Nick Oldham - Facing Justice

‘You need to calm down,’ Flynn said evenly.

‘Why, exactly? Why do I need to calm down? I come home and find my house violated and you here.’ He pointed at Flynn, his face ugly with hatred. ‘Someone my bitch of a wife called and blabbed to, who then turns up like a puppy dog, because you shagged her, didn’t you?’

Flynn coloured uncomfortably. ‘That’s not why I’m here — and you know it.’

‘So why are you here? And where is she? And what’s going on with that prisoner? Who arrested him? It can’t have been-’ He stopped himself mid-sentence. ‘Start talking.’

Flynn sighed. ‘You need to calm down. Look, come and sit in the lounge and we’ll get all this sorted. I need to make a phone call.’

‘To Cathy? Where the hell is she?’

‘Just sit down, eh?’ Flynn was frantically using his hands in calming gestures. ‘Let me phone Henry Christie — it’s down to him to explain everything.’

Flynn had to be quick to see it because Tom covered it up well — a look of horror at the mention of Henry’s name. But see it he did, and it made him think this outburst from Tom was a complete charade. ‘Why Henry Christie?’ Tom demanded.

‘He’s down at the pub.’

‘Why him?’

‘Just let me call him.’

‘What the fuck is Henry Christie doing here?’

‘He’s probably asking himself the same question… come on, Tom — try to chill for a few minutes and I’ll get him up here to explain things.’

‘Why can’t you explain things?’

‘Because Henry’s a cop and I’m an innocent bystander.’

He arrived in Flynn’s hired Peugeot, which he noticed now was missing a driver’s door mirror. He parked behind Tom’s Golf and his heart sank a little at the task that lay ahead. He always thought that delivering a death message chipped away at something inside every cop, even though every cop knew it came with the territory. Henry had delivered many in his time — too many. Some of the toughest ones were linked to murders or suspicious and sudden deaths. By the nature of his role he often had to break the most awful news to families of people who had been brutally killed, their lives brought to unnatural and violent ends. Additionally, unless there was a suspect in mind, Henry also had to realize that the person he was delivering the news to could also have been the offender. It was a fine balancing line between empathy and cold calculation, compassion and evidence gathering, all these things running in parallel.

He thought briefly about what he knew of Tom James, detective and husband of the deceased. He knew Tom distantly in the way that SIOs knew the detectives who worked in the geographical areas for which they were responsible. Henry’s area included the north of the county, which therefore included the city of Lancaster, where Tom worked as a DC. Henry had come across him on a couple of straightforward domestic murders that he’d overseen in his SIO role. Tom had been professional and his performance had been excellent. He guessed that one day, Tom might become a DS, maybe a DI in the fullness of time. He seemed steady, diligent and reliable, could talk to people, the latter skill being the most important criteria in a decent detective.

So, nothing much, nothing outstanding. Except for the additional information fed to him by Steve Flynn, a man of dubious character himself. He’d told Henry what Cathy had said in a desperate phone call: the marriage was going south and Tom was corrupt. And it could all be bullshit. Henry didn’t know Cathy James well, could not comment on her character, but Flynn thought highly of her, for what that was worth.

Henry decided simply to bear these things in mind and, as ever, wing it. OK, he was dealing with the murder of a cop, but he didn’t know her, nor did he know Tom well, so that was good — nothing personal to queer the pitch. No preconceived notions that would sway him. He would simply deal with this as he would any other case. Thing was, of course, as he had already discussed with Flynn, murder victims usually knew their attackers and often the killer turned out to be a close friend or relative.

He hoped that would not be the case here. He opened the car door, stepped out into the deep snow, trudging and leaving footprints all the way up to the front door. ‘Open mind,’ he told himself firmly.

‘Christ boss, what the hell’s happening?’ Tom James asked desperately, having rushed to the front door to greet Henry, worry and fear pasted over his face.

‘Need to sit down and talk,’ Henry said.

‘What’s going on? Tell me, please.’

‘Living room,’ Henry said firmly.

‘OK,’ Tom said, tight-lipped. He walked stiffly into the front room.

Flynn was standing in the hallway. He gave Henry a shrug and Henry returned it with a shake of the head, followed Tom into the lounge and closed the door softly.

Tom sat primly on an armchair, wringing his hands.

‘This is going to be bad news, isn’t it?’ Tom said.

‘Tom, I want you to bear with me. I need to ask you some questions, to establish some facts. You know the score.’

‘Just tell me what’s going on,’ he pleaded.

‘Tom,’ Henry said firmly, trying to judge the best way ahead, part of the balancing act. If Tom knew nothing, if he and Cathy had simply had a barney and she’d stormed out and he didn’t know where she’d gone and it was as simple as that, Henry should just tell him that her body had been found and all the rest. However, if Tom was responsible for blowing his wife’s brains out, Henry had to get some details first. Henry knew he really had no choice. Whatever he believed, Tom James had to be up there in the top two prime suspects, alongside the mystery poacher, if indeed that person did exist. It was like defusing a bomb. Lots of wires, one of them lethal. ‘When did you last see Cathy?’

‘Oh God,’ he wailed, ‘she’s dead, isn’t she?’

‘Why would you say that?’

‘You being here. All this.’ He waved his arms around wildly. ‘Her car, Flynn — I don’t fuckin’ know!’

‘I’m here by accident.’

‘Then if there’s nothing going on, you don’t need to be involved, do you? Can you see where I’m coming from?’

Henry pursed his lips. ‘Yeah, except I am here and I am involved, and you’re right to be concerned.’ Henry stopped a moment. ‘What has Steve Flynn told you?’

‘Nothing.’

Henry nodded. ‘Right — just answer me, when did you last see Cathy?’

‘Uh, yesterday, OK. We had a row, she split…’

‘And? Is there anything else I should know? What time did she go? What did she say when she left?’

‘Called me a tosser… and she said she was going to check out the report of a poacher, then she was leaving me. That was about half three, I guess.’

‘OK… Steve went looking for her because he was worried about her. He found her car in some woods near Mallowdale House…’ Tom leaned forward tensely. Henry made a judgement call and went into bluff mode to gauge the reaction. ‘But there was no sign of Cathy, so I am somewhat worried about her. With the weather, the deep snow, it was obviously impossible to do any sort of search. It may be that she did challenge a poacher in the woods who could’ve been armed… maybe.’

Henry watched Tom’s eyes and his facial muscles carefully. There was a crease of the forehead, a narrowing of the eyes and a sigh. He looked warily at Henry, as if he was choosing with precision what he was going to say.

At the same time, Henry’s anus was twitching nervously. If Tom had no involvement with Cathy’s death, Henry knew he could possibly have thrown himself into the mire with the lie about not finding her. But if Tom was involved, then keeping the discovery of the body from him could be worthwhile for the time being. Like poker, but with more at stake.