‘Nowt.’
‘Well, get your sorry arse back to Blackpool and get doing what you’re paid to do, not gallivanting around the north-west using up county petrol.’
A typical burst of FB, Henry thought, as the Chief ended the call as abruptly as he’d started it. Henry whizzed up the M6, then did a left on to the M55. Soon Blackpool Tower was in sight.
He turned off at junction 3, glancing across to the other side of the motorway where his abduction experience had ended on the hard shoulder. He was going to retrace the route back down the A585 to Poulton-le-Fylde and drive to the Wickson house. It was eerie driving back along the road, one he knew very well, knowing that not very long before, his life had been in terrible danger driving along the same.
He thought about the possibility of dying as he drove along. When he’d been a young cop, the thought had never bothered him because he thought he was immortal, but as age dragged him on, he became more worried than ever about it. He was concerned that he would miss his daughters growing older, seeing them develop into young women and begin their own lives. He did not want to miss any of that because he had completely missed them growing up. The job had always taken precedence. Now, he had determined, it was family that would take first place. This was despite his strong, lingering feelings for Jane Roscoe. He knew he would never seriously consider rekindling their relationship now, even though he seemed incapable of stopping himself from flirting with her, going all doe-eyed and gooey. There was no future in it.
He arrived at the entrance to the Wicksons’ and turned up the driveway. Across to the right were the stables. A JCB excavator was shovelling up the remains of the burned-down stables into a tidy stack from which the charred pieces of wood were then scooped up into the back of a massive truck. Work had already started on stable-block rebuild. Parked on the site was also a crusher for the stones and rubble shovelled up by the excavator. It was not in use at that moment.
So busy was he looking at this, he only just stopped in time and pulled in tight to allow what he at first thought was a milk tanker to come down the drive in the opposite direction. As the vehicle squeezed past him, he realized it was not a milk tanker. And why should it have been? This was not a working farm. It was an old articulated fuel tanker. He looked up at the driver and was surprised to see a cigarette in the guy’s mouth. Then it manoeuvred past him and was gone.
Henry shook his head, wondering why such a huge tanker was here. Probably delivering oil for the central heating. But it was a very big tanker and he knew that, usually, small rigid tankers brought oil to houses. Then he recalled seeing the dilapidated farm buildings at the rear of the house from the time he was on the hillside. There had been two articulated fuel tankers in the yard then.
His mouth turned down at the corners, his mind actively ingesting these snippets of information. He pressed on and drove to the gravelled parking area at the front of the house. The Bentley and Mercedes were parked there, and a couple of other less grand cars. He drew the Astra in next to the Bentley, relishing the juxtaposition of machines. He got out and rang the front door bell, waiting and whistling. No reply. He looked to the stables again, watching the land-clearing activity. Turning round, he saw a figure riding up the driveway on a horse.
It was Tara.
No. . he was wrong. . as the horse and rider got nearer, he saw it was Charlotte, not Tara, in the saddle. From a distance it was an easy mistake to make.
She walked the horse towards the house. Henry approached her.
‘Good morning, Charlotte.’
‘Hi,’ she said cautiously.
‘Nice horse.’
‘He’ll do.’
‘How’s Chopin?’
‘Poorly.’ She brought the horse to a halt in front of Henry. He took a wary step back. ‘What’re you doing here?’
‘Your mum asked me, remember?’
‘Oh yeah.’ She dismounted.
‘Is she in?’
‘Dunno. Don’t care, really.’ She hooked the reins over the horse’s head. ‘Have to walk him in from here. The machines,’ she explained. ‘Don’t want to ride him in case he gets spooked. He can be a handful.’ She slapped the horse’s neck.
‘What’s he called?’
‘Phoenix.’
‘Hello, Phoenix,’ Henry said to the beast. Its ears pricked forwards at the mention of its name. Charlotte started to lead him towards the stables. Henry walked along with her. ‘No school today?’
‘No,’ she said shortly, offering no explanation. She did not seem to be in any mood to chat.
‘Any progress on the fire?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are the police getting anywhere with their enquiries?’
‘Apparently it was caused by an electrical fault, so there’s nothing for them to do.’
This revelation jolted Henry. He thought it better to say nothing. He watched Charlotte slyly out of the corner of his eye as she walked the horse past the excavator and crusher. She was Leanne’s age, but looked older. She was very thin and had dark rings around her eyes which accentuated her high, fashion-model cheekbones. She was close to being beautiful, but her pale skin and slightly kinked nose and gauntness kept that beauty at bay. Henry thought she had the look of her mother, rather than her father.
She took the horse into a loose box and pulled the half-door closed behind her. Henry leaned in, watching as she sorted the horse out. She slipped the saddle and bridle off, balancing them across the top of the door, making Henry stand back. She allowed the horse to eat and drink as she started to groom him, firstly by picking out the feet, then grooming his body with a brush and curry comb, using long circular strokes which brought the coat up to a lustrous sheen. She knew what she was doing around horses, talking gently to the animal whilst working on him.
‘It was a deliberate fire,’ she said above the horse whispering. Her back was towards Henry.
‘Eh?’ He cocked his head to one side.
‘It wasn’t an electrical fault,’ she spat, continuing brushing the horse. ‘Some bastard burned it down and mutilated Chopin.’
‘Any idea who?’
‘Thought that was your job to find out?’
Henry pouted. ‘I’m not sure if your mum wants me to anymore. . anyway, how do you know the fire was deliberate?’
She turned on Henry, a sick look on her face. ‘Take it from me, it was. Any idiot could smell petrol.’
‘Who said it wasn’t deliberate?’
‘Fire Brigade. My dad’s got a report. The insurance are paying up-’
Henry was about to say something when, from behind, the sound of the excavator stopped as the operator switched off. A lovely silence came to the stables. Birds could be heard tweeting, sheep baa-ing. But then there was the sound of footsteps approaching. Henry saw two men coming quickly towards him. One was John Lloyd Wickson, the other Jake Coulton.
‘Hey you!’ Wickson called out. He was pulling off a pair of heavy gloves and had industrial wellington boots on his feet, as did Coulton. Both men were wearing overalls. ‘What are you doing? You can’t just come on to my land and start talking to my daughter without my permission.’ He was fuming.
Coulton loomed behind him. Before, Henry had not been able to place the head of security as he had only seen him from a distance. Now it clicked.
‘Get the fuck off my land now,’ Wickson boomed furiously.
Charlotte had stopped grooming the horse and had come to the stable door. ‘Dad, it’s all right.’
‘No, it fucking isn’t.’
‘I think that’ll do,’ Henry said calmly, now getting his first proper close-up of the almost bankrupt multi-millionaire. He saw a rodent-like man, thin and nasty-looking. ‘No need to swear, Mr Wickson.’
‘Jake — get this fucker off my property. He’s not even a real cop.’ His security man stepped past and strode towards Henry.