to pick him up, she would be. And if she wasn’t, there would be one hell of a reason why not.
One hell of a bad reason, Flynn thought.
He spun on his heels and trotted over to a car rental desk, just in time to catch the booking clerk who was just about to pack up for the night. He gave the tired-looking woman his best smile and said, ‘I need to hire a car, please.’
SIX
Squinting unsurely at Donaldson, Henry pursed his lips. The big American looked pale and ill. Henry knew he had spent some time both on and over the toilet overnight.
‘You sure you’re OK?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he said shortly. He hitched a medium-sized rucksack on to his back and stamped his feet. He didn’t look fine, certainly not up to a five to six hour hike across the moors of Lancashire.
‘We can do this another day, if you wish,’ Henry persisted.
‘Said I’m fine. Just had too much to drink, that’s all. Once I get walking, I’ll get it out of my system.’
Henry backed off and swung his own rucksack over his shoulders, securing the straps comfortably. He squatted slightly and leaned into the driver’s window of his Mondeo, in which sat his wife, Kate. Behind Henry’s Ford was Donaldson’s excessively large four-by-four Jeep driven by Karen, his heavily pregnant wife. The two women had kindly consented to drive the men up to the starting point of their proposed hike, then take one of the cars to the finishing point at Kirkby Lonsdale, park it up and leave it for them to pick up when they finally got to their destination after two days of walking.
‘Thanks for this, babe,’ Henry cooed. He realized he would never have been able to do this ‘guy thing’ with Donaldson without Kate’s — or come to that, Karen’s — blessing. He had only managed to convince her by taking her away on a delayed holiday to Venice, which he had secretly extended to include four days in Tuscany, supplemented by the subtle use of flowers, the completion of chores and a lot of lurv. He knew she wasn’t fooled by the sudden surge of attention, but it seemed to work. He leaned in and kissed her.
At the Jeep, Donaldson was doing much the same thing. ‘You gonna be OK, baby-doll?’ he said, leaning through the driver’s window. He reached in and lovingly patted the ever-expanding bulge that was her third, unexpected but eagerly awaited child. ‘And you too, blob.’
‘We’ll be fine,’ she assured him. ‘But you look really pale.’
‘I’m OK. You know me and alcohol don’t mix.’ They kissed lingeringly, tongues and all. As a couple they’d had a rocky road to travel over the last few years, but that was now behind them. They were as passionately in love with each other as they had ever been.
The men stood back and the women gave waves and kisses before the cars pulled away from the side of the road, leaving primitive man to his own devices. They waved until the cars disappeared over the hill.
‘Good,’ Donaldson said. ‘Now they’re gone, let’s end this charade and call a cab to take us to Blackpool for a night of debauchery.’
Henry chuckled. ‘I think they would have seen through that ruse.’
‘Mm, maybe.’
They surveyed their surroundings. They had been dropped off slap-bang in the centre of the Trough of Bowland, that remarkable chunk of wild countryside that forms the part of Lancashire between Lancaster and the Yorkshire Dales National Park. The intention was to walk across the Forest of Bowland, keeping due north until they reached the town of Kirkby Lonsdale. Henry estimated that, taking it reasonably easy, the journey would take two days with an overnight stop in the pretty village of Kendleton where they had booked a couple of rooms in the only pub in the village, the Tawny Owl. Henry, who had pored over maps and footpaths, estimated they would need to spend about six hours on foot each day, crossing terrain that varied from easy to difficult, but he knew both of them were well capable of completing the walk.
Henry had got back to keeping himself fit by doing a three-mile run each lunchtime with a couple of weekly bouts of circuit training. He’d lost some poundage, down to about thirteen and a half stone, and was feeling pretty fit. He knew Donaldson was a bit of a fitness freak anyway, often pounding the London pavements as well as doing a lot of weights in the state-of-the-art gym at the American embassy where he was based.
The only thing that might cause them problems was the weather. Initially it had been their intention to do the walk in autumn but because neither of them could marry up their diaries, it had dragged on until early December. Henry had made the unilateral decision that the walk would go ahead, even when Kate had warned him of the possibility of rotten weather. Henry had checked records and pooh-poohed her concerns. Winters had been mild for a long time now — ‘Global warming,’ he’d said knowledgeably. The worst that might happen was that they would get wet.
As the two vehicles disappeared towards Dunsop Bridge, Henry made a quick mental checklist and was happy he’d brought along everything he needed for the walk, including a change of clothing and spare trainers for the evening in the pub, which was supposed to be a great, old-fashioned hostelry. He adjusted the strap on his rucksack again, pulled his bob cap down over his ears, then set off across the road to the opening of a public footpath. The sign at the stile pointed to Brennand Tarn. Henry climbed over, flexing his toes in his recently acquired, but worn in, walking boots. As he dropped on to the other side he turned, expecting Donaldson to be right behind him, but he was still on the opposite side of the road — and had just been sick again on the grass verge.
‘Bloody hell, you sure you can do this?’ Henry called. ‘We can get the ladies back if you want.’ He held up his mobile phone and waggled it enticingly.
Donaldson wiped his mouth. ‘Nahh, fine now. That was the last of it,’ he said as he jogged across the road and vaulted the stile spectacularly.
Henry slid the phone back into his jacket pocket, but not before he noticed it wasn’t picking up any signal.
‘Thanks, I owe you one.’ Steve Flynn rubbed his tired eyes as at 8.15 that morning he padded into the kitchen where his ex-wife, Faye, was swilling dishes at the sink. She glanced over her shoulder and gave him the up-curved smile that once, years before, had melted his heart.
He’d had a bit of a panic at the airport when Cathy had failed to show or respond to any of his calls and he was at a bit of a loss as to where he could bed down for the night. Having had to pay for car hire, his money had immediately dwindled and to get a room at an airport hotel was out of the question. Based on the flimsy fact that relations with Faye had thawed over the last few months, he took a chance and called her.
She had been groggy with sleep and part of him thought that most of the conversation he’d had with her didn’t register. But when he arrived at her house — formerly their house — in a decent part of South Shore in Blackpool, the front door had been left unlocked and a pillow and some bedding dumped on the settee in the front room. He’d helped himself to a cheeky smidgen of whisky before settling down and dropping off to sleep almost immediately.
‘No problem,’ Faye said. ‘Good job I wasn’t entertaining a man friend, though.’ As the words came out, her contrite expression told Flynn that the words were instantly regretted. Yet a pang of annoyance still shot through him. A big part of their past marital problems had been the fact that she entertained a man friend, namely Flynn’s best mate and cop partner, an affair carried on behind his back for a long time.
Faye saw the cloud pass over his face and went on quickly, ‘Anyway, what’s going on? How come you’re over here?’
He settled himself at the kitchen table. ‘You remember Cathy Turnbull? Became Cathy James when she married a jack up in Lancaster?’
Faye frowned, then said, ‘Oh, yeah.’ She had no idea that Flynn and Cathy had had a brief fling all those years ago at the training centre. Flynn wasn’t about to enlighten her.
‘She was a mate, wasn’t she?’ Faye said, no hidden knowledge behind the words.
‘Yep.’ Flynn then explained Cathy’s strange phone calls, but before he could finish his story, a deep male voice behind him said, ‘I thought I heard you talking.’
Flynn spun. It was his son, Craig. Now fifteen years old, broadening out, shooting up, voice deepening, and on
