorts, slippers on his feet. He fastened the gown, grabbed the dog by its thick collar. ‘He won’t do you any harm once you’re in,’ Tom said.

Flynn edged around the dog. It eyed him malevolently. It was a massive beast and he guessed it was the one Cathy had handled whilst she’d been on the dog section. The dogs were usually allowed to stay with their handlers when they left the department if they had a long-standing partnership, for in such cases it would be too problematic to re-establish an old dog with a new handler. Always better to start afresh. The dog did look quite old, greying like a human being, and Flynn guessed it would be around the nine year mark, if he did his maths correctly. However, its eyes remained sharp and keen, watching him enter the house and turn right into the lounge.

‘Nice doggy,’ he said.

‘His nickname was Lancon Bastard,’ Tom said. ‘But he’s a doddering old softy now, on his last legs, literally. He’s called Roger, of all things,’ he added tiredly and Flynn picked up that he wasn’t keen on the beast. ‘Grab a seat. I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘Great.’ Flynn sat on the settee, glancing around at the furniture and fittings in the bay-fronted room. Everything looked expensive. The soft leather three-piece suite, the forty-two-inch TV mounted on the wall over the fireplace, the surround sound to go with it, a Bang and Olufsen sound system and a series of watercolours that looked original. Through the front window he saw that the snow had thickened and stuck, already some depth to it, and he worried if he was going to be able to get out of the village today. Whilst he was thinking this, Roger was framed in the doorway, observing him.

Flynn turned his head slowly and smiled cautiously. ‘Hello, Roger,’ he said quietly. He could hear Tom in the kitchen, mugs being placed on work surfaces, the tap filling the kettle.

‘Where’s your mum, then?’ Flynn asked the dog. The ears twitched, so did the tail — in a friendly way, Flynn hoped. He held out his hand warily, hoping it wouldn’t be seen as a piece of meat to be chewed on. ‘You going to say hello?’ The dog didn’t move, but the tail wagged and the ears flickered uncertainly.

Tom appeared behind the dog, placed the sole of his slipper against its back hip joint and pushed the animal roughly away. ‘Shift, dimwit,’ he said and came into the living room bearing two mugs. He handed one to Flynn, then sat in an armchair. The dog, cowed by the push, stayed in the hallway, looking in.

‘So, Tom, how’s it going? How’s married life?’ Flynn asked brightly.

Tom’s mug had almost reached his mouth and stopped under his bottom lip as he considered the question. He looked through slitted eyes at Flynn and said, ‘OK,’ non-committal.

‘Good, good,’ Flynn said. He sipped his coppery-tasting brew. ‘Where is the lass, then? Out working?’

Tom shrugged. ‘Yeah, probably… haven’t actually seen her in a couple of days… shifts and that… ships that pass in the night.’

‘So you don’t know where she is?’ Flynn tried to phrase the question as unthreateningly as possible.

‘No, I don’t. I’ve been working a big case in Lancaster, so I’ve been doing all the hours that God sends. We’ll collide eventually, then we’ll be in each other’s hair for days,’ he laughed. ‘That’s how it is — cops who get married. Not easy.’

‘Yeah, guess you’re right.’

Tom looked across the room at Flynn, waiting. Flynn sipped his tea, feeling extremely uneasy. ‘Look, as a friend,’ he said, now trying not to sound too patronizing, ‘you sure everything’s OK between you?’

‘Has she phoned you? Is that why you’re here?’ Tom snapped. Before Flynn could answer, he went on, ‘Everything’s fine, OK? So, nice to see you and all that, but I need to get ready to get back to work. Need a shit, shave and a shower. You finish off your tea, let yourself out. Sorry you had a wasted journey.’ He rose to his feet and swept past Flynn, then up the stairs. Flynn watched him open-mouthed, then clamped his lips shut with a clash of his teeth.

The dog sat at the open door, ears back, tail swatting sideways, back and forth across the carpet behind him.

‘Some people, eh?’ Flynn laughed, and thought, Definitely not the same Tom James I met last year on holiday. Maybe that’s what marriage does to a person… hm, it did to me.

Flynn stood up and went into the kitchen, passing within inches of Roger’s big wet nose, hoping he wasn’t one of those sly dogs that let you in, then refused to let you out. He swilled his mug, then came back into the hallway. Ahead of him was the front door, to the left the lounge and to the right a door marked ‘Office’, leading through to the police station bit of the house. He glanced upstairs. He could hear Tom moving around and the sound of a shower being turned on. He looked at the dog, still sitting in the hallway, but having swivelled around ninety degrees to keep an eye on the stranger.

‘What d’you think?’ he said. The dog wagged its tail. Flynn took that as a yes, so he tried the office door and found it open.

‘What gets me,’ Henry moaned, ‘is that no matter how good and advanced technology gets, nature always has the last laugh.’ He shook his mobile phone and considered lobbing the useless thing into the snow. He didn’t, but was finding it increasingly frustrating that there was no signal to be had on his, or Donaldson’s, phone. They were sheltering under the lee of a rocky outcrop, out of the winds that had continued to strengthen and bring thick curtains of snow with them. Donaldson was huddled beside him, unable to even mouth a response as his illness became progressively worse.

Henry had drunk the last of his coffee and taken some from Donaldson’s flask, swapping the hot drink for a bottle of water, basing the transaction on the belief that it was important for Donaldson to keep his pure liquid intake up to compensate for the stuff leaving his body. Coffee wouldn’t be much good for him, even though they were entering a phase that Henry thought would be a balancing act. Donaldson needed to keep up his fluids, yes, and water was the best, yes, but he also needed to keep warm as the temperature dropped, and a few mouthfuls of coffee could help that. Maybe. Coffee, though, didn’t always have a beneficial effect on the bowels.

Henry finished his high-energy cereal bar that tasted of card, then stood up. The harsh wind blew into his face, so he dropped back down again, unfolded his Ordnance Survey map and tried to plot their current position using that and the woefully inadequate compass.

‘Where are we?’

Henry blew out his cheeks and placed a gloved finger on the map. ‘Here,’ he said confidently.

Donaldson did not even glance. ‘Let’s push on.’ He got up unsteadily, swung his rucksack on to his back, then doubled over in agony.

The office was pretty sparse. Desk, two chairs and a sturdy, old-fashioned filing cabinet. There was a cordless phone on a base on the desk, next to a charger for police radios. Pretty dull, even as offices go. Flynn glanced one more time up the stairs before putting his finger to his mouth, saying ‘Shush’ to the dog, and stepping through the door.

Items of female uniform, including a hat, were hung on a series of hooks on the wall. There was a message log on the desk, a ring binder in which every call-out was recorded by hand, whether it came from a member of the public ringing in directly, calling into the office in person, or a telephone or radio message received from the divisional comms room at Lancaster, the main station covering. Flynn knew it was procedure to log everything. He opened the binder with his fingertip, noticing there were two batteries in the charger, both with the green ‘fully charged’ lights glowing, and an actual radio next to this. Personal radios were issued to each individual officer now and Flynn assumed this was Cathy’s own radio, although it could have been Tom’s.

‘Mm,’ he said at the back of his throat. So wherever she was, he thought, she wasn’t in uniform and didn’t have her PR with her… maybe. Flynn wondered if she and Tom had argued and she had stormed out and was now holed up with a relative or in a hotel somewhere, licking her wounds. It was only speculation, nothing more, Flynn admitted to himself. He could be wrong on all counts. Perhaps Tom simply didn’t want to discuss a deeply personal situation. Flynn could empathize with that.

A blank block of message pads was crocodile-clipped to the left side of the message log binder, with several days’ worth of messages inserted on to the steel rings on the right-hand side. Flynn started to peek at the top message, which was handwritten — he assumed, by Cathy.

‘I thought you were leaving.’

Flynn jerked around to see Tom standing at the office door. He had been able to come silently down the stairs, his approach masked by the sound of the shower. He was still in his dressing gown. ‘And you’ve no right to be in here.’

‘Have you two had a fight?’ Flynn asked, unperturbed.

‘None of your business,’ Tom stated.

‘Fair do’s.’ Flynn raised his hands in defeat. ‘But I take it you do know where Cathy is?’

Tom pointed towards the front door of the house, saying nothing.

Flynn took the hint and sidled past Tom, who was almost as big as he was. He patted the dog on the way out and as he stepped out into the cold afternoon, the door was slammed behind him. Without a backward glance he walked through the sticking snow to his hire car, spun it around and drove back to the village, stopping outside the pub called the Tawny Owl. A free house, it proclaimed on the sign.

They edged carefully along a tight shale track that clung to the edge of the steep hillside, stumbling occasionally and travelling, according to Henry’s compass, slightly north-north-west. Being on the exposed eastern side of the hill, they were completely at the mercy of the weather. The wind had increased forcefully, driving hard sleet-ice remorselessly into their sides as though they were being pelted by gravel.

As much as he was cursing himself for getting them into this mess, Henry was pretty sure they were on the right track. They were just starting the descent down Mallowdale Fell into the valley cut by the River Raeburn. When they got down to that level, Henry knew they should be able to find a good track that would lead them to the civilization that was Kendleton, their stop for the night and now, of course, the end of their journey. He knew that Donaldson could not possibly go on, that his friend was in embarrassing and continual agony. He might even need medical help, although Henry knew that doctors only dealt with extreme cases of food poisoning these days. You literally had to excrete it all out of your system, all by yourself. Probably all that Donaldson needed was TLC, immediate access to a toilet and a bed to crash on.

Henry stopped. Donaldson had lagged behind. As he waited for him to catch up, he turned his back to the wind and took out his mobile phone. Still no signal, but even so he typed out a text message with a frozen thumb and pressed send, hoping it would wing its way into the ether anyway. The screen said ‘Unable to send message’, so he tried again, pressed the send button, gave a flick of his wrist as though this would help, and hoped it would somehow land on Kate’s phone.

Donaldson stood miserably behind him. His eyes had sunk into his face. He looked drawn and exhausted.

‘We start going down now.’ Henry had to shout above the howling wind. ‘Then there’ll be more cover and it should be easier, OK?’ His friend nodded. ‘Push on?’ Henry asked. Another nod. Henry turned and started to walk, imagined he heard something — a thud? — but wasn’t certain. Something that wasn’t part of the weather noise. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting to have Donaldson right behind him.

He wasn’t there.

Flynn climbed out of the Peugeot and walked to the front door of the pub. The snow was now horrendously heavy, falling in a way he hadn’t seen since he’d been a teenager, when winters were much more severe in this part of the world. It was thick and was definitely now sticking — almost as soon as he walked through it, leaving footprints, his tracks were instantly filled in as though he hadn’t been there. He knew at that point that if he was going to get out of Kendleton that day, now was the time to do it. The weather looked set and bleak and it wouldn’t take long to cut off a village like this one, set deep in a valley, one road in, one road out.

He decided to do what he needed to do first, then make a decision about leaving. If he got snowed in, he would just have to throw himself on the mercy of the innkeeper. If necessary he would sleep in the bar, something he’d done on many occasions in the past. The good old days.

He glanced up at the name plate over the door as he went in and saw the licensee’s name was displayed as Alison Marsh. He found himself in a very pleasant country pub, low beamed, dark wood, nicely decorated and with a huge fire roaring in a grate. He approached the bar, noticing only a couple of other people in the snug. One was a youngish woman who seemed slightly out of place, sitting alone in an alcove, the other was a grizzled old-timer on a corner seat at the bar who looked as though he’d been rooted there, growing old, for many years. He had a pint of Guinness in front of him, and a whisky chaser. The young woman watched him but the man didn’t even raise his eyes from the newspaper he was scanning. Behind the bar was a nice-looking lady, maybe early forties, who smiled at Flynn.

‘Hi,’ he said, ‘Er… do you do coffee?’

‘You name it.’

‘Latte with an extra shot?’

‘No problem. Small, medium or large?’

‘Medium.’

She nodded and turned to the complex-looking coffee-making contraption at the back of the bar. Flynn eased one cheek of his arse over a bar stool and surveyed the room again. He gave the lone woman a quick smile — she looked away — and the man continued to ignore him.

‘Weather not good,’ he said to the back of the woman behind the bar.

‘No.’ The coffee maker gurgled, hissed and steamed. ‘It’s caught us by surprise and it looks like it could be a bad one.’ She turned to him with his foamy drink and placed it carefully on the bar. ‘Passing through?’

‘Just visiting — but they weren’t at home.’

‘Ah.’ She leaned on the bar and he couldn’t help but notice her figure, which was very nice. She caught his look and smiled. ‘Two twenty-five, please.’

He paid her, counting out the exact change. When she turned to the till, he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and ironed it out on the bar top. Headed ‘Lancashire Constabulary — Message Log’, it was a pro-forma document that ensured nothing could be missed when taking a message of any sort from anyone. The top message that Flynn had seen on the pad in Cathy James’s office, he had managed to snaffle it in the instant before Tom had appeared at the office door and thrown him out. It was the most recent message she had taken.

Flynn read it, then got out his phone, waited for a few moments for a signal to be indicated on the screen. One didn’t. He tutted. He raised his head to the woman behind the bar, who had turned to watch him.

‘We struggle out here at the best of times,’ she told him. ‘They’re always on about putting boosters in, or whatever, but they never seem to get round to it. Probably not worth it. This weather will make certain there’s no signal at all, I reckon.’

‘I take it the landline works?’

‘There’s a public phone in the toilet corridor.’

Flynn had noticed a phone behind the bar. ‘Any chance of using that one?’ he asked sweetly. ‘Don’t want my coffee to go cold.’

She weighed him up, then said, ‘OK,’ and gave him the cordless handset.

‘Thanks. I’m Steve Flynn, by the way.’

‘Alison Marsh.’

‘Ah, the landlady. Pleased to meet you,’ Flynn smiled. He got Cathy James’s mobile number from the contacts menu on his own phone and thumbed it into the handset, put it to his ear and waited. A connection was made — then went straight through to voice mail. He tutted and hung up, realizing he was doing a lot of tutting recently.

‘No joy?’

‘Nah.’ He handed the phone back to Alison.

Reading from his stolen message pad, Flynn asked, ‘You wouldn’t know where Mallowdale House is, would you?’

Flynn saw the woman’s instant reaction. ‘Why?’ she said sharply, and it took him back slightly.

‘Is it local?’ he asked, carrying on as though nothing had happened.

‘Yes.’

‘And it’s… where?’

‘Two miles up the road, past the police house.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘Big house, behind a big fence, big grounds.’

‘When you say big grounds, what do you mean?’

‘Well, the house itself is in big, fenced-in grounds, but the land surrounding that all belongs to Mallowdale.’

‘What, like moorland or forest, kind of thing?’

‘Yeah — why?’

‘Er, nothing,’ he said. He picked up his coffee and took a sip. It was a good brew and the extra shot had an instant effect. He was puzzled by Alison’s strange reaction as he re-read the message again, written down and recorded by Cathy James, who still remained uncontactable.

In the ‘From’ section, she had written, ‘Anon.’

In the body of the message she’d written, ‘Poachers on Mallowdale House land again.’

And that was it, very bare bones. Flynn could only imagine the conversation. He guessed the phone must have rung in Cathy’s office and she’d answered it: ‘Hello, police at Kendleton. PC James speaking. Can I help?’ It would have started something like that. Professional, courteous. Then, whoever it was had said, ‘There’s poachers on Mallowdale House land.’ The phone call would have ended abruptly, or she would have quizzed the caller further, asking who was calling, asking for a description of the poacher or poachers, any vehicle, any accompanying animals — such as a dog. But the message was from Mr Anon. It was dated yesterday, timed at 16.30 hours. The words PC James attending were scribbled on the bottom of the form.

But Flynn was only guessing. All he had was a sketchy message about poachers from an anonymous source, and no doubt Cathy would have seen it as her duty to investigate, even though yesterday was actually her rest day. What it did was tell Flynn that Cathy had taken a message yesterday afternoon and that Tom was possibly telling lies about having seen her at home. How true was his claim that he hadn’t seen her for a couple of days? Or perhaps he wasn’t fibbing and they’d just had a big spat that wasn’t any business of Flynn’s, perhaps everything she’d told Flynn over the phone was just a woman’s scorn? Perhaps she was just making things up to get at Tom for something else. What Flynn didn’t like, though, was Tom’s attitude.

Flynn scratched his head, not really knowing what to think, but he did know that policemen had occasionally come a cropper investigating reports of poachers. He remembered a PC even being murdered. These days poachers weren’t jolly characters feeding their families, they were often organized, ruthless gangs and big money was involved, depending on what they were hunting.

He sighed, thinking he should just get the hell out of here before he got trapped.

‘I’m curious… sorry…’ Alison interrupted his jagged train of thought. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’

‘About what?’

‘Mallowdale House… you’re not the first person to ask about it today.’

Flynn pouted. ‘And?’

‘Like I said, I’m curious.’ She leaned on the bar again, pushing her breasts tightly against her jumper in a move with obvious consequences for the male of the species, a fact Flynn was certain she was fully aware of.

‘To be honest I’d never heard of Mallowdale House until about twenty minutes ago,’ Flynn said. His eyes registered the fact that the third finger of her left hand bore no ring of any sort.

‘Well, you wanna keep away.’

Flynn blinked. ‘You said that without moving your lips,’ he said, and he and Alison grinned briefly as both of them turned to the origin of the voice — the old-timer sitting on the stool at the end of the bar, apparently engrossed in his newspaper but actually earwigging. ‘What do you mean?’

The man, bearded, dressed in ancient tweeds, raised his chin and said, ‘Just an observation, is all.’

Flynn waited for more. Nothing came. He glanced back at Alison and arched his eyebrows.

‘They’re not that friendly, that’s all,’ she said, ending the subject.

‘Do they have a poaching problem?’

She guffawed. ‘Anyone who goes on to Mallowdale land does so at their own risk. The poachers have a problem with the owners, I’d say.’

‘Is that a long way of saying no?’

‘You work it out.’ Clearly the tone of her voice implied that she’d said enough.

Flynn exhaled and thought, ‘Bloody villagers.’ He was half-expecting to hear banjos being plucked in the background. ‘I see the “No Vacancies” sign is up.’

‘Yeah, sorry. I’ve only got two rooms, both booked for the night. I have actually got six, but the rest are all being renovated and are uninhabitable.’

‘Have the guests landed yet?’

‘Not so far.’

‘Think they will?’ He gestured at the weather through the window.

‘Why, do you need a room?’

‘Considering.’

‘I have to give them time to arrive. If they’re not here by eight and I haven’t heard from them, I’ll assume they won’t be coming and maybe re-let — if that’s any good to you?’

‘Sounds half promising.’ He threw back the remainder of his coffee and wiped his lips with the paper napkin. ‘Nice brew. Maybe see you later.’

Alison leaned on the bar again in the way that stretched her jumper tight. ‘Maybe… ooh, speak of the devil.’ She looked past Flynn’s shoulder through the window. ‘These are the people who asked about Mallowdale House.’

The blood drained from Flynn’s face. Outside, a black Range Rover that Flynn immediately recognized had pulled up in the car park. The one with the impatient driver that had taken off his and another car’s wing mirrors. Two men got out. Flynn slid off the bar stool and walked to the door, zipping up his jacket, then stepped back into an alcove as the two men came in through the pub door with a crash and headed to the bar without apparently noticing him.

Flynn noticed Alison’s eyes had become wary. The men unzipped their top coats and stomped their feet on the floor to dislodge the snow they’d picked up.

Flynn’s mouth went dry as his inner sluice gates opened and adrenalin gushed through his body. In the five years since he’d been a cop, his memory had not dimmed with the passage of time. He recognized that two dangerous men had just entered this out-of-the-way country pub.

Before his departure from the organization he loved, he had spent a good number of years hunting down professional criminals who made their grubby but lucrative living from dealing drugs and causing misery. Not the gofers or the toe-rags on the streets, but those who organized the importation and distribution of the substances had been Flynn’s targets. Flynn, as a detective sergeant on the drugs branch with Lancashire Constabulary’s Serious and Organized Crime Unit, had successfully targeted some of the leading crime lords in this genre.

Sometimes, of course, he’d been unsuccessful. Often cases built up meticulously over months or years came crashing apart for a variety of reasons.

One such case that he’d been involved in was against a very high-ranking villain called Jonny Cain, maybe one of the richest dealers Flynn had ever encountered. His wealth had been estimated to be somewhere in the region of twenty million. But Cain, a sly, devious man, had eluded the clutches of the law by surrounding himself with layers of protection and operating his business on a cell-by-cell basis. Above all, though, his ruthless approach to anyone who might be a threat to him ensured that few people had the courage to testify against him.

Flynn knew that about a year ago, the police had got Cain as far as a crown court trial for murder, but that had collapsed. Flynn also knew that an unlikely potential witness against Cain — another gangster — had ended up with his brains blown out by a professional assassin. As far as he knew, it had been impossible for the police to prove a definite link between Cain and that killing (although everyone knew it to be the case).

Flynn recalled all this in the moments standing in that alcove because the two men who had just walked into the Tawny Owl, and changed the atmosphere completely, were two of Jonny Cain’s most trusted minders.

Flynn had a quick flashback to the Range Rover incident — the slicing off of his door mirror — and bored into his recall of it. Even though the vehicle’s windows had been smoked out, he was sure there had been four shapes within and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess that one of those shapes could well have been Jonny Cain.

Had Cain and the other guy been dropped off at Mallowdale House, Flynn wondered. That was the address that Alison said they’d been enquiring about. And if that was the case, what the hell were they doing here, what did they want and who were they calling on at Mallowdale House?

Flynn dug deep within his mind and regurgitated the names of the two minders: Roy Napier and Sim Riddick, two very evil men who were smiling civilly at Alison. She eyed them cautiously, then glanced in Flynn’s direction. The faces of the two men turned the same way and this time they saw Flynn in the alcove, although they gave no sign that they had recognized him.

Quickly he tugged up his collar, gave Alison a quick wave and stepped out into the harsh snowstorm that engulfed the village.

In his right hand was the message about the possible presence of a poacher on Mallowdale House land.