his way to becoming a bloody good-looking young man.
‘Pal!’ Flynn stood up and opened his arms, embracing the lad tenderly. ‘Jeepers, you’ve grown.’ They hadn’t seen each other in a few months and the teenager had noticeably expanded, but in a good, healthy way.
‘What are you doing here, Dad?’
‘Flying visit — and your mum was good enough to let me crash out here at short notice.’
Faye watched the two of them with a proud, sad smile. Flynn caught her eye, grinned back. ‘Can I take him to school?’ he asked.
‘Be my guest. What do you want for breakfast?’
‘Has the menu changed?’ Flynn knew that the kitchen wasn’t Faye’s most comfortable environment. She shook her head, again with that slightly crooked, heart-melting grin, taking no offence from Flynn’s slight mockery. ‘I’ll have toast then.’
‘Toast it is.’
Craig watched the exchange between the adults, his eyes narrowing. ‘You guys getting back together?’ he asked with cautious hope.
‘Only when hell freezes over,’ Faye declared and popped two slices of bread into the toaster.
Although extremely cold, the day had started bright and free of cloud, even though the wind was biting in its intensity. The two men trudged up into the Forest of Bowland, their faces into the wind, their bodies angled against it. Had this really been a forest there would have been some protection against the elements, but Bowland was only called a forest because it was once a royal hunting estate. Now it was wide open grouse moors and outcrops of millstone grit, and was designated an area of outstanding beauty.
The walk they had chosen to undertake wasn’t too foolhardy, though. In his younger days Henry had roamed these moors frequently, as well as the Lake District, and the route he and Donaldson had plumped for was one Henry had walked a few times many years before. Walking was something he’d grown out of, but he still had vivid memories of crossing an unspoilt area and seeing some of the wildest scenery in the UK.
Henry was a few yards ahead of Donaldson, walking on nothing more than a narrow sheep trail, in places quite boggy. Henry’s leg had sunk to mid-shin at one point and Donaldson had helped him slurp it out. Fortunately he was wearing gaiters and his foot stayed dry.
Henry stopped, his cheeks red with effort and the chill, waited for his friend to catch up. They had made slow but reasonable progress, had passed Brennand Tarn and were now making their way to Whitendale Hanging Stones.
‘You OK, bud?’ Henry asked, feeling it was a question he had posed many times that morning.
Donaldson still looked ill and Henry felt a little bit guilty, but, he reasoned, he had given Donaldson the opportunity to withdraw from the walk a couple of times and he’d refused.
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘Fit to go on?’
‘Yes,’ he said firmly.
‘Thing is, once we reach the stones, that’s about halfway, then it’s as broad as it is long.’
‘I get you.’ Donaldson took a mouthful from a bottle of water and wiped his lips. Henry watched him. Donaldson winced.
‘Sure you’re OK?’
‘Yeah, just a bit of wind, I guess. I’ll fart it out.’
‘Let’s push on.’ It was 8.45 a.m., and the day had only just started.
The last time Flynn had taken Craig to school was over five years before, when the lad had been nine or ten and at junior school. He had always enjoyed the experience, watching Craig run through the school gates. Now, though, Craig was no longer a kid and when Flynn dropped him off, there was just a fleeting wave as he went to stand with a group of his pals at the school gates. Flynn watched him for a few moments, bursting with pride, before pulling away into the four-wheel-drive traffic outside the school. At least his union with Faye had produced one good thing.
He drove back to Faye’s house. She had gone to work and had told him he could use the place if he needed a shower, which he did. He wandered slowly through the rooms, seeing how little had actually changed in the years he’d been excluded from the place. The dining room was still how he had decorated it, and so was the master bedroom. Craig’s room had been repainted and the main bathroom completely refitted. Flynn recalled that was an insurance job after a leak had caused a lot of damage when Faye had been away.
He undressed, showered and shaved in the en suite shower room off the main bedroom. He sat on the edge of the unmade bed after, drying himself off, when a surge of tiredness pulsed through him. He lay back and closed his eyes, thinking he would rest for a few minutes.
Half an hour later he jumped awake, cursing. He dressed quickly, using the underwear he had brought along in the flight bag, keeping on the jeans and shirt he’d worn the day before. Then he called Cathy on her mobile. It went directly to answerphone, frustratingly, as did the landline number she had given him.
He stood by the kitchen window overlooking the compact, overgrown back garden, a mug of tea in his hand. His mouth crimped in thought. He looked down at his mobile phone, weighing it all up, then decided to make another call, just on the off chance. He tabbed through the contacts menu, found the name he was after, pressed the green dial button with his thumb and put the phone to his ear.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I take it you don’t introduce yourself and your department for the sake of secrecy?’ Flynn said.
‘As I said, can I help you?’
‘Jerry, my old cocker, how the hell’ve you been, matey?’
For a moment it was as if the line had gone dead. Then, ‘What the hell do you want?’
‘You sound cautious, maybe not even pleased to hear from me,’ Flynn chuckled.
‘Last time I spoke to you, I ended up telling you things I shouldn’t have. Got me in the shit with my boss,’ DC Jerry Tope whined.
‘Ahh, Henry Christie? How is the twat?’
There was another pause. ‘What do you want, Steve?’
‘First of all, for you not to worry. What I need to know won’t compromise you this time.’ Flynn smiled to himself. ‘Unless of course you don’t tell me, in which case I’ll have to make a very delicate phone call… if you get my drift? How is the lovely Marina, by the way?’
‘Flynn, you’re the twat.’
Flynn cackled wickedly. He had known Jerry Tope for a very long time and they had been good friends when Flynn had been a cop in Lancashire Constabulary. So good that Flynn had done Tope a great favour once, lying to save Tope’s marriage. Ever since, Tope had been in Flynn’s debt. Flynn had never expected to become a debt collector but he had tapped into Tope’s role as an intelligence analyst the previous year when he was after some details of a couple of very bad men who were out to get him. Their friendship had not survived Flynn’s ignominious departure from the cops, but Flynn had found it useful to have someone on the inside who could search databases.
‘It’s different this time,’ Flynn said.
‘I seriously doubt it.’
‘Honest — Cathy James? You remember her. Cathy Turnbull as was?’
‘Yeah, we were all at training school together. Everybody wanted to get into her panties. Rumour had it that someone did…’
‘Yeah, lucky sod, whoever it was.’
‘You did, didn’t you!’ Tope exclaimed. ‘Jeez, you did. Now it all fits into place. Christ, if I’d known that,’ he said wistfully.
‘I didn’t, actually,’ Flynn lied. ‘But, yeah, Cathy James, nee Turnbull.’
‘Mm, haven’t come across her for years. Do know she’s working a rural beat up in Northern Division. She married a jack from Lancaster. Tom James, good lad.’
‘Know much about him?’
‘No, just of him. Good thief-taker by all accounts. Used to be a traffic cop, of all things, but seems to have found his niche. I think Henry’s used him a few times on murders. And he recently got a chief cons commendation for busting a prostitution racket. Probably go far… Look, why?’
