Cain shouted, ‘I’m coming out.’
Vincent backed away from the door, stepped a third of the way across the width of the corridor, and trained the shotgun on the open door. Henderson mirrored his actions, so the two of them had weapons aimed diagonally at the open door.
Cain came to the door, hands clasped behind his head.
‘Face away from me,’ Vincent ordered.
With no fear in his face, Cain turned around. Vincent stepped smartly up behind him and smashed the butt of the shotgun on to the back of Cain’s closely cropped head, splitting the skin and sending him straight down to his knees. He followed this with another blow which pivoted Cain on to his face, but still did not knock him unconscious. The next four blows managed to accomplish this feat.
Another strong coffee in hand, two more painkillers down his throat, Henry sat on the dining chair that Flynn had positioned for him in the office doorway. The coffee was in a mug resting on his thigh and tasted wonderful, but even the caffeine wasn’t having the desired effect of keeping him alert. It worked for a moment, giving him a quick energy burst, but then his overwhelming tiredness cut in and rushed through him, unstoppable.
His head fell. He jerked it up with a mumble and tried to keep his eyes open, and glanced at Tom James who was watching him carefully. Tom hadn’t dozed, but seemed to be waiting for Henry to do so.
Henry was suddenly envious of Karl Donaldson, who he imagined to be curled up in Ginny’s comfortable warm bed, snoring contentedly.
‘You can’t afford to drop off,’ Tom warned him.
‘Don’t intend to.’
‘Neither does the car driver who falls asleep at the wheel. Then look what happens — a fatal.’
Henry sighed deeply and masked a yawn. The sudden inrush of oxygen brought him round a little, but he knew what Tom said was true. The way things were going he’d be asleep before he knew it, although the excruciating pain in his shoulder did help to keep him awake.
‘Top up?’
Alison had returned from the kitchen with a jug of newly filtered coffee. Henry downed what was left in the mug and held it up for a refill. She poured carefully, holding the cup in place, giving Henry a hidden smile.
‘Thanks.’ It was hot and strong. ‘Where’s Flynn?’ he asked quietly. Alison gestured with an upward spiralling movement of her head — upstairs.
‘He thinks we’re under siege,’ she said.
‘It sort of feels that way for some reason.’
Alison took the coffee back to the kitchen and returned with another chair, placing it next to Henry but out of line of sight of Tom.
‘You look whacked,’ she said, keeping her voice low.
Henry angled slightly towards her and their knees brushed gently. ‘I have never been so utterly knackered in my life.’
‘How’s the shoulder?’
‘Stiffening up. Getting sore, despite the drugs. Hurts.’
Alison leaned forward to check on Tom, whose forehead was now resting on his up-pulled knees. This meant she was touching Henry and their faces were just millimetres apart. She stayed in the position longer than necessary and Henry could smell the aroma of her hair, which almost touched his face. He could see the skin of her neck and feel the softness of her breast just touching him. His heart missed a whole bar of beats, but at least the contact brought him wide awake again as probably the last shot of adrenalin left in his system spurted out.
She sat back up. ‘I don’t throw myself at men,’ she whispered. ‘But after this is over, do you think we could meet for a coffee somewhere?’
‘I’ll have to come back for statements.’
‘Good,’ she smiled — and Henry suddenly felt very stupid. He knew there was no chance of anything going anywhere with her. He was happily married, second time around to the same woman, and he was going to do nothing to spoil that. But there was something in him that found it very hard to say no, something still quite juvenile and reckless. He harangued himself internally for even thinking about kissing another woman than his wife.
His thoughts were interrupted when from upstairs there was a crash of a door slamming shut and the sound of Flynn’s heavy footsteps. Tom raised his head, a sly, knowing look on his face. Flynn thundered down the stairs.
‘Henry, problem. Two guys approaching, blacked up, weapons,’ he said urgently, then explained, ‘I’ve been watching from an upstairs window.’
A bleary-eyed Laura Binney appeared at the top of the stairs, squinting as though she had just woken up. Roger was at her legs.
The phone in the office started to ring.
‘You sure?’ Henry said.
‘I know men in black carrying guns when I see them.’
Henry stood up, crossed to the office desk and snatched up the phone. Before he could say his name, Tom James sneered, ‘And so the fun begins.’
Donaldson dressed quickly, ignoring the recurring stomach cramps and ankle pain, then after instructing Ginny to stay well back, he approached the door leading out to the bar. He listened hard, but could hear nothing, being aware that the thickness of the doors and walls in this old pub meant hearing anything happening in any other part of the building was virtually impossible.
He drew the bolts back slowly, opened it a crack. He turned back to Ginny, who was peering fearfully out of her mother’s bedroom, and mouthed, ‘Lock it behind me.’ Holding his breath, he stepped out into the bar where the body of Danny Bispham still lay, but was not now twitching. The three masked men had gone but the door up to the first floor was ajar and he could hear voices and thumping noises, the sound of people coming back down the steps.
He did not panic, but stepped across into the darkness of the dining room and flattened himself against the wall in a position where he could see, but not be seen.
They came downstairs seconds later. Two of them dragged the semi-comatose Jonny Cain between them, their arms scooped under his armpits. The third guy followed at Cain’s outstretched feet, one of his arms held across his chest. Donaldson could see the man had been injured.
At the front door, one of the men holding Cain said, ‘Hang fire.’ He pulled his arm free, took a couple of steps towards the bar and raised the shotgun he was carrying. He fired four holes into the security mesh, the shot spraying out and shattering optics and glasses on shelves behind the bar. Then he turned back, grabbed Cain again and dragged him through the door.
Donaldson came out of the shadow, walked across to the front window and watched Cain being hauled through the snow of the car park. They dragged him to the back of his Range Rover, opened the back door and lifted him in. Two of them got into the Range Rover, the third, injured man jogged down the main street to a heavy goods vehicle parked a short distance away.
Donaldson stepped back over Bispham, then climbed the stairs to the first floor and walked along the corridor, sniffing the cordite from the shotgun discharges, noting bullet holes in the ceiling and the door frame splintered by the shotgun blast.
And, of course, Riddick’s body twisted and bloody at the far end of the corridor. Steeling himself, Donaldson looked into what had been Cain’s bedroom where he saw Napier’s body splayed across the bed, lying in vast amounts of dark blood, his guts blown out.
‘Oh my God!’
Donaldson spun, found Ginny behind him. He steered her away from the carnage, knowing there was nothing he could do for these men.
‘Got to call Henry,’ he said.
Henry listened as Donaldson succinctly described the events at the pub, his eyes flitting from Alison to Flynn and back. He had come out of the office with the phone to his ear and mee-mawed for Flynn to watch Tom whilst he spoke to the American.
‘Right — thanks, pal.’ He pressed the end call button and stared at Alison.
‘You got a problem, Henry?’ Tom shouted with delight.
