Nick Oldham - Facing Justice

But Donaldson was more exhausted than he’d ever been in his life. Even when he’d been recovering from the gunshot he’d taken from a terrorist, he’d had more energy to deal with things. It had taken every ounce of his will power to put on the tough-guy act behind Henry when he’d been challenging Jonny Cain and his assorted rag-tags.

Now all he could do was think of sleeping.

The combination of food poisoning — an affliction intense and fatiguing like nothing else he had experienced — and the sprained ankle that had ballooned to double its normal size, had simply floored him. That, plus the ill-conceived walk across the moors through conditions that would have been a test even in the rudest of health.

He did have a lot to thank Henry for, however, although his friend’s reading of the weather could have been a mite more accurate.

‘This is my room.’ Ginny, Alison’s teenage stepdaughter, led him down the corridor towards the living room and stopped in front of a door.

‘Look, honey,’ Donaldson drawled, ‘I’m happy to crash out on the sofa. I don’t really want to put you to any trouble.’

‘Honestly, it’s not a problem. My mum has a huge bed and I’ve slept with her before, on girlie nights.’

‘If you’re sure…’

‘Course — and thanks for, y’know, flattening that arsehole. He deserved it.’ Ginny opened the bedroom door, revealing a sumptuous room in various shades of pink, with a very inviting three-quarter width bed. There was an en suite off to one side, and lots of teddies. She stepped in and Donaldson followed. ‘Well, this is it,’ she said shyly.

‘It’s great,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Thanks.’

She paused at the door before leaving. ‘Those men,’ she said, ‘they’re dangerous, aren’t they?’

Donaldson nodded.

‘Mm, thanks again.’ She collected her PJs and left Donaldson in the room. He tossed his rucksack on to the bed, then sat on it himself, feeling his bottom sink into its softness.

‘Ooh, nice.’ He eased off his trainers, swung up his legs and, still fully clothed, closed his eyes. Within moments he’d drifted off.

Tom had been put in the main bedroom across the landing from the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the wide bed, hunched sullenly over, his cable-tied wrists between his legs. He glowered grimly at Henry as he came into the room, blood from the gash he’d received in the car accident smearing his face, some drops on the light-coloured carpet.

The two men stared at each other, judging, until Tom looked away.

Flynn stood behind Henry, filling the door with his big frame.

‘This is shit,’ Tom said.

Henry did not bother with any preamble. He told Tom he was under arrest on suspicion of murdering Cathy James, plus various offences including the attempted murder of himself and Steve Flynn. He cautioned Tom and asked him if he understood what had been said.

‘No — how can I have murdered her?’

‘We’ve found her body, Tom.’ Henry waited for the reaction, but all he got was a subtle change in facial expression.

‘And you didn’t tell me? You didn’t tell me about my wife?’

‘I didn’t, but now I have.’

‘And you think I shot her?’

‘How do you know she was shot?’

‘Assumption,’ Tom said quickly.

As much as Henry would have liked to pick up on that little error, and what Tom had let slip when he was threatening him and Flynn with the shotgun, he knew this was not the time or place. Tom had to be taken to a proper cop shop and processed scrupulously by the book.

‘What’s happens now?’ Tom asked.

‘You’re under arrest and you won’t be going anywhere, and you won’t be dealt with until I can get you into a custody office. I won’t be questioning you, so we’re all going to have to sit tight until the weather clears and we can get out of the village.’

‘What a joke. Suppose I just get up and walk?’

‘You won’t,’ Henry promised him.

‘I want a phone call.’

‘Who to?’

‘A friend.’

‘Which friend?’

‘Just a friend.’

‘Denied,’ Henry said.

‘I want a doctor.’

‘Alison will take a look at you.’

‘I said a doctor.’

‘She’ll have to do.’

‘And I want a brief.’

‘Who would that be?’

‘Jacobson in Lancaster.’

‘I’ll find the number for you.’

‘And I want a shower. I need to clean off this blood.’

‘That can be arranged.’

‘I want it now,’ Tom insisted and held up his connected wrists. ‘Cut these things off, please. I can’t shower with them on.’

Henry, Flynn and Alison were on the landing. Henry was weak and woozy, the pain in his shoulder severe. Tom had been allowed to use the shower in the en suite off the main bedroom, which was where he presently was. They could hear the sound of the shower running, hear the combi gas boiler firing up to heat the water. Henry leaned against the wall and glanced at his shoulder. Little flowering spots of red were blossoming through the clean shirt like tiny flowers as the peppered wound continued to seep.

‘Are you going to hang around and help out?’ The question was directed at Flynn. ‘Once I know, then I can plan a bit better.’

‘I’m staying,’ Flynn said. ‘He killed my friend.’

‘OK, but no rough stuff. I think he’ll continue to be a handful, but I don’t want any OTT reactions. Everything measured, everything justified. I want to hit him as much as you.’

‘Fine.’

‘Right… what I need to do is call all this in and bring control room up to speed, see what the latest weather forecast is and find out how soon we can get assistance. Then I think it’ll probably be easier to get Tom downstairs, cuff him to a chair in the office and keep an eye on both men in one location. Even though I’d like to keep them apart, it’ll be easier for us.’

‘I’ll have that,’ Flynn agreed.

‘Alison.’ Henry turned to her. ‘If you’d be good enough to dress Tom’s cut face, that’d be great. Then you can head back down to the pub. You don’t have to stay here and I imagine you’d rather be down there with Ginny anyway. You’ve done more than enough. Thanks.’

‘Are you saying you don’t want me?’ she said, mock offended.

‘Not at all.’

‘I’ll see. I’ll phone Ginny after I’ve seen to Tom.’

‘OK.’ To Flynn, Henry said, ‘Can you stay up here with one foot in the bedroom? When he’s finished showering, have him get dressed, then bring him down to the office.’

‘Will do.’

‘And thanks,’ Henry said genuinely.

Flynn shrugged modestly. He glanced at Henry and Alison, sensing something between them, which meant he didn’t stand a chance with her. He shrugged mentally as Alison smiled at him.

The two went down the stairs, leaving Flynn at the bedroom door.

In the hallway, Henry paused and turned to her. ‘I hope this doesn’t sound sexist, but I could really do with a coffee. Would you mind seeing if you could rustle something up in the kitchen? I know I sound a bit pathetic, but I need a shot.’

‘Not a problem.’

Henry glanced into the office and saw Callard on the floor by the radiator. After all the action, he had fallen asleep again and was snoring. Something else caught Henry’s eye, but before he could even begin to realize its significance, there was a knock on the front door.

He opened the door.

On the front doorstep stood a young woman, no hat, the snow covering her head and shoulders. She looked forlorn, lost and unsure. Henry thought there was something familiar about her, but could not quite place her. At the same time, his mind was elsewhere, nagging him about what he had seen in the office, and even as the girl was on the step in front of him, he knew he wasn’t giving her his full attention.