Ambush (8 page)

Rik Dean met the first officer on the scene at the point where Tope's body had been pointed out to him in the water. The PC indicated exactly where he had seen Tope floating face down in the water, explained how he had seen the wounds in the back of the head but had thought they could have been caused by a blunt instrument. It was only closer inspection that revealed they were bullet entry wounds, and it was only when Tope had been hauled into the RIB that the exit wounds had been seen and Tope identified.

Dean nodded gravely as he ingested the information, all the while looking across the port at the converted warehouses opposite with all those apartments and balconies and windows facing this way.

Then, rather than driving the quarter of a mile or so, he decided to walk along the dockside to where Tope's body had been drawn on to a jetty.

Although it was not a long walk, it felt so to Dean, but he wanted to do it to get a feel for the scene – even though this was an area he was familiar with.

He reached the small marina, populated by a few uninspiring motor boats, canal barges and small yachts. He was met by a PC at the security gate and allowed through after identifying himself.

Tope's body lay under a plastic sheet.

‘Let's look,' Dean said to the CSI standing next to him.

The woman bent down, picked up a corner of the sheet and drew it back.

Dean stared down at Tope's body, hardly able to draw breath. His nostrils dilated and his heart hammered against his rib cage. The grinding of his teeth echoed around his cranium.

‘This was floating on the water next to him,' the CSI said. She handed Dean a clear, sealed bag containing the sodden photograph of Craig Alford and others, all of whom Dean recognized. ‘Don't know if it's relevant or not.'

Dean looked at it and shrugged. ‘Inasmuch as two of the people in the photo are now dead in bloody quick time, you'd think it might be.'

Like his predecessor, the man into whose rather large shoes Dean had stepped, very much a mentor and patron to him over the years, Dean liked coincidences because, as that previous incumbent had once declared to him, ‘Coincidences is clues.'

Steve Flynn ploughed through the day with his clients, a nice family group – mum, dad, two teenage kids – who had rented the boat with him as skipper; Santiago came along and helped with food and drinks and the social side of things, at which she was far more adept than Flynn.

He sailed north out of Santa Eulalia, stopping off at a few secluded bays to allow swimming and snorkelling and eating and drinking at a leisurely pace.

Apart from keeping everyone safe and allowing them to enjoy themselves it was an easy day's work, though by the time Flynn re-entered the port at five p.m. he was exhausted and politely declined the offer to join the family for an evening meal.

All he wanted to do was hose down the boat, prepare her for the next day, then get showered, hit a restaurant for a pizza, get back on board, chill and crash out: evening sorted.

He thought maybe he was getting old.

The wash-down took an hour, after which he and Santiago each took a shower – one at a time (they'd tried to double up on the boat before, but it hadn't been a great success because of the lack of space and Flynn's tendency to get over-excited). After washing their clothes and hanging them out to dry they changed into fresh gear and strolled along to the Mirage Restaurant, outside which he had cornered the armed robber on the previous evening.

It was a good meal, and he weakened; instead of a pizza he ordered sizzling chicken, Santiago having the same, and local lager.

Afterwards as darkness came they sat and watched boats returning to harbour, mainly very expensive motor yachts and big speed boats. He enjoyed watching experienced skippers manoeuvring their boats into tight moorings without a scrape.

‘My boss has been on at me,' Santiago sighed. ‘Needs me back, he says.'

‘That's a shame … what've you told him?'

‘That I'd get back to him.'

‘That's my girl … don't suppose you've heard anything from your cop friends in Ibiza Town?'

‘Nothing. They said they'll let me know if anything happens … you still worried about your photo in that man's possession?'

‘Curious rather than worried.'

‘I'd be worried,' she admitted.

‘But I'm a big, tough guy. The only thing that worries me is trying to read long words and adding up numbers … other than that, nothing.'

She regarded him mock-cynically. She'd seen his soft underbelly and knew that although he had the outer swagger of a male lion, inside he was a kitty cat, especially when people he cared about were under threat. Then she laughed out loud, enjoying herself. She was here for the summer with Flynn and was thoroughly relishing it. She would try to keep her boss at arms' length for as long as possible. She did not want it to end.

They strolled back to the boat, arms entwined, easy with each other. Flynn, not for the first time, pointed out stars and constellations and named them all. She pretended to be impressed.

As they stepped on to the rear deck Flynn said, ‘Just need to pay a visit.'

He went ahead of her, down the steps to the toilet, while she prepared a whisky nightcap, then sat on the rear deck.

Somewhere amongst the various strains of music around the resort, Santiago picked out the tones of Elvis, or at least someone purporting to be him.

She slid back, comfortable.

Flynn reappeared, took his drink and sat next to her.

They chinked glasses.

‘Cheers,' he said. ‘To us.'

‘Really?' she asked, taken aback.

Flynn – alley cat, love 'em and leave 'em kind of guy – twisted around and gazed meaningfully and deeply into Santiago's eyes, which shimmered in the reflected light of the resort.

‘Yeah. To us.'

With his left hand now dithering slightly he took a sip of whisky, and was about to say something even more courageous to Santiago – whose heart had started to beat very quickly indeed – when the moment was interrupted by the ring tone of his mobile phone.

He swore softly, placed his glass on the coffee table and picked up the phone. The screen did not help much, telling him the number calling was international, nothing else.

‘Hullo,' he answered gruffly.

‘Can I ask who I'm speaking to?' asked a male voice.

‘You can ask, but you should tell me first because you called me.'

‘My name's Detective Superintendent Rik Dean from Lancashire Constabulary.'

‘And I'm Steve Flynn.' He sat up.

‘Ahh – we know each other.'

‘We certainly do, Rik … how are you, and what do you want from me at this time of night?'

There was a pause. Flynn's brow furrowed. He knew Rik Dean well enough, had known him way back as a great thief-taking PC on the streets of Blackpool, then on and off as a detective. They had been involved with each other on a few occasions over the past few years when Flynn himself had been innocently dragged into scenarios he would rather have avoided.

‘Er …'

‘What's up, Rik? Is this about Craig Alford? I haven't seen the guy in years.'

‘You know about his death?' Dean asked, surprised.

‘Yeah.'

‘May I ask how?'

‘Hey, look, I don't want to get anyone into any trouble.'

‘You won't. Did you hear about it from Jerry Tope?'

Hoping it would do no harm, Flynn said, ‘Guilty. He wanted me to know because he and I and some others worked on a special task force with Craig way back. But like I said, I haven't seen or heard from Craig in a very long time.'

‘OK, I get that.'

‘So why phone? I'm pretty sure I can't offer any help.'

‘When, exactly, were you in contact with Jerry?'

Flynn swallowed, not liking the tone of Rik Dean's voice now at all. ‘Like I said, I don't want to get anyone into trouble … Jerry was only telling me because—'

‘Steve,' Dean cut in sharply. ‘No one's getting into trouble here. Jerry can't get into trouble …' His voice faltered.

‘What do you mean?' Flynn stiffened.

Rik Dean told him.

The disease had crept up slowly on Dave Carver. He was only fifty-six when the first ‘real' symptoms were noticed, first by himself, then gradually by others. Seven years later its progression speeded up and it was virtually impossible for his family to care for a once proud, quick-witted intelligent man who no longer recognized any of them, who could not dress himself in the right order and whose eruptions of violent temper petrified his wife and grown-up children. He was sixty-three when he was placed in a home specializing in the care of dementia sufferers.

The only comfort for his family was that most of the time Dave Carver did not remotely comprehend anything that was happening to him.

If, indeed, that was a comfort.

It made no odds to the gently smiling man standing patiently at the reception desk of the care home, waiting for someone to appear. In fact, his smile was the only thing that could clearly be seen of the man's face, because most of it was obscured by the shadow under the pulled-down peak of his baseball cap.

‘You can come through now.' A woman beckoned as she opened the secure door by the desk. She was dressed in the smart uniform of the care home.

‘Thank you.'

The two walked along a corridor.

‘We haven't seen you here before,' the woman said, chattily.

‘Bit of a black sheep of the family,' the man murmured. ‘Live down south … lots of family baggage, you know? But I couldn't not come up here and see the old guy, even though I know he won't recognize me.' He sighed sadly.

‘I know. It's a terrible disease.'

‘Yes it is.'

She led him along the corridor, up a set of stairs to the first floor, a level of patients' rooms only.

The man kept his head tilted low, particularly when passing or approaching the very obviously placed and quite old-looking CCTV cameras on some of the ceilings. They were clearly not up to date, yet the man knew they could still be damning and were something to be wary of, work around.

‘This is your father's room.'

The man said, ‘Can I ask the patient–staff ratio?'

‘Well, we have thirty patients and a core of four staff on at all times and then a number of very reliable part time staff and volunteers who come in to bolster up numbers. Now, for example, there are four full time staff on duty – myself and three others – plus three part timers.'

‘That sounds adequate,' said the man, as though he was satisfied by the statistics. ‘How much care, time-wise, do you give Dad?'

‘Depends. Mainly he's self-sufficient between meals and toilet breaks … like now, he'll be sat in here reading.'

‘Reading?' The man tried to sound interested and surprised.

‘He reads a lot … but then …'

‘Doesn't know what he's read?' the man guessed.

‘Correct.'

They smiled sadly at each other, then the woman said, ‘You don't look much like him.'

He shrugged. ‘Like I said …'

‘Black sheep.'

If she had not made that comment she might have lived. Her additional, ‘You have a sort of eastern European look to you, if you don't mind me saying,' only added to the certainty.

‘Not at all.' The man grinned.

She smiled and gestured. ‘Shall we?'

‘After you,' he said gallantly. Already his right hand was sliding inside his leather jacket.

The woman opened the door and stepped through into Carver's room, the man, just behind her, closing the door.

Carver was sitting in an armchair by the side of his bed, fully clothed with a book on his lap. He was, however, staring vacantly into space. It took a few moments for him to catch his concentration and bring his eyes to focus on the two people who had just entered the room.

‘Dave?' the lady said. ‘Your son is here to see you.' She stepped sideways to reveal the man.

Carver blinked uncomprehendingly, no flicker of recognition. ‘Never seen either of you before,' he blurted harshly. ‘Get out.'

‘Mr Carver … Dave,' the woman cooed, and stepped towards him. She had a genuine, caring smile on her face.

That was the moment when the man drew the small automatic pistol from the holster under his right armpit. With a smooth action he simply placed the muzzle of the noise-suppressed barrel to the back of her head and squeezed the trigger twice.

She reacted as though she had been hit by a baseball bat, staggering forward to her knees before splaying out on her front.

The .22 bullets did not exit her skull but careened around in her brain, destroying the organ instantly. Blood fountained from the entry wounds like a double geyser and gouts of it cascaded from her mouth and nostrils.

Carver watched the killing, then looked at the man.

Something cleared in his eyes, in his brain.

‘You've come for me, not her,' he said. ‘He's sent you.'

The man nodded. ‘Yes.'

‘I always thought he would. It was always at the back of my mind.'

‘I thought you were senile.'

‘I have moments of clarity, like now.'

Carver hurled his book at the man, throwing it like a Frisbee. It was a hardback novel. It swirled through the air, catching the man unawares, and connected with his right arm.

Carver also moved quickly. He followed the path of the book as all his latent and dying instincts surfaced in a powerful primal need to survive.

But though the charge was unexpected a gap of two metres was too much for him to cover. The man's reactions were far quicker and more honed. He pivoted like a matador and pushed Carver headlong into the radiator, where he crumpled helplessly to the floor and into the half-world he inhabited, understanding nothing.

The man simply straddled him and put two bullets into his head, killing him instantly. Then he stood there for a moment and said, ‘I think I've done you a favour, my friend.' He slid the gun back into the holster and took out his iPhone.