Perhaps he should, he thought. But then again, perhaps not. She was far too tempting for him, even though he had promised himself not to get involved. There was still more than a spark between them, despite what she said, and under the right circumstances it could ignite into passion and danger. At least that is what his male ego led him to believe.
His mind drifted from incident to incident, like a butterfly on flowers, not really fathoming out anything from his sleepy analysis.
The biggest shock of the day had been Leanne’s news about Charlotte and her parentage. Henry tried to speculate as to what significance that had on the family. Was the man Tara had her tryst with the real father, or just one of a series of lovers? Did it have any connection with the mutilation of horses? Did John Lloyd Wickson know he wasn’t the father?
Bloody hell, he thought: a can of worms.
He peeled the duvet off him and rolled out of bed, grabbed his dressing gown and slid his feet into his Marks and Spencer slippers.
He needed a drink.
Without disturbing anyone, he hoped, he made his way downstairs and to the fridge in which he kept a chilled bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He poured a short measure and retired to the living room, spreading out on the settee. The ice-cold drink burned satisfyingly down his throat. Nice.
Fuck! He had a moment of anguished panic when he remembered that a gun and a bag of drugs were still stashed in the Astra parked in his driveway.
He had another drink to calm himself down.
When Troy Costain came up with the goods, he would lose the gun and destroy the drugs. If he could keep his nerve for the next day, that was.
He closed his eyes and thought about the drug dealer he had beaten up.
That had been a moment of pure rage, but one he did not regret. A kick for the common people, he thought triumphantly, and raised his glass.
Obviously if the little shit complained to the police about it, Henry would have to have it taken into consideration with the gun and drug possession.
He chuckled slightly manically.
The sour mash whiskey was making him feel mellow and sleepy, doing its job. He knew mind, body and spirit needed to rest. His body ached. His mind was warped. His spirit was battered.
He shuffled into a comfortable sleeping position, head laid back on the arm of the settee.
He drifted nicely.
Then the phone rang. It was Tara Wickson.
‘Henry?’ Her voice was dithery. ‘Henry? Please come and help me, I don’t know what to do.’
He struggled into an upright sitting position, not sure if he had been to sleep.
‘What’s the matter, Tara?’ he asked blearily.
She was panting.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m standing here. . in the kitchen. . I’ve got a shotgun and I’m pointing it at Jake Coulton and I’m going to kill him. . I’m going to kill the bastard. . and then I’m going to kill that bastard of a husband of mine.’
Henry was suddenly very awake. ‘Whoa. . come on, cool it, calm down, Tara,’ he said. ‘Tell me what’s going on. . Keep calm. . Keep rational. .’ As he was talking, he was racing upstairs, throwing his dressing gown off. He needed to get dressed and keep her on the phone, talking. . because while she was talking, she wasn’t pulling a trigger. He tried hard to recall some of the tips from his hostage negotiator’s course, but his mind was pretty much a blank. He lurched into the bedroom and switched the main light on. Kate groaned, shielded her eyes from the glare and sat up, looking astonishingly annoyed and puzzled at the same time.
With the cordless phone to his ear, he shuffled himself into his discarded shirt.
‘Now keep calm. .’ he was saying again as he tried single-handedly to get into his jeans. He could not be bothered with underpants. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’
Charlotte Wickson, wedged down behind the front seats of the Bentley, cried as she was driven away from the disco, feeling as though she had been abandoned by Henry and her mother, who had sent the dislikeable head of security to pick her up.
Jake Coulton threw the big, heavy car sharply around corners, braked hard, deliberately so as to make the ride as rough as possible for the recalcitrant teenager behind him. He heard her groan and gasp and felt good about it.
‘You shoulda sat in the seat.’
‘Fuck off,’ she said.
He sneered and stopped at a set of traffic lights. He glanced over his left shoulder.
Something inside him moved.
She was wearing a very skimpy skirt, revealing her long thin legs, and a short, cut-off top that displayed her belly button. She wore little else. White knickers, high heeled shoes and make-up.
He dropped his left hand back between the seats. It came to rest on her side, in the gap between her top and skirt. Her skin was cold and goose-bumped.
His fingers slid upwards.
An electric-like jolt shot through her. She stiffened as she realized what was happening and twisted away from him.
‘Get off me, you sick bastard!’ she yelled. She scrambled on to the back seat and huddled deep in a corner, as far away from Coulton as possible under the circumstances.
He laughed savagely.
The lights changed and the car surged through. Coulton grated his teeth, his nostrils flared and that something inside him grew even more. It was something he knew he had to respond to.
He drove out of Blackpool towards Poulton-le-Fylde, wondering how and when it could be. He reached up to the roof of the car and switched on the interior light. He could now turn his head round and leer at his passenger, who, with her legs drawn up defensively, was actually displaying more to him that she wanted to.
‘Where’s my mum?’ she demanded. ‘She should’ve picked me up, not you.’
‘Who gives a fuck where she is, the slag? I’m here and that’s all that matters.’
‘I hate you,’ Charlotte said through fingers that were covering her face.
‘And I care?’ he said, keeping one hand on the steering wheel and half an eye on the road. He threw himself back over the seat and grabbed Charlotte’s arm.
She screamed and kicked out. The huge car swerved and he almost lost control of it as it veered across the road. But he kept going and also kept hold of Charlotte. He pulled her to the gap between the front seats and tried to drag her through it. She writhed and fought against him and broke free, scrambling to a position directly behind him, out of his reach. She tried to open the door. It was child-locked.
He cackled and put his foot down, now driving along the main road past Poulton. It was a long, straight stretch of road and the car’s speed increased dramatically.
‘You know your dad hates you, don’t you?’ he shouted.
‘That’s not true, that’s not true!’ she cried.
‘Because you’re not his. You’re a little bastard.’
‘I’m not. No, I’m not.’ Her head was in her hands and she sobbed pitifully. Her make-up, so carefully applied several hours before, was streaked around her face. She had hoped the drugs she’d bought would have taken her up on a higher plane. They’d had no discernible effect on her whatsoever, she thought.
‘Your mum’s a slag and you’re a bastard,’ Coulton almost chanted manically.
‘No!’ she screamed.
He laughed. ‘No one cares about you, not even Mummy. But I do, Charlie, I care about you.’
She held her hands over her ears. She did not want to hear this.