‘I’ll dry his clothes, and he can change into the clothes in his rucksack,’ she said, then, ‘I’m a very kind person.’
‘No doubt. So kind you re-let our rooms.’
The smile faded. ‘You won’t let me forget that, will you?’
‘Not in a hurry.’
‘Your friend said you found a body in the forest?’
‘Yeah. I need to try and sort some things out, a problem not made easy by the weather and the place being cut off.’ He paused. ‘Quick question. Did my previously booked rooms, y’know, the ones I booked on the Internet and which I paid a deposit for, go to the four guys who came in just after I left?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I sort of understand why you did it.’
‘You know them?’
‘Oh yeah,’ he said dubiously. ‘You did right under the circumstances. I’m presuming they made you an offer you couldn’t refuse?’
‘They were scary.’
‘Mm… look, I need to get back out and do a bit of police work. I’m not sure how long I’ll be, but would there be any chance of me getting a shower later, and changing, and then some food?’
‘Of course. And you and your friend can bed down here, if you like. I’ll sort out some bedding and stuff. One of you can use the settee.’ She looked penitent. ‘Sorry about the rooms.’
Henry shrugged. ‘What’s done’s done… I notice there’s a butcher’s shop down the road. You wouldn’t happen to know the name and address of the owner, would you? I could do with a chat.’
‘Better than that, he’s in the bar. The man with the check shirt and red sideboards? Don Singleton.’
‘The tractor owner?’
‘One and the same.’
‘Three out of three,’ Henry almost whooped.
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing. I also wonder if I could just use your phone again. I need to check in at home… and also, do you have a digital camera I could borrow?’
‘Yeah, I do. Use that phone if you want.’ She pointed to the phone on the sideboard, next to a bowl of fruit and a framed photograph.
Henry picked up the phone and glanced at the photo. It was a snap of the landlady, a girl he recognized as the one now serving behind the bar, although much younger, and a man. Obviously a family shot, all smiling happily at the lens. As he dialled the number, Henry said, ‘Nice photo.’ He glanced at the woman, whose name he did not yet know — although he assumed she was the one named on the pub licence plate over the front door, Alison Marsh — and saw her mouth contract sadly. He was a little puzzled by the expression, but looked away from her as his connection was made.
Steve Flynn hunched forward in the front seat of the Shogun and twisted the heating control up another notch. He was sitting in the dark now, watching the snow fall steadily, the wipers clearing the screen every ten seconds. Initially he had sat there with the headlights on main beam, the light piercing through the snowflakes into the trees ahead, up to the point where Cathy James’s body lay. But that view had soon depressed him, knowing that a very dear friend — and briefly lover — was lying murdered about thirty feet away. Although Henry had warned him not to touch anything, he couldn’t resist checking the mobile phone, which showed a list of his unanswered calls to it.
Roger, the German shepherd, had jumped into the back seat, stretched out and fallen asleep, making grunting noises and chasing rabbits. Thanks to the strenuous exercise of going up the hill in search of Cathy, the old dog was whacked. Not that he’d been much use in rooting her out. That pleasure had fallen to Henry Christie.
He began to think about Henry and the history they shared.
Flynn had thought of himself fundamentally as a good cop, but had developed a hard-man reputation when dealing with criminals and had built on that by being seen as someone who also cut corners in the criminal justice system if he could. He loved catching crims, particularly career-minded ones who were professional and organized. He’d managed to get on the drugs branch, devoting his energies to nailing big-time dealers. He and his long-time partner, Jack Hoyle, were seen as tough cops who had brought down many criminal empires.
What Flynn didn’t know — initially — was that Jack was both massively in debt and was also nailing his wife Faye behind his back.
All these things came to light following one of those shit-hits-the-fan raids when almost everything had gone wrong.
Naively Flynn, a detective sergeant, thought it would be a career-making bust. With Jack, he had been building a case against a major drugs dealer, Felix Deakin, and had identified a counting house in Blackpool where Deakin’s takings were being collected. Flynn had decided to raid the house just as Deakin was paying it a visit. He turned up, the cops hit the place — and then it went wrong. A cop got shot and Deakin alleged that a million pounds in drugs money had disappeared into the pockets of bent cops — specifically Flynn’s and Hoyle’s.
Although Deakin was successfully prosecuted and jailed, and it was never proved that the million pounds actually existed, a very dark cloud of suspicion hung over Flynn and Hoyle. Both men were withdrawn from front-line policing and given tedious desk jobs at opposite ends of the county. Henry Christie was pulled in to investigate Flynn and although he could not prove anything against him, Flynn’s life as a cop became untenable. So much shit, and much of it stuck. That, together with a private life that was unravelling faster than a reel of cotton, drove Flynn to quit the job and scuttle to Gran Canaria to try and rebuild his life.
Only when two of Deakin’s heavies came along and asked him in fairly unpleasant terms where the million pounds was did Flynn put the sums together and realize that Jack Hoyle had stolen the dirty money right under everyone’s noses. Then things got very nasty indeed. Not just for Flynn, but for Deakin, too.
‘Felix Deakin,’ Flynn breathed out loud. ‘Jonny Cain… now that’s some connection.’
But Deakin was now dead, killed by a hit man’s perfectly aimed bullet; killed because he was supposed to have volunteered to give evidence against Cain, who had been up on a murder charge. Not being a cop any more meant Flynn didn’t know the complete background to all that, but what he did know was that Cain was acquitted of the original murder charge and as far as he knew, it was never proved that he’d hired someone to whack Deakin. And Cain had resumed his old ways.
And now Flynn had seen two of Cain’s lieutenants in Kendleton, which meant Cain wouldn’t be far behind. Chuck Jack Vincent into this little casserole. And a dead cop. ‘What the hell’s going on in this village?’ he asked himself.
And Henry Christie too… Flynn’s slightly disconnected thoughts focused on Henry again. Not his favourite character, but not many did like Henry. He had a tendency to rub even the most mild-mannered folk up the wrong way. Flynn closed his eyes. But instantly he was bathed in bright white light, as though a flying saucer had landed behind him. Startled, he jumped around in his seat as four beams of light burned into his retinas like four mini suns.
The tractor was massive. What’s happened to the tractors of my youth, Henry had thought when he climbed on to the running board of the huge machine. The ones that pottered amiably around country lanes with wobbly wheels and a stereotypical farmer hunched over the iron-rimmed steering wheel, often with a collie dog trotting at the back wheel, tongue lolling.
Now they were monsters. Complicated, powerful vehicles designed to carry out all manner of tasks.
‘Welcome aboard,’ Don Singleton, farmer and butcher, announced proudly, taking his seat in the centre of what Henry could only describe as a cockpit. He was amazed by its size and the relative comfort it offered, from the big leather driver’s chair to the two jump seats either side of it, set back slightly, for passengers. Henry sat in one of these seats and Dr Lott in the other, rubbing his hands together keenly.
‘This is a John Deere 5M,’ Singleton continued. ‘Lovely, lovely beast.’
He turned a key, pressed a button and the engine came to life — diesel, but as smooth as a car engine. All the lights came on, even the four positioned across the roof of the cab. He released the clutch and the beast on wheels moved. Henry was very much aware that the cab now reeked of exhaled alcohol. The only good thing was that there was no chance of a cop appearing, breath kit in hand.
From Henry’s description, Singleton knew exactly where he was going and the heavy tractor mashed its way
