Nick Oldham - Facing Justice

He gasped, sat up, and hoped it would pass. It did not, then suddenly there was an urgency to visit the toilet.

‘Damn.’

He crossed over to the en suite toilet and seated himself on the loo as the gripe creased him again. Never had he felt so ill and miserable.

Henry stood at the bedroom window and watched Flynn trudge back through the snow, a plastic bag in his hand which, Henry assumed, contained the pistol Tom had used. Flynn saw him, gave a wave and, raising the bag, made a gun shape out of his fingers and pointed at Henry. Having had to face too many guns that day, Henry almost ducked.

‘Henry,’ a voice came from behind. Alison was at the bedroom door, a mug of steaming coffee in her hand. She held it aloft for him and he went to her, took it with grateful thanks and sipped it. ‘Very nice,’ he complimented.

‘They have nice coffee in their kitchen. In fact, they have very nice everything. The kitchen must have cost an absolute fortune. It’s one of those German ones. Twenty thousand at least.’

‘Lucky them — but no more.’

‘No… how are you?’

Henry cocked his head and said, ‘Let me think about that… Mmm… stressed, tired, hurt and extremely worried that there’s more to come.’ She touched his cheek with her fingertips. ‘Other than that, hunky dory,’ he said brightly.

‘What about that young lady downstairs? I told her to sit in the living room, incidentally.’

‘Almost forgotten her… the one who thinks her boyfriend has been murdered? What the hell goes on in this village? She was in the Owl earlier. Do you know her?’

‘She was, and I don’t. She turned up today. I don’t think she’s local.’

‘I’ll speak to her once I’ve fastened Tom to a lamp post or something. I don’t really think I’ve time to deal with a domestic dispute, which is what it sounds like.’ The shower turned off, Alison backed out of the bedroom. ‘Thanks for the coffee… much needed.’

‘Pleasure.’

Henry stood at the door to the en suite as Tom stepped naked out of the shower and started to towel himself down.

Flynn recovered the pistol from the front passenger footwell of Tom’s Golf. He did a quick search of the rest of the car, found nothing of interest, so locked it up and left it embedded in the lamp post with hazard lights flashing. Another thing that would have to wait until the morning, or when the snow had eased and a recovery vehicle could get through. He handled the pistol carefully, made it safe, and placed it in a plastic bag he’d brought along, one he’d found in the kitchen. Flynn knew guns, having been in the army at sixteen, the Marines at eighteen and the cops at twenty-four. He had spent some time as an authorized firearms officer in the late eighties before gravitating to the drugs branch. He wrapped the bag around the gun and made his way back to the police house.

He spotted Henry observing him from the bedroom window, acknowledged him but grumbled — again — at the thought of the man who he blamed for basically forcing him out of the force. Back then, Flynn had even been to see a solicitor who specialized in employment law, and the guy had been eager to take on the case and sue the constabulary for constructive dismissal. Flynn had backed off at the last moment, a nagging feeling of doubt at the back of his mind. Henry’s earlier revelation about uncovering some real dirt about his past suddenly made Flynn realize in hindsight that it had been a good move not to take the organization to court. At least all those sleazy things had been kept under the carpet and the cloud he’d left under wasn’t actually a hurricane, as it could have been. Although it was bad enough to have been suspected of nicking a million pounds’ worth of drug dealer’s money.

Perhaps Henry wasn’t completely to blame after all.

Not that it made him feel warmer to him. He still disliked him intensely.

Flynn banged the snow off his feet and entered the house. He checked to see if Callard was still attached to the plumbing — yes — and noticed the young lady with the missing boyfriend now sitting primly in the lounge with a coffee in one hand and Roger’s sloppy head on her lap, as she stroked the old dog.

He also noticed Henry and Alison sharing quiet words at the bedroom door.

Muttering something uncomplimentary about them both under his breath, he went into the kitchen, placed the pistol on the worktop next to the sawn-off shotgun and poured himself a coffee from the filter machine. He leaned with his back to the fridge, sipped the brew, eyes roving the room, wondering if Henry was correct.

Tom had been disarmed of the shotgun in the living room. He had then legged it into the kitchen, but Flynn hadn’t been right on his tail. He estimated that Tom may well have had a good thirty seconds or more alone in the kitchen before Flynn entered. So if Tom hadn’t had the pistol to start with — and Flynn was sure he hadn’t — he’d used that half-minute to get his hands on it. Therefore it must have been hidden within fairly easy reach.

Trouble was, a lot of places were in easy reach. Flynn scanned the room and tried to visualize in his mind’s eye what Tom might have been doing in those precious seconds. Flynn decided on a quick, structured, systematic search instead of trying to second-guess what had happened. Coffee still in hand he walked back to the open kitchen door and began a lazy search, one drawer, one cupboard, at a time; under the sink, in the tiny closet, and on top of the cupboards by climbing on to a chair and peering over the rim. He found nothing, frustratingly. He pursed his lips and placed his coffee down. This time he went through everything more thoroughly, taking his time, going down on his knees and actually moving stuff sideways, removing items to see properly. But then he thought, no. If Tom had managed to get a gun in those few seconds, he wouldn’t have had time to move pots and pans out of the way. He would have put his hand straight on it.

Flynn ran it all back in his mind, then started searching again, but now believing there was nothing to find.

Would he be so stupid as to have a weapon in the kitchen? Especially being married to a sharp-witted woman cop like Cathy, who had obviously stumbled on to something.

Flynn tried to put himself in Tom’s position.

‘If I had an illegal firearm, where would I hide it?’ he muttered out loud.

‘In plain sight?’ suggested a voice behind him. Alison was standing at the door. ‘Maybe somewhere a lady wouldn’t usually look?’

‘Such as?’

‘Have you checked the fuse box?’ She pointed to a rectangular box on the wall by the back door with a pull-up lid. Flynn had glanced at it, recognized it for what it was, but thought no more. The box was maybe eighteen inches long, a foot high and protruded about four inches from the wall.

Unimpressed, he lifted the lid, the hinges on the top so it opened upwards, and yes, there was the fuse panel. ‘Too small,’ he said, and added, ‘but your theory isn’t a bad one.’ He shot Alison a look, as something caught his eye at ground level — the bottom panel of a cabinet that abutted the skirting board at right angles. It was slightly misaligned with the next panel along. Flynn tapped one end of the panel with his toe and it moved. He bent low and dug his fingertips into the end of the panel and pulled. It scraped out and revealed a cavity underneath the base of the cabinet and the floor.

‘Henry, you brilliant bastard,’ he said begrudgingly. He dropped even lower, to mouse eyeline, stared into the darkness, gave a short laugh and reached inside.

Henry tossed a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt at Tom. He had found them in a wardrobe.

‘Not exactly a zoot suit, eh?’ Tom smirked, turning his back to Henry, bending down and pulling up the pants. He was referring to the forensic paper suits given to prisoners when their own clothing had been taken for scientific analysis.