Nick Oldham - Facing Justice

Callard stared numbly at his boss. Then blurted, ‘The drugs, yeah — but killing! Fuck me, Jack! You in a turf war or something?’

‘Sometimes the shit hits the fan. Bad things happen and they have to be dealt with — and that’s what happened here.’ Vincent slid open a desk drawer, took out the money box and opened it. His hand came out with a big roll of notes crushed in his palm, the same ones he had shown the now deceased H. Diller and his equally dead backup, Haltenorth. ‘But we always get good money for what we do, don’t we?’ He looked at the cash. ‘I don’t know how much there is here, but it’s yours for what you did yesterday.’ His hand stretched out to Callard, offering it.

‘Don’t want it,’ he said stubbornly. ‘Just want out. I can’t take what’s going on.’

Vincent’s mouth tightened. Slowly he slid the money back into the cash tin and locked it. He pocketed the small key and rested his right hand, fingers slightly outstretched, across the box, which was just small enough for him to pick up with the one hand, like a brick. He picked it up as though he was going to replace it in the drawer.

Then he smashed it across Callard’s head.

The tin wasn’t particularly heavy. But it was sturdy and well constructed. It was a secure money box, after all, made of quite thick metal. The force of the blow deformed Callard’s whole face for a moment and he crashed off the chair on to his hands and knees. Vincent discarded the box and reverted to his fists, pounding Callard’s head until, finished, he stood up slowly and breathless. Callard scuttled away across the cabin, whimpering and groaning. Vincent stood over him.

‘I decide,’ he gasped, ‘who comes, who stays, who goes and what you do. I own you. I decide. And you’ll do everything I tell you.’

During his time as a cop, Flynn had hammered on many doors, especially when he’d been on the drugs branch. Somehow an instinct was acquired as to whether anyone was at home, but on this occasion it didn’t take the greatest detective in the world to work out there was a reasonable chance someone was inside. The car in the garage was a bit of a clue, as was the presence of the dog. Maybe. Or maybe Tom was at work, had got a lift in, and no one was inside.

Flynn shrugged mentally. He thumped the side of his fist on the door, rattled the letter box and stuck his finger on the door bell, making enough noise to raise the dead.

They pushed against the worsening weather, heads bowed, for as they trudged northwards, the north-easterly came in at them from forty-five degrees to the right, continually buffeting them and making walking along some stretches of the narrow paths quite dangerous.

Henry led, Donaldson bringing up the rear, trapped in his own world. To the American it had all become a bit unreal and he was focused on nothing more than the function of putting one foot in front of the other and the huge effort that it took. What he wanted to do was succumb to the awful way he was feeling, the nausea that enveloped him, the pain that weakened him every time it shot across his lower guts, and the fact that he dared not even fart. He even chuckled at that thought — and then the pain wracked him again and sapped more energy. His knees were weakening all the time, his muscles beginning to feel soft and pudgy. He pushed on, hoping his physical fitness and his mental attitude would be his saviour.

Henry was maybe ten feet ahead of him, but as the sleet turned to proper snow and the wind whipped it around, it became a series of interplaying curtains in front of his eyes, making it hard to keep Henry in view.

A sudden panic came over Donaldson. He was a tough guy and had been in many life-and-death situations, but they had always been on level playing fields or, more usually, Donaldson had had the advantage. And with the exception of one major blip — when he’d come face to face with one of the world’s most wanted terrorists and almost lost his life — he had always come out on top. Because he was fit, healthy, strong and hadn’t eaten bad chicken the night before. He could hardly believe how terribly it was affecting him, how vulnerable it was making him feel.

Henry disappeared in a snow flurry. Donaldson shouted his name desperately.

And then he was back in sight, had turned and was waiting for him to catch up. ‘Jeez, man, I thought you’d gone.’

‘No mate, still here,’ Henry reassured him. ‘How’s it going?’

Donaldson shook his head. Not good.

Persistence paid off. Flynn saw the twitch of the curtain at the bedroom window and knew for certain. He waited patiently but when the door was still not opened he began banging again, using his knuckles for a short rat-a-tat, often more irritating than the bass drum knock with the side of the fist.

The dog continued to bark.

There was a shout from inside the house and the dog fell silent. Flynn heard a movement, a door closing, footsteps. Then behind the frosted glass inlaid in the UPVC door he saw a shadowy figure, heard the key turn in the lock and the door opened a couple of inches on the security chain.

Tom James’s face appeared at the crack, but not the clean-cut face Flynn remembered from last year’s honeymoon. The eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, bleary and shot with blood. He was unshaven and even from where he stood, Flynn could smell the body odour. At knee level, the dog’s long nose poked through the gap, sniffing, growling.

Tom didn’t even look directly at Flynn, just said, ‘What the hell d’you want?’ A whiff of stale booze came to Flynn’s nostrils.

Flynn hesitated. ‘Tom, it’s me, Steve Flynn.’

The detective’s eyes rose wearily. A glint of recognition came to them, but not friendliness. He did not unlatch the chain, simply said, ‘What’re you doing here?’ There was suspicion and challenge in the voice.

‘I was over here visiting family,’ Flynn fibbed. ‘Just had the chance to pop over and catch up with you and Cathy. On the off chance, y’know?’

‘Oh, very nice.’ Tom did not budge.

‘Is she about?’

Tom shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Right,’ Flynn said, expanding the syllable to indicate disbelief. ‘Er, any chance of getting a brew?’ he suggested. ‘It’s brass out here.’ He wrapped his arms around himself to prove his point and exhaled a steamy breath.

Tom considered him, put the door to and slid the chain free. ‘Come in,’ he said reluctantly.

‘The weather’s turning real nasty,’ Flynn observed.

The door opened. Tom was dressed in a dressing gown over a T-shirt and shorts, slippers on his feet. He fastened the gown, grabbed the dog by its thick collar. ‘He won’t do you any harm once you’re in,’ Tom said.

Flynn edged around the dog. It eyed him malevolently. It was a massive beast and he guessed it was the one Cathy had handled whilst she’d been on the dog section. The dogs were usually allowed to stay with their handlers when they left the department if they had a long-standing partnership, for in such cases it would be too problematic to re-establish an old dog with a new handler. Always better to start afresh. The dog did look quite old, greying like a human being, and Flynn guessed it would be around the nine year mark, if he did his maths correctly. However, its eyes remained sharp and keen, watching him enter the house and turn right into the lounge.

‘Nice doggy,’ he said.

‘His nickname was Lancon Bastard,’ Tom said. ‘But he’s a doddering old softy now, on his last legs, literally. He’s called Roger, of all things,’ he added tiredly and Flynn picked up that he wasn’t keen on the beast. ‘Grab a seat. I’ll put the kettle on.’

‘Great.’ Flynn sat on the settee, glancing around at the furniture and fittings in the bay-fronted room. Everything looked expensive. The soft leather three-piece suite, the forty-two-inch TV mounted on the wall over the fireplace, the surround sound to go with it, a Bang and Olufsen sound system and a series of watercolours that looked original. Through the front window he saw that the snow had thickened and stuck, already some depth to it, and he worried if he was going to be able to get out of the village today. Whilst he was thinking this, Roger was framed in the doorway, observing him.