Two years down the line, Henry guessed, SOCA would probably have amassed enough to pull him in again. Until that time came, as Cain was known to be super cautious in his dealings, activities and communications, it was unlikely that any cop would come into personal contact with him.
Which is why Henry, despite having to leave a prisoner guarded by a volunteer, was actually relishing the prospect of speaking to him. Any chance to get into his face was not to be missed, and Henry had a bloody good excuse to have words.
It was the sort of confrontation Henry lived for. He loved baiting crims, didn’t do enough of it these days.
Alison drove him back to the Tawny Owl.
‘You mentioned that Callard is one of Jack Vincent’s drivers?’ Henry said on the way.
‘Yes.’
‘What do you know about Jack Vincent?’
‘Not a lot. Runs a haulage business from the quarries he owns. Lives in Mallowdale House and owns a huge amount of land around it. And doesn’t like people trespassing — why?’
‘Nothing,’ Henry said. For he too knew of Jack Vincent. It was his job to know. Not personally, but knew Vincent was, or had been, a SOCA target too. Henry dredged his mind of what he knew about Vincent, but details were sparse and he had to admit he’d forgotten that Vincent lived out here in the sticks. He would have to find out more… two OC targets in one village, he mused.
‘I think you misinterpreted what you saw,’ Alison blurted, subject changed.
‘None of my business,’ Henry said genuinely. ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me.’ She glanced sideways at him and he caught her look. ‘What?’ he said, perplexed.
‘You’re a fool,’ she quipped with a laugh. ‘I don’t like him at all.’
Henry gulped, knocked slightly off track. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Idiot.’
They had reached the car park at the front of the pub and she pulled in alongside Cain’s Range Rover, Henry noticing some damage to the offside door mirror. Singleton’s tractor was still parked in the road and a few other vehicles had arrived, showing that movement in and around the village itself was possible — just not out of it. He climbed out and met Alison at the front radiator grille of her car. Still in his shirtsleeves, he shivered.
‘What you do is your own business.’
She grasped the front of his shirt and pulled him towards her, so they were eyeball to eyeball. Now it was Henry’s turn to smell her perfume. Her lower jaw jutted slightly as her eyes played over his face.
‘If we get chance,’ she breathed, ‘you and me… can I make it any more clear?’
Henry blinked, got a rush of blood, then she yanked him the extra six inches towards her, pulled him down and forced her full lips on to his.
For a moment he was completely stunned. As he tasted her, felt her warmth against him, he responded before he knew what was happening. Fortunately common sense kicked in. He pushed himself gently away from her.
‘You no like?’ she asked, a wicked smile on her face.
‘Me like a lot… but I thought…’
‘Not my type. Brash, arrogant.’
‘Oh.’ Henry’s lips pursed and the ‘oh’ became an ‘Ooh!’
‘However, there are more pressing things to deal with.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Henry’s shivering returned.
They walked side by side, silently into the pub. Henry sneaked a covert look at her and tried to get a grip of what had just happened. If nothing else, he thought meanly, it was a poke in the eye with a shitty stick for Flynn, and that gave him an immature glow of warmth.
He stood aside, allowing Alison to enter ahead of him, their eyes meeting fleetingly, then followed her into the welcoming heat. The main bar in which the shotgun fracas had taken place was back to normal, with the exception of the shotgun pellet-peppered ceiling. The remains of the disco ball hung limply from a thread, and all the shattered fragments had been swept up by Ginny. With hindsight, Henry wondered if he should have asked for the area to be cordoned off somehow, but in the excitement of the tussle with Callard, protecting the scene hadn’t been his first priority. It was too late now. New customers were even sitting where the fight had taken place.
The bar had filled up with a few more locals. On Henry’s entrance, the chatter died down for a few beats, but resumed when Alison let herself through to the living area and Henry went to his two assistants, the butcher/farmer and the GP. The bar was now propping them up.
‘Thanks for the handcuffs,’ Henry said to Singleton.
‘No probs. I always carry cable ties with me. Never know when they’ll come in useful in my trade — as has just been proven.’
‘Absolutely. Do you have any more?’
Singleton pulled a tangle of them out of his back pocket and gave them to Henry. ‘Just in case,’ Henry said, slipping them into his pocket.
‘What’ve you done with chummy?’ Dr Lott asked.
‘He’s a bit tied up, shall we say?’
‘You know — and it’s just me talking aloud,’ the doctor said. ‘Putting two ’n’ two together, but Larry Callard is known to do a bit of poaching, and he had that shotgun…’ His bottom lip stuck out, he blinked repeatedly and shook his head.
‘It’s something I’ll bear in mind.’
Alison had returned to the bar and taken up her usual position behind it. She pointed discreetly towards the dining room and mouthed, ‘In there.’
To the left of the pub entrance, just inside the door, was a small dining room with a low-beamed ceiling. It held half a dozen tables, there was a roaring fire and hunting prints on the wall. Henry had to duck to enter. It was like stepping back in time, into a room that had managed, either by accident or design, to miss any modernization at all.
This was where Jonny Cain and his three cronies, all of whom Henry knew from their files, were sitting around one of the tables that had been pulled in front of the fire, eating a hearty meal, with bottles of red wine and beer on the table. There were no other diners and as Henry entered the room he was reminded of a scene from the Hellfire Club, particularly when he saw Ginny, who was collecting some dishes, lean over the table and one of the men — the pony-tailed Danny Bispham — jab the blade of his hand up her short skirt, much to the raucous amusement of the other men.
Red-faced and embarrassed, she scuttled past Henry, her eyes averted in shame. The men watched her retreat, then their faces turned to him, all with threatening expressions. Who else would want to dine alongside four such uncouth men, he thought.
Bispham stood up and Henry’s assumption about why they were dining alone was confirmed. Bispham took two strides — he was a seriously violent-looking man with a rodent-like face — and growled, ‘This is a private function, no one’s allowed in here, so fuck off out.’ He actually laid the palm of his hand on Henry’s chest to stop any further progress.
‘Unfortunately for you, I’m a police officer and I have the power of entry into licensed premises, in particular where private functions are taking place.’ The last bit was slightly over-egging the pudding, but Henry was more than confident of the powers vested in constables to enter pubs, clubs and all other types of drinking establishments. ‘But I do know this isn’t a private function. Take your hand away, Danny,’ he added, pleased when Bispham responded with puzzled shock at the use of his name. People like him did not like to be known. He produced his warrant card and county crest and flashed it close into the guy’s face, then held it aloft so the others could also see it clearly. He wanted no misunderstandings. ‘Detective Superintendent Henry Christie,’ he introduced himself, ‘Lancashire Constabulary Force Major Investigation Team. And I want to speak to Jonny Cain.’
‘No Jonny Cain here,’ Bispham said defiantly.
‘In that case, I’ll speak to that man there.’ Henry pointed to Cain, whose attention had returned to his food, but was also keeping an eye on the interaction as he chewed on a thick steak. Cain sat back, wiped his mouth with a napkin. His jerked his head at Bispham, who retreated a half-step, scowling at Henry.