Seizure (10 page)

In turn, Deakin watched Henry with a smug degree of readiness, probably fully expecting that to happen.

Henry and Naomi Dale had arrived at Lancashire Prison about twenty minutes before. After the customary searches and ID checks, they had been shown into the interview room where they had to wait for Deakin and his solicitor to be brought to them.

As the inner door opened and prisoner and brief stepped in, Henry felt a jolt. Not only due to his past encounter with Deakin, but because the solicitor was none other than Barry Baron, the guy who had represented Richard Last, the suspected robber and killer. Henry looked from one to the other, his mind suddenly whirring with the implications of the connection. It made him uncomfortable. Maybe he was being far too suspicious, but the first thing he asked himself was how did this fit together? He screwed it through his mind, then told himself not to be silly. Barry Baron represented a lot of criminals, just like any number of solicitors did, and this was probably just a coincidence. What the hell else could it be?

After some stiff formalities, Baron, his eyes shifting between Naomi, Henry and the sheaf of papers he'd brought in with him, said, ‘First things first . . . My client, Mr Deakin, wishes you to know exactly why he has decided to come forth with his knowledge and what he expects to gain from his . . . opening up.'

Naomi and Henry waited patiently, letting Baron fill the gaps.

‘The bottom line is this . . . he feels he has a public duty to perform by giving evidence against Cain as he is very much a reformed character since being in prison.' Henry stifled a guffaw at this. ‘But also, and being completely honest, he does see this as a possible way to get his sentence reduced. It is a combination of altruism and selfishness, but he would like to say that even if he does not get a reduction in sentence, the fact that he has done a public service will be good enough for him.'

Henry looked quickly around to see if he could find a sick bag. The ‘I'll bet' remark just about managed to stay on his lips.

‘He does expect wheels to work within wheels in the justice system to get a further review of his sentence so that he can be considered for parole in a year's time. That's all he seeks – the public good and an opportunity to get out of prison a little bit sooner.'

‘Is that all?' Naomi said.

‘Not quite,' Baron said. ‘Johnny Cain is a very dangerous man. He controls a sophisticated criminal organization. He is a killer and has people who kill for him. So, also in return for his testimony, my client wishes to be protected. That means a transfer from here to a prison where his safety can be guaranteed and then, on his early release, entry into a witness protection programme and all that entails.'

Henry held back another snort. His eyes stayed trained on Deakin, wondering what the hell was going on. People like Deakin did not do things for the public good, nor did they grass on their fellow crims – unless they'd had something very wrong done to them. And as far as Henry knew, Deakin and Cain rubbed along OK in the free world. Maybe not as the best of mates, but . . .

‘Before I can make any promises, I have to know what's on offer,' Naomi stated.

‘I understand that, but I can assure you that what my client has to say will be gold dust to you. It will make your case against Johnny Cain rock solid and will send a bad man to prison for a long time. And we know your case has certain . . . gaps . . . in it. My client is more than willing to stand up in the dock and be counted. He will face Cain and give evidence.'

Naomi glanced at Henry. ‘Short break?'

‘Don't like it.'

‘Nor me.'

‘Just how strong is the case? What's the chance of a conviction?'

They were in the corridor outside the interview room, whispering hoarsely to each other under the bored but watchful gaze of a prison officer, out of his hearing.

‘Sixty-five, seventy per cent.' Naomi rocked her hand.

‘Thirty per cent chance of him walking. What'll be the stumbling block?'

‘Confirming, without any shadow of a doubt, the connection between Cain and the victim, Swann.'

‘Therefore if Deakin plugs that gap, you'll be laughing?'

‘It wouldn't go amiss in the grand scheme of things.'

‘I don't trust him,' Henry said. ‘And there's something else I just can't put my finger on.' Henry shook his head.

‘We can at least listen to him.'

Henry nodded.

‘What's your connection with Deakin?' Naomi asked. ‘You can cut the tension between you two with a chainsaw.'

‘Water under the bridge.'

She regarded him suspiciously. ‘Don't let it cloud your judgement, whatever it is.' She touched Henry's arm.

His lips tightened. ‘He threatened my family once,' Henry admitted. ‘It's the way he operates.' He shrugged. ‘Threats and more threats.'

‘Do you feel you can go on with this?'

‘As I said, water under the bridge.'

Henry nodded to the prison officer and they were allowed back into the interview room where Henry saw Deakin pass a yellow Post-it note to Baron. He didn't give it much thought: client–solicitor privilege.

Everyone had backed off and Steve Flynn was feeling a lot better. The publicity machine so quickly assembled by Gill Hartland had retreated and Flynn hoped he would now be allowed to get back on with his life.

It was a great sensation, simply to stroll along the quayside in the steaming hot sunshine wearing the Keith Richards T-shirt and ragged shorts after a swift cola in a nearby hostelry, knowing that all the crap was over with. Awaiting him a hundred metres away was the spick-and-span vision that was
Lady Faye
. Maybe she wasn't his boat, but she was as near as dammit.

She looked wonderful, back to – nay, surpassing – her previous glory, having been worked on and cleaned remorselessly by himself and the crew.

‘Nice, nice,' he whispered on his lips.

He looked diagonally back across the quay towards the built-up area he'd just left. Sitting on a stool outside a bar was the aforementioned Gill Hartland who, having discovered her latest celebrity, had decided to stay on an extra few days just to calm down the poor chap. Her presence was much appreciated by Flynn, though she'd done little to calm him down in the ardour stakes – but their frenetic lovemaking did have the effect of keeping him sane in his brief flurry of fame.

He sighed contentedly and gave Gill a quick wave before stepping on to the boat to take charge for a half-day charter of a group of Irish guys who didn't want to leave port too early. They hadn't turned up yet, but they'd paid upfront so Flynn wasn't worried by the no-show. He guessed the charter would be a short one anyway, as it was obvious the group had booked on a whim in a week of otherwise being drunk and chasing skirt. They'd be seasick and pining for dry land before they got an hour out, Flynn guessed. But at least he'd be at sea, instead of being all at sea as he had been for the past few days.

His mobile phone hung in a waterproof pouch at his waist. It vibrated and he answered it. As he drew it to his ear, he glanced across the harbour at Gill who had her phone to her ear.

A smile cracked on his tanned face as he flipped open the phone, not even glancing at the caller display. My God, he thought, his male ego taking over, she really can't do without me, can't bear to let me go.

‘Hiya babe,' he crooned into the phone.

‘Dad, is that you?'

An eerie sensation coursed through his veins as these few words registered with him. Even so, he did then automatically check the display, and saw that although the number was not shown, it told him it was an international call. He pressed the phone to his ear.

‘Dad?'

Flynn's knees suddenly went weak. He steadied himself on the fighting chair, then swivelled round to sit on it, otherwise he would have toppled over.

‘Craig?' he asked breathlessly.

‘Dad, Dad?' It was an urgent whisper.

‘Yeah, Craig, it's me – your dad.' He licked his lips and wiped the sudden sweat off his brow.

Jose, who had been working in the cockpit, emerged rubbing his oily hands with a rag. He'd seen Flynn take the call and witnessed the unusual reaction to it. He watched him with a faintly concerned frown – but not too concerned.

Flynn was stunned. His son Craig was on the phone, completely out of the blue. The son he hadn't officially been allowed to speak to for almost four years. All contact had been via furtive, occasional phone calls like this one. Craig, now fourteen years old. Flynn clamped his eyes tight shut and tried to imagine what he might look like. Fourteen, a young man growing up fast. He opened his eyes and a tear balanced in the corner of them, blurring his vision.

‘Dad, you OK?'

God, the voice, so grown up.

Flynn, as though struck by a demolition ball, struggled to control himself. ‘Yeah, Craig, course I am. It's just such a . . . pleasure to hear your voice. How are you? Is there something wrong?'

‘No Dad, I just wanted to speak to you.'

‘Does your mum . . .?' Flynn started to ask, but didn't even have to complete the question.

‘No,' Craig whispered conspiratorially, two thousand miles to the north. ‘She doesn't know I'm calling you. She'd have a hissy if she did . . . I saw you on telly, being interviewed about those immigrants, y'know? Dad, it was really magic to see you.' Craig's voice crackled with either static or emotion, Flynn couldn't quite tell. ‘I still miss you, Dad. I love you.'

‘Yeah.' Flynn's voice definitely crackled. ‘Love you, too.'

‘Er . . .' Craig hesitated, not knowing what to say next, a fourteen-year-old boy not used to making small talk to adults, Flynn guessed.

‘Hey – did you get my Chrissy present?'

‘What? No . . . Mum said you didn't send any.' The bitch. Flynn nearly chewed the end off his tongue. He kept his voice level.

‘Gotta go – she's coming,' Craig said hurriedly. ‘Love you, Dad.' Then the phone went dead.

Flynn was gutted. He stared at his phone, then eased out a long breath.

‘You OK,
gringo
?' Jose asked.

‘That was my son,' Flynn said proudly. He smiled and gave a short laugh, suddenly so pleased they'd spoken. ‘Maybe some good has come from the TV appearances after all,' he gushed and punched the air with a whoop.

‘You know I can't discuss any points of the case with you,' Naomi Dale said sternly to Barry Baron. ‘To reveal the prosecution evidence would be unethical.'

‘But we all know your case will go to rats if you can't prove a direct link to Cain and Swann – otherwise it's all circumstantial.'

‘I'm not at liberty to say.' She gave Baron an even harder glare.

‘OK, have it your way. But what if I was to say that my client's testimony will prove that Cain knew Swann, knew him personally and knew him well?'

‘It would have to be direct evidence, evidence of what Mr Deakin saw or heard Cain do, not circumstantial. Otherwise we're wasting time.'

Deakin cut in. ‘I've been in Cain's presence on numerous occasions when Swann was also there. Just three of us on several occasions. I can give evidence that he knew Swann, that Swann worked for him, went boozing with him, went away for a weekend with him once. And that Cain even once told me he suspected Swann of skimming from him and if he ever found out for certain, he'd kill him . . . which he obviously did.'

The revelation stunned Naomi. She tensed up and for once her prosecutor's composure deserted her. She came upright and shot Henry a look of excitement.

Henry, on the other hand, remained cool and unsettled. Maybe it was because he wasn't involved in the case personally and was somewhat detached from it. In fact he felt nothing, other than a deep-rooted mistrust for Deakin and his motivation. And a sense that the whole thing seemed a bit contrived.

Although Steve Flynn had never suffered from it, he knew that one of the worst ailments anybody can have is seasickness. The condition is compounded when the sufferer is surrounded by others who are not affected and refuse to offer any form of succour, condolence or hope – and just take the piss instead.

Flynn glanced down from the flying bridge and sympathized with the sole member of the charter who was hanging over the side of the boat, retching dreadfully on a now empty stomach while his three mates steadfastly refused to listen to his pleas to return to shore. Instead they took it in turns to tell him that to be cured he should sit under a tree. All found this highly amusing except the sick one, who crawled on all fours into the stateroom and flopped on the bed, closing his eyes.

Not a good move, Flynn knew. The blackness behind the eyelids just made things a whole lot worse. Better to keep moving and concentrate on the horizon.

However, not his problem – except the sick man had earlier tried to do some fishing, but his state of nausea meant he did not concentrate or care and he managed to ‘bird's nest' one of the reels, much to Jose's anger, who had to put it right. At that moment, the Spaniard was still unpicking the mess with a scowl on his face that made him look as though he was munching gravel.

Instinctively Flynn knew it was three p.m. Another half-hour, then back to Puerto Rico. Then a night on the town with Gill was his plan. Eat, drink, dance, fuck. The circle of life.

He smiled contentedly. The last couple of days of trials and tribulations were over. He knew he'd have to give evidence regarding the deaths of the immigrants, but that was way ahead and would be a low-key affair. The Spanish authorities were not overly concerned with the fate of people trying to enter their country illegally and didn't put much effort into investigating how their deaths came about. Much to Flynn's relief.

‘Hey, hey, hey!' screamed one of the trio of fishermen as a line zinged out.