Low Profile (28 page)

‘Is that a good thing?'

‘For a computer nerd like me … paper, ugh!' Tope shivered.

‘Happy reading, mate.'

‘What exactly am I looking for?'

‘Anything that takes your eye. You know what you're looking for without me telling you.'

‘Do I?' he said obstinately.

Henry gave him a devil glare, then said to Donaldson, ‘Got a suggestion for you, pal.'

‘Fire away.'

‘I want to stand the protection down around Alison for tonight. It's impractical and I can't just keep using resources and trading on people's goodwill. I was wondering if you'd go to Kendleton now and dismiss “F” Troop, and when I get word you're there I'll stand down Bill Robbins and call off the other patrolling cops and you can keep an eye on Alison and Ginny.

‘I'm up for that – but what about you?'

‘Jerry can look after me here.' Henry and Tope exchanged a look which let Henry know that if a bullet was coming his way, Tope wouldn't be throwing himself in the path of it. ‘I'll be here until about nine, then I'll run to my car and speed home. If anyone can take me out at a ton on the M6, good for them. Tell Alison to give the guys a free drink each, but only after they've been home and locked away their guns.'

The debrief went well, getting a lot of interest when Henry announced, ‘The big news is that our two victims were both recently on a sportfishing boat in Florida belonging to an American gangster called Fioretti. Not only that, we have a photograph of the victims on the boat and in the background is a bent ex-cop of this parish.' That sent a murmur around the room, but Henry didn't elaborate just in case Jack Hoyle still had friends in the force. He didn't want him warned.

It lasted about half an hour – Henry hated to drag these things on – and he dismissed the team with thanks and retreated to his office to get his head together for tomorrow just before going home.

A succession of people waved goodnight to him, including Jerry Tope, whose arms were stacked high with the books.

‘Taking them home, if that's OK?'

‘Yeah, sure … tell you what, give me a few and I'll try and have a skim through some tonight if I get the chance.'

Tope didn't need the offer repeated. He slid off a lot of very boring receipt books on to Henry's desk, then skedaddled before Henry changed his mind.

Henry looked at the pile despondently, then glanced up to see the lady who had been reviewing the CCTV footage standing at his door. She was about to say something, then looked over her shoulder and stepped aside to allow Pete Woodcock to sidle in past her. She smiled shyly at Woodcock, looked at Henry, then withdrew as Woodcock took a seat in the office.

Henry thought nothing of it and said, ‘Post mortem?' to the DCI.

Woodcock nodded. ‘Yeah, pretty grim, sad too.'

Henry waited for him to continue.

‘Blunt force trauma, brain damage, bleeding, possibly something like a baseball bat, battered around the head and body … Archie died a pretty horrible death,' the DCI said.

‘Any clues regarding the blood?'

‘No, not yet … samples have been taken from the crime scene. Looks like a big struggle and at some stage Archie managed to get to his shotgun and blast away … the wall is peppered with shot.'

‘Good for him … no one hobbled into a casualty unit yet?'

‘Not so far, but I'll be alerted if they do. I've actually managed to get some of Archie's relatives to come up from down south tomorrow, a brother, so an uncle to Percy, too, which will be useful.'

‘Well done.'

Woodcock closed his eyes and sagged his head.

‘Tired?'

‘Exhausted, boss.'

‘Well, you've done good. I'm sure we'll get a result on this one quick.'

‘Yeah – team up and running tomorrow.'

‘In that case, see you,' Henry dismissed him, ‘and thanks for your hard work, mate.'

Woodcock nodded and left.

Henry was alone in the office. He looked at the receipt books that Tope had so gleefully unloaded, sighed and dragged them towards him, regretting his hasty volunteering. In truth, there was no way he wanted to haul them home. Tonight had to be a show of solidarity with Alison and the sooner he got home, the better.

Even so, he took the top book off the pile. It was a receipt book logging sales from Percy Astley-Barnes's jeweller's shop in Blackpool. Henry visualized the premises: one of those jewellers with a doorman and two security doors, outer and inner, designed to warn off both robbers and non-serious customers. Henry had been in once to buy an engagement ring for Alison and had left with his debit card thoroughly depleted.

So it was never awash with customers but when they bought, they bought big, as Henry saw when he flipped through the receipt book and saw sales recorded of a thousand pounds, two and a half grand, one for eight hundred (
cheapskate
, Henry thought). Big money, and all the names and addresses of the customers recorded, no doubt to be re-contacted in a year's time to bring the jewels back for spring cleaning. It was a very customer-oriented environment – just one at a time, thank you, please – and Henry had thought it quaint and unusual to have such details written and recorded by hand. He couldn't remember the last time he'd given his full name and address in a shop, apart from Percy's, although they always seemed to want to know his post code and house number.

He skimmed though the book, not really concentrating.

It was only after he had gone past one of the receipts that something clicked and he felt his bottom tighten as his fingers scrambled back through the pages.

A quiet cough made him look up. It was the CCTV lady.

Then his phone rang.

O
ver thirty years as a cop, many of them spent in the environs of Blackpool and the Fylde, had given Henry Christie an excellent knowledge of a large number of thieves, vagabonds and other miscreants of that area.

Because of this accumulated knowledge he instantly recognized the half-naked dead man on the bed.

‘Looks like a slam-dunk,' Henry said, squatting down, knees cracking hollowly, and inspecting the man's misshapen-in-death face. He looked back at Pete Woodcock, who nodded agreement. ‘Bled to death,' Henry said, his eyes moving down the body, seeing the back of the man's upper right thigh. ‘One of the pellets probably hit an artery inside … that is a lot of blood,' he said, looking at the pool under the camp bed on which the man lay; and it was still dripping.

Henry eased himself upright. ‘Looks like you've got a few more hours at work after all,' he said to Woodcock.

‘At the very least.'

‘But he'll be our man for Archie's death … like we thought, burglary gone wrong, fight, cracks Archie with that –' Henry pointed to a blood-stained baseball bat on the floor – ‘but, bless him, he still manages to blow a hole in the arse of this bastard, who limps home like a mortally wounded animal to die.'

Henry, hands on hips, was looking down at the body of Roland Barclay, one of the better-known felons of the parish, a confirmed and convicted thief and fraudster. Henry knew he was an insatiable shoplifter, but also that he had form for what were known as distraction burglaries. These are where the offender poses as an official from, say, the water or gas board, and cons victims, usually elderly, into letting them into their houses, where the offender then steals money. Sometimes violence is used, especially when the victim realizes that they're being conned and challenges the offender. Henry knew that Barclay had several convictions for this type of offence, and one that included violence towards the victim. He had beaten up an old woman quite badly when she'd had the courage to try and throw him out of her house.

‘Every chance there'll be a blood match,' Henry added, recalling the splatter in Archie's front room. ‘Good result, except an innocent old guy has died, and try as I might, I can't even start to feel any remorse at this guy's passing. He bit off more than he could chew with Archie.'

‘Mm.'

Henry thought Woodcock seemed a bit tight-lipped and less than pleased by this turn-up for the books; maybe he was just tired. The cops had been alerted by the landlord of the block, who had been after Barclay's back rent and had entered the flat to find a blood bath with Barclay dead in the middle of it.

Henry slapped him on the shoulder. ‘I'm pretty certain I can leave this in your capable hands … nothing spoiling now. Get a CSI up here, then get him down to the mortuary and pick it all up in the morning.'

‘Will do.'

Henry had one last glance at Barclay, then left.

Karen had dropped Flynn off at his villa on a sour note despite his reassurances, admittedly half-hearted. He watched her drive away without a backward glance, his mouth twisted. He shrugged and went inside the villa, which was still a mess from the invasion of someone who'd wanted to make a point, and from the police search. He had a small stash of euros hidden inside the fridge, which was still there. He changed out of the clothing that Karen had found for him – again probably left by an ex-boyfriend, he supposed – then got into a pair of three-quarters, sliding his feet into his spare flip-flops. Then he hauled some of the furniture back into place and threw some broken pieces on to the terrace, after which he went on the hunt for some information that was eluding him.

He walked over to the marina on the other side of Puerto Rico, the Puerto Base, from which a row of sportfishing boats operated, all in gentlemanly competition with him.

He wasn't going to the boats but to one of the bars in the small complex on the Porto Grande behind the marina, specifically the Bar Inglés, a seedy, smoke-filled establishment with a dark wood, L-shaped bar and a maritime theme celebrating British sailors and ships. Even so, most of the clientele were locals because the booze was cheap and the atmosphere kept tourists at bay.

Flynn stepped in and went to the bar, ordered a Cruzcampo on draught, which tasted amazing. Apart from when he had quenched his raging thirst after his release, this was Flynn's first real drink. He had yet to eat. He drank it quickly, then ordered a second, which he sipped while surveying the bar.

In a deep corner recess he spotted the man he was looking for. That one person could be found in every bar in every port in the world: the grizzled old sailor with an air of mystery about him, who seemed to just sit and watch life pass by; the old guy who had a history he never talked about unless ‘rummed' up; the one who knew everyone and everything that was going on, all the tittle-tattle, the gossip, as well as being able to predict what the weather would be like next week. The oracle.

In this case he was called Eduardo – no one seemed to know his last name – a seventy-year-old Spaniard who had spent his life as a merchant seaman, then in various capacities around the islands on the ferries, skippering a sportfisher and taking tourists out on pleasure cruises. He had been immersed in sea water all his life and also, wisely, perpetuated myths about himself as a gun runner from Morocco and a drug runner across the Straits of Gibraltar, neither of which was true. That did not detract from the fact that he had a deep knowledge of anything seafaring around these parts.

Flynn had spent many a night listening to Eduardo spinning tales of the oceans, and women in every port, whilst he plied him with Malibu and Coke, his favourite tipple. He said it reminded him of the Caribbean.

Flynn ordered the drink and walked over to him. He was sitting alone, smoking an evil smelling pipe.

‘Buenas tardes, amigo,' Flynn said.

‘Tardes, Flynn.' He coughed through the dense smoke, then took the drink Flynn had brought. ‘How can I help you this evening, amigo? An amigo who has
un apuro grande
?' A friend in big trouble.

‘Information … la información.'

Afterwards Flynn strolled across to the other side of the marina, skirting the beach and finding a spot in his favourite restaurant behind it, where he ordered blind paella, then relaxed to wait for it with a San Miguel and a whisky chaser.

He knew the ultimate answer he was seeking probably lay deep in the dangerous water at the foot of the cliffs that were called Punta de GuiGui. All this stemmed from there, and he tried to recall if Jack Hoyle had said anything significant during the short interrogation, before Flynn flattened his nose.

Just the thought of being dragged off the street made his inner rage fire up to a simmer again and his first urge was to go back to the villa where he had been held captive, all guns blazing.

But he didn't have transport or a gun.

He tried to chill, wondering when he would get both items back. His Nissan had been kept by the police and the Bushmaster was hidden in the secret compartment under the seats. Flynn was fairly certain he would get the car back with the gun still intact and undiscovered. The compartment he had fashioned was hard to find and he doubted if the Spanish cops were good searchers.

It was just a matter of when.

He calmed down, relaxed, then was surprised when Karen dropped into a chair opposite and stared at him, lips pursed.

For a few moments they said nothing. Flynn sipped his beer.

She broke the silence. ‘Flynn, I think I understand what you've got to do, though it doesn't mean I'm up for it. But I know I'm crazy in love with you and if you get out of this in one piece, I'll be there waiting for you.'

‘OK, sounds good.'

‘Do you love me?'

‘Yes,' he said quietly.

‘Then I want to make every moment count and I'd very much like to screw your brains out. What do you think about that?'

‘It's a great idea,' he swallowed, ‘but I've just ordered paella.'

Karen leaned forward. ‘
Faye
is a two minute walk from here.'

Flynn's eyes narrowed.