‘No! No, it’s fine.’
‘It’s just… I’ve been dialling your number, then hanging up, or just pressing delete… a million times… a billion.’
Henry gasped. ‘How are you?’
‘Good. Question is, how are you? I was so sorry to hear about your wife. Kate?’
‘That’s OK. These things happen, but thanks.’
‘Such a tragedy.’
A tear formed on the lip of Henry’s right eyelid. ‘Yes.’
He had met Alison Marsh well over a year before when he had stumbled into her pub in the village of Kendleton in North Lancashire and found himself involved in some violent shenanigans with ruthless gangsters and corrupt cops. There had been an instant attraction, but at that time Henry had been happily married to a live and kicking Kate. Why would he have married her twice if he was going to be unfaithful, he’d thought. So he had kept Alison at arms’ length and following the events that took place in the village — during which Henry strongly suspected Alison may have killed a very bad man who was about to murder someone else — it was probably a wise thing to do. Part of him didn’t want to find the evidence that she’d pulled the trigger because it would have complicated an already confusing scenario. And she would have had to face a legal situation that she didn’t deserve. Fortunately there was another legitimate suspect who might have shot the man and the inquiry into the death veered away from Alison.
‘I didn’t know if… if I should ever phone you.’
‘I’m glad you did, Alison.’
‘Really?’ She sounded relieved.
‘Yeah, really… but so late?’
She laughed. It was a nice sound.
‘Hey, look. How does a coffee sound?’
‘Sounds brilliant,’ she said.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow, when I know what’s happening. I’ve got — er — some hot investigations ongoing.’ He almost chuckled at the way it sounded so self-important. ‘I’ll have more idea tomorrow afternoon, so it might be the day after…’
Henry breathed out at the end of the conversation; an amazed smile broke on his face. As he was about to set off the phone rang again. This time he didn’t get a chance to introduce himself as an American voice came strongly on the line. ‘Henry, where the hell are you?’ Karl Donaldson demanded. ‘That Chinese better be a massive portion because I’m starving and there’s nothing in your cupboards.’
Boone returned an hour later, fairly breathless and flustered, but businesslike. Flynn had spent the intervening time in Michelle’s laid back company, which, as she smoked a couple of spliffs, got even more relaxed. Flynn declined the offer of sharing one with her. Taking a drug other than alcohol — which he acknowledged was just as destructive as any other drug — did not appeal, not after all those years on the drugs branch, seeing the effects they had on people. He stuck with the Johnny Walker Black Label she produced. They’d chatted about their lives and she had gradually become very dreamy and sexy, her pupils expanding as they talked and she inhaled.
When Boone came back on to the houseboat, he was full of apologies. Flynn thought he was going to settle down for the night, but he went down to the main bedroom and stuffed clothing into a rucksack, with Michelle watching him in her haze.
He came back on to deck and said to Flynn, ‘Sorry mate, I need to get going.’ He rubbed his first finger and thumb together, meaning money. ‘Had an offer I can’t refuse, but I need to go now.’
Flynn said, ‘It’s midnight, near as dammit.’
‘I know. Needs must.’ He turned to Michelle who seemed to be floating on air. ‘Babe, sorry, but you know.’
She smiled wonkily, which was very alluring, Flynn thought. ‘It’s OK,’ she said.
Then to Flynn, Boone said, ‘Look, pal, hang on here if you can, will you? I should be four days at most, y’know, there and back. Easy in Shell and the weather’ll be kind.’
‘Want company?’ Flynn offered.
‘No,’ Boone snapped. ‘No,’ he said more softly. ‘Solo job — y’know how it is.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Can you wait? Michelle will look after you — in a motherly way, that is.’
‘I can wait,’ Flynn said.
‘Look — go down the coast, do some shore fishing like we talked about. You know what you’re doing. Use my truck, no probs. But stay if you can. We still have a lot of fishing to do.’
As Henry stepped through the front door of his house, Leanne skulked out of the living room, gave him a heart-chilling stare and grunted, ‘Your friend is in there.’
‘And your friend?’ Henry said pointedly.
‘Gone,’ she said furiously. ‘Dad, you have no right-’
Henry’s right hand shot up, palm out: the classic police ‘stop’ signal. ‘I have every right to decide who comes into my house. We’ll talk about this later.’
‘Mum would’ve-’
Once again his hand shot up, this time his fingers spread apart to reiterate the body language. ‘That is not something you may ever — ever — throw back at me.’
She scowled, turning a lovely face into a harsh one, then stalked upstairs. Henry shook his head and entered the living room. He looked down the length of the open plan lounge/dining room to the conservatory beyond in which he could see Donaldson’s bulky figure slouched on the cane-backed sofa. He and Donaldson had had many serious discussions, and some not so serious, whilst sitting in the large conservatory that overlooked the rear garden and the flat farmland beyond. Henry had always liked the conservatory. It was a good place for relaxation, reflection and occasional nature watching. There was rumour that a housing estate was to be built on the back fields at some stage and if it ever happened, Henry would be devastated.
He walked through and called, ‘Hey’ to his friend, who turned and gave him a friendly wave. Henry raised the takeaway and said, ‘Enough for two, easily.’
‘Great — I helped myself to a beer, hope that’s OK.’ He held up a bottle of San Miguel.
‘No probs, bought some more anyway.’
Henry picked up his untouched JD from the coffee table as he walked past and downed it in one, then went into the kitchen where he plonked the food on a worktop and rooted out a couple of bowls and forks. As he opened the tin foil dishes, Donaldson joined him. The big American lounged on the door frame and sipped his beer. ‘Leanne’s pretty pissed at you.’
Henry tilted his head and looked at Donaldson, halfway through tipping boiled rice into a bowl. ‘I’m saving her from herself — and the git that was, or is, her boyfriend.’
Donaldson watched Henry divvy up the meal, finished his beer and took the bottle of Chinese beer that Henry gave him. Both then retired to the conservatory, perching their dishes on their laps and starting to eat.
The new dish was good, but there was something pleasant and familiar about a chicken curry that Henry missed slightly.
After they had each shovelled a few hot mouthfuls down, drunk some of the beer — which was exquisite — and the combination was having the desired effect, Henry looked at his friend.
Since their early morning conversation on Blackpool seafront — it seemed almost a lifetime ago — Henry had only seen Donaldson once. That had been when he had turned up in a police car at the scene of the shooting on the motorway. By then, all traffic had been stopped in both directions, diversions were in place, and Henry was waiting for the circus to turn up.
In the meantime, he had ensured that the body of the young Asian man had been covered by plastic sheeting and kept everyone away from it — once they were certain he was dead and nothing could be done to save him. The missing quadrant of his head and punched in face pretty much confirmed that. Once the scene protection was done, Henry had sat down with the AFO who had pulled the trigger.
Henry didn’t know him personally. He turned out to be a thirty-one-year-old constable by the name of Jeff Clarke, who had four years’ experience on firearms, and was also a police sniper — hence the accurate shooting. Until that moment, other than in training scenarios, Clarke had never pointed a weapon in anger at anyone.
