Henry sat back and closed his eyes, reliving the past eight hours.
He had climbed into the ambulance to be with Diane on the short journey from White Lund to the A&E department at Royal Lancaster Infirmary. He had stood back, wedging himself into the corner of the vehicle, giving the paramedic space to work feverishly on Diane who was losing blood at an alarming rate. And then came that horrendous moment when her heart stopped, and the haggardly, worried expression on the paramedic’s face told Henry that everything, bad as it already was, had just taken a turn for the worse.
Henry watched the young woman – God, she seemed too damn young to be doing this, fighting to save someone’s life – reach for the defibrillator and apply it to Diane’s chest. Then the wait – only a second or two – to check on the vital signs again: had the pulse of electricity worked or hadn’t it?
No.
Henry gasped.
Then the reapplication of the device, the recharge, the shock and the obscene writhe of Diane’s body.
Then another agonizing wait.
‘It’s back!’ the paramedic said coolly, but her expression changed to one of relief as she started working on the gunshot wounds again.
Henry wiped his face with the back of his blood-streaked hand and wedged himself tighter into the corner so he would not collapse, because he wasn’t certain his legs were strong enough to hold him upright anymore.
‘You’re going to be all right,’ the paramedic said as she worked feverishly. ‘Yes, you are. Come on, Diane, let’s do this.’
Pulling off White Lund, then heading towards Lancaster, the ambulance almost immediately hit standing traffic.
Henry heard the driver shout obscenities as he began the precarious in-out-in swerving through the tailback into the city, slamming on, veering, forcing oncoming vehicles to brake hard, pull out of his way, and even though he got to the infirmary as quickly as he possibly could, it doubled the journey time, doubled Diane’s chances of dying.
A team of nurses and consultants waited to meet the ambulance as it bounced to a halt outside A&E. The rear doors were yanked open, and within seconds Diane was being wheeled through the emergency entrance, straight to the trauma unit.
Henry followed and had to fight his natural instinct to be with her as she was taken in. He knew he would be in the way, would be an unnecessary distraction for the medical staff, so he hung back, let them do their job of saving Diane’s life.
He found a bench further down the corridor, sat down and said, ‘Fuck.’
The wait began.
‘Here.’
Henry looked up. Rik Dean was holding a takeaway coffee for him. ‘C’mon, have it. You’ve been here for a full shift and haven’t eaten or drunk anything.’
That was true. Henry could not have kept anything down. He would have vomited, but now he realized he needed some sustenance and, with a dithering hand, he took the offering.
‘Americano. Out of a machine.’
‘Thank you.’
Even though Henry had not moved from the hospital, he had done everything he could to help the fast-moving investigation – nay, manhunt – that was taking place outside, across the country. Detectives had been to speak to him and he had given his all. A family liaison officer had even been to see him for a chat. Henry had been as polite as he could be with her, then fobbed her off just as politely. Rik Dean had been in and out, but he’d been conflicted by the requirement to be the senior officer on call for Diane’s progress and to run the strategy for catching a killer. Henry had been straight with him and told him to concentrate on the job, and that he, Henry, would remain at the hospital. He had Diane’s PR with him, had been given fresh batteries and could listen in to any local developments.
It had been a couple of hours since Rik had shown his face at the hospital.
‘Any news, Henry?’
He shook his head. ‘Still in surgery … six hours now.’
‘Jeepers.’ Rik sat down next to him. He had a coffee, too. ‘The chief constable is aware of the situation and she’s asked for regular updates. She’ll be out to see how things are here soon, I imagine.’
‘Yeah, good,’ Henry said without rancour.
‘She knows you’re here.’
‘Yeah, I get it.’ He took the lid off the coffee and sipped it. Rik had laced it with sugar, which was not normally how Henry would have taken it (sugarless), but it gave him a little burst of energy and reminded him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. ‘Where are we up to, Rik?’
The detective superintendent emitted a deep sigh and shook his head. ‘Nothing so far.’
‘Hang on – the guy drove away in a fucking big black Range Rover with personalized plates on it, Rik. Cops were converging on the scene. Checkpoints were in place within minutes …’
‘I know all that … but it’s not an exact science, is it?’ Rik said, clearly feeling the pressure.
‘So this guy has murdered at least two people that we know of in the last twenty-four hours – Carter and this guy Billy Lane – and he’s possibly also murdered …’ Henry paused here, made a weak gesture towards the operating theatre, then got a grip. ‘Maybe also murdered a police officer.’
‘I said I fucking know, Henry.’
‘So there’s a country-wide search going on for him, for this very fucking obvious car, and he slips through the net … how, exactly? Tell me now.’
‘Hey, mate, I know you’re upset.’
‘Upset? I’ll tell you something, Rik, I am experiencing anger right now that I haven’t experienced in a long, long, long time.’ Henry rammed the flat of his left fist against his chest. ‘Right fucking here. Fury!’ His fingers were tightening into a fist and opening repeatedly. ‘And I feel so bloody useless … and guilty … Jeez.’
‘Hey, she’s an experienced cop, Henry. You know that. And the fact is you were holding back, waiting for backup and the guy just came at you. You couldn’t have known this would happen.’
Henry shook his head despondently, took a sip of the sweet coffee, then uttered a deep groaning noise, like a wounded animal.
‘But at least we’ve managed to salvage some of the guy’s clothing with blood on it,’ Rik said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Looks like there had been a fire in an oil barrel at the back of Lane’s unit and some clothing had been burned in it, but we salvaged some which was blood-stained, and we found some rags and tissues with blood on them in a bin in the toilet, so it looks like he was cleaning the head wound you must have caused when you chucked that brick at him yesterday. Going to be DNA for sure.’
‘Are you fast-tracking it?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘When I say “fast-tracking”, I don’t mean sending it through the “channels”,’ Henry said, tweaking the first two fingers of his left hand to represent air speech marks. ‘I mean physically taking samples to the lab and standing over the scientist while it’s analysed – the DNA and the bullets. That’s what I mean.’
‘That’s exactly what will happen. SOCOs are packaging up what we’ve got so far, and I’m sending two traffic cars, with a detective in each – one to the forensic lab, one to the firearms people in Manchester. They’ll be on the road first thing tomorrow and on the lab steps as soon as they open for business.’
‘Good.’
Rik’s mobile rang. He stood up to take the call and walked away from Henry who heard him say, ‘Yeah … yeah … OK … where? When? Right, right … and somebody’s with her now?’
Henry cocked his head to listen but couldn’t quite work out what was being said at the other end of the line, but he did clearly hear Rik Dean say, ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ as he hung up.
He spun to Henry. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’
But what Rik was about to say or reveal was cut off as the door to the operating theatre opened and the surgeon Henry knew had been operating on Diane stepped out, removing his gloves and mask.
There were stages in the journey that McCabe seriously thought he would never get through. As he sped away in the Range Rover, he barely expected to get off White Lund before being surrounded by a plethora of armed cops and made to get out, lie flat and be arrested – and probably, definitely, have the shit kicked out of him for shooting a cop.
However, he did make it.
He also made it on to the M6 motorway and began heading south, moving into the outside lane and gunning the big car at around the ninety-five mark, and didn’t see a single police motorway patrol.
He made it all the way through Lancashire without mishap and into Cheshire. There he reduced his speed – he knew not to push anything too far – and cut back to about seventy. He began to think that a car swap would be a good thing, which is why he took the chance to come off the motorway on to Sandbach services between junction sixteen and seventeen. He parked up as far away from the café as possible, leaving the Range Rover stuffed between two heavy goods vehicles, then sauntered across the car park to the café, grabbed a brew, sat by the window and waited for his lift to London.
Rik Dean’s mouth clamped shut as Henry rose hesitantly from the bench and looked at the weary-faced surgeon.
‘Mr Christie? You came to hospital with Miss Daniels, I believe?’
Henry nodded and said a dull, ‘Yeah, how is she?’
‘Critically ill, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m Detective Superintendent Dean,’ Rik cut in. ‘I’m Miss Daniels’ boss.’
‘Do we have any close relatives here – next of kin?’ the surgeon asked.
‘I’ve been trying to make contact with her brother,’ Rik said, ‘but he’s out of the country. Her father died a few years ago and her mother’s in a dementia care home.’
‘OK.’ The surgeon closed his eyes briefly.
‘So we’re it, really,’ Rik said. ‘We’re her family at the moment and we’ll do everything necessary.’
‘Fine, OK …’ He looked at Henry. ‘I’ll keep it simple – one bullet entered her back just above her waist on her right side and drove a path through her abdomen and exited close to her navel. On the way through it struck her liver and stomach, causing severe internal bleeding, which has been very difficult to pinpoint …’
‘But you have done?’ Henry interjected.
‘I think so … Another bullet entered her shoulder and struck her clavicle and acromion, which is a bone attached to the scapula.’ He touched his shoulder to indicate exactly where he was talking about. ‘Fortunately, this is not that serious a wound. And a third bullet grazed the side of her head – a deep gouge, but it did not penetrate.’
‘And the prognosis?’ Rik asked.
‘She is on life support to assist with her breathing, and although this is one of those corny lines, her life is in the balance – not only from internal bleeding but because of the damage to her organs. She’s being closely monitored and cared for, I promise you … but she may die. The next few hours are critical.’
‘Odds?’ Rik asked.
The surgeon took a deep breath. ‘Seventy/thirty in favour of death. Tough question, though.’
‘Shit,’ Henry said. His chest tightened and his eyes filled with tears.
‘We’ll keep you updated,’ the surgeon said. He turned to go back through the double doors into theatre, but paused and turned back to Henry. ‘I believe you performed first aid at the scene?’
‘Yeah, basic to say the least.’
‘Basic was good. If you hadn’t done it, she wouldn’t be in a position to fight for her life now. Well done.’ Then he went through the doors.
‘My fault,’ Henry said hopelessly, sitting back down. ‘My fault.’
‘No, it’s not, and you know it isn’t.’
‘She didn’t tell me her mum had dementia,’ he said, on a different thought track suddenly.
‘Why would she? It’s not like you’re close or anything, is it?’
‘No, no, guess not.’ He inhaled deeply, exhaled a very long breath. ‘So what were you going to tell me?’
McCabe dawdled at Sandbach service station, watching everyone carefully, trying to pick his target, until things finally came good for him. He was in the café overlooking the car park when he saw a car with one occupant pull off the motorway, meander around the car park, which was quite full, until a space was found on the edge between two vans, a fair way from where he had parked the Range Rover.
There was a youngish woman at the wheel, a professional type. Smart, going places, McCabe guessed. She spent a few minutes parked up in the driver’s seat talking on her mobile phone, then she got out and went to the boot of her car.
By twisting his head, McCabe was just able to see her as she raised the boot – and here, he thought, Boot is good. From the way she seemed to rise a couple of inches in height, she had replaced her flat-soled driving shoes with high heels. She slammed the boot down and, locking the car with the fob, walked to the café, talking on her phone all the while.
On high heels. Not flats. Maybe mid-twenties, in a knee-length skirt and jacket in grey, with an open-necked blouse underneath.
She was good-looking, well coiffured, with good legs accentuated by the way in which her heels tightened her calf muscles. McCabe liked the look of her. He also liked the fact she was so into herself and her appearance that she could not face the total ignominy of walking from the car to the shops in flat shoes.
Which meant she would have to reverse the procedure when she left.
McCabe’s face twitched with a little smile. He pulled down the peak of the baseball cap he’d stolen from Billy Lane’s office and looked into his coffee, praying that no cops would roll into the service area and clock the Range Rover.
He kept an eye on the woman.
She visited the loo, then queued for coffee, all the while with her phone glued to her ear, having intense conversations, presumably with business associates. At the counter she ordered a large latte and a panini, which instantly frustrated McCabe who wanted her to leave immediately. The longer she stayed, the more chance he had of being discovered.
To his annoyance – and he almost lost it for a moment – she collected her food and drink and took them to a table and began to pick listlessly at the panini while she talked and now laughed on the phone.
Husband. Boyfriend, maybe.
C’mon, bitch, McCabe urged her. Eat your food.
Then – Fuck! – he saw a double-crewed police motorway patrol drive on to the services in a liveried Range Rover and start to cruise around the car park.
Moments later they’d spotted the Range Rover, stopped across the front of it; one of the cops got out and approached it warily.
The woman pushed her half-eaten panini away, then, with her coffee in one hand, her phone to her ear in the other, she left.
McCabe rose. He was only feet behind her.
She didn’t even notice him. He could hear her wittering about unpaid invoices now. He kept as close to her as he dared, hoping that anyone seeing them would think they were together.
At the Range Rover, way across the other side of the car park, he could see the traffic cops were both out of their car now, calling it in.
McCabe’s heart began to pound as he and the woman got closer to her car, at which point McCabe swerved away and went down the side of the van that was parked alongside the car.
He paused.
Needed to time this just right.
He had to move quickly, violently, effectively.
He gave her a few seconds to get round to the back of her car, open the boot … then he went for it, pulling the Browning from his belt at his lower back and peeping around the corner of the van. The woman did have the boot lid open, which was good, fitted in with his plans. He heard her say, ‘Fuck you,’ into the phone, which she tossed into the boot, then bent her left leg up so she could reach her shoe and take it off.
As far as McCabe was concerned, she was perfectly positioned.
One last glance – there was no one in this vicinity to witness this – then he spun out, four strides to cover the distance, and he crashed the barrel of the Browning on to the back of her head, stunning her. Before she could slump to the ground, his hands were under her armpits and he heaved her in one fluid lifting manoeuvre into the boot. He folded her in like a foetus and then, in a fury and for no reason, he crashed the barrel of the Browning on to her head again and again until he was sure she was dead.
He grabbed her keys and phone, then closed the boot and jumped into the car. It fired up first time and he moved off, passing within yards of the two cops who had made one of the discoveries of their careers and who didn’t even look in his direction as he tootled past them and re-entered the motorway.
It was a good car, fast and smooth.
Rik Dean said, ‘Two motorway cops found the Range Rover on Sandbach services on the M6 in Cheshire. The services were locked down and fifty cops descended on them, but he’d scarpered.’
‘On foot?’ Henry asked.
Rik shook his head, bit his bottom lip. ‘A car was found burned out in north London an hour ago … It’s taken this long to join the dots.’
‘OK, so he stole another.’
‘Yeah, but not quite.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He did steal another, but kidnapped the owner in the process, stove her head in and shoved her in the boot.’
‘And set fire to the car while she was in the boot,’ Henry guessed.
Rik nodded. ‘It’s not yet known whether she was dead before the fire, but we think she was.’
Henry did not say anything. Inside, though, as cold as his rage was, it actually burned him. He rubbed his eyes and paced the corridor, then stopped dead in front of Rik who was handling another phone call.
When he finished, Henry said, ‘I want this.’
‘Want what?’
‘I want this. I want to be able to pick up where Diane and I had got to, I want to follow any leads, and I want someone behind me with a gun and muscle.’
‘I can’t authorize any of that; you know that,’ Rik guffawed.
‘Yeah, you can. First of all, swear me back in as a constable so I get all those powers back. I only need to stand in front of a magistrate to do that. Then assign someone to be my running partner.’
‘Such as who?’
‘Jake Niven. He used to be a firearms officer.’
‘But he isn’t anymore. He’s a rural beat bobby.’
‘Get him requalified, reauthorized, give him a Glock and let him run with me.’
‘Not possible.’
‘Anything’s possible … give us a plain ARV car with a gun safe. He can keep it in there, doesn’t have to carry it in a holster. Confidentially, let every force in the country know what the situation is …’
‘Henry! Come on, man. Have you heard yourself?’
‘I’m hearing myself loud and clear, Rik. Me and Diane, more by bad luck than judgement admittedly, were on the trail of this guy, and it makes sense for me to pick it up and run with it. I’ve got a feel for this bastard now and I know what I’m doing. I used to be a real detective, remember?’
‘There’s a whole murder squad on it.’
‘Let ’em keep on it. This is a complicated inquiry and there’s lots of angles to be coming at it from. If someone else gets lucky, then good. I’m not in competition. I just want a fair crack at catching this guy. What do you say? I promise I’ll earn all that money you keep chucking at me.’
Rik Dean swallowed. He actually liked the idea, but knew it flew in the face of process and procedure to have a loose cannon like Henry running around the place with armed backup. It was unlikely to be sanctioned.
‘I can only speak to the chief,’ he sighed, ‘and see what she says. I imagine it’ll be a very big no, and if it is, you’ll have to live with it.’
‘She’ll have a soft spot for me,’ Henry guessed.
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘Just ask her if she remembers me and watch her blush,’ Henry said.
‘Wow – Mr Legend, eh?’
Henry didn’t expand on it. ‘I have someone else I want to call, too.’
‘For what?’
‘Uh, serious, off-the-record backup. The muscle I was talking about.’
‘I hope it’s not who I think it is,’ Rik said with dread.
Henry told him the name and he saw Rik’s Adam’s apple rise and fall as though he had something as big as a house brick stuck in his gullet.
Diane was transferred from the operating theatre to the critical care unit, and Henry was allowed to see her. He walked into the unit with trepidation, terrified by what he was about to see. His legs turned weak at the sight of her there, heavily sedated, surrounded by monitors and drips, with lines running in and out of her. He edged close to the bed, seeing the ash-grey pallor of her skin, so very poorly looking, so ill, her chest rising and falling, the death rattle in her lungs rasping audibly as she clung to life.
‘Diane … it’s me, Henry.’
He wasn’t so naïve as to expect her eyelids to flutter open or fingers to twitch at his voice. All he could do was hope that, at some level, his words would penetrate, mean something to her, even though he doubted that, too.
‘Diane, I’m going to get this man and I will bring him to justice, darling. And you know it’s not just because he hurt you so badly – although that is a big part of it, admittedly. I’m going to bring him to justice for everything he’s done. I promise you.’ He kissed the tips of his fingers and brushed them gently against the back of her hand. He looked at her for a few moments longer, having to purse his lips tightly to prevent his face from crumbling, to stop his whole being from falling apart.
Then he became aware of someone behind him.
It was Jake Niven who had witnessed Henry’s kiss-touch of Diane’s hand.
Jake nodded sagely.
‘What are you doing here, Jake?’
‘Come to give you a ride home, mate.’
‘That’s good of you.’
‘Come on.’
Jake stood aside and allowed Henry to pass, patting him on the shoulder gently, and both men took one last glance at Diane who had not moved. They left the infirmary and went on to the restricted car park close to the ambulance bay. Jake indicated a car to Henry, a slate-grey BMW 5 Series which looked sleek and fast.
‘What’s all this?’ Henry quizzed Jake. ‘Where’s the Land Rover?’ Henry was referring to the battered old vehicle Jake had been allocated for his rural beat duties.
‘Second question first – the Land Rover’s at headquarters garage; first question – this is a top-of-the-range BMW fast-twat that, somehow, Rik Dean has managed to snaffle from the firearms operations department.’
‘Um, right, why?’ Henry was still flummoxed.
‘Because Mr Dean has pulled me from my normal duties for a few days and told me I am working with you.’
‘Has he now?’
‘And this car has a hidden gun safe in the boot.’
‘Empty, I presume?
‘At the moment, but first thing tomorrow – actually, later this morning now,’ Jake said, checking his watch, ‘I will be requalifying for my handgun ticket at the HQ firearms range, and if I pass, I’ll be having a Glock personally issued to me, after which you’re going to brief me as to what the actual fuck is going on!’
‘Wow, babe, that is so deep, it’s making me queasy.’
Marcie Quant looked with distaste at the wound in McCabe’s scalp. She had bravely removed the dressing that Lane had applied and was almost sick at the sight of the open cut, but she carried on dabbing it with a face cloth as though it might bite her.
‘Yeah, well, a fucking rock hit me, didn’t it?’
McCabe was in the bath, immersed in hot water and surrounded by bubbles, allowing the stress of the last couple of days to evaporate. He had met Marcie on a council estate in north London, having used the phone belonging to the woman he’d kidnapped in order to arrange the tryst, then he’d jettisoned the device on the M1. He had driven on to some spare land after calling into a petrol station he knew, where, if necessary, they would happily delete any of their CCTV footage for him for a backhander. He’d filled a petrol container, driven on to the spare land and doused the car, not remotely bothered by the kicking and banging from his captive in the boot; he thought he’d killed her, but obviously not. He flicked a match to the petrol, stood back and watched the flames whoosh up and engulf the vehicle and the woman in it.
Marcie had been waiting for him on the nearby estate.
‘It needs stitching up properly,’ she told him, her face a picture of revulsion. She was kneeling by the bath as she tended him.
He had given her sparse details of his escapades in the north but didn’t feel inclined to say much because he was tired and stressed and just wanted to relax, chill, eat a curry, drink some beer.
‘I know. We’ll get Doctor Grey out. Just you bandage it up for the moment.’
‘OK.’
Marcie sat back on her heels as McCabe slithered down into the water with a sigh.
‘Missed you,’ she said.
‘Same here, babe.’
Marcie leaned forwards again. Her right hand caressed his chest, then began to inch down across his body and her fingers gently encircled his cock which was erect in anticipation. Her hand began to move slowly, speeding up with the frequency of his gasps of pleasure, then pure ecstasy.
Jake dropped Henry off at The Tawny Owl. The place had closed for the night, so Henry had to let himself in through the locked front door with his key, entering the bar area which had already been cleaned immaculately by Ginny and the staff; when the cogs began rolling in the morning, there would be nothing to clear up.
Henry went through to the owner’s accommodation where he found Ginny and her boyfriend, Fred, in the lounge, feet up, eating a curry and drinking lager.
‘I’m back,’ Henry said brightly. ‘Just gonna open the bar and grab a double.’
Ginny leapt up and shot to him, embracing him. ‘Are you all right, love?’
‘I’m OK,’ he assured her.
‘How is …?’ Henry had kept Ginny up to date with developments.
‘Not good but being well-cared-for.’
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Not since breakfast.’
‘Let me sort some of this curry out for you – it’s good. Rice and some naan.’
‘That’d be good … I’ll get that Scotch, then I’m just going to sit in one of the bays,’ he said, meaning one of the windows in the main bar. ‘Just grabbing a shower first.’
He did – hot and long – purposely keeping his mind blank, just revelling in the hot jets beating into his tightly wound shoulder muscles. Then he changed into a T-shirt and jogging bottoms before going into the bar, helping himself to the whisky with a little water, before wandering over to the window and sitting at one of the bar tables to gaze at the view across the village green.
He sipped the whisky, but knew this was the only one he would be having. He wanted to be able to turn out immediately if there was any news from the hospital. He also wanted to be ready to go in the morning.
Ginny appeared with a bowl of curry as promised, which she placed on the table.
‘Do you need to talk?’ she asked him.
‘No, I’m fine, sweetheart. It all just got a bit hectic, and me and Diane just stumbled across something that went very bad, very quickly.’
‘How is she – really?’
Henry’s mouth became very tight, his eyes moistened, and he had to bite his bottom lip again to stop it from quivering. He admitted, ‘I don’t know … just that she’s very poorly.’
Ginny leaned over and hugged him.
‘Maude’s been asking for you,’ she said as she stood up.
‘Bugger.’
‘She’s nice, Henry. Genuine, too.’
‘I know what you’re saying.’
Ginny nodded. ‘Bed for me. Up early, as you know. We’ve got eight in overnight and we’ll be almost full tomorrow night,’ she said, referring to staying guests.
‘Can you manage?’
‘Got it covered. Goodnight.’
She held out her hand and Henry squeezed it, then she was off.
Henry looked at the steaming curry, knowing he was famished but not really wanting to eat. However, after the first forkful he scoffed it quickly and dipped broken-up chunks of naan into the sauce, and was glad he had.
Then he sat back, feet up on the bench seat under the window, and looked out, sipping the whisky, mulling over his plans for the day ahead.
Although Rik had been able to OK Jake Niven’s reauthorization as a firearms officer and his temporary transfer to assist Henry, Henry knew it was unlikely he would be able to convince the chief constable to give the nod for Henry to take the attestation to become a constable again. That was really Henry just throwing it out there in the heat of the moment, but he wasn’t too concerned.
If he had Jake at his side, he had all the powers he would need. Plus a gun.
Also, if Henry’s other idea came to fruition, he would also have someone else alongside – or hidden in the shadows – who did not need the encumbrance of anything enshrined in law.
But the important thing, above all, was for Henry to decide how to push the investigation forward and get results quickly.
He believed that the best plan would be to keep to what he and Diane had decided to do before running into the gunman at Lane’s establishment.
Starting with a prison visit.
He sipped the whisky.
In the shadows of the woods across the stream, Henry saw movement. He dropped his feet to the floor and rocked forward to peer.
Definitely something moving. Something big.
His guts tightened with anticipation. He kept watching and then his lips twisted into a grin as Horace, the huge red deer stag, emerged, leapt across the shallow stream, mounting the bank and moving into a circle of light cast by a lamppost on the edge of the green.
‘Bloody hell,’ Henry said.
Horace seemed to be basking under the glow as though it was a spotlight, tensing his huge, rippling flank muscles like a self-obsessed bodybuilder.
Suddenly, the magnificent animal’s head swivelled as a vehicle came down the hill towards the village. Turning on a sixpence, he spun and leapt back over the stream and disappeared into the trees.
Henry felt deflated and annoyed by the car, which he watched skirt its way around the perimeter of the green and drive on to the car park at the front of Th’Owl.
A man got out. Tall, broad-shouldered, probably good-looking. He stood and surveyed the pub, finding his mobile phone in his pocket and making a call.
Henry’s phone rang moments later.
‘Henry,’ came the familiar voice. ‘Steve Flynn.’