‘The sooner you get to a hospital the better,’ she told Henry. ‘There’s a real chance of infection and one way or another, you need to get there in the morning at the latest.’
‘Weather dependent.’
‘Stuff the weather,’ she said.
‘Yeah, OK. Thanks,’ he said pathetically.
‘It’s a good job Dr Lott was still in the pub. I was just about to shout last orders and clear the place when Steve phoned.’
‘Why didn’t he come, Dr Lott that is?’
‘It’s his weekly inebriation. He’s fit for nothing except dealing drugs. He just handed his whole kit over.’ She started to bandage the wound.
‘You’ve seen worse than this, then? Ow!’
‘Much. This is nothing, so stop being a baby.’
‘OK, nurse. What’s happening down at the pub, by the way?’
‘I’ve left Ginny to lock up, et cetera. She’ll be all right, she’s done it before.’
‘And Karl?’
‘Sent to bed. He wanted to come, but he’s really ill. He needs more TLC than you.’
‘And your guests, the ones in my rooms?’
‘Causing no trouble at all.’ She pulled the bandage tight, Henry juddered. ‘There, how does that feel?’
He gave her sad, puppy-dog eyes, although the pathos of his expression was tempered with the heavy bags of an old bloodhound, which probably spoiled the overall effect. She pecked him on the cheek, stood back and looked tenderly into his eyes, then with an even sadder inflection said, ‘I wish,’ and sighed.
Henry swallowed — which actually hurt. He hadn’t realized that his throat had a direct connection to his shoulder.
Flynn barged in, holding a tea towel to his ear. ‘What’s your plan of action, Henry?’ he demanded, then his face fell as he realized he had stepped into a moment. He said nothing, but his demeanour changed.
Henry inhaled deeply. A shiver of pain arced through his shoulder. He tried to ignore it, and applied his mind to more pressing matters.
Alison busied herself by swilling out the blood-splashed wash basin.
Henry wanted to go to bed, too. Instead of admitting that, he got up stiffly and reached for a clean shirt Alison had liberated from Tom’s wardrobe, easily big enough to fit Henry. He carefully slipped his arms through the sleeves.
‘First things first. I need to tell Tom formally that he’s under arrest for the attempted murder of you and me. Then I’m going to break the news to him about Cathy, although I suspect he knows we’ve found her. I’ll arrest him on suspicion of that.’ He turned to Alison. ‘We’ll need a statement from Ginny, by the way, saying she saw Cathy and Tom drive past, then only Tom came back.’ Alison nodded. Henry went on to Flynn, ‘I want to start a custody record, too.’
‘Locked up in his own home,’ Flynn quipped.
‘You’ve heard of house arrest, haven’t you?’
‘The cells are certainly filling up. Then what?’
‘Hold on to him until the cavalry arrives. I won’t be questioning him, or Callard. They’ve got some connection over the shotgun, if what Callard says is true about Tom giving him the gun…’
‘Which also connects Tom to Jonny Cain?’
‘It hadn’t escaped me.’
‘Let me talk to him,’ Flynn suggested.
‘Talk or torture? Anyway, you’re not a cop now.’
‘I never tortured anyone, not even close.’
‘Let’s not go there, eh?’ Henry buttoned up his shirt.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Flynn said.
‘Forget it.’ Henry tried to walk past him, his legs unsteady. But Flynn didn’t budge, blocked the way threateningly.
‘I said…’
‘Steve,’ Henry said tiredly, ‘when I investigated you, I turned over lots of stones.’ He arched his eyebrows pointedly. Flynn’s lower lip tightened. ‘OK,’ Henry relented, and glanced over to Alison, who was transfixed by the interaction. ‘The broken jaw of a witness against you in Rossendale?’ Henry held Flynn’s stare. ‘The drug dealer held over a balcony in Morecambe?’ Still they remained eye to eye. ‘A sock full of pennies on the guy in Preston… need I go on?’
Flynn’s expression changed subtly. His eyes dropped and, defeated, he stood aside for Henry to pass.
‘Now then, let’s have speaks with Tom James, soon to be ex-detective of this parish.’
As he was a man of action, being debilitated was driving Karl Donaldson crazy, especially with all the excitement going on at the police house. It was almost destroying him that he hadn’t been there in amongst the thick of it backing up Henry who, he had come to realize over the years, usually needed all the help he could get. He hoped that Steve Flynn was as handy as he appeared to be.
But Donaldson was more exhausted than he’d ever been in his life. Even when he’d been recovering from the gunshot he’d taken from a terrorist, he’d had more energy to deal with things. It had taken every ounce of his will power to put on the tough-guy act behind Henry when he’d been challenging Jonny Cain and his assorted rag-tags.
Now all he could do was think of sleeping.
The combination of food poisoning — an affliction intense and fatiguing like nothing else he had experienced — and the sprained ankle that had ballooned to double its normal size, had simply floored him. That, plus the ill-conceived walk across the moors through conditions that would have been a test even in the rudest of health.
He did have a lot to thank Henry for, however, although his friend’s reading of the weather could have been a mite more accurate.
‘This is my room.’ Ginny, Alison’s teenage stepdaughter, led him down the corridor towards the living room and stopped in front of a door.
‘Look, honey,’ Donaldson drawled, ‘I’m happy to crash out on the sofa. I don’t really want to put you to any trouble.’
‘Honestly, it’s not a problem. My mum has a huge bed and I’ve slept with her before, on girlie nights.’
‘If you’re sure…’
‘Course — and thanks for, y’know, flattening that arsehole. He deserved it.’ Ginny opened the bedroom door, revealing a sumptuous room in various shades of pink, with a very inviting three-quarter width bed. There was an en suite off to one side, and lots of teddies. She stepped in and Donaldson followed. ‘Well, this is it,’ she said shyly.
‘It’s great,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Thanks.’
She paused at the door before leaving. ‘Those men,’ she said, ‘they’re dangerous, aren’t they?’
Donaldson nodded.
‘Mm, thanks again.’ She collected her PJs and left Donaldson in the room. He tossed his rucksack on to the bed, then sat on it himself, feeling his bottom sink into its softness.
‘Ooh, nice.’ He eased off his trainers, swung up his legs and, still fully clothed, closed his eyes. Within moments he’d drifted off.
Tom had been put in the main bedroom across the landing from the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the wide bed, hunched sullenly over, his cable-tied wrists between his legs. He glowered grimly at Henry as he came into the room, blood from the gash he’d received in the car accident smearing his face, some drops on the light-coloured carpet.
The two men stared at each other, judging, until Tom looked away.
Flynn stood behind Henry, filling the door with his big frame.
‘This is shit,’ Tom said.
Henry did not bother with any preamble. He told Tom he was under arrest on suspicion of murdering Cathy James, plus various offences including the attempted murder of himself and Steve Flynn. He cautioned Tom and asked him if he understood what had been said.
‘No — how can I have murdered her?’
‘We’ve found her body, Tom.’ Henry waited for the reaction, but all he got was a subtle change in facial expression.
‘And you didn’t tell me? You didn’t tell me about my wife?’
‘I didn’t, but now I have.’
‘And you think I shot her?’
‘How do you know she was shot?’
‘Assumption,’ Tom said quickly.
As much as Henry would have liked to pick up on that little error, and what Tom had let slip when he was threatening him and Flynn with the shotgun, he knew this was not the time or place. Tom had to be taken to a proper cop shop and processed scrupulously by the book.