Henry disappeared in a snow flurry. Donaldson shouted his name desperately.
And then he was back in sight, had turned and was waiting for him to catch up. ‘Jeez, man, I thought you’d gone.’
‘No mate, still here,’ Henry reassured him. ‘How’s it going?’
Donaldson shook his head. Not good.
Persistence paid off. Flynn saw the twitch of the curtain at the bedroom window and knew for certain. He waited patiently but when the door was still not opened he began banging again, using his knuckles for a short rat-a-tat, often more irritating than the bass drum knock with the side of the fist.
The dog continued to bark.
There was a shout from inside the house and the dog fell silent. Flynn heard a movement, a door closing, footsteps. Then behind the frosted glass inlaid in the UPVC door he saw a shadowy figure, heard the key turn in the lock and the door opened a couple of inches on the security chain.
Tom James’s face appeared at the crack, but not the clean-cut face Flynn remembered from last year’s honeymoon. The eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, bleary and shot with blood. He was unshaven and even from where he stood, Flynn could smell the body odour. At knee level, the dog’s long nose poked through the gap, sniffing, growling.
Tom didn’t even look directly at Flynn, just said, ‘What the hell d’you want?’ A whiff of stale booze came to Flynn’s nostrils.
Flynn hesitated. ‘Tom, it’s me, Steve Flynn.’
The detective’s eyes rose wearily. A glint of recognition came to them, but not friendliness. He did not unlatch the chain, simply said, ‘What’re you doing here?’ There was suspicion and challenge in the voice.
‘I was over here visiting family,’ Flynn fibbed. ‘Just had the chance to pop over and catch up with you and Cathy. On the off chance, y’know?’
‘Oh, very nice.’ Tom did not budge.
‘Is she about?’
Tom shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Right,’ Flynn said, expanding the syllable to indicate disbelief. ‘Er, any chance of getting a brew?’ he suggested. ‘It’s brass out here.’ He wrapped his arms around himself to prove his point and exhaled a steamy breath.
Tom considered him, put the door to and slid the chain free. ‘Come in,’ he said reluctantly.
‘The weather’s turning real nasty,’ Flynn observed.
The door opened. Tom was dressed in a dressing gown over a T-shirt and shorts, slippers on his feet. He fastened the gown, grabbed the dog by its thick collar. ‘He won’t do you any harm once you’re in,’ Tom said.
Flynn edged around the dog. It eyed him malevolently. It was a massive beast and he guessed it was the one Cathy had handled whilst she’d been on the dog section. The dogs were usually allowed to stay with their handlers when they left the department if they had a long-standing partnership, for in such cases it would be too problematic to re-establish an old dog with a new handler. Always better to start afresh. The dog did look quite old, greying like a human being, and Flynn guessed it would be around the nine year mark, if he did his maths correctly. However, its eyes remained sharp and keen, watching him enter the house and turn right into the lounge.
‘Nice doggy,’ he said.
‘His nickname was Lancon Bastard,’ Tom said. ‘But he’s a doddering old softy now, on his last legs, literally. He’s called Roger, of all things,’ he added tiredly and Flynn picked up that he wasn’t keen on the beast. ‘Grab a seat. I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Great.’ Flynn sat on the settee, glancing around at the furniture and fittings in the bay-fronted room. Everything looked expensive. The soft leather three-piece suite, the forty-two-inch TV mounted on the wall over the fireplace, the surround sound to go with it, a Bang and Olufsen sound system and a series of watercolours that looked original. Through the front window he saw that the snow had thickened and stuck, already some depth to it, and he worried if he was going to be able to get out of the village today. Whilst he was thinking this, Roger was framed in the doorway, observing him.
Flynn turned his head slowly and smiled cautiously. ‘Hello, Roger,’ he said quietly. He could hear Tom in the kitchen, mugs being placed on work surfaces, the tap filling the kettle.
‘Where’s your mum, then?’ Flynn asked the dog. The ears twitched, so did the tail — in a friendly way, Flynn hoped. He held out his hand warily, hoping it wouldn’t be seen as a piece of meat to be chewed on. ‘You going to say hello?’ The dog didn’t move, but the tail wagged and the ears flickered uncertainly.
Tom appeared behind the dog, placed the sole of his slipper against its back hip joint and pushed the animal roughly away. ‘Shift, dimwit,’ he said and came into the living room bearing two mugs. He handed one to Flynn, then sat in an armchair. The dog, cowed by the push, stayed in the hallway, looking in.
‘So, Tom, how’s it going? How’s married life?’ Flynn asked brightly.
Tom’s mug had almost reached his mouth and stopped under his bottom lip as he considered the question. He looked through slitted eyes at Flynn and said, ‘OK,’ non-committal.
‘Good, good,’ Flynn said. He sipped his coppery-tasting brew. ‘Where is the lass, then? Out working?’
Tom shrugged. ‘Yeah, probably… haven’t actually seen her in a couple of days… shifts and that… ships that pass in the night.’
‘So you don’t know where she is?’ Flynn tried to phrase the question as unthreateningly as possible.
‘No, I don’t. I’ve been working a big case in Lancaster, so I’ve been doing all the hours that God sends. We’ll collide eventually, then we’ll be in each other’s hair for days,’ he laughed. ‘That’s how it is — cops who get married. Not easy.’
‘Yeah, guess you’re right.’
Tom looked across the room at Flynn, waiting. Flynn sipped his tea, feeling extremely uneasy. ‘Look, as a friend,’ he said, now trying not to sound too patronizing, ‘you sure everything’s OK between you?’
‘Has she phoned you? Is that why you’re here?’ Tom snapped. Before Flynn could answer, he went on, ‘Everything’s fine, OK? So, nice to see you and all that, but I need to get ready to get back to work. Need a shit, shave and a shower. You finish off your tea, let yourself out. Sorry you had a wasted journey.’ He rose to his feet and swept past Flynn, then up the stairs. Flynn watched him open-mouthed, then clamped his lips shut with a clash of his teeth.
The dog sat at the open door, ears back, tail swatting sideways, back and forth across the carpet behind him.
‘Some people, eh?’ Flynn laughed, and thought, Definitely not the same Tom James I met last year on holiday. Maybe that’s what marriage does to a person… hm, it did to me.
Flynn stood up and went into the kitchen, passing within inches of Roger’s big wet nose, hoping he wasn’t one of those sly dogs that let you in, then refused to let you out. He swilled his mug, then came back into the hallway. Ahead of him was the front door, to the left the lounge and to the right a door marked ‘Office’, leading through to the police station bit of the house. He glanced upstairs. He could hear Tom moving around and the sound of a shower being turned on. He looked at the dog, still sitting in the hallway, but having swivelled around ninety degrees to keep an eye on the stranger.
‘What d’you think?’ he said. The dog wagged its tail. Flynn took that as a yes, so he tried the office door and found it open.
‘What gets me,’ Henry moaned, ‘is that no matter how good and advanced technology gets, nature always has the last laugh.’ He shook his mobile phone and considered lobbing the useless thing into the snow. He didn’t, but was finding it increasingly frustrating that there was no signal to be had on his, or Donaldson’s, phone. They were sheltering under the lee of a rocky outcrop, out of the winds that had continued to strengthen and bring thick curtains of snow with them. Donaldson was huddled beside him, unable to even mouth a response as his illness became progressively worse.