Nick Oldham - Facing Justice

Henry and Donaldson decided to try the new menu at the Tram amp; Tower, which was mostly based around chicken: roast chicken, fried chicken, piri-piri chicken — and chips with either peas, carrots or salad. It was not terribly inspired and when this was delicately pointed out to the proud landlord, Ken, he looked crestfallen and pouted from underneath his beard.

‘All the products are sourced locally,’ he defended his menu at the newly created ‘Food Ordering Point’ at one end of the shiny new bar. He glared at Henry and Donaldson, daring them to challenge his statement. They hid their eyes behind the huge laminated menus and exchanged a look of fear. They did not want to upset a tame landlord. ‘And,’ Ken declared, ‘I’ve got new chef. He’s brill.’

‘OK, OK,’ Henry said to pacify him. ‘I’m sure it’ll be great. I’ll have the piri-piri and Karl will have the roast breast wrapped in bacon… both with chips, obviously.’

Clayson entered the order into the new till with a flourish, then extended his hand for payment. ‘Twenty-seven pounds and fifty pence.’

‘Sheesh,’ Henry muttered. ‘It’s not cut price then?’

‘You can’t cut corners with quality. And that does include your drinks and a free trip — once only, mind — to the salad bar.’

Henry inserted his debit card into the machine and tapped in his PIN. Clayson tore off the receipt and handed it over, together with a wooden spoon with a number painted on it.

‘What’s this for?’ Henry asked. ‘Don’t we get cutlery any more?’

Clayson gave him an expressionless stare. ‘Stick it in the empty wine bottle on your table and the waitress will find you. Enjoy your meals,’ he added smarmily.

The two men turned away from the bar with their drinks and found a table in an alcove. After clearing a space amongst the salt, pepper and cutlery containers that seemed to take up most of the table, Henry laid out an Ordnance Survey map, easing out the folds. Then he raised his pint of Stella Artois and clinked glasses with Donaldson, who was drinking the same.

‘To a bit of a lads’ adventure, eh?’

Vincent knew one of the men, but not the other. The Land Cruiser’s driver was the one he hadn’t come across before and he could tell, pretty much, that he’d simply come along to help provide some intimidatory support for the passenger.

Not that he needed any help. Because the rangy black guy, who was called H. Diller, had a fearsome reputation as a torturer, enforcer and killer, and he rarely needed any help from anyone. Which meant that the message was loud and clear to Vincent. He would have been wary enough if H. Diller had turned up alone; to be accompanied by someone who looked just as hard meant that feathers had been ruffled and this was real business. Patience had worn out.

‘H. Diller,’ Vincent said, offering his hand to the black man and addressing him in the way Diller demanded. Everyone was obliged to call him H. Diller — with the exception of one man. Few people knew what the H stood for, and his insistence on it being used was nothing more than an affectation, but it was one everybody respected.

Diller smiled warmly, a smile that often lured in unsuspecting mortals. He took Vincent’s hand and they shook simply, no fancy fist-banging, finger-wrapping, high-fiving, just a simple manly handshake. ‘Jack, my son.’

There was an uncertain hesitation before Vincent spoke. ‘So what brings you to these parts — these cold parts?’

‘Hey, really is cold up here. Any chance of a warm?’ Diller gestured to the cabin. ‘We can talk in there.’

‘You’ve come to talk?’

‘You bet your soul,’ Diller winked.

‘Not much warmer inside.’

‘Yeah, but more convivial.’

‘Who’s the running partner?’ Vincent asked, nodding at the unsmiling man lounging by the four-wheel drive.

‘That’s Haltenorth. He’s new, but useful.’ Diller clicked his tongue.

Vincent shrugged. ‘OK. There’s a kettle inside we can fire up. But only got tea. That OK?’

‘Magic.’

Vincent turned and led the way. His forced smile disintegrated, knowing this was no social call. This, he knew, was purely business. Dirty business. In fact he had been expecting it, nay had engineered it, but he hadn’t foreseen Diller would be the lead soldier. But then again, maybe he should have. The time for games had long since gone. Problem was, he was just slightly off balance and would have felt better if his partner had been with him. It would have made the equation much more even-handed.

‘Fuck,’ Vincent uttered under his breath, half expecting Diller to step up behind him and stick the barrel of a pistol against his hindbrain and blow his head off. Things really had got that far, but the fact that Diller didn’t kill him was the first of his mistakes. Vincent’s smile returned as he opened the cabin door and allowed Diller and Haltenorth to enter ahead of him.

‘You guys want to grab a chair at the far end?’ Vincent said amicably, his mind manipulating angles and possibilities because he was certain this would not end prettily.

Steve Flynn smiled winningly as he passed the two pretty female cabin crew members and boarded the flight. He had managed to book a very last minute ticket, via Adam Castle’s travel agency, for a flight that would take him back to Manchester from Las Palmas. He’d had a quick discussion with Castle about leaving the island for a short period. There would be nothing lost because of the lack of work. Castle also told him that a short-term disappearance might be a good thing anyway. Rumours were already circulating that the petulant charter boat customer who Flynn had accidentally knocked unconscious was after blood — or a payoff. Flynn’s absence from the island might be a good thing, Castle had suggested.

Flynn heaved his only baggage into the overhead locker and edged sideways into the middle of three seats. He looked at both his travelling companions and they studiously avoided eye contact. With a sardonic twist of his mouth, he leaned forward, struggling to take off his windjammer, which he stuffed under the seat in front of him after he’d taken out the paperback thriller he was halfway through. He found his place and continued reading about a tough guy walking into town with no ID, just the clothes he stood up in, and then kicking the crap out of the ‘ornery yokels’. Completely unreal, but highly exciting. Only four and a half hours to go, he thought. Then he smiled at the prospect of seeing Cathy. Her predicament sounded iffy, even though she hadn’t said very much on the phone, but he was looking forward to being with her again. She promised that somehow she would pick him up from the airport.

They walked past the desk and sat on the plastic chairs at the far end of the cabin, which were positioned in the vicinity of the tiny gas-powered heater. Vincent, too, walked past the desk, and reached for the kettle — but Diller placed a hand on his forearm and glanced up at him.

‘We don’t need a drink, actually.’

Vincent’s fingers unravelled slowly from the kettle handle.

‘Mr Cain wants his money. He’s tired of waiting.’

‘H,’ Vincent began, his voice reasonable.

‘H. Diller,’ he was corrected.

‘H. Diller… look, pal, one of my donkeys got away with it. It can’t be found, but I took care of him — you can’t really ask for anything more than that.’

‘Mr Cain wants payment.’ Diller flexed his large black fingers. To his left, Haltenorth sat forward in his chair, his fingers interlocked. His eyes were angled up at Vincent.

‘I don’t have payment. We were ripped off by my donkey.’

‘Mule, you mean?’

‘I call ’em donkeys. Thicko lowlifes. Who else would take the chance, but doombrains, i.e. donkeys?’