Nick Oldham - Facing Justice

Steve Flynn drove up the narrow road. It was filling with snow, which was starting to drift and bank up in various places. He cursed the weather and had another quick flashback to the sunshine he’d abandoned two thousand miles south of here.

With the weather being so bad, he realized he didn’t have time for more than a cursory drive around the roads that formed the perimeter of some of the land surrounding Mallowdale House. It didn’t help that he was a stranger to the area, didn’t know where he was going, didn’t know what he was looking for and was probably wasting his time anyway.

The road dipped, the car fishtailed through some deep snow, then began to rise. On his left was a high security fence and he spotted a sign written in red letters which he guessed warned against trespassing. On a post behind one of the signs, behind the fence, he also saw a CCTV camera. He didn’t stop to read the signs, but drove on another hundred metres and found a wide double gate, maybe ten feet high, but dipping slightly in the centre where the two halves met. He pulled up at it, peered through the windscreen and considered it for a moment. It seemed to be the entrance to Mallowdale House.

‘You stay here,’ he told Roger, who nodded.

He got out and walked up to the gate, which was made of solid wood, reinforced with steel belts, and was electronically operated. On a pole behind one of the gate posts was another CCTV camera, focused on him. There was another sign on the gate itself which read, its tone unfriendly, ‘MALLOWDALE HOUSE. NO TRESPASSING.

GROUNDS PATROLLED BY SECURITY GUARDS AND DOGS. BEWARE. KEEP AWAY. CCTV CAMERAS ALSO IN USE.’ Like the sign further down the road, it was written in red. He tried to peer through the tiny gap in the middle of the gate. With one eye he could just about see a curved driveway, with a couple of sets of tyre tracks in the snow, and beyond, behind the snow-laden trees, almost out of sight, a large house, but he couldn’t make out its detail in the fading light. He could also make out some cars parked outside, but again, no detail.

‘Can I help you?’ Flynn jumped as a metallic voice came from an intercom speaker set in the gate post. Automatically he glanced at the CCTV camera again. He gave a little wave, walked over to the intercom and pressed the talk button.

‘I’d like to see Mr Vincent,’ Flynn said, off the cuff.

‘What’s your business?’

Still winging it, Flynn ad-libbed, ‘Police business. I believe he’s had poachers on his land.’

‘Show your warrant card to the camera,’ the voice instructed him.

Flynn made a weedy show of patting his pockets. ‘I think I’ve forgotten it.’

‘In that case, come back when you’ve got it — and make an appointment beforehand.’ The intercom clicked dead.

Flynn toyed with the idea of pressing the talk button again, but decided against it. He got back in the car and looked at his travelling companion. ‘Have you got your warrant card?’ he asked the dog. Roger looked dumbly at him, dipped his head forward to be stroked and dribbled on to Flynn’s lap. ‘Thought not.’

He engaged first gear and carefully started the car, the wheels spinning in the snow. He drove on up the hill. The high fencing with warning signs continued for another quarter of a mile parallel with the road before doing a right-hand turn. Flynn drove on up the hillside, which got steeper and steeper, passing the entrance to Mallowdale Quarry. He wondered if this had any connection with the house, recalling what Jerry Tope had said about Jack Vincent’s legitimate businesses, haulage and construction. The light car became even more difficult to control and the snow seemed to be getting even heavier the higher up he got.

Flynn realized he was driving blind in more senses than one and he might simply be reacting to something that didn’t even exist. Chances were that Cathy was completely safe and unharmed. She’d probably stormed out of the house with no intention of looking for a poacher and was safe and sound somewhere, licking her wounds, phone turned off to stop incoming calls from Tom. Flynn still felt uneasy about the situation and was worried that Cathy wasn’t returning his calls, but he could see there was very little he could do about it and a big part of his instinct was telling him not to get involved. Domestic disputes equalled messy nightmares.

He decided to give it another mile or so then — literally, probably — spin around, slide back down to the village and see how the weather panned out.

The road twisted. The car slid and the steering wheel spun out of his grip, and he almost ended up nose first in a snow bank.

‘Enough’s enough, yeah?’ he asked Roger, who had only just managed to stay seated. Flynn reversed carefully, keeping the revs low and using the clutch tenderly to edge back off the road into a forest track. His intention was to return to Kendleton and, if there was no chance of leaving the village because of the weather, throw his charming self on the mercy of Alison the curvy landlady for the night. He tried not to think about the possibility of laying his weary head on her bosom… the car slithered backwards on to the track, making him concentrate on driving again. He braked, went back into first gear and let out the clutch slowly. The tyres spun, not gripping. He eased off and tried again.

It was then he happened to glance in the rear view mirror. Something dark amongst the pine trees had caught his eye. Puzzled, not even sure if he had seen anything, he yanked on the handbrake and looked over his shoulder through the back window, which was covered with big spats of snow. It cleared with a sweep of the wiper blade and confirmed the glimpse. There was a dark vehicle parked some thirty metres up the track, virtually out of sight of the road.

Flynn’s guts felt as though they’d been scraped out as he fumbled with his seat belt, scrambled out of the car and ran up the track.

They staggered towards the remains of a farmhouse, nothing more than a shell of stone and rubble, no roof, most of the walls missing. It looked as though it had been bombed, but it was a good sight for Henry to behold. Breathing heavily, he was close to falling over. Cold pervaded his whole being and his energy reserves had dwindled almost to zero as he fought to keep Donaldson upright, as he had been doing for the last two tortuous miles.

He was relieved to see the building because it was a feature on his map, overlooking the edge of the disused quarry which was also on the map. This meant they were not far from a track that would lead them down to the minor road, thence to the village of Kendleton where they could rest and recuperate and possibly get medical attention. The end was in sight.

He guided Donaldson to the farmhouse and eased him down under the lee of one of the walls that remained standing, blocking off some of the wind and snow.

Henry’s relief was incredible, but tempered by the thought he might have made a mistake in stopping. Should they have carried on? The thought of heaving his friend back up to his feet was demoralizing. Henry stretched his back, muscles he didn’t know he had ached agonizingly. He looked at Donaldson massaging his injured ankle. His tanned face was pale and sickly.

‘Couple of minutes, then we get going again.’

‘Sure thing,’ Donaldson mumbled, not even raising his eyes to look at Henry.

Henry resisted the urge to sink down next to him, knowing he would not want to get back up again and also wanting to give his friend the impression that he was OK, even if he wasn’t. A psychological thing, his desire to keep Donaldson’s spirits up.

Instead he wandered around the building that had once been a large farmhouse, curious as to why it had never been renovated. To Henry it looked like it would have made a stunning house. He wandered around the walls then got the probable answer to the question. Within ten feet of the gable end was a high, wire-mesh fence. Henry walked towards it, slipped his fingers through the mesh and gave it a rattle, reading the Danger — Keep Out sign in red. Underneath these words was written Disused Quarry. And that was why the farmhouse had never been done up, he guessed. Too near the rim of the quarry, although as he peered through the fence he couldn’t actually see this. But he assumed it wasn’t too far away. Once, the farmhouse would have been situated in a stunning location on the hillside, but as the quarry had been excavated and crept closer, it wasn’t so nice.