‘Jonny, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ Vincent said.
‘I’ve told them to be back for me in half an hour,’ Cain said. ‘Now let’s cut the bullshit and get inside out of this shite weather.’ He ignored Vincent’s outstretched hand and walked past him into the house.
‘Hey, whatever,’ Vincent said, trying to keep a note of levity in his voice. ‘Nice to see you too, Jonny,’ he said under his breath, turning in behind his unexpected guest and almost colliding with him. Cain had stopped abruptly, having heard Vincent’s snide remark.
‘This isn’t a social visit, Jack.’
Cain declined the offer of strong drink, opted for coffee instead. Vincent had shown him into the lounge, trying to display a measure of confusion and pleasure at Cain’s presence.
‘Nice.’
‘Colombian,’ Vincent said with a grin. ‘Obviously.’
The drink was in a large mug and Vincent winced when Cain, still holding it, settled into the soft, expansive leather of the armchair that was his own, placed the mug on the chair arm and dug it into the surface of the leather. It was part of a four-piece suite that had cost Vincent almost ten grand and that particular chair was his favourite.
It was just Cain displaying the top-dog psychology of the moment. He was the man and wanted Vincent to be completely aware of that. And Jonny Cain did not usually turn out to deal with things in person. That was why he had underlings, so if he had taken the trouble to show his face, it meant big trouble.
Vincent reined in his response to the mug wind-up.
‘You’ll already have had a visit from my men,’ Cain started without any prologue.
Vincent frowned, glanced at Henderson who hovered by the door. ‘No,’ he said, puzzled. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Really?’ Cain said, unfazed. ‘It’s a good job I’ve come to see you then, isn’t it.’ He smiled.
‘Why are you here, Jonny? Not social, you say?’
‘No, it isn’t.’ He took a sip of the coffee. ‘Purely fucking business.’
‘And that business would be?’ Vincent asked, acting dumb.
‘Debt collection.’
Vincent pouted. ‘Debt collection?’
‘Jack, I’m not playing around with words or playing fucking games here. You owe me and I’ve come to collect.’
‘You know as well as I do that I — we — were ripped off by a mule. A guy who thought he could get away with it. He’s been dealt with now, Jonny. He won’t be ripping anyone off again, but as to the loss…’ Vincent opened his arms as if to say, That’s life, get used to it. What he actually said was, ‘The money’s gone, the drugs’ve gone — irrecoverable… shit happens.’
Cain listened patiently. His accomplice, a man called Danny Bispham, stood at the back of the room, six feet away from Henderson, watching him like a hawk.
Cain balanced the coffee cup on the arm of the chair, stood up and walked around the room, looking at the displays in glass cases — stuffed birds of prey, mostly protected species, each one standing over a kill, a small bird or rabbit. He paused in front of one, a superbly mounted hen harrier. ‘This is nice,’ he said.
‘I like predators,’ Vincent said.
Cain sighed and turned. ‘You know the sums.’
‘The money doesn’t exist any more, it’s gone. I was ripped off and the guy who did it has had his head ripped off for his trouble. Quid pro quo, I think they say. The circle of life. If you want the money back, claim on your insurance,’ Vincent guffawed.
Cain’s narrow, harshly lined face remained expressionless. He checked his slim, gold wristwatch, which probably cost more than Vincent’s suite. ‘My other two men are securing rooms down at the local pub for the night. You have five hours to get the money. I’ll settle for eighteen grand today and the rest in produce. The rest later.’
‘I owe you nothing, Jonny.’
‘Yes you do. How you handle your business is your business and dealing with a bent mule doesn’t make the money you owe me vanish. If you don’t show up with the money, we will be back, Jack, and then I’ll mount your head in one of these glass cases.’ His eyebrows angled upwards. ‘Five hours — max.’
The Range Rover arrived on time to pick up Jonny Cain and Vincent watched it drive away. Back in the lounge, he looked at his colleagues, Henderson and Shannon. ‘Well?’ Vincent had asked, his eyes flickering between the two men, neither of whom ventured an opinion.
A door opened and another man entered the room. He had been listening to the exchange and Vincent now looked at him.
‘You heard it all?’ Vincent said.
‘Every word,’ the man confirmed.
‘And? From a police perspective, what’s your opinion?’
Without hesitation, Tom James said, ‘Well, now that he’s out in the open, I think it would be wise to do the decent thing, exactly what we’ve been planning to do for the last six months. Kill him and then take over his business.’
THIRTEEN
Having seated Donaldson by the crackling fire, Henry returned to the bar. ‘See,’ he said triumphantly to Alison, ‘he’s not well at all. He needs a room.’
‘I’m really, really, really sorry,’ she said. ‘I… I didn’t have a choice.’
Henry gave her his best grimace. ‘Whatever… look, I’m going to drive up to the police station, I have some business up there. I’d be really grateful if you could just keep an eye on him.’ Henry fumbled in his jacket. ‘I’m a detective superintendent, by the way, and he’s an FBI agent — honestly.’ He showed his ID.
‘You’re a police officer?’
Henry nodded. ‘And I’ve a few things to do before I can chill out — or warm up, so please look after him. He’s a big galumph, but he’s pretty harmless.’
‘I will.’
Henry regarded her, liking what he saw. ‘I’m still miffed about the rooms and I need to sort something out.’
‘I’m sorry…’ She seemed on the verge of saying something more, but held back, and Henry did not have the time to hang about.
‘I’ll be back when I’ve sorted this — thing — out.’ He went to Donaldson and squatted down by him. ‘The landlady’s going to fix you up, hopefully. I need to go and see if anyone’s in at the police house.’ Donaldson stared uncomprehendingly at Henry, not far from being totally out of it. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.’
He got up, patting his friend on the shoulder, slid himself back into his weatherbeaten coat and set off outside. As he emerged through the revolving door, the same Range Rover that had almost barged him off the road drew up in the car park, disgorging four occupants. Henry flicked his hood over his head and walked to Flynn’s hire car, one eye on the four tough-looking guys who barged past him into the pub, in much the same way that the car had been driven, without a thought for anyone else.
With his hand on the cold car door, Henry watched the men entering the pub, waiting for each other to use the door. The last man stood in line patiently and glanced briefly in Henry’s direction.
About thirty metres separated the two men. Snow was falling heavily, darkness was upon them, the street lights were on, the doorway to the pub was illuminated and Henry saw only three-quarters of the man’s face for a maximum of three seconds before he looked away. Long enough for Henry to make an ID.
‘Holy shit,’ he said, got into the hire car and drove off towards the police house.
The nature of coincidence was something that had always intrigued Henry. Things sometimes happened and people who knew each other could easily meet in unexpected circumstances of which they would never have dreamed. Such as the time he’d been on holiday in the Canaries and bumped into a man wanted by the cops in Lancashire. Or the time he’d been at a Rolling Stones concert and amongst eighty thousand other people, he’d met the only other person he knew, another cop who he never even thought could be a Stones fan. That sort of coincidence he believed in.
What he didn’t believe was that it was a coincidence that Jonny Cain, a ruthless drug dealer and — unproven maybe — murderer, alleged hirer of contract killers to take out pesky rivals, had walked into a pub in the middle of nowhere with three of his hairy-arsed goons, whilst at the same time, lying there amongst the trees, was the dead body of the local rural beat officer, brutally slaughtered.