Dead Heat (25 page)

‘What's he called?'

‘Phoenix.'

‘Hello, Phoenix,' Henry said to the beast. Its ears pricked forwards at the mention of its name. Charlotte started to lead him towards the stables. Henry walked along with her. ‘No school today?'

‘No,' she said shortly, offering no explanation. She did not seem to be in any mood to chat.

‘Any progress on the fire?' he asked.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Are the police getting anywhere with their enquiries?'

‘Apparently it was caused by an electrical fault, so there's nothing for them to do.'

This revelation jolted Henry. He thought it better to say nothing. He watched Charlotte slyly out of the corner of his eye as she walked the horse past the excavator and crusher. She was Leanne's age, but looked older. She was very thin and had dark rings around her eyes which accentuated her high, fashion-model cheekbones. She was close to being beautiful, but her pale skin and slightly kinked nose and gauntness kept that beauty at bay. Henry thought she had the look of her mother, rather than her father.

She took the horse into a loose box and pulled the half-door closed behind her. Henry leaned in, watching as she sorted the horse out. She slipped the saddle and bridle off, balancing them across the top of the door, making Henry stand back. She allowed the horse to eat and drink as she started to groom him, firstly by picking out the feet, then grooming his body with a brush and curry comb, using long circular strokes which brought the coat up to a lustrous sheen. She knew what she was doing around horses, talking gently to the animal whilst working on him.

‘It was a deliberate fire,' she said above the horse whispering. Her back was towards Henry.

‘Eh?' He cocked his head to one side.

‘It wasn't an electrical fault,' she spat, continuing brushing the horse. ‘Some bastard burned it down and mutilated Chopin.'

‘Any idea who?'

‘Thought that was your job to find out?'

Henry pouted. ‘I'm not sure if your mum wants me to anymore . . . anyway, how do you know the fire was deliberate?'

She turned on Henry, a sick look on her face. ‘Take it from me, it was. Any idiot could smell petrol.'

‘Who said it wasn't deliberate?'

‘Fire Brigade. My dad's got a report. The insurance are paying up––'

Henry was about to say something when, from behind, the sound of the excavator stopped as the operator switched off. A lovely silence came to the stables. Birds could be heard tweeting, sheep baa-ing. But then there was the sound of footsteps approaching. Henry saw two men coming quickly towards him. One was John Lloyd Wickson, the other Jake Coulton.

‘Hey you!' Wickson called out. He was pulling off a pair of heavy gloves and had industrial wellington boots on his feet, as did Coulton. Both men were wearing overalls. ‘What are you doing? You can't just come on to my land and start talking to my daughter without my permission.' He was fuming.

Coulton loomed behind him. Before, Henry had not been able to place the head of security as he had only seen him from a distance. Now it clicked.

‘Get the fuck off my land now,' Wickson boomed furiously.

Charlotte had stopped grooming the horse and had come to the stable door. ‘Dad, it's all right.'

‘No, it fucking isn't.'

‘I think that'll do,' Henry said calmly, now getting his first proper close-up of the almost bankrupt multi-millionaire. He saw a rodent-like man, thin and nasty-looking. ‘No need to swear, Mr Wickson.'

‘Jake – get this fucker off my property. He's not even a real cop.' His security man stepped past and strode towards Henry.

‘Come on, you.'

‘You lay a finger on me, Jake, and I'll have your guts.'

A dawning of recognition plastered Coulton's face. Both men now knew each other. He stopped short. Coulton was a big, hard man, as tough as they came. He was also an ex-cop and Henry knew why he was ‘ex'.

‘Jake, escort him from the premises,' Wickson restated.

Henry held a finger up at Coulton, a small but significant warning. He was under no illusions that on a one-to-one Coulton would get the better of him. He was hoping it would not go that far.

‘I'm here with permission,' Henry said. ‘Mrs Wickson has asked me to look into why someone is mutilating your horses, see if I can find the person responsible.'

‘Not now – permission withdrawn. Get him out of here, Jake.'

Coulton reached out with a big right hand.

‘No need to touch me, Jake.' Henry knew when to withdraw.

‘Walk him to his car.'

Henry's nostrils flared. He said, ‘That's the last time I save your life, pal.' He looked at the silent figure of Charlotte and winked surreptitiously at her. He started to walk away, then stopped shoulder to shoulder with Wickson. ‘You've got a lot of secrets, haven't you, Mr Wickson. Don't want people delving, do you?'

Wickson gave him a stone-cold deadly stare. Henry looked up and down at Wickson's protective attire. ‘Been mending a tractor?'

‘Go and don't return, or you'll suffer,' he whispered.

Henry set off back to the house. He saw the front door open and Tara Wickson run down the steps and jump into the Mercedes. With a scrunch of tyres, she accelerated away.

Jake Coulton caught up with Henry and gave him a push between the shoulder blades, sending Henry stumbling, almost making him lose his balance. Henry skidded and spun round.

‘Come on, you fucker. Get off this property. Don't hang about.'

Henry stood his ground, chest expanding like a caveman.

‘And don't even pretend you're a cop, Henry. You're suspended and soon you'll be a nobody, like they made me.'

‘Difference being you were a criminal, Jake. You were an apple ridden with smelly worms. All I've done is make a mistake. And if you assault me, make no mistake, I'll get you and you'll lose this nice, cushy job because you'll be back in clink. So back off.'

They were standing about four feet apart from each other, both perilously close to invading each other's personal space. Any nearer and they would have had to grapple, such was the man-thing. The reek of testosterone filled the air. Henry knew he would have come off second best. Coulton's reputation had been as a hard cop, but his hardness deviated into intimidation, then into blackmail and then he went too far. A man he had arrested ended up with a broken jaw and the Discipline and Complaints department (now modernly renamed Professional Standards) used it as a platform to put surveillance on Coulton. He was caught on video visiting the man and threatening further violence if he pursued his complaint. Coulton was soon out of a job because he ended up with a criminal conviction and a three-month prison sentence. The only sad thing was that it had taken so long for the organization to get its act together and stuff him.

Henry edged away and made it unscathed to his car. He saw Charlotte and her father arguing back at the stables, could hear the sound of their raised voices. Then the excavator came back to life, drowning out anything more. Henry got into the Astra and set off, driving purposely slowly past the brooding figure of Jake Coulton, who watched him all the way down the drive.

He headed back to the main road, intending to drive home and think about future tactics when his mobile phone rang. He did not recognize the number displayed.

‘Mr Christie, it's me, Tara.'

‘I've just been escorted off your premises.'

‘I'm not surprised.'

‘Where are you?'

‘On Garstang Road, near to St Mary's High School.'

‘Can I see you? We need to talk.'

She hesitated. ‘This is a bit close to home.'

‘How about making your way up to Fleetwood? There's a café in the Floral Hall complex, overlooks the beach.'

‘I know it. Fifteen minutes.'

Henry arrived first. He went into the café and ordered a bracing pot of tea and a couple of scones. He hadn't eaten since breakfast and was feeling dithery, particularly after his near fisticuffs with Jake Coulton. His blood-sugar levels needed a whacking big boost. He drank the tea sugarless, though, relying on the scone and jam to do the job.

He chose a table by the window, overlooking the beach, people-watching until Tara arrived. She looked flustered and breathless, but still very attractive with a pair of eyes that could have stopped any man in his tracks. Henry poured her a tea and pushed it to her with a scone.

‘Do you still want me to help you, Tara?' Henry thought he would go for the direct route.

‘Yes, but I don't know how.'

‘It's unlikely that your husband and his gorilla will let me back at the house. He doesn't seem to want anyone nosing around at all. Why is that? Surely it would be in his own interests.'

‘Again – I don't know.'

‘You don't know very much, do you?' He did not say it harshly.

She looked down at the scone, her eyes very unhappy. ‘We pretty much lead separate lives. One of those things.' She shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘Shit happens. It's never been a strong marriage.'

‘Why marry in the first place then?'

She gave him a look which told him it wasn't his business. ‘I'm just concerned about Charlotte. She's been a bit wayward recently . . . teenage-girl stuff . . . but the horse mutilation business has been really getting to her. I wanted to try to stop it for her. She needs a bit of steadiness right now.'

‘Seems a bit more than just horse mutilation now, though, doesn't it? The fire, someone shooting at your husband?'

‘The fire was accidental, an electrical fault.' Her eyes avoided Henry's. He reached out and tilted her chin. Her skin felt wonderfully soft.

‘We both know different, don't we? And even if it was accidental, who mutilated the horse and why did that man take shots at your husband? And don't tell me it was a bloody poacher. He went on to kill two cops and a nurse. He's a professional killer and I got there just in time for your husband. Now there's a nationwide manhunt on for him.'

She raised her chin off the tips of his fingers.

‘This stuff all comes right back at John Lloyd Wickson. What is he up to, Tara? Give me the answer to that, and I'll solve the horse problem.'

‘Do you really think they're connected?'

‘Is grass green? Is the Pope a Catholic? I didn't even begin to think you were that dim, Tara.'

Her slim body sagged. ‘I'm just bothered about Charlotte. I haven't a clue what John is up to.'

‘Then maybe you'd better start finding out, don't you think? One might just assist the other.'

H
enry sat in his conservatory, slouched down in one of the comfortable wicker chairs, a stubby bottle of Stella Artois resting on his stomach, balanced there in the grip of his right hand. His mind churned through the day, trying to put things in order, to make sense of what he had learned. He shifted painfully, grimacing. The knife slash down his side was hurting, though it had not done so all day.

The visit to Manchester had been fruitless, if tantalizing. There was something not quite right about Jo Coniston's disappearance and nothing right at all about Sgt Al Major, her caring, sharing supervisor. Henry struggled to see a way forward with it, other than to do some desktop research into the news stories of the time and some of his own ‘on the streets' research.

Next, his visit to the happy home of the Wickson family. It struck him that they were a deeply troubled trio of characters. John Lloyd Wickson was clearly up to no good in more ways than one. If she was to be believed, Tara did not know what he was up to, although even to Henry, some of his misdemeanours were blatantly obvious. Charlotte had her problems, too, probably caused by the relationship between her mum and dad. She was the only one of the three Henry felt anything like sorry for. The kids always get it, he thought bitterly. They may be amazingly adaptable, but it was always the parents who forced that adaptability on them.

He thought about Tara trying to do something to help her wayward daughter. Horses were obviously Charlotte's big love and someone was hurting them. Tara wanted her daughter's pain to stop. Henry wondered if that would ever be possible.

He sipped his reassuringly expensive drink. It was the only one he was planning to have that evening because he had decided to go out and do some schmoozling, as he called it. A bit of dancing with wolves. Put himself in amongst the people who could help him, maybe. That was if he could get out. Tea time with Kate had been fraught, and when he hesitantly revealed his plans for the evening, frostiness descended like a winter's morning. She completely disapproved of his involvement in anything like this and it was straining her, despite his reassurances.

A deep sigh engulfed him. He adjusted his position on the chair. Looking round, he watched Leanne approach him from the dining room.

‘Hi, kid,' he said, touching her arm. She kissed the top of his head and sat down on his knee. She wanted something. ‘What is it, honey?'

‘Dad,' she began, ‘there's a disco on tonight down at the youth club in town and I'd like to go. It finishes at eleven. I've done my homework.'

Henry kind of shrugged his whole body. ‘Yeah . . . and . . . ?'

‘Mum says I can go, but I have to be back here and in bed for half-eleven.'

‘And . . . ?' Henry waited for the punchline.

‘Can you pick me up? Mum says she's too tired. Otherwise . . . otherwise I won't be able to go . . . and all me mates're going . . . Jackie, Lorraine, Kylie . . .' She started counting them off on her fingers. ‘Louise . . . Charlotte . . . John . . . Debs . . .'

‘OK, OK,' he said, defeated. ‘I'll pick you up. But it's eleven on the dot . . . got that?' She nodded eagerly. ‘Is that Charlotte Wickson, by the way?'