arched.
Haltenorth checked out Diller, but the latter kept his eyes on Vincent, who continued with his subterfuge, because there was no way he would think about paying these guys off. ‘Follow me back down to my house. I got a couple more grand stashed away. You guys take this’ — he held up the money roll in his fist — ‘as a show of my good will, and I’ll give you the cash down at my house. Three grand, plus, in total. Not bad for a ride out to the back of beyond. It’ll give me more time to get stuff together. Do me now and Cain won’t be getting anything. How about it? Take the cash,’ he pleaded. ‘No one will be any the wiser.’
His eyes darted between the two men. He could sense Haltenorth was up for it, but Diller wasn’t even wavering.
‘Mr Cain will still get his dues, man,’ Diller said, ‘even with you dead. We’ll just move on to your partner in crime. I’m given a job to do, I do it.’
Haltenorth’s bottom lip dropped with disappointment. Clearly he wasn’t being paid anything like the money Vincent was offering now. Haltenorth had no loyalty in his bones. Vincent had placed doubt in his mind.
‘What about it, man?’ Haltenorth hissed to Diller.
Diller turned slowly to him, unable to believe his ears. His gun drooped to one side and his face showed complete surprise.
‘I’ll tell you why, dumb-ass. You do not double cross Mr Cain. He don’t do double crossing. That’s why!’
‘But man, all that cali.’
‘I thought you were cool, man.’ Diller crashed his gun across the side of Haltenorth’s head, sending him spinning backwards.
Vincent watched the short verbal exchange intently, saw the minute change in Diller’s body language that reflected his disbelief in what he was hearing, then saw the gun arc across his dim partner’s head. Even as the gun started to move, Vincent reached under the desk and slid the hanging shotgun out swiftly and neatly. It was a movement he had practised time and again whilst sitting at the desk. He spun on the chair just as Haltenorth stumbled backwards, holding the side of his bloodied head. Diller was angled slightly away from him, the gun in his hand pointing upwards and away from Vincent.
It was a side-by-side double-barrelled sawn-off shotgun. A simple weapon. Vincent liked simplicity, because it rarely went wrong. Revolvers rarely went wrong, but sometimes pistols did. Sometimes pump-action shotguns that needed racking went wrong because their mechanisms jammed. But a simple, old-fashioned, pre-loaded one, safety catch off, never went wrong. The only drawback was that there were only two cartridges in it and he had to get this right first time. He would not be allowed the privilege of reloading.
But here, in the confines of the cabin, with two targets less than six feet away from him, he had absolute confidence that he would be successful. He couldn’t miss. The trick was to ensure that he brought the two men down. There was the possibility they wouldn’t be killed straight away, but if they weren’t dead they would be severely injured enough that he would have time to reload.
As he spun on the chair, he held the shotgun at the base of his belly, just above the groin, angled upwards.
Diller’s face turned, a scream coming to his wide mouth as he tried to spin back and bring his gun around on Vincent.
Vincent released the first barrel, the recoil thumping his tensed stomach muscles. The pellets exploded out with a huge bang and splattered across Diller’s upper torso, chest, neck and head. The cartridge wad hit his throat, punching a hole in it the side of a ten pence piece. The impact hurled him against the cabin wall like a stunt man on a rope.
Vincent rose, aimed the shotgun again. Haltenorth, already stunned from the pistol whip across his head, held out his left hand beseechingly. ‘No, man, no,’ he cried.
Callously, Vincent shot him too.
FIVE
Henry dropped unsteadily from the bar stool but kept his balance. Donaldson emerged from the gents’ toilet, wiping his mouth and walking towards Henry in a less than straight line across the pub. Henry watched him with a slightly warped grin.
‘You OK, pal?’
‘Yup.’
The pub had closed an hour ago and all the customers, barring Henry and Donaldson, had left. The pair had been invited up to the bar by Clayson, the landlord, where he plied them with a couple of extra pints each and a few chasers.
That meant they had each downed five pints plus numerous spirits. Henry held it quite well, whereas the American did not. He had allowed himself too many that night and it was taking its toll.
There had been times during the evening when Henry’s little voice of reason told him that any over- indulgence was not a great idea. In the morning they planned to get out into the hills and do their walking trip and a skinful the night before was not the greatest of ideas. But his little devil was seduced by the ambience of the pub, the excellent taste of the beer — Clayson was proud to bursting over his clean pipes — and, of course, the offer of free drink. Their defences were well and truly weakened. They had planned to be in bed at Henry’s house by eleven, but by the time they bade farewell to the landlord, who was even drunker than they were, it was quarter past midnight.
As the extremely cold night hit them, Henry staggered back a pace and Donaldson almost fell over.
‘Just whoa there,’ the American said as though he was steadying a stallion.
‘You OK?’ Henry asked him again.
‘Yup… nope.’ He walked unsteadily over to a low wall by the car park and was copiously sick.
At the same time as Karl Donaldson was emptying the contents of his stomach, Steve Flynn’s flight from Las Palmas touched down at Manchester Airport. It had been uneventful. He had read his book, nodded off a few times, visited the loo and not spoken to the people either side of him. A fairly typical flight.
Although the plane docked right up to the airport terminal, Flynn could instantly feel the biting cold British night air as he stepped off the plane and entered the building via the walkway.
With no luggage to collect, he went straight out through the green channel, nothing to declare. On the flight he’d bought a bottle of Glenfiddich but had nothing customs would be interested in. He sauntered into the arrivals hall and made his way to the overhead meeting board, expecting to see Cathy.
She wasn’t there.
Using his height he scanned around, but couldn’t spot her. Frowning, he wandered around the terminal for a few minutes and even stepped out into the night to check outside. He knew she liked an occasional cigarette and thought she may have sneaked out for a drag.
There was no sign of her.
He resisted the temptation to have her paged. Instead he switched on his mobile phone and waited for the signal to be picked up, expecting a text or voice message from her. Nothing landed.
After fifteen further minutes, still nothing.
After half an hour the arrivals lounge was virtually empty. Flynn stood alone, looking slightly forlorn under the sign, like he’d been stood up. Thinking he had given her enough time either to call him and explain why she was late, or actually turn up flustered and apologetic, he called her. It went straight through to the answering service. Then he called the landline number she had given him. After half a dozen rings, that too clicked on to answerphone.
Cathy’s pre-recorded voice came on the line. ‘Hello, this is the police office at Kendleton, Lancashire. I’m PC Cathy James, your rural beat officer. I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now, but if you leave a message after the tone, I promise I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If you’re calling with an emergency, please hang up and redial 999.’
The tone beeped. Flynn hesitated, but hung up without saying anything. He thumbed his end-call button, a very strange, uneasy sensation in his gut. He knew Cathy well enough to be sure that if she said she would be here
