‘Or the first person to see her dead,’ Flynn said. ‘You know the stats.’
‘Yeah, most people are murdered by their nearest and dearest, or other close family members… but there is that message about the poacher.’ Henry turned to the local men. ‘Is there much to poach around here at this time of year?’
‘The deer come down from the hills in bad weather,’ Singleton said. ‘So yes, plenty.’
‘OK. I’ll get some photos, then we can lock up. Can I ask you gents to keep shtum about this for the time being? I know it’s a big ask, but the fewer people who know, the better at the moment.’ They both nodded and assured him of their silence. ‘And then, I’m afraid I need to get showered and changed before I start looking into this. Also need some food down me, which hopefully will come via the landlady at the Owl.’
‘Alison?’ Flynn said.
‘Never got as far as her name.’
Despite knowing that Karl Donaldson had recently stretched out in the same bath, Henry only took his time entering the hot soapy water so that he could enjoy every inch of his body’s response to the bliss. He eased himself carefully into the deep water, his bottom burning at first dip, slowly submerging the whole of his six-two frame and allowing the heat to permeate his freezing bones. He exhaled slowly and the tip of his nose started to burn strangely.
He was in the bathroom situated in the private living accommodation at the rear of the Tawny Owl and the room looked as though it had been recently refurbished, with a large question-mark shaped bath/shower, matching loo, bidet and wash basin. The walls were tiled in white from top to bottom. It was quite a feminine room, Henry observed in passing, no evidence of a man.
The landlady, Alison Marsh — Henry had thought it appropriate to ask her name as he was going to be using her facilities — had been kind enough to show him straight through to the bathroom, in which she’d unpacked his rucksack and laid out a change of clothes from therein. And run the bath. Fact was, she couldn’t do enough for him and Donaldson since the unauthorized re-letting of their rooms. She was trying her best to make amends.
Henry pinched his nose and sank under the water like a submarine, then surfaced like a whale, his head covered in nice-smelling bubbles.
He uttered a short laugh at the memory of the phone call he’d made to Kate before heading up to the crime scene on the tractor.
Neither she nor Karen, Donaldson’s expectant wife, had any inkling whatsoever of the peril in which their two men had found themselves. Since depositing them in the Trough of Bowland, they had dropped Henry’s car in Kirkby Lonsdale, then they’d driven like the clappers in the Jeep to the Trafford Centre in Manchester to have an indulgent shopping trip and they simply had no idea about the weather. Which was a good thing, Henry thought. There had been no worrying on their part and Kate had taken the news of Karl’s twisted ankle and food poisoning as though it was nothing. Neither did the fact that the men were now snowed in seem to bother her too much. She and Karen had booked into a hotel close to the Trafford Centre and were going for a meal, then catching a film at the multiplex cinema. There was no concern, either, when Henry told her about finding a dead body.
‘Henry,’ she said knowingly, ‘I wouldn’t have expected anything less.’
He shook his head, grinned, scooped the bubbles off his head, then shot bolt upright when someone knocked on the door. ‘Hello.’
‘It’s me,’ the landlady called. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I’ve brought that bath towel I promised — and I’ve got those photos printed off. Can I just stick my hand through and drop them in?’
‘Hold on.’ Henry gathered suds and built a pile of them to cover his nether regions. ‘OK,’ he said.
The door opened. Alison leaned in and dropped a towel, then a few sheets of A4 paper.
Henry, having to peer slightly over his left shoulder, caught her eye. She smiled shyly.
‘I hope the photos weren’t too upsetting for you. You really didn’t have to print them off. I would’ve done it.’ Henry had of course checked that Alison wasn’t Cathy’s closest friend and had warned her severely of the content.
‘Like I said, I’ve seen worse.’
Henry didn’t go there. ‘Well, thanks.’
She paused. Henry grinned self-consciously.
‘The food’s almost ready. I got the chef to prepare a roast beef dinner. I hope that’s OK. Whenever you’re ready, Superintendent.’
Henry chortled. He hated officers junior to himself addressing him by his rank, let alone a strange woman whilst he was naked in her bath. ‘That was a bit formal, all things considered. Henry will do nicely.’
‘Henry, then.’
She withdrew, closing the door softly. Henry leaned out of the bath, stretching to reach the towel, dragging it towards him with the photographs on top that Alison had kindly downloaded from her digital camera on to her PC and printed off. There were four photos on each sheet. He dried his hands, picked up the sheets, and settled back to examine what had been produced.
They weren’t brilliant, but they did the job well enough. He hoped there would be a chance of enhancing them later, just to sharpen them up. The ones of Cathy’s body in situ showed the scene well enough, but the ones he’d taken in the walk-in freezer were very clear, if not terribly well composed. He shuffled through them several times.
As well as his favourite mantra about only getting one chance at a crime scene, another one from the Murder Investigation Manual also went through his head: find out how they lived, discover why they died. For most murders he investigated, this held true. Often the circumstances of a murder reflected the way the victim had lived in the first place. So, he asked himself, how did this apply to Cathy James?
Was she merely doing her job, investigating the report of a poacher, and was she killed just because of that? Or was there something more to her death? Modern, organized poachers were violent men, Henry knew, but the killing of a cop was way extreme. Not that he would discount this theory, but he was already thinking that Cathy James’s death was more than a bad luck encounter.
He placed the photos back down on the bathroom floor, sank deep under the suds again, revelling in the sensation, wishing he’d stayed at home instead of turning out for a stupid walk. Donaldson would still have got food poisoning, but he, Henry, could be sipping Jack Daniel’s and watching a film without a care in the world.
He dressed in the change of clothing from the rucksack — light trousers, a polo shirt, trainers. The idea had been that they would have time to dry their outdoor clothing and change back into it the day after for the second half of the walk to Kirkby Lonsdale. Rubbing his close-cropped hair dry as he entered the landlady’s dining room, he found Donaldson sitting at the table next to Steve Flynn. Roger the dog was laid out asleep on the floor. Henry winced at the sight of Flynn.
‘You smell wonderful tonight,’ Flynn said. ‘All feminine.’
Henry ignored him. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked Donaldson, who had also changed after his bath and looked much better. His right foot was strapped up and propped on a dining chair.
‘Bit better. Guts still churning,’ he said, giving Henry a sit-rep. ‘But I’m hellish hungry and need some nourishment. The foot is very sore and swollen, but I don’t think it’s broken. Alison got the doctor to check it.’
‘Could he focus on it?’ Henry asked, settling at the table. ‘I see you two have met.’
‘Yep. You’re old friends,’ Donaldson said with irony.
‘Old somethings,’ Henry said.
Flynn eyed him malignly. ‘Whatever, he’ll always believe I took that million, won’t you, Henry?’
‘Until you can show different, I’ll find it hard to move on.’