Nick Oldham - Facing Justice

He dialled the answerphone service and waited for the connection, fully expecting to hear Craig’s still childlike voice.

But the voice he heard was not that of his son.

It was a thin, desperate-sounding female voice, one that Flynn recognized immediately.

‘Flynnie? Flynnie? It’s me… Cathy… hi, hope you’re OK, big guy.’ Flynn heard what he thought was a sob. ‘Sorry, sorry… look, Flynnie, can you give me a call? I’m… I don’t know what to do or who to turn to… God, it sounds so pathetic, but’ — another sob — ‘it’s just going all wrong, everything, please… gimme a bell… I know you’re two thousand miles away… need someone to talk to, to talk it out…’

The robotic voice of the answerphone lady came on. ‘End of messages. To play this message again, press one…’

Flynn pressed one and listened hard to the message again. The phone then beeped and the screen display told him another voice message had landed from the ether. He listened to the new one.

This time the voice was even more fraught. ‘Flynnie, it’s me again, Cathy, you’re probably getting sick of hearing me by now. God, this must be the eighth time of trying… need to see you, talk to you, mate… please, please call me.’

The message ended but before Flynn could do anything more, four more landed in quick succession.

Preston Crown Court. Court Number One. Shell-shocked and evidence weary, the jury of eight men and four women shuffled back into the court room for the last time, having reached their verdict after four days of heated deliberation. They sat meekly, avoiding eye contact with the accused.

Detective Superintendent Henry Christie noted the body language and as usual, when he became excited at the possibility of a result, his bottom clenched tightly. He exchanged a very quick glance with the detective inspector sitting next to him, Rik Dean. A glance of triumph. Both men could smell it. Surely this had to be a guilty verdict.

The investigation had been long and difficult, understaffed and fairly low-key, even though the police were hunting a professional killer who had executed a gangland lord by the name of Felix Deakin. Having escaped from custody, Deakin himself had been on the run from the police; tracked by the cops to an isolated rural farmhouse, he had been re-taken into police custody but before the police had even managed to put him in the back of a van, the hit man had struck. From his hiding place up on the moors, almost a mile away, he had expertly blown Deakin’s head apart with a high-powered rifle. He had escaped before the stunned police could react.

Henry was convinced the killer had been hired by one of Deakin’s rivals, a man called Jonny Cain, because Deakin had volunteered to give crucial evidence against Cain in a murder trial. Although Henry was certain of this, certainty didn’t mean evidence, but it was a starting point for what was only part of a complex investigation with many threads.

Setting a small team to work consisting of experienced detectives, intelligence and financial analysts and firearms officers, Henry let them get on with the job. Five months down the line they had a name. From the name came various aliases. From the aliases, bank accounts across the world, complex travel arrangements, forensic tie-ins — and then the location of the individual.

Working with Interpol and the Cypriot police, an armed raid was carried out on a secluded villa near Paphos and a man arrested without any bloodshed or drama.

Three months later, after much solid detective work assisted by a forensic team that managed to link the man in custody to the position he’d laid up in with his rifle (not recovered) on the bleak moors of Rossendale, he was in crown court facing a murder charge, even though he had not said one word whilst in custody. But that didn’t matter.

And now the jury was back.

Henry held his breath as the clerk of the court asked the jury foreman if they had reached their verdict.

The man stood nervously, as though his back was killing him. His eyes did not look into the steel-grey impassive eyes of the killer in the dock. He said, ‘Yes we have, Your Honour,’ addressing his reply to the judge.

Henry glanced at the defendant. He was ex-army, had been a sniper in Kuwait, Iraq and Afghanistan — a superb one — and had left the services and offered his killing skills to the highest bidder. He had an exemplary service record and no previous convictions, facts referred to many times by the smooth defence barrister. But Henry knew he had carried out at least four other assassinations in African republics that had netted him about a million and a half pounds, probably foreign aid money. The killing of Felix Deakin had brought him two hundred thousand, money that was still being tracked by the financial experts, but it was proving tricky to find the source.

The man, who was called Mike Calcutt, allowed his gaze to take in the jury foreman and Henry — pausing just a little too long for comfort on the detective — before looking back at the jury.

The clerk asked if the verdict reached was unanimous or by a majority.

‘Unanimous.’

A whisper of amazement flitted around the public galleries, which were packed with gawping public and greedy media.

The clerk then read out the murder charge against Calcutt and asked if the jury found him guilty or not guilty.

For a brief moment, as the foreman paused, Henry thought he was witnessing some reality TV show, where contestants were voted off.

‘Guilty.’

Henry’s eyes swept to Calcutt. He did not flinch. Cool, cool bastard, he thought. But we got you in the end. If only we could get the bastard who hired you in the first place.

Henry, Rik Dean and four other detectives involved in the case had gathered in a loose congratulatory circle in the public waiting area outside the court-room doors. They all beamed wide smiles and there were lots of handshakes and high-fives amongst them. The kind of euphoria that comes after a protracted, successful investigation that nails a killer.

‘Well done everyone,’ Henry said, checking his watch. He meant what he said, because he’d very much taken a back seat and had only put his twopenn’orth into the machine when asked. Now that he was a detective superintendent he was trying to delegate more and not get involved in day-to-day investigating. It went against his natural instinct, as was the case with most high-ranking detectives who loved to get down and dirty with the lads. Problem was that it was easy to lose sight of the overview and at his rank, as he was learning, that was not something he could afford to do. He had now become a professional plate spinner and this major inquiry was just one of many he had to manage.

‘Drinks?’ Rik Dean suggested. There was an eager gaggle of yeses from his colleagues, who wanted to celebrate in the traditional way. This was although the defendant had yet to be sentenced by the judge. Once the jury had informed the court of the verdict, the defence had immediately leapt up with a desire to make submissions, so the judge had adjourned proceedings when he would hear further bleating from Calcutt’s defence. Then he would sentence him to life imprisonment, the only available option in the case of murder.

‘You guys go ahead.’ Henry delved into his jacket, extracted his wallet and pulled out fifty pounds, which he gave to one of the jacks. ‘Have a round on me. I need to-’ He was interrupted by the arrival of a court usher.

‘Detective Superintendent Christie?’

‘That’s me.’

‘Message from the holding cells… Mr Calcutt wishes to speak to the senior investigating officer before he’s taken on remand.’

Henry looked blankly at the black-smocked man. ‘You mean the defendant, Calcutt?’ The other detectives had become silent.