by Nick Oldham
Henry watched Tom’s eyes and his facial muscles carefully. There was a crease of the forehead, a narrowing of the eyes and a sigh. He looked warily at Henry, as if he was choosing with precision what he was going to say.
At the same time, Henry’s anus was twitching nervously. If Tom had no involvement with Cathy’s death, Henry knew he could possibly have thrown himself into the mire with the lie about not finding her. But if Tom was involved, then keeping the discovery of the body from him could be worthwhile for the time being. Like poker, but with more at stake.
Henry watched the reaction. Tom had been so utterly and completely wound up that Henry could not quite work out what the sigh meant. Relief, yes, but from what? No body found, meaning Cathy was still out there somewhere, alive, or no body found, thank God, now I’ve got some manoeuvring space.
Henry hoped to hell he wasn’t reading this all wrong. He was playing a game with someone’s life here and if he misjudged it . . . he didn’t even want to think about the implications.
‘So you haven’t found her body?’
‘No,’ Henry said. There, done it. Now be prepared to live with whatever the consequences might be. Was that a smile that twitched on Tom’s face? Henry went on, ‘Steve Flynn found the car, but not Cathy. Her stuff was still in it, so it looks as though she could possibly have met someone she knew.’
‘Someone like Steve Flynn?’
‘It’s a possibility, but whatever, I’m very concerned about her whereabouts. D’you think she’s capable of doing something silly?’
‘Nah, not her. So why’s that drunk in my house?’
‘He pulled a shotgun in the pub. Steve and I wrestled it from him and there was nowhere else to bring him,’ Henry answered. ‘Where have you been since Flynn came to see you earlier?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Out and about.’
‘You told him you were going to work.’
‘Well, that’d never be possible. Getting over to Lancaster in this, no way.’
‘Did you tell them you wouldn’t be in?’
‘Course I did.’
‘So where have you been?’
‘As I said, out and about – look, what are we going to do about searching for Cathy?’
‘Nothing until tomorrow. The night and weather are against us and we’ll need extra resources, too.’ Henry paused. ‘So you haven’t seen her or heard from her or tried to contact her since yesterday. Is that right, Tom?’
‘Yes.’ Tom’s head sagged. ‘I hope she’s OK.’
‘Mm,’ Henry said, still trying to read him. ‘I’m sure she will be . . . What were you arguing about?’ he asked softly.
Tom’s eyes rose, met Henry’s. ‘She was taunting me about having slept with Flynn once, years ago. I knew she’d been on the phone to him, then next thing, here he is in the flesh. Mr Ex-lover.’
‘The marriage was in trouble, then?’
‘I didn’t think so. It came as a shock to me.’
And now I just know you’re lying, Henry thought.
Flynn moved into the office when Henry and Tom went into the living room, excluding him. He sat at the desk on the revolving chair and looked at the sleeping prisoner, who had wet himself spectacularly. Flynn screwed up his nose at the reek.
Listlessly, he started to flick through the message pad from which he’d snaffled the message about the poacher.
Frowning, he took out the now very crumpled form from his back pocket and laid it out, flattening it with the palm of his hand. The message had been taken by Cathy at 15.30hrs on the day before. That was about an hour before she had called him whilst he was sitting in the beach bar in Puerto Rico, eating paella. Then he remembered something, the assumption he had made when he had first read the message, and what he had discovered when he’d had the chance to recheck it. The message under the one about the poacher, and most of the others underneath that, had been taken by Cathy. She had signed the pro-forma pads as the person receiving the message. But the handwriting on the poacher’s message was not hers. It could only have been Tom’s. Flynn had thought it was Cathy’s writing, but clearly it wasn’t. Tom had written this message, not Cathy.
Not sure whether this meant anything at all, he picked up the cordless phone and was glad to see it was a very up-to-date one that recorded the numbers, time and dates of all incoming and outgoing calls. He began to tab through the menu.
‘This is going to be a hell of a night. No way am I going to sleep.’
‘I don’t think any of us are,’ Henry said.
‘What are you thinking, Henry? That I’ve done away with Cathy?’
Henry’s only response as a detective was, ‘Have you?’ He would have been sacked if he’d said anything else.
‘Don’t be a dick. I loved her.’
‘Loved? Or love? Present tense, past tense.’
‘Don’t pervert my words. You know what I mean.’
‘What’s going on in the village?’ Henry asked, a quick change of subject.
‘In what way?’
‘What’s Jonny Cain doing here?’
‘The Jonny Cain?’
‘The one and only.’
‘Didn’t know he was.’
‘When he showed his face in the pub, that’s when our drunken friend Callard tried to blow his head off.’
‘Jeez.’
‘What’s the connection between Callard and Cain?’
‘Have you thought of asking them?’
‘I spoke to Cain – not very forthcoming. Callard’s too drunk to speak to.’
Tom shrugged.
‘I’m told Callard’s a driver. What do you know about him?’
‘Not much. Just a drunk who’s lucky to have a job. Works for the company that own the quarries in the hills.’
‘That’d be Jack Vincent’s operation?’
‘Yeah, yeah, him,’ Tom said.
‘So what’s Jack Vincent up to? I assume you know who he is?’
‘I do, but he’s not on my radar. I’m just a small-town CID officer, catching burglars and car thieves. Big-time drug dealers aren’t my remit. And I don’t know what he’s up to.’
‘Jack Vincent, Jonny Cain in town . . . do you think something might be happening?’
Tom sighed. ‘How would I know, Henry? And to be honest I don’t give a toss. My wife is missing. That’s what I’m bothered about.’
‘Coming back to the subject of Cathy . . .’
‘You really think I’ve done something to her, don’t you?’
Well, Henry thought, I’ve got a dead policewoman on a meat slab in a butcher’s shop and her husband sitting here in front of me and I’m not impressed by him. Being a detective doesn’t make him innocent, but just because he’s her hubby doesn’t make him guilty either . . . Ahh, love the double negatives . . .
‘You know what it’s like being a detective, Tom.’
‘You don’t believe a word anyone is telling you, at least to start with . . . Look, we had a bust-up. Things weren’t working out. We wanted different things. Then she brought up fuck-face in there—’ He gestured angrily towards the door. ‘You know, the guy who was good enough to provide us with a free honeymoon. I’ll bet he re-shagged her then. Yeah, it was going tits-up and she stormed out. And if you have nothing more for me,’ he checked his watch, ‘I’m off to the pub for last orders because I feel pretty shitty. You just continue to use my house for whatever purpose you see fit. You seem to be doing that anyway.’
He made a move to stand up, just as a rat-tat came on the lounge door and Flynn poked his head around. ‘Quick word, Henry?’ Flynn glanced at Tom, who scowled.
‘Yeah – look Tom, just hang on here for a few moments, will you?’ Henry rose, as did Tom. ‘No,’ Henry said firmly to him. ‘Stay here and I’ll be back shortly.’
Tom hesitated and Henry thought he was going to kick off on the subject of being ordered about in his own home. Henry prepared himself, but Tom backed down and sank slowly on to the settee, his face telling
the story of his unhappiness with the situation. Henry gave him a curt nod, left the room and followed Flynn into the office.
‘I thought you’d want to see this,’ Flynn whispered. He had the crumpled, but flattened message on the desk next to the message pad binder. Henry looked, but his mind wasn’t completely on what Flynn was showing him. The two men were standing side by side at the desk, two big men, but Flynn had the upper hand in terms of height, breadth, fitness, age and sun tan.
Almost without moving his lips, Henry said, ‘He tells me you and Cathy were lovers.’ His eyes moved sideways, like an Action Man figure, checking Flynn’s reaction. ‘Something you failed to mention . . . Oh, what a tangled web,’ he added cynically.
Flynn’s nostrils dilated and he coloured, his tan glowing extra red. ‘If you call a one night stand twenty-odd years ago at training school being lovers, and nothing since, just a distant friendship.’ His face tilted a few degrees, eyes searching the detective’s face.
‘Seems she didn’t think the same.’
Flynn swallowed, clearly shocked. ‘BS. He’s throwing you a line – and you know it.’
‘Bullshit you didn’t care to share with me.’
‘As I recall, we were rudely interrupted by chummy here.’ Flynn pointed to Callard. ‘Just as I was about to reveal everything. And it’s not as if you needed to know.’
‘Oh, I think I did. Puts a whole different complexion on things, don’t you think?’
‘She called me for help, as a friend – yesterday, when I was in Gran Canaria. I came, found her dead – who the hell do you believe? Me or him?’
Henry could not find it within him to respond instantly – a pause, a beat that told its own story, which made Flynn tut and roll his eyes with frustration. His history with Flynn and all the controversy surrounding his departure from the police had clearly soured him towards the man. He knew it, fought it, but could not hide the surfacing prejudice. ‘Put it this way,’ he conceded, ‘I haven’t told him she’s dead yet.’
Flynn exhaled with relief. ‘You’ve been playing him.’
‘Oh yeah . . . So, what am I supposed to be looking at here?’
Pulling himself together, Flynn explained. ‘This is the message about the poacher, dated yesterday, anonymous caller, timed fifteen thirty hours.’
‘Why is it so crumpled?’
‘You don’t need to know.’
‘I probably do, but go on.’
‘It’s in Tom’s writing.’
‘And your point is?’
‘I’ve checked through the phone’s memory and there is no record of anyone having called here at that time. Someone called earlier about straying animals, which is logged, but the only other calls received here are the unanswered ones I made. There’s no record of a call where the number is withheld and this phone does record them. No one called here at three thirty, anonymous or otherwise, unless it’s been deleted.’
‘Could have been a personal caller at the door,’ Henry ventured.
‘Or made up.’
As they were talking, the phone rang and Henry picked it up. ‘Yes, this is he . . . Oh, hello . . . go on . . .’ Henry listened carefully, then said thank you and hung up.
‘As I was saying . . . I think this is a lie, made up by Tom for some reason. He sent her out to get killed, or something,’ Flynn concluded hazily. ‘It doesn’t add up, anyway.’
Henry nodded, trying to take in what Flynn was trying to say, and the content of the phone call just received.
‘That was Alison on the phone,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s been talking to Ginny, her stepdaughter . . . Apparently Ginny saw Cathy drive past the pub yesterday, just after five o’clock. In the Shogun . . . only she wasn’t alone, Tom was with her. Thing is, she also saw Tom walk back about an hour later, alone . . . he told me she went out alone to the poacher.’
The two men digested the words, then slowly turned to a noise at the office door.
Tom James stood there, a tired, desperate-looking individual. But in his hands he held the sawn-off shotgun, the one that had been taken from Callard and which Flynn had left unattended in the kitchen. He raised the weapon to gut height and aimed it loosely at a point somewhere between the two men. His finger hovered over the double trigger.
‘Guys, you’re too smart for your own good and I really don’t have time for this.’
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 a
nything 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.
