‘Ahh,’ she said, drawing out the word.
‘Under the name of Christie,’ he added helpfully.
‘Mm, yes… unfortunately I’ve had to let the rooms to someone else,’ she said apologetically, dropping a bombshell.
‘Must be some mistake.’ Henry smiled, but his heart was beating just that little bit faster. ‘I booked the rooms through the Internet and I have a confirmation e-mail.’ He tapped his back pocket and kept his voice reasonable.
‘I know, I’m sorry.’ Henry saw her gulp. ‘I assumed that because of the weather you wouldn’t be coming.’ She shrugged awkwardly, not really knowing what to do with her body language.
‘I would have informed you if that had been the case.’ His voice had become as cold as the weather.
‘I’m sorry, but the rooms have been let to someone else now.’
‘We’ll have two more rooms, then.’
‘I have only the two rooms, unfortunately.’
Moments before Henry had been half-visualizing this woman naked, a sad trait he’d had, since being a penis-led teenager, of mentally undressing women as soon as he met them, and one that had stayed with him all his life. Now he was imagining tightening his hands around her throat.
‘I won’t even try to explain what my friend and I have been through today to get here. Just to say we need those rooms urgently. He’s very poorly and injured and as we speak he is affixed to a toilet bowl. I am exhausted. We need rest — and I have paid a deposit.’ He tried to hold it together, but he was cracking at the edges. The rising inflection in his voice gave the game away. His right hand had started a little jig of agitation.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Christie, I truly am.’ Henry saw something in her eyes that puzzled him: fear. ‘But I had no choice in the matter.’
‘So where does that leave us?’
‘I’ll refund the deposit, obviously.’
‘Is there another hotel in the vicinity?’
She shook her head and Henry tried to stop his own from jerking in exasperation. He tried to work through the immediate future: sick/lame friend, dead cop, crime scene, body, snow, ice, cut off from civilization, nowhere to fucking sleep! ‘Right,’ he declared, ‘as it happens I haven’t got time to argue the toss just at the moment. But at the very least, can my friend change into his dry clothing, maybe have a shower — i.e., use yours? And can he get sat down here in the warmth while I sort something out?’
‘What’s up with him?’
‘Food poisoning and a sprained ankle — both pretty extreme.’
‘He can change in the back and he can use my bathroom.’
‘It’s a start and it would be a big help for him.’
‘What about you? You look as though you could do with the same.’
‘A room would have helped.’ He gave her a pointed look. ‘But I have things to do first. What’s the weather situation?’ he asked, checking his phone for a signal at the same time, seeing no bars whatsoever.
‘Bad and getting worse.’
‘Is Kendleton cut off yet?’
She nodded. ‘The road in and out is blocked with snowdrifts.’
‘Great. Can I use your phone please? My mobile signal is non-existent.’
She handed him the cordless phone. ‘Be my guest.’ She looked contrite.
‘An ironic statement if ever I heard one.’ He snatched the phone and wandered across to the roaring fire, glancing crossly at the few customers, assuming they were locals, although the young woman sitting alone in one corner seemed slightly out of place. As he dialled, Donaldson limped into the bar, pale, ill looking. Henry gestured for him to take a seat and he slumped into a big old chair. As the phone dialled the number Henry had put in, he eyed the two men at the end of the bar, who were in deep conversation. Were they locals, or were they the bastards who had snaffled his rooms?
The connection was made and Henry was put through to the Force Incident Manager in the control room, who had an up-to-date overview of road and weather conditions in the county. The news was not good. The helicopter was grounded, all roads in the north of the county were becoming impassable as the snow fell. Councils, unprepared for the sudden change, were fighting to keep the main routes open and minor roads in the sticks were filling up with snowdrifts. Deflated, Henry briefed him of the situation he had encountered and gave him certain instructions to follow, putting a list of people on standby, but even as he went through this preparation, it seemed a futile exercise. No one could physically even get here before the morning, and even that was doubtful.
As he guessed, he was on his own.
TWELVE
Jack Vincent watched the Range Rover pull away from the front of his large house, head slowly down the gravel drive towards the automatic gates, which opened on its approach. It passed through them and turned towards the village. Vincent closed the heavy door with a clunk and turned to the two men behind him in the hallway.
Neither of these two men spoke. Breaking the silence was Vincent’s prerogative. He was the boss, almost.
He hustled back to the lounge where he poured himself a large shot of whisky and sat down on a wide leather armchair, his eyes blazing. He sipped the pale liquid, holding the glass tight to his lips, and stared dead ahead.
The two men had followed him, hardly daring to speak.
Eventually he turned his gaze to them. ‘Well?’ he said quietly.
Neither man had an answer, but both knew what Jack Vincent was thinking. Then another man, who had been keeping out of sight, came into the room and all eyes turned to him.
The sudden appearance had caught Vincent off guard, but not for long. He had fully expected Jonny Cain to come knocking, but not so soon. He’d anticipated the visit would come later, when it was realized that H. Diller and Haltenorth had not reported back. There was no way Cain could have had any inkling as to the crushing fate that had befallen the two enforcers, so Vincent guessed that the follow-up had been pre-planned, to keep him off balance.
Diller and Haltenorth had been the advance warning, Cain the real thing. Obviously Cain had expected that the two heavies would achieve nothing, Vincent not being a man to be threatened or intimidated, and they would not have returned with good news, so the idea to come in their immediate wake was designed to demonstrate how seriously — and personally — Cain viewed matters.
When the intercom on the gate had buzzed, Vincent had been at the dining table in the kitchen with Henderson, the fitter, a man called Chris Shannon who managed Vincent’s quarry, and another man. They had been drinking strong coffee and discussing the situation.
Henderson rose and answered the intercom, next to which was a CCTV monitor on the kitchen wall. Henderson had also answered the intercom a short while earlier to a man who had purported to be on ‘police business’ but had been unable to flash any ID at the camera on the gate. On that occasion, Henderson had turned to his companions and asked if either knew the visitor. Vincent and Shannon said no, but the other man crossed to the screen, looked at the image and said, ‘I know him, but he isn’t a cop — tell him to get lost.’
Henderson had complied, a little more politely, and the man went.
But the appearance of Jonny Cain didn’t give Henderson that right.
‘Boss.’ Henderson flicked a finger at the monitor.
Vincent rose slowly and looked at the monitor linked to the camera at the gate. It was good quality equipment and clearly showed the stern-faced Jonny Cain, arms folded, staring expressionlessly at the lens.
‘Shit,’ Vincent said. ‘Let him in.’
‘But boss…’
‘Just do it.’
Henderson pressed the gate release button and they watched Cain get back into the Range Rover, then the vehicle entered the grounds.
Vincent greeted him at the front door.
Cain and another man got out of the car and came up the steps. The Range Rover did a full circle and headed back down the drive, tyres crunching the gravel.