It immediately started to ring, making him jump. He fished it back out and saw it was Jane Roscoe calling him. He knew he could not answer it. For the sake of Tara he had to keep things going, so he switched it off, put it back into his pocket, set off down the hall.
‘It’s me opening the door,’ he called softly and pushed it open, clueless as to what he would find. That old song, ‘Behind Closed Doors’, came to mind. ‘No one knows what goes on behind closed doors.’ Back to song lyrics again, he thought. It was mad, the things that went through his head at times of crisis.
Had the sight that greeted him not been so horrendous, he would have giggled.
Jake Coulton sat white-faced at the kitchen table. Henry immediately saw the shotgun damage to the cupboard door above his head. No wonder he looked pale. He had almost lost his head. Henry could smell cordite.
Across from him was an equally pale John Lloyd Wickson in a dressing gown. His hands were palm down on the table and he looked very afraid.
Henry saw the relief in the faces of the two men as he came in.
Leaning against the cooker was Tara Wickson, holding the single-barrelled shotgun in her hands, wavering it dangerously at a point midway between the men. The cordless phone was on a worktop. She’d obviously had it wedged between her shoulder and ear whilst talking to Henry because there was no way she could have held the gun in one hand and kept proper control of it.
She looked as sick and colourless as the men, but uptight, nervy and close to the edge.
‘I’m here,’ he said softly, ‘here to help out.’
How, he had no idea.
The sniper on the hillside raised his eye from the telescopic sights and looked into the night-vision binoculars on the tripod next to his head. He had watched Henry Christie enter the house and close the door behind him, more curious than hell as to why the suspended detective should have appeared at such an hour.
It complicated matters.
He swept the binos across the front of the house to the stables and back again. He saw nothing untoward. . but then he did and he froze tight. He looked across the field behind the house in the direction of the river, behind the dilapidated farm buildings.
Something had definitely moved.
There it was again.
He relaxed. A fox.
In their different ways, each of the three faces in front of him held expectation. To the men it was to save them from death; the woman wanted to be saved from herself.
Henry knew he had to take control.
‘Right, Tara, first things first. . I only know what you’ve said to me over the phone and it sounds like a hideous offence has taken place.’ Henry paused, licked his lips, looked from face to face again, coming back to Tara. ‘But even so, there is no cause for a shotgun, no reason to do anyone any harm, none whatsoever. Two wrongs do not make a right. So let me promise you this: this incident will be fully investigated and — ’ here Henry shot a shadowy look to Coulton — ‘if this man has raped your daughter, he will go to prison for life.’
‘What do you mean “if”? He has raped her, defiled her-’
‘Yes, OK, OK,’ Henry intercut in an effort to pacify her. He saw that Tara’s fingers had taken a better grip on the shotgun, saw the forefinger on the trigger twitch portentously. He knew she was close to discharging it and that he needed to judge things supremely well here if there wasn’t going to be a cold-blooded murder in front of his eyes. ‘I believe you, Tara, but shooting him will not help you.’
‘I’m not bothered about me anymore.’
‘I know. . That’s OK. . That’s how you’re feeling now, at this moment, but it won’t be how you’ll feel in the future, believe me. So come on, let’s do away with the gun. Let’s get the police here. Let’s get them to deal with it properly. Let them make an arrest. Let them gather evidence. Let them get this brute sent to prison. Let them do the job they’re paid to do. Like I said — ’ Henry looked at Coulton with contempt — ‘killing is too good for him.’
‘Fuck you, Henry,’ Coulton spat malevolently.
Henry quickly took a further step into the room, judging distances, working out reaches, how far he would have to leap to grab the gun if necessary. The odds were pretty poor. He inched a little closer to Tara, surreptitiously, he hoped.
He ignored Coulton’s little outburst. ‘Tara, how are we going to do this?’ He actually stepped towards her openly. She swung the gun in his direction. He stopped. ‘Give me the gun. Just hand it over, then let’s get the police here.’
Tara shook her head. ‘This man has degraded my daughter. He has screwed her and made her suck his dick.’ She stood upright. ‘Before I hand this gun over, I want two things.’
Henry waited. The demands were coming. He only hoped they could be met.
‘I want him degraded and I want him to admit what he’s done.’
‘How?’ Henry did not like the way this was going.
‘You talked about securing evidence? You talked about clothing, my daughter’s clothing, how it needed to be kept?’ Henry nodded. ‘I want him to take his clothing off. I want him to stand there naked and ashamed and then I want him to confess his crime.’
This, Henry thought, is not progressing terribly well. Even though Tara had called him, had made a cry for help, she was still very close to a killing.
He shook his head. ‘No, Tara,’ he said softly. ‘That is not a good idea-’
Before he could finish his rationale, Tara snarled, ‘I don’t give a fuck if it’s a good idea or not. He does those things or he dies.’
She meant it. Henry swivelled to Coulton. ‘It’s your play, Jake.’
‘No way.’
Henry chortled. ‘Strip or die. I know what I’d rather do, because if you ask me, that’s what I’d do in your position. Fact is that your clothes will be taken off you for forensic anyway.’ Henry shrugged, glanced at Tara, then back at Coulton. He was trying to manage a situation that was almost out of his control, ‘She’s more than capable of blowing your head off and if this appeases her. .?’ Henry looked at John Lloyd Wickson, the silent tycoon now, a man who had very little to say in the present circumstances. ‘What do you say, John? Naked or dead?’ Wickson remained schtum.
Coulton stood up slowly.
An expression of extreme satisfaction crossed Tara’s face.
He began to unbutton his shirt. ‘You do know that this will get the case kicked out of court, don’t you, Henry?’
‘I doubt it. And just at this moment in time, I wouldn’t be too concerned about a court case, pal. I’d be more bothered about walking out of here still breathing.’ Actually Henry agreed that this could compromise any legal proceedings, that the defence would use it very much to their advantage, but he wasn’t going to admit this to Coulton or to Tara. All this was about was getting three people out of here alive. The worry about the court case could come after.
Coulton tugged his shirt out of his trousers, unfastened the cuffs and slid the garment off. He held it up between thumb and forefinger before letting it waft to the floor. ‘That enough for you?’ he said to Tara.
Once again she gripped the shotgun tighter and raised it to her shoulder, sighting Coulton down the barrel.
Henry saw him judder with fear.
‘You strip naked, Jake.’
Coulton’s jaw rotated. Henry could see him weighing up the distance between himself and Tara, knew what was going on inside his head: Can I do it? Can I get to her before she pulls the trigger? Is it too far?
He unbuttoned his trousers and unzipped the fly. His decision apparently had been that tackling her was too much of a risk. Live coward or dead bastard?
The trousers dropped. He kicked them to one side and stood there in boxers and socks. He had a very well-maintained body, Henry saw, though he did have some rather large, red and unsightly spots on his shoulders and back, which made Henry feel better.