Low Profile (11 page)

Those messages he had delivered later in his career, particularly as a senior detective, had been news of suspicious deaths where watching the reaction of the recipients was often crucial to determining their part, if any, in the event.

The instinct gained from those experiences made Henry ninety-nine per cent certain that the grieving family in front of him had nothing to do with their daughter's murder, but he was cynical enough to keep that remaining one per cent back just in case he was wrong. But he was as sure as he could be that he was witnessing a genuine outpouring of grief.

He spent another tough hour with them, by which time he was physically and mentally drained, but had also reached a point where it was natural for him to leave them.

Lottie's father walked out to his car with him, the man's face drawn and etched with deep lines of pain that had not been there when Henry Christie, the Grim Reaper, had knocked.

The two men shook hands.

‘I am deeply sorry for your loss,' Henry said: hackneyed words, but the absolute truth.

‘I know, I can tell. You are a genuine man and I thank you for your honesty and kindness and patience. It can't have been easy,' Lottie's father said, shaking his head, which was still shrouded in disbelief. ‘As you can see, we are a family who wears its heart on its sleeve.'

‘Nothing wrong with that,' Henry said. ‘I'll come back to you in the morning regarding identification –' Henry had learned that the post mortems had had to be delayed until morning – and he added solemnly, ‘I will catch the person responsible.'

‘I believe you,' the father said, then went on wistfully, ‘You know, we had really high hopes for this relationship. I know Percy was a bit older than Charlotte and he was on the rebound from someone else, but she was also on the rebound from a bad marriage, and I think they were good for each other. She'd been a bit of a wild child – late maturing, I suppose …' His mind was a little unfocused. ‘But Percy was essentially a good man, I think … I can't even begin to imagine why … burglary gone wrong is all I can think.' His voice cracked up and he looked despairingly at Henry, who didn't have the heart to tell him it was no burglary.

But, as much as Henry felt sorry for him, Lottie's dad had started talking about her and Henry's detective instinct suddenly kicked in. He might just say something of interest here, so Henry quickly asked, ‘Had Charlotte said anything to you about whether she had fallen out with someone, maybe? Or had she ever mentioned that something was worrying her or Percy at all?'

‘No, no, nothing like that. In fact they seemed very happy-go-lucky. Percy had just whisked her away at short notice to the Canaries and back, then over to Florida. They seemed happy and everything was going swimmingly.'

Then he clammed up, losing verbal momentum. His lips tightened, then distorted, and his eyes moistened.

Henry knew the questions would have to wait, though not for long. He patted the man's arm and said goodbye, then zoomed off into the night in his Audi, thinking just how shitty and complicated murder inquiries could be. It was exciting chasing murderers, but the fallout from their crimes was immense. With this one he had the feeling he would have to be on top form. All the hallmarks of a professional hit made it so much more difficult to solve and, even though he had seen the killer, he did not think that would make it much easier.

He floored the accelerator as he hit the motorway.

Flynn had ordered ‘blind' paella for one, seafood with all the shells and bones removed before serving, although he much preferred one with all the bits left on because sometimes, especially in company, there was nothing better than dismantling king prawns and crabs' legs, and the taste was much better, but he was not in the mood for that tonight. And he was alone, anyway. It still tasted delicious and the ice-cold San Mig washed it down amazingly. Those things combined with the beach location, the setting sun and some scantily clad ladies who kept eyeing him very obviously had a tranquillizing effect on him.

He pushed his empty plate away and leaned into the folds of the cane-backed chair cushion, took another sip of his beer.

It was at times like this that the island, with its laid back nature, hugged him in its soft arms and made him feel that, although he didn't have much money or a long-term partner-in-love, or even somewhere he could truly call his own, all was right with the world. He really had landed on his feet when he had scuttled here all those years before from his job as a DS on the Drug Squad in Lancashire, under an unjustified cloud, with the spectre of a doomed marriage and not one penny in his pocket from the million quid that had allegedly disappeared during a botched drugs raid on a major dealer's property. On arrival in Gran Canaria, Flynn had thrown himself on the mercy of the people of the island, particularly Adam Castle, owner of several businesses including some charter fishing boats scattered around the Canaries. Castle, who knew Flynn as a holiday guest from previous years, had given him a job on one of his boats and Flynn, through hard work and his intuitive fishing skills, had become a respected skipper, establishing a reputation to be proud of.

He had flitted from property to property, often bedding down in apartments owned by his clients, who were happy to let someone trustworthy live in their properties whilst they were unused, and Flynn paid for gas, electricity and water usage. He had been in his present one for two months but knew the owner was due back on the island for a six week stay and he would have to find somewhere else to rest his head.

The prospect did not worry him. If all else failed, he could crash out on
Faye
, a not altogether displeasing prospect.

He had once found true love on the island but it had ended in tragedy, and though that had been almost four years ago, he wasn't in any rush. All he wanted was a bit of female companionship now and again; he was upfront and honest about that and there were plenty of nice ladies, usually passing through, who were happy to accommodate a short fling, no strings.

All in all he was content. And he hated it when people like Costain appeared and screwed with his peace.

His mind twirled back to his day at sea.

He had denied knowing Costain, but Costain himself hadn't had such qualms and after a period of careful observation had quickly pegged Flynn, which had been an uncomfortable collar-tugging moment for the ex-cop.

Before becoming a detective, Flynn had spent the early years of his Lancashire police service in uniform in Blackpool, and any cop posted to that resort knew the Costains.

They were an extended, complex family who ruled the Shoreside estate and much of Blackpool in terms of burglary, theft and intimidation, and any cop who never came across them face to face, or had to deal with the fallout from their nefarious activities, was fortunate indeed. Flynn had met them countless times, mainly for minor things, and recalled them being always uncooperative and unpleasant.

Flynn had heard various rumours recently that, despite some major setbacks, the Costains had gone very big and professional over the last few years and been involved in some very nasty turf wars with other crime families in the north west of England. Flynn did not know much more than that and hadn't been especially inclined to find out.

Being a cop was now a completely different country to him. News about the Costains only reached him on his infrequent visits to the UK and had gone in one ear and out the other. His life was now as skip of a sportfishing boat and he was intent on keeping a low profile and not rummaging about in the past. He still believed he had been unfairly hounded out of the job – so being accused once again of corruption and theft, albeit by pond life like Scott Costain, rankled him – a man he had never actually met, though it was always possible that Scott knew him. It was the striking family resemblance that Flynn had first noticed with Scott, and when he had told Flynn his name it had only confirmed Flynn's belief. Scott Costain was well and truly out of the Costain peapod.

Flynn did not like hearing the accusation again. It had been unjust way back and now, years later, it seemed even more unfair. Flynn had been branded guilty by association and nothing was ever proved against him.

Though where his cop partner at the time, a certain Jack Hoyle, was concerned, it was a completely different story.

‘Mmm, Jack Hoyle,' Flynn thought as he stared unfocused across the beach. His mouth twisted cynically at the thought of the man he had considered his best friend …

Flynn almost jumped out of his skin when a big hand clamped down on his shoulder. He nearly spilled his beer. He looked up into Adam Castle's face, his boss, someone to whom he'd had a lot to be grateful for over the last few years. In return for that first job as crew on one of Castle's sportfishing boats and a job as a bouncer on the doors of one of Castle's nightclubs in the commercial centre, Flynn had never let him down. In fact Flynn had become arguably the best skipper in the Canaries at that moment, bringing in many repeat bookings, which were the lifeblood of that business. Flynn had also bought a big chunk of
Faye
from his savings and Castle had converted the cash into a forty-nine per cent stake in the boat. Castle had promised the extra two per cent if this year turned out well, which it had every possibility of doing. Castle's stake and interest in the good management of the boat was high and he was entitled to know what was happening.

He sat next to Flynn and ordered two more beers.

Flynn eyed him warily. This was their first chance for a chat since the shooting incident and Flynn would be guessing that Castle wanted reassurance that it wasn't Flynn who was the problem.

At least Castle had the patience to wait for the beers to land before turning full face to Flynn. ‘Well?' he said expectantly. Castle owned several well run businesses in the Canaries and hated anything that tarnished his reputation.

Flynn held up a hand and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Not down to me,' he assured him.

‘There was a gun on board,' Castle said grimly.

‘The customer's, not mine. He snuck it on,' Flynn said. There had once been an issue of a hunting rifle that Flynn kept on board – for self-defence, he had argued weakly at the time – but that was now resolved … in a way. Flynn went on to explain how the day had panned out and ended up in a firefight across the bows.

Castle considered the story and asked, ‘What was he after, this Costain guy?'

‘Not sure. Being nosy, on a fact finding mission? Clearly those people on the other boat were diving on something, or there was someone on board whose ID they were trying to hide … dunno,' he shrugged. ‘Do you know what it could be? Is there a wreck down there, maybe?' Flynn told Castle the exact position of the encounter, where the cliffs plunged deep, straight into the ocean. Castle thought it through but shook his head.

‘Nothing comes to mind, but I'll ask around.' He paused. ‘You didn't recognize the other boat?'

Flynn said no, but told Castle its name and make.

‘OK,' Castle nodded, took a long swig of his beer. ‘I'll see if anyone knows anything … but in the meantime …'

‘He's already booked
Faye
for tomorrow. Two thousand euros.'

‘Thanks but no thanks. What time is he due?'

‘Nine.'

‘I'll be there and we can tell him to shove it.'

‘OK,' Flynn nodded with a shrug, feeling a slight tinge of disappointment.

With a change in his body language, Castle sat back with his beer. ‘Are you going to show your face at Karen's leaving do tonight?'

‘I hadn't thought so.'

‘She's up at my Irish bar now, then moving on to one of the discos with her mates. I'm sure she would like you to say adios.' Castle leaned forward and gave Flynn a meaningful look. ‘If you know what I'm saying.'

The innuendo was startlingly clear. Flynn spluttered, ‘But she's your sister!'

‘And a grown woman. Divorced. And she likes you a lot and cannot fathom out why you've been keeping her at arms' length.'

Flynn sighed. ‘Because she's your sister – and I only want one thing. I don't want to hurt her and piss you off.'

‘She can handle herself,' Castle smiled. ‘If you ask me, you'd make a great couple and I wouldn't be sad if she decided to stay on the island. I could find her more substantial work if she wanted it.'

‘And university? She doesn't want to spend the rest of her life behind a bar or in a booking office … she's after a career of some sort, isn't she?'

Castle shrugged. ‘It's up to her … and you, maybe.'

‘You trying to matchmake?'

‘No – kick your arse. You're an emotional desert, Flynn; Gill Hartland is gone and that won't change. Time to move on.' Castle finished his beer, winked at Flynn, then left.

Flynn sipped his pensively for a while, mulling Castle's words over.

He was about to rise and make his way up to the commercial centre when he spotted a face he recognized at the bar. Slightly adjusting his trajectory, he went and stood next to the man until he turned and recognized Flynn with a slight look of shock.

Flynn's eyes narrowed. ‘How come you didn't show up for the charter this morning?'

The young man frowned and looked annoyed with himself. He was the one who had originally booked
Faye
for the day's fishing for himself, his wife and another couple. These were the ones Flynn was looking forward to taking out, but they had been replaced by the less than charming Scott Costain, who had spun the cock and bull story about the deposit.

‘Well, put it this way,' he said to Flynn, ‘when a fucking animal turns up and threatens to rape your wife and stick a knife in your ribs if you refuse his offer, then, with all due respect, Steve, you back off – or at least I do. I'm not used to dealing with villains, nor their, frankly, equally scary and evil girlfriends. It was like being confronted by Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, the friggin' Moors murderers.'