‘Oi…’ shouted Big Jim. He set off in pursuit, a kind of plodding, lumbering run. He was almost comically slow. Hanlon could have got away from him sitting behind the wheel in a child’s pedal car, much less a Defender.
She could see him in the mirror, furious-faced. She noticed that he kept one hand firmly on the whisky bottle in the gilet pocket just in case it bounced out as he ran and smashed on the road. Wouldn’t want that to happen, God forbid!
She drove about a hundred metres and parked in a layby. She turned the engine off, put the handbrake on, jumped out, pocketed the keys and stood there waiting for Big Jim to pant up to her.
He was insanely angry. His face, after the unaccustomed exercise, was even more crimson than before, a heady mix of anger, exertion and broken veins.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ he panted.
‘Stopping you from harming yourself and others,’ Hanlon said. She smiled sweetly.
‘Give me back those car keys or else, you fucking bitch.’
He advanced menacingly on Hanlon, breathing heavily.
‘Or else what?’ she taunted.
‘BITCH!’
Big Jim was now in front of her. Just as she was expecting, maybe even just as she was hoping – at last, a legitimate excuse to hit him – he threw a clumsy punch at Hanlon’s head. She bent at the knees, rolling her body and twisting to the left as Big Jim’s fist passed harmlessly over her head. He looked at her in angry disbelief; how could he have missed? My turn, she thought. She jack-knifed upright and, using the momentum from her legs and twisting her shoulder, drove a left hook as hard as she possibly could into Big Jim’s stomach.
Her fist sank deep into flab. It was like punching a heavy bag in the gym. He staggered back from the unexpected force of the blow, winded, and his legs gave way. He sat down heavily in a muddy puddle by the side of the road. He struggled to say something, but he couldn’t speak. His mouth opened and shut like a beached fish as he struggled to breathe.
‘Your keys will be back at the hotel,’ Hanlon said curtly. She turned and jogged away down the road in the direction of the Mackinnon Arms.
She felt very pleased with herself at having left no visible evidence of hitting Big Jim. No suspect bleating about a broken nose and police brutality today.
A hundred metres or so away from Big Jim, she glanced over her shoulder. He was still sitting where she had left him, in the puddle of water. She stopped in disbelief. She saw the sun, which was coming out from behind a cloud, glint on the bottle as he raised it to his lips. There was an answer to everything for Big Jim. Well, she thought to herself, slowing to a walk, no risk of imminent pursuit.
Hanlon got back to the hotel about half an hour later. There were no cars in the car park; she guessed that she was possibly the only guest staying that day. She wondered if Big Jim would insist that she leave. She really didn’t want to; she wanted more time there, gathering evidence. She went into the manager’s office. Harriet looked up at Hanlon standing framed in the entrance. There was a mirror behind her and Hanlon caught a glimpse of her own reflection.
Her hair was a dark, tangled mess, her leggings and running shoes were covered in mud, dark sweat circles under the arms of her running top, which was also streaked with more mud and dirt.
Harriet looked at her with an expression of intense dislike. ‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ might well have been floating above her head in a think bubble.
Hanlon dropped the Land Rover keys on her desk. They landed with a loud clatter. Harriet looked at the keys, then at Hanlon. Her expression changed from supercilious dislike to one of alarm. She obviously recognised them for what they were.
‘Big Jim’s car keys,’ Hanlon said curtly.
‘Where did you find them?’ asked Harriet. She stared in dread at the keys attached to a greasy leather fob as if they were some exhibit in a crime reconstruction.
‘In the ignition,’ said Hanlon. ‘I took them. He shouldn’t be driving.’
Harriet sighed. ‘Please take a seat.’
Hanlon did so, in one of those Regency striped upholstered chairs that seem ubiquitous in hotel reception offices.
‘How drunk was he?’ Harriet asked. Her face looked drawn and tired. She rested her head in her hands.
Hanlon looked more closely at the manageress. She seemed suddenly much older, careworn. Her short dark hair had streaks of grey in it and Hanlon could see the bags under her eyes. Running the Mackinnon Arms was not an easy gig, single-handed. Tidying up after Big Jim. And now, yet another disaster on her hands, by the looks of things.
‘Very,’ she said. ‘I left him with the Land Rover up the road.’
‘Did he… did he do anything stupid?’ asked Harriet. By that, Hanlon guessed that she didn’t mean drink-driving. She guessed it was a euphemism for either assault or sexual assault or possibly both.
‘He tried to hit me. I defended myself,’ she added, getting her side of the story in.
‘Look,’ Harriet said. There was an air of heavy desperation hanging over her. ‘I’m really sorry… He’s not a bad man… He’s been under a lot of stress. Please don’t judge him too unkindly.’
Hanlon looked at her. ‘I don’t care if he drinks himself to death by Sunday, he’s a menace to other road users.’
‘It’s very unusual for him to drink and drive,’ Harriet said.
Inwardly Hanlon snorted. She doubted if Big Jim had drawn a sober breath for years.
‘He had to leave the rigs because of health issues – that’s when the trouble
