Facing Justice (12 page)

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.

NINE

‘
K
arl! Karl!' Henry bellowed against the heavy snow smashing into his face as he scrambled back up the path. Panic didn't need to rise in him – it was there instantly. He had walked maybe thirty metres along the path from the point at which he and Donaldson had stopped, then, for no reason really, just the hint of the suggestion of an out-of-place noise, he'd looked back to check on the Yank – and he wasn't there. Henry could so easily have walked half a mile with his head down before looking over his shoulder, and if he'd done that and Donaldson hadn't been there . . . That horrendous thought was just one of the many that tumbled though his mind. ‘Karl,' he screamed again, reaching the point where they had rested briefly. Henry faced directly into the weather, shouting his friend's name through hands cupped around his mouth.

The path was narrow and precarious. Stepping off it could have serious consequences under any circumstances as the hillside fell sharply away. It was particularly dangerous underfoot because of the steep angle and the loose shale.

It was obvious to Henry what Donaldson had done: taken a step off the path, or simply lost his balance and pitched over the edge.

Henry blasphemed. He had once had food poisoning himself. He recalled it vividly, the whole experience. The creasing gut pain, the shits, the nausea. It had drained him completely of any will power, sucked all the energy out of him. All he had wanted to do was go to bed and curl up like a foetus and pull the sheets over his head and die. At least until the next desperate urge to race to the toilet came. It had also made him woozy and light-headed, and he guessed that could be what had happened to Donaldson.

Henry stood at the edge of what was virtually a precipice, his head shaking as he dithered about what to do. The wind howled around his head and he cocked his ear to one side, trying to listen. He shouted the American's name again.

He was sure he heard some sort of response. The wind swirled away and then there was nothing but the buffeting of the snow, drowning out everything.

Henry shuffled sideways, tentatively placing one foot off the track into the shale. It slid down straight away, but he knew he had to go for it. Angling his whole body to counteract the steepness of the slope he moved down, inches at a time, grinding his feet into the ground with each step.

Within seconds he was enveloped by the snow and had lost sight of the track.

Then he fell and slithered down the hill, emitting a roar, grappling with his fingers, trying to stop his descent. And then he stopped suddenly as he crashed into something hard – which screamed.

‘Fuck, Henry,' Donaldson said, as Henry regained his feet and crouched by the curled-up body of his friend.

‘What the hell happened? Why did you leave the track?'

‘Thought it would be a wheeze,' he gasped. ‘A quick way down.'

‘You hurt?'

‘Yeah – busted my ankle.'

Henry's heart could not have sunk any lower at the words. He crouched over Donaldson with his back to the weather, digging his heels into the shale. Donaldson had managed to sit up.

‘Which one?'

‘Left.'

‘Can you move it?' Henry looked at the left foot as Donaldson tried to rotate it. He grunted as it moved slightly.

‘Yep, it moves – but I can feel it swelling in the boot.'

‘Hopefully not broken, then?'

‘Dunno – feels bad.' He raised his eyes and looked at Henry. ‘Pisser, eh?'

Henry nodded. ‘Pisser.'

From the directions given, Flynn knew that Mallowdale House was out of the village, beyond the police house, meaning he would have to drive out past Cathy's place again. But he could not bring himself to drive past without speaking to Tom once more. He wasn't remotely happy with what Tom had said to him and he was increasingly concerned about Cathy. He knew she was a big girl, an experienced cop and all that, could look after herself . . . but until he heard from her he wasn't going to be satisfied. His still very active cop instinct told him he needed to dot the i's and cross the t's.

He stopped outside the police station, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Decision made, he got out and went up to the front door and pounded it with the side of his fist. Roger the dog responded as before, barking angrily. Flynn kept up the pounding, standing back and checking the windows for any signs of Tom avoiding him. Nothing happened. The dog, from somewhere inside the house, continued to bark.

Flynn then saw there were tyre tracks and footprints in the snow at the garage door, almost filled in again by the snowfall. He walked across to the garage, turned the handle and found it to be unlocked. He pushed open the up-and-over door, which rose easily on its runners and revealed an empty space. Tom's car had gone and the tracks had obviously been made by the vehicle reversing out down the drive. Maybe he had gone to work.

Flynn stepped into the garage and saw there was actually an inner door at the back that led through to the house, into the kitchen. He went to it and heard the snuffling of the dog at the gap along the bottom of the door. Flynn's hand went to the handle, turning it slowly, opening it just a crack and peeking through, seeing the dog's eye.

‘Roger,' he cooed softly. ‘Roger . . . it's me, Flynnie.' The dog reacted by going frighteningly still. He opened the door another inch. ‘Hiya, Roger . . . good lad.' The dog shuffled back a few inches, its eyes watching Flynn intently. Its hackles were up and for an old dog, it looked nasty to Flynn. ‘Roger, good lad . . . it's me . . . remember me?'

Roger's ears twitched uncertainly, the beast not knowing what to do – attack or roll over and expose its tummy.

Flynn pushed the door open a little further then extended his hand, not too enticingly he hoped. He saw that it would just about fit into Roger's old jaws very nicely, like a T-bone steak. ‘Good lad, come on.' He clicked his tongue. ‘That's a boy . . .' Roger blinked, his tail wagged uncertainly, his ears flickering. Flynn opened the door a little further, keeping one hand on the knob, ready to slam it shut if necessary. ‘Come on, it's Flynnie . . .'

Then, as if the dog was shedding a raincoat, his whole demeanour changed and he walked forward, head lowered, tail a-wag, ears back, submissive. Flynn was top dog. He patted him on the head, scratched his ears, then took the risk of fully opening the door and stepping into the kitchen. He squatted low, eyes level, and gave Roger a few hearty slaps, watching for any change of mind, but it looked as though Roger was going to do the decent thing – and not rip Flynn's throat out.

‘Where's your mum?' Flynn asked. Roger's ears perked up and the big bushy tail wagged enthusiastically. ‘Let's find her, shall we?' Flynn stood up and called out Tom's name – just in case. There was no reply. ‘Come on,' he said to Roger and walked out of the kitchen, down the hall and into the office.

A quick search did not reveal very much but it did give him some information. A photograph on the wall showed Cathy standing next to a vehicle against the backdrop of the police house. New cop taking up a new beat, Flynn guessed, and the vehicle in question was a short-wheelbase Mitsubishi Shogun, probably the one she used for work and pleasure, part paid for by the county, part paid for by her.

He took out his mobile phone, thinking he would try Cathy's number again, but there was no signal. He picked up the phone on the desk and called it instead, but there was no reply other than the automated response that told him no one was available. He called another number.

‘Jerry, old mate . . .' Flynn heard a groan at the other end of the line. ‘Sorry to bother you again so soon.'

‘You are going to get me sacked,' Jerry Tope said.

‘Just a teensy favour.'

‘Tch!'

‘Knew you'd understand. Just check Cathy James's duty states again, will you?' There was a deep sigh and the tapping of computer keys.

‘Rest day, like I said.'

‘And Tom James?'

More tapping. ‘Nine-five. That it?' Tope asked hopefully.

‘Can you get into the computerized incident logs for Kendleton up in Northern Division? Course you can.' Another very pissed-off sigh. ‘For yesterday. Can you see if a poacher was reported on land at Mallowdale House?'