Nick Oldham - Facing Justice

The doctor, trying his best not to be too drunk, nodded and left.

Henry’s eyes moved to Callard. ‘You know your way around Mallowdale House and the surrounding area, don’t you?’ It wasn’t really a question, more a statement of fact — and hope.

‘Eh, me? I’m not getting involved.’

‘Oh, you are.’ Henry turned to Flynn and Donaldson, then a feeling of nausea came over him and he had to take a deep breath and started shivering. He fought it, pulled himself together. ‘I’m sorry to admit it, but I’m struggling here, guys. Even if we decided to go in, there’d only really be you fit.’ He pointed to Flynn.

‘And me,’ Donaldson claimed. ‘I’ve just overdosed on Imodium and some mega-strong painkillers, so I reckon I’ve got a good hour to give you.’

Dr Lott bustled back into the office, now very definitely sober. ‘This girl needs a hospital immediately. She’s gone into deep shock and without proper care, her body’s going to close down. The wound isn’t that serious, but there is a good chance of losing her.’

‘Treat her as best you can,’ Henry said. ‘Hospital isn’t an option just yet. What about your surgery? Would it be worth getting her there?’

‘I’m not sure I want to move her,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I’ll try and see if I can get one of the practice nurses in to come and help. There’s one who lives in walking distance — but I need a phone that works.’

Henry handed him the office phone. To Ginny he said, ‘Can you help him? Keep yourself busy? I know it’s a big ask.’ She said she would, so Henry looked at Flynn and Donaldson. ‘Go check the guns and see if they’re all likely to work — just in case.’ Next he turned to Callard and said, ‘Right matey, what do you know?’

Taking Alison had been an instinctive thing, a desperate act by a man who wanted nothing other than to escape in any way possible. Tom had thrown her into the back footwell of the Range Rover, wedged painfully behind the front seats. He jumped in and stamped his feet on her, keeping her pressed down like a sardine on the journey back up to Mallowdale House. In the luggage area behind the rear seats was Jonny Cain, unconscious and badly beaten, his body forced into the space in such a way that his head was tilted upwards and he was breathing blood down into his throat and lungs. He was making a sickening gurgling sound.

Henderson was at the wheel, Vincent in the front passenger seat and Shannon was alongside Tom in the back seat, cradling his wounded arm. His feet were also pressed on to Alison.

The Range Rover moved easily through the multitude of rutted snow tracks up towards the house.

‘Plans?’ Vincent asked, looking at Tom.

‘Get back to the house, pack up and go.’ Tom sounded cool and in control. ‘We can outfox these numb bastards for ever,’ he said dismissively.

‘But we’re stuck here,’ Henderson pointed out.

‘We can get out through the quarries, even in this weather,’ Tom said. ‘The Shoguns will get us across the hill.’

‘What about Cain?’ Vincent said. ‘I thought he could feed Kitty.’

‘Don’t think we have time,’ Tom said. He leaned over the back seat and looked at Cain for a second. Then he leaned forward and waggled his fingers at Vincent and said, ‘Gimme.’ Vincent handed him the pistol he’d been using. Tom twisted round and fired two shots into Cain’s head. ‘Too much like a problem,’ he said. ‘How much d’you reckon we’ve got?’ he asked Vincent.

‘Four mill, give or take. Same in gear,’ Vincent said.

Tom nodded, thought for a moment, then quickly placed the gun against Shannon’s temple and pulled the trigger twice more, jerking him against the side window, blood spraying out across the glass.

‘Fuck, Tom!’ Vincent shouted.

‘Three of us is enough,’ he explained. ‘Give us a good start, that money — South America, yeah? Just a suggestion.’

Shannon’s body slumped down, his dead eyes inches above Alison’s upturned face, blood gushing out of his head wound over her.

‘They’re good to go,’ Flynn announced with certainty.

‘Let’s see.’ Donaldson inspected the weapons, checked each one with an expert eye and touch.

‘What the hell do you know about guns?’ Flynn asked.

Donaldson gave him a quick glance and Henry blanched. Even he didn’t know the answer to that one for sure, but he had a damned good idea that the American knew far more than Flynn about weapons.

‘Bit of FBI training,’ Donaldson said modestly, his lips curling into a tight smile.

Flynn watched him carefully, trying to read the expression but failing, even though he did get the impression that Donaldson had a greater, more dangerous depth than the slightly dim Yank he portrayed himself as.

Henry backed out of the kitchen and tried to hold himself together physically and mentally, going into the dining room where Laura was being tended by Dr Lott and Ginny. The patient had been covered by a quilt, the wound had been dressed and she’d been drugged up. But she was the colour of puce, trembled and moaned frighteningly.

‘This isn’t good,’ Lott said. ‘The practice nurse is on her way up here on foot, via the surgery. I don’t want to take the chance of moving her, but at least I’ll be able to get a drip into her and other medication. But what she needs-’

‘Yeah, a hospital,’ Henry finished. ‘I know. Ginny — you holding up?’ The young girl looked stressed beyond measure.

‘I’m worried about Mum.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Henry said inadequately. He wanted to promise that she would be OK, but didn’t dare. Fortunately the office phone rang again and Henry went to answer it.

‘Henry, it’s me.’ Henry immediately recognized the voice of DC Jerry Tope, the intelligence analyst who Henry often used to good effect, and who was also beholden to Flynn. Tope was the last person Henry had expected to hear from.

‘Jerry, nice to hear from you.’ Henry sat down weakly at the desk, trying to roll his ever-tightening shoulder, which radiated pain. ‘I’m just a tad busy right now — y’know, bullets and broads and all that.’

‘So I hear,’ Tope said, unimpressed. ‘And I’ve been dragged out of my pit by FB to do some digging around the archives for you.’ He sounded desolate. ‘FB asked me, no — fucking ordered me — to look into Jack Vincent, Tom James and Jonny Cain. Thought the background might be of some use to you.’

‘Is it?’

‘Take it or leave it, but from an initial sweep, I’ve come up with some connections, and I know you love connections.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Six years ago, as a uniformed PC, Tom James arrested an up-and-coming drug dealer and haulage contractor by the name of Jack Vincent for various vehicle licensing offences and tax disc fraud — but no charges were ever brought. The custody record was marked off as not enough evidence… one interesting connection, yeah?’

‘Their first link, maybe?’

‘Additionally, at that time, Tom was massively in debt — horses, usual shit. According to some credit ratings databases I’ve accessed, not long after that arrest the debts had vanished.’

‘OK, he’s connected to Jack Vincent. I get it. Keep digging, mate, and if I survive the night, I’ll give you a pat on the back.’

‘There’s more. After that arrest, Tom’s arrest record suddenly went through the roof. He could do no wrong, got transferred on to CID on the strength of it… coincidence? My view is that Vincent was feeding him stuff, whilst Vincent himself managed to keep lily-white, if I’m allowed to say that.’

‘So they scratched each other’s backs?’

‘There’s more. Jonny Cain — he was up for murder, the one he was acquitted of, and you’ll remember that the investigation was overseen by your old mate Dave Anger.’