Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

‘She’s a little cunt,’ Coulton hissed into Henry’s ear. ‘Doesn’t deserve fuck all.’

‘If you lay a finger on her, Jake, I’ll make it my personal responsibility to pay you a visit.’

Coulton laughed in his face, then got into the Bentley. He tore away from the kerb, two fingers raised in Henry’s direction, then he was gone. Henry watched the tail lights fade. He looked over at the police van, nodded at the driver — a PC he did not know — then went to Leanne, who was waiting for him twenty metres down the road.

He gave her a hug. Arm in arm, they walked to the discreetly parked Astra.

‘Sorry it’s not a Bentley,’ he apologized.

‘She can keep her bloody Bentley. I’d rather have this — and you — any day,’ Leanne said. It was the first time Henry had ever heard her swear.

‘Do you have much to do with Charlotte?’ he asked her.

‘No — only met her at the stables. She goes to some posh private school out near Poulton somewhere.’

‘Oh, I assumed she went to yours,’ Henry said foolishly.

‘Naah. . I quite like her, though, in a funny sort of way,’ Leanne said wistfully as she fitted her seatbelt. ‘But she’s not a happy kid,’ she said, like a grown-up. ‘Money doesn’t make you happy, Daddy.’

‘I don’t think I’ll ever find out on my wage.’

‘It’s love and family that make you happy. And laughs and fun.’

‘Can’t disagree with that.’ Henry’s heart felt like it was being twisted.

‘We have a good family, don’t we?’

‘Yeah, we do.’ God — he was starting to fill up.

‘She doesn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Her daddy isn’t her real daddy.’

Henry almost swerved the Astra off the road.

With his mind buzzing, Henry Christie was still awake at 2 a.m. He tried not to toss and turn so as not to disturb Kate, but lay there with his arms clasped at the back of his head, staring at the ceiling. He was reviewing his day, going round and round the block since Jane had called with the car at 8 a.m.

That seemed such a long, long time ago.

Since dropping her off and making her walk to the police station, Henry had not spoken to her.

Perhaps he should, he thought. But then again, perhaps not. She was far too tempting for him, even though he had promised himself not to get involved. There was still more than a spark between them, despite what she said, and under the right circumstances it could ignite into passion and danger. At least that is what his male ego led him to believe.

His mind drifted from incident to incident, like a butterfly on flowers, not really fathoming out anything from his sleepy analysis.

The biggest shock of the day had been Leanne’s news about Charlotte and her parentage. Henry tried to speculate as to what significance that had on the family. Was the man Tara had her tryst with the real father, or just one of a series of lovers? Did it have any connection with the mutilation of horses? Did John Lloyd Wickson know he wasn’t the father?

Bloody hell, he thought: a can of worms.

He peeled the duvet off him and rolled out of bed, grabbed his dressing gown and slid his feet into his Marks and Spencer slippers.

He needed a drink.

Without disturbing anyone, he hoped, he made his way downstairs and to the fridge in which he kept a chilled bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He poured a short measure and retired to the living room, spreading out on the settee. The ice-cold drink burned satisfyingly down his throat. Nice.

Fuck! He had a moment of anguished panic when he remembered that a gun and a bag of drugs were still stashed in the Astra parked in his driveway.

He had another drink to calm himself down.

When Troy Costain came up with the goods, he would lose the gun and destroy the drugs. If he could keep his nerve for the next day, that was.

He closed his eyes and thought about the drug dealer he had beaten up.

That had been a moment of pure rage, but one he did not regret. A kick for the common people, he thought triumphantly, and raised his glass.

Obviously if the little shit complained to the police about it, Henry would have to have it taken into consideration with the gun and drug possession.

He chuckled slightly manically.

The sour mash whiskey was making him feel mellow and sleepy, doing its job. He knew mind, body and spirit needed to rest. His body ached. His mind was warped. His spirit was battered.

He shuffled into a comfortable sleeping position, head laid back on the arm of the settee.

He drifted nicely.

Then the phone rang. It was Tara Wickson.

‘Henry?’ Her voice was dithery. ‘Henry? Please come and help me, I don’t know what to do.’

He struggled into an upright sitting position, not sure if he had been to sleep.

‘What’s the matter, Tara?’ he asked blearily.

She was panting.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’m standing here. . in the kitchen. . I’ve got a shotgun and I’m pointing it at Jake Coulton and I’m going to kill him. . I’m going to kill the bastard. . and then I’m going to kill that bastard of a husband of mine.’

Henry was suddenly very awake. ‘Whoa. . come on, cool it, calm down, Tara,’ he said. ‘Tell me what’s going on. . Keep calm. . Keep rational. .’ As he was talking, he was racing upstairs, throwing his dressing gown off. He needed to get dressed and keep her on the phone, talking. . because while she was talking, she wasn’t pulling a trigger. He tried hard to recall some of the tips from his hostage negotiator’s course, but his mind was pretty much a blank. He lurched into the bedroom and switched the main light on. Kate groaned, shielded her eyes from the glare and sat up, looking astonishingly annoyed and puzzled at the same time.

With the cordless phone to his ear, he shuffled himself into his discarded shirt.

‘Now keep calm. .’ he was saying again as he tried single-handedly to get into his jeans. He could not be bothered with underpants. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

Charlotte Wickson, wedged down behind the front seats of the Bentley, cried as she was driven away from the disco, feeling as though she had been abandoned by Henry and her mother, who had sent the dislikeable head of security to pick her up.

Jake Coulton threw the big, heavy car sharply around corners, braked hard, deliberately so as to make the ride as rough as possible for the recalcitrant teenager behind him. He heard her groan and gasp and felt good about it.

‘You shoulda sat in the seat.’

‘Fuck off,’ she said.

He sneered and stopped at a set of traffic lights. He glanced over his left shoulder.

Something inside him moved.

She was wearing a very skimpy skirt, revealing her long thin legs, and a short, cut-off top that displayed her belly button. She wore little else. White knickers, high heeled shoes and make-up.

He dropped his left hand back between the seats. It came to rest on her side, in the gap between her top and skirt. Her skin was cold and goose-bumped.

His fingers slid upwards.

An electric-like jolt shot through her. She stiffened as she realized what was happening and twisted away from him.

‘Get off me, you sick bastard!’ she yelled. She scrambled on to the back seat and huddled deep in a corner, as far away from Coulton as possible under the circumstances.

He laughed savagely.

The lights changed and the car surged through. Coulton grated his teeth, his nostrils flared and that something inside him grew even more. It was something he knew he had to respond to.

He drove out of Blackpool towards Poulton-le-Fylde, wondering how and when it could be. He reached up to the roof of the car and switched on the interior light. He could now turn his head round and leer at his passenger, who, with her legs drawn up defensively, was actually displaying more to him that she wanted to.