Facing Justice (14 page)

‘Whatever,' Henry said, ending his speculation. He turned, had his back to the fence when suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck rose and a very strange sensation rippled down his spine as he became aware of a presence behind him. For a brief moment every organ in his body seemed to seize as the certainty overwhelmed him that somewhere behind him, not too far away, something was stalking him.

He went rigid. Out of the corner of his eye he was utterly convinced he had seen a movement, a shape on the other side of the fence. His mouth opened slightly and he swallowed. Something deep inside him, some long-buried intuition, told him he was being hunted, that he was the prey.

Catching his breath, his neck muscles taut like wire, his nostrils flaring, his mouth now a tight ‘O', he spun quickly. Was there something? An indistinguishable shape on the other side of the fence? Yes. Then it was gone and there was just the faintest scent in the air. Henry stared dumbly at the fence, at the exact point where he was certain he'd seen something. But there was nothing and he became conscious of how wound up his body had become.

Relief wafted over him and he laughed with embarrassment.

‘A deer,' he thought. Couldn't have been anything else. Might not even have been a deer – just nothing, a combination of tiredness and over-imagination and light-headedness. Maybe the equivalent of the thirsty desert traveller seeing an oasis, then realizing it was a mirage, pure hallucination.

He shook his head, exhaled, relaxed himself and returned to his friend. This time Donaldson lifted his face weakly when Henry stood in front of him.

‘Not far to go, pal,' Henry said, proffering his hand. Donaldson reached out pathetically and Henry tried to ease him up. The big man rose slowly, painfully and almost got to his feet, then seemed to stagger and lose balance as he put weight inadvertently on his injured ankle. Henry's hands shot out to steady him, but Donaldson moaned and slid back down on to his backside, dragging Henry with him.

‘Jeez, sorry pal. It just went.'

‘It's OK,' Henry reassured him. ‘Let's do it slow and sure.' Henry positioned himself on his haunches, slightly to one side of Donaldson, and took hold of his left arm with both hands, but when he looked up he was staring into the golden eyes of a beast.

TEN

F
lynn jogged through the snow, slowed and eventually walked the remaining few yards to the vehicle, a black, short-wheelbase Mitsubishi Shogun: Cathy's car. The one Flynn had seen in the photograph in the office, the one she was proudly standing against with the police house in the background. About two inches of snow had settled on the roof and bonnet.

It was parked on the track in the trees and as Flynn glanced around and back he confirmed it was just out of sight of the road, being parked on a slight right-hand kink in the track. It would be virtually impossible for anyone driving past to have spotted it, and even if it had been seen, so what? Nothing that suspicious.

Other than the fact it belonged to the local bobby, who hadn't been seen or heard of for a day . . . but again, who would know that?

Flynn's horrible gut feeling started to become even more painful.

He peered in through the side windows, wiping the snow off with the blade of his right hand, shading his eyes to see inside. The vehicle was empty. He tried the driver's door, found it unlocked. He pulled it open and leaned inside, looking over into the back seat, seeing nothing of interest. However, on the front passenger seat was a sturdy leather handbag of the type issued to female officers. Flynn dragged it across to him, opened it and peered at the contents. A pink duty diary, a couple of bits and pieces of make-up, a CS spray canister, an extendable baton, a pair of rigid handcuffs and a mobile phone.

‘Not happy,' he said, ‘not happy.' He was tempted to handle the items but held back for the time being, because he thought this could well be part of a crime scene and he didn't want to contaminate any possible evidence with his fingerprints. Again he considered he was maybe being over-dramatic. But, he thought, recalling good police practice, it was better than having egg chucked in your face. You can laugh off making an arse of yourself, but you can never shrug off overlooking something of importance.

He just didn't like it – at all.

Then he noticed the key was still slotted into the ignition. He extracted it carefully, closed the door and locked the car with the remote. He quickly ran his hand under the thick blanket of snow on the bonnet and confirmed to himself that the engine really was cold. Then he walked back to his hire car and looked in at Roger, still sitting patiently. Well trained, these county dogs, he thought.

Flynn opened the door, muttering to the dog, ‘You're not going to like this, pal.' He attached the extending lead and hooked it on to Roger's collar. The dog clambered stiffly out and dashed to the nearest tree to cock his leg up. Flynn waited for the flow to end, then said, ‘C'mon Roger, where's your mum? Come on, find your mum.' He pulled out the scarf he'd taken from the kitchen and let the dog sniff it.

Roger's ears perked up and he lunged excitedly up the track with a woof, almost dislocating Flynn's shoulder from its socket, and headed towards the Shogun. Flynn tried to rein him back to get more control. To some degree he was successful, but Roger certainly had a mind of his own and obviously knew his job, so Flynn let the lead reel out a little.

At the car, the dog sniffed around, encouraged by Flynn's words. He rose up on his back legs and placed his massive front paws on the driver's door window, making Flynn appreciate just what a huge dog he was, more like a fully grown man in a dog suit. He shoved his wet nose to the glass and slavered on it, then pushed himself away from the vehicle and dragged Flynn up the track, zigzagging as he went, nose-down in the snow, foraging, pausing occasionally to sniff the air, or a particularly interesting tree trunk.

Flynn sensed the dog was on to something. At least up to the point where he stopped, sniffed and pawed the ground. Flynn approached with trepidation, drawing the lead back on to the inertia reel, thinking that something – someone – had been found in a shallow grave. His imagination ran riot.

The dog circled tightly, dropped his back end and started to shit.

Flynn didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed, but the expression of pure pleasure on Roger's face actually made him chuckle. Then, with one last squeeze, Roger had completed his task and was ready to resume the search. He went up the track, pulling Flynn behind him. Flynn remarked philosophically, ‘When you gotta go, you gotta go.'

For an old dog with arthritic joints, Roger moved quickly and with purpose. It was all Flynn could do to keep up and prevent the lead from wrapping around trees and snagging bushes. Flynn knew that police dog handlers usually allowed their dogs to roam freely on wide searches, but he didn't want to face the prospect of never seeing Roger again and having to explain that away.

The ground was broken and uneven underneath the snow and it was hard to keep upright, but Flynn was fit and agile and controlling Roger reminded him, in a way, of playing a marlin. Not as much fun, obviously. The path rose steeply and Flynn saw they were making their way up alongside a high fence on their right. Suddenly they reached a plateau which opened up at a dilapidated farm building.

Then it was as though Roger had an injection of speed. He surged ahead, uttering a growl, and hurtled towards the building. The lead played out like a fishing line from a spool. The dog skittered and half-disappeared behind a wall that had once been one of the gable-ends of the old farmhouse.

Flynn rushed up behind him as Roger stopped abruptly and dropped into a rigid attacking stance, hackles rising, ears flattened back, a very dangerous snarl, revealing thick, long, sharp canines. His teeth were stained brown with age, but even so they looked like they could still tear off a man's biceps when combined with the powerful muscles in the jaw.

Flynn skidded around the corner, the inertia reel clattering like a broken tape measure as it gathered back the lead. He almost collided with Roger, whose training had taken over as he stood looking ferociously at the two bedraggled, exhausted and weatherbeaten men he had discovered sheltering in the protection provided by the crumbling wall.

Roger glanced at Flynn, waiting for the attack signal. Flynn let the lead rattle all the way back in until it was as short as it could be, then he thumbed on the locking mechanism. Only then did he look properly at the men.

The one who'd been on his haunches, almost eye-to-eye with Roger, rose unsteadily, knees cracking. The other one, sitting against the wall, stayed where he was.

‘Bloody hell,' Flynn gasped. ‘Henry-freaking-Christie. What are you doing here?'

‘I could ask you the same question,' Henry croaked.

‘Walking my dog, obviously,' Flynn said.

‘I never thought I'd be glad to see you,' Henry admitted. ‘Need some help here.'

As they helped Donaldson to his feet, Flynn inadvertently knocked the locking catch on the lead and Roger, now uninterested in his find, moseyed off towards the fence. Flynn kept hold of the lead, but did not watch what he was doing.

Roger raised his sensitive nose and sniffed the air. A change came over him: his head fell and his hackles rose again as they had done on finding the two men, but this time he stepped backwards, his throat rumbling uncertainly. There was a terrible growl from the other side of the fence. Roger leapt a foot high, all four paws leaving the ground, turned tail and ran back to Flynn, coming around him and wrapping the lead around his legs, taking cover.

Henry and Flynn looked from the dog to the fence and back again.

‘What the hell was that?' Flynn said, stepping out of the lasso formed by the lead and hunching one of Donaldson's arms around his shoulders.

‘Don't know – an owl?' Henry suggested.

‘Big owl,' Flynn said.

They manhandled the sick and lame Donaldson between them the mile or so back down the hill, passing the Shogun on the way, and eased him on to the back seat of Flynn's hired Peugeot where he slumped gratefully across the upholstery with a groan. Flynn switched on the engine and turned up the fan heater a few notches.

‘It's not far to the village from here,' Flynn said, blowing into his cupped hands. Darkness was almost upon them, the snow unrelenting. ‘This could cut the place off,' he said, gesturing at the weather. ‘We probably need to get going, otherwise the road from here could be impassable, too.'

‘Yeah, good idea,' Henry agreed. ‘Shall we?' He indicated the car.

‘But not just yet,' Flynn said.

‘He needs to get somewhere warm,' Henry said.

‘And I reckon I've got another ten minutes of looking,' Flynn said.

Henry regarded him. His face felt frozen and unfeeling, his fingers inside his gloves like ice-pops, and all he wanted to do was defrost. ‘Just what the hell are you doing here?' he asked. ‘What are you looking for? I'm here because an ill-judged jaunt went wrong, but you're two thousand miles off your patch, aren't you?' If he was honest, he did not care what Flynn was up to or why, he was simply grateful their paths had collided, thankful for his assistance with Donaldson, and now he just wanted a hot bath, hot food and to get his friend sorted. He had no interest in Flynn's circumstances.

‘I couldn't resist a plea from a husky maiden,' Flynn said, not giving Henry the additional reasons he'd left Gran Canaria, such as the possibility of an assault complaint, or the lack of work. ‘So I've turned up here and, to cut a long story short, I think I'm looking for a body.' He pointed to the Shogun up the track. ‘That's her car. Her keys and possessions were in it, but she's nowhere to be found. I'm thinking bad things.'

‘And who is the dusky maiden?' Henry said, playing along with reluctance.

‘Cathy James, the rural beat officer out here.'

Henry would have frowned, but the cold had made his forehead as smooth and fixed as if he'd had a Botox injection. ‘A police officer?'

‘You might remember her as Cathy Turnbull – if you know her at all.'

Henry's internal light bulb flickered. ‘She married Tom James, a detective from Lancaster.'

‘The very one.'

‘He's a good lad,' Henry said. Flynn emitted a doubtful noise. Henry relented a little and tried to show some interest. ‘So what's going on?'

‘Nutshell? I got a few frantic calls from Cathy – we go way back,' he explained. ‘I turned up here and found she hasn't been seen since a domestic ding-dong. Good lad Tom acts like he doesn't give a shit and now I've found her car.' He opened his arms helplessly.

‘Where does the dog come into it?'

Flynn gave Henry a pissed-off look. ‘Does it matter? Fact is, I can't contact her, I've found her car in the middle of nowhere and I'm worried – as you would be,' he concluded cynically.

‘But no sign of any body?' Henry asked.

‘No . . . but I also know she might've been checking up on a report of a poacher on this land, so that's an add-on worry. I mean, she could've come a cropper challenging a poacher, dunno. It's happened before, hasn't it? And as for the dog, it's hers, so I borrowed him to look for her.'

Flynn was not one of Henry's favourite people, and their history was one of conflict. However, as a cop, he felt some responsibility to act on Flynn's story, half-baked as it was. He looked up at the sky, then at the Peugeot with Donaldson in the back seat. If he insisted on getting Donaldson to the village, there would be no light left at all, and as there was only a few minutes' worth left anyway, he decided that he would humour Flynn. At least then he couldn't be criticized. ‘Let's have a look at the car, then.'

‘What about your mate?'

‘A few more minutes won't do him any harm. It'll be pitch black then anyway and there won't be any time to look for anything.'