After a second urgent visit to the toilet, Donaldson curled up in Ginny’s comfortable bed, certain the worst was over, that his insides were completely evacuated. The pains had all but gone, a faint twinge now and then. His ankle continued to throb, but the elastic tube bandage that Alison had found for him held it firmly, yet gently.
He tapped off the bedside light and snuggled into his favourite position, sleeping mode as he called it, on his right-hand side, left leg drawn up, right extending, hands palm to palm underneath his face.
A few things whirled through his mind. The day’s terrible walk, Ken’s infected chicken, his wife and the baby growing in her tummy, the evening’s events and whether Henry was coping without him. But his meanderings circled back to his future child, sex still unknown. That was going to be a surprise for both of them. He started to drift off, working through lists of names.
He came awake with a start at the sound of a click. His whole body tensed as he listened, his brow furrowing, certain he had heard something. The click, then a creak. Then a footstep — soft, but definitely a footstep. Donaldson held his breath. Someone, he was positive, had entered the bedroom. Ginny, he wondered. Forgotten something? Not wanting to disturb him?
He was facing away from the door, so opening his eyes didn’t help.
Another shuffle, then he was aware of a presence by the bed. He heard a rasping breath, then smelled cigarette smoke and body odour and he knew this was an intruder, someone who should not have been there.
‘Now then, you foxy bitch, I’m going to continue what I started,’ the voice croaked.
Donaldson relaxed, a smile spreading across his face, and what little light there was in the room caught the mischievous twinkle in his eye.
‘You are going to get it,’ the man said huskily. A smell of alcohol joined the other fine aromas. ‘And you’re gonna like it.’
Donaldson allowed himself to emit a slight squeak of air from his lungs, hoping it would sound like the sort of noise a girl might make. He snuggled down deeper under the duvet, aware of the figure leaning over and a hint of warm breath, garlic laden, wafting across. He must have had the garlic mushrooms as a starter, Donaldson thought.
‘I’m gonna shag you silly, you little bitch.’
It was at that point that Donaldson felt enough was enough.
Although he was sick and injured, the sugar-rush of adrenalin ensured that these disabilities were sidelined.
He moved fast and hard and violently, all his training kicking in — particularly the offensive tactics he had learned and continued to practise to perfection over the years.
The duvet went down. The back of his left hand, bunched into an iron fist, arced upwards and slammed directly into Danny Bispham’s face. It was a perfect landing and even as he continued to move, Donaldson patted himself mentally on the back for this excellent blow. It may only have travelled less than two feet, but the power of the punch was tremendous, rather like being hit by a flat iron.
Donaldson felt the gristle crack, the septum snap, and the resultant mush get forced back into Bispham’s face. The second punch he had received in more or less the same spot that evening.
He fell backwards, the combination of the blow and its surprise knocking him back against the bedroom door. His senses reeled, the pain was intense, the shock overwhelming. He sank down on to his backside, uncomprehendingly holding his face.
By which time Donaldson was out of bed, giving the intruder no respite, dragging him to his feet, driven by that terrible combination of rage and precision. Rage at the gall of the man to think he could continue what he had started in the restaurant by putting his hand up Ginny’s skirt; precision in the way he clinically proceeded to beat the man senseless. The assault lasted less than a minute, though to Bispham it felt more like a month, until he was curled up in a ball, whining for mercy, sobbing.
Towering over him, Donaldson growled, ‘Still want to screw me?’
Tom James had been stuffed down into one corner of the office with firm orders not to move. He sat wedged there, knees drawn up, his cable-tied hands resting on his knees, watching everything that was going on. Callard was still asleep.
Flynn stood in the open doorway, one eye always on Tom, whilst he talked in whispers to Henry. ‘It’s going to be a long night,’ Flynn said. It was approaching midnight now and both men felt as though they had lived three lifetimes that day. ‘Good news is the snow seems to have eased off.’
‘Now it looks like it’s starting to freeze.’ Henry was in the hall, looking past Flynn into the office, angled so he could see Tom and Callard’s outstretched legs. ‘At least if it’s clear, they’ll be able to get the helicopter out to us at first light… some relief.’
‘Don’t bank on it.’
Both men exhaled simultaneously, caught each other doing it and grinned.
‘You know I didn’t take that million, or have anything to do with it,’ Flynn said, and added, ‘apropos nothing.’
‘We’ll have to see what your ex-partner says about it, won’t we? If he ever gets caught. And anyway, why are you so bothered? Do you crave for my, I dunno, stamp of approval or something?’
‘Just want you to see the truth… I don’t like clouds hanging over me.’
Henry gave him a scornful look. ‘I’ve got clouds queuing up to hang over me.’
‘But you’re still in the job.’
‘Yes, I am,’ he said tiredly and rolled his injured shoulder, which was stiffening up painfully, still weeping blood.
Behind them, the living-room door opened and Alison stepped out.
‘How is she?’ Henry asked.
‘OK — tired, wants to sleep.’
‘I don’t suppose you could…?’ Henry’s voice trailed off.
‘Put her up? I’m afraid we’re full at the inn,’ Alison said biblically.
‘She’ll have to bed down here, then. There’s a guest bedroom made up. Not ideal, but we need to keep hold of her.’
They were talking in hushed tones, but not quietly enough it seemed.
Tom piped up. ‘This is my house. You are taking liberties. This is an invasion of my civil liberties… you cannot do this.’
All three heads turned to him, the withering expression on all three faces identical, though Henry’s suddenly morphed into something much more serious. He stalked over to Tom, who scowled.
‘Henry fucking Christie,’ Tom sneered. ‘I know all about your chequered past, all about your very dicey history of bad judgement calls. I know you’ve been suspended before… you’re a freakin’ legend, mate… and this is all bollocks, it’ll be the icing on your cake.’
‘And yet here you are in handcuffs and I’m a superintendent.’
‘Only because you’re up the chief constable’s arsehole. Everybody knows — everybody!’
‘And yet you’re the one in handcuffs,’ Henry repeated, ‘suspected of murdering your wife, consorting with known OC targets… and much, much more. When the dawn comes, you’ll be fucked and facing justice, Tom. You’ll be going down for life and you’ll never set foot outside again for at least what, thirty years?’ Henry grinned. ‘By which time I’ll be in my dotage, bouncing great-grand-kids on my knees.’
Tom laughed. ‘Don’t think so, Henry,’ he said smugly. ‘You just don’t know who you’re dealing with here.’
‘And plainly, nor do you.’
Henry felt someone grip his arm and squeeze gently. It was Flynn. ‘Henry,’ he said, and did not need to speak another word. Flynn had watched him get sucked into a fruitless confrontation, a tit-for-tat argument, the only winner of which would be Tom because he had nothing to lose.
Henry nodded and withdrew from the room. In the hallway, this time definitely out of Tom’s earshot, he said, ‘Got my goat. I’m just tired and irritable.’
‘Oh I know that, but you know what worries me most?’
‘What?’
‘His confidence.’
‘Mm,’ Henry mused. ‘That phone call.’
