It had been some time since Flynn had been with a woman. He had lost interest, become bored and wary of the ‘man-woman’ love thing, preferred to concentrate on his job as skipper of the best sportfishing boat in the Canaries. He had a lot of ground to make up with Adam Castle, the owner, and had paid him back by effort and dedication to the cause, that being bringing in the biggest fish most consistently. The last customer had been somewhat unfortunate. Never assault a customer. Never — even if they deserve it.
Flynn had done some playing about in the foggy aftermath of the relationship with the woman he had so unexpectedly fallen in love with. One night stands, meaningless fornication with a succession of willing ladies, easily seduced by the hot weather, a muscle-bound, suntanned skipper and jugs of Sangria. But Flynn had soon tired of it. It was a lifestyle he’d once enjoyed, but the glint of the future he’d seen with ‘that woman’, as he now referred to his tragic lover, now made him want much more from a — the hated word — relationship. He’d retired into his shell and concentrated on work instead.
But Alison’s touch, her closeness, her breath, had stirred something inside him. And the signal it gave was that he now wanted to move on in his life, and possibly Alison might be just the lady to drag him out of his emotional doldrums.
That’s if he read her right. He knew he was a bit of a Neanderthal when it came to sussing out what the female of the species meant or wanted. So perhaps he’d got it wrong. Maybe she was just being nice.
And, he thought realistically, what chance would there be of any relationship with her? It would, by simple fact of geography, be a hit and miss job. She didn’t strike him as someone who would want a long-distance relationship, and to be truthful, nor did he.
‘Think I’m getting ahead of myself here,’ he muttered as he walked back into the office and checked on Callard. Still affixed to the radiator, asleep and making one hell of a medically dodgy noise. Flynn backed off into the hallway and picked up the sawn-off shotgun that had been left propped up there. He hooked his thumb under the trigger guard and carried it through to the kitchen, laying it gently on a worktop.
As he inspected it his mind shuffled back over the day he’d just had. He blew out his cheeks as his intuition told him that something very horrible was happening in this village. Not a great insight, bearing in mind what had happened so far on his watch, but incredible just the same. He dearly wanted to speak to Tom James again, because he knew, gut feeling, that he had a lot to answer for.
He was aware of the lights, the sound of a revving engine, the slamming of a car door.
Flynn stirred listlessly, shaking his head, not even remembering falling asleep on the settee in the front lounge. It must have come over him without warning. He rubbed his eyes, wondering how long he’d been under. He sat forward, trying to recall what had woken him, then jumped up and almost went headlong over the prone figure of Roger, spreadeagled at his feet, oblivious to any noise, in a deep slumber, not even reacting to Flynn’s feet.
Then he heard the front door crash open.
‘Cathy, Cathy, where the hell have you been?’ Tom James shouted angrily as he came into the hallway.
Flynn’s mind clicked into gear. Cathy’s Shogun was parked outside. The sound that Flynn had heard must have been Tom returning from wherever he’d been. He twisted into the hall and came face to face with the detective.
Flynn’s appearance caught him unawares. ‘You! What the hell are you doing here? Where’s Cathy?’ Then he saw Callard laid out by the radiator in the office. ‘What the fuck’s been going on here?’ he demanded. ‘Who’s that? What the hell’s-?
‘Hey, man, calm down,’ Flynn said peaceably. ‘That bloke’s a prisoner.’
Tom glowered. ‘Whose prisoner?’
‘Hey, long story, pal…’
‘Don’t you freakin’ “pal” me… where’s Cathy? Is she here?’ Flynn couldn’t find the words for a reply. ‘Well, come on, numb-nuts, what’s going on, where the hell is she?’ He barged past Flynn into the kitchen, calling her name and coming to a jarring halt when his eyes clamped on the sawn-off shotgun.
Flynn was behind him, at his shoulder.
‘What is that doing here?’ Tom asked coldly and turned slowly to Flynn. ‘What’s going on? Why is this gun in my house? Where is Cathy? What’s that bastard doing in my house? And why are you here?’
Roger, having eventually been roused from his deep sleep, snaked around Flynn’s legs, came between him and Tom, then rose delightedly on his creaky hind legs, placing his massive front paws on Tom’s chest, giving a little ‘woof’ of greeting.
Tom’s right forearm drove the dog roughly sideways, twisting his arthritic hips, so Roger went down awkwardly with a squeal of pain.
‘Fuck off, dog.’
‘Hey — no need for that,’ Flynn said.
Roger cowered, ears back, tail turned inwards between his back legs. If there could have been an expression of disbelief on his face, it would have been there.
Tom jammed a finger into Flynn’s chest. ‘My house, pal — now where is she?’ He had a rage that was becoming uncontrollable and Flynn was wondering why. Why would he be so incensed to find his wife’s car back home? Even if they’d parted on bad terms, surely Tom wouldn’t be so annoyed to have her return? OK, a drunken prisoner in the house might well infuriate him, especially as the stench emanating from that direction was telling them he had pissed himself. But under the circumstances, with the weather having cut the village off, Tom would surely have understood that if Cathy had been obliged to make an arrest, then she would have been just as obliged to keep the prisoner here.
Obviously Flynn knew what had happened to Cathy. But, he speculated as he listened to the policeman’s rant, did Tom also know? And was the sight of her Shogun and the shotgun a warning that her body had also been found? Was he now putting on an act?
‘You need to calm down,’ Flynn said evenly.
‘Why, exactly? Why do I need to calm down? I come home and find my house violated and you here.’ He pointed at Flynn, his face ugly with hatred. ‘Someone my bitch of a wife called and blabbed to, who then turns up like a puppy dog, because you shagged her, didn’t you?’
Flynn coloured uncomfortably. ‘That’s not why I’m here — and you know it.’
‘So why are you here? And where is she? And what’s going on with that prisoner? Who arrested him? It can’t have been-’ He stopped himself mid-sentence. ‘Start talking.’
Flynn sighed. ‘You need to calm down. Look, come and sit in the lounge and we’ll get all this sorted. I need to make a phone call.’
‘To Cathy? Where the hell is she?’
‘Just sit down, eh?’ Flynn was frantically using his hands in calming gestures. ‘Let me phone Henry Christie — it’s down to him to explain everything.’
Flynn had to be quick to see it because Tom covered it up well — a look of horror at the mention of Henry’s name. But see it he did, and it made him think this outburst from Tom was a complete charade. ‘Why Henry Christie?’ Tom demanded.
‘He’s down at the pub.’
‘Why him?’
‘Just let me call him.’
‘What the fuck is Henry Christie doing here?’
‘He’s probably asking himself the same question… come on, Tom — try to chill for a few minutes and I’ll get him up here to explain things.’
‘Why can’t you explain things?’
‘Because Henry’s a cop and I’m an innocent bystander.’
He arrived in Flynn’s hired Peugeot, which he noticed now was missing a driver’s door mirror. He parked behind Tom’s Golf and his heart sank a little at the task that lay ahead. He always thought that delivering a death message chipped away at something inside every cop, even though every cop knew it came with the territory. Henry had delivered many in his time — too many. Some of the toughest ones were linked to murders or suspicious and sudden deaths. By the nature of his role he often had to break the most awful news to families of people who had been brutally killed, their lives brought to unnatural and violent ends. Additionally, unless there was a suspect in mind, Henry also had to realize that the person he was delivering the news to could also have been the offender. It was a fine balancing line between empathy and cold calculation, compassion and evidence gathering, all these things running in parallel.