Seizure (11 page)

Flynn got his mind back into gear and reacted.

He had fish to catch. From the way the line was shifting he could tell it was a barracuda, vicious, nasty – a handful.

Henry Christie had never bothered to delve too deeply into the theory of the psychology of criminality, even though offenders and their motives did fascinate him. He was more concerned with being the hunter bringing down his prey, and would be the first to acknowledge that he probably allowed the deep-rooted element of his psyche that was still ‘man the hunter' to manifest itself in his job. He worked on instinct when it came to dealing with people and always believed he could read others well – with the exclusion of women, that is. But he knew crims, knew what made them tick; he knew when he was being lied to and tricked – usually. That had been one of the reasons he'd been a good thief taker in his younger days and an excellent, if flawed, SIO in his later years.

Which is how he knew he was being twirled by Felix Deakin.

Problem was, there was no way of proving it.

It wasn't anything Deakin had said. He'd uttered all the right words. Nor was it in his body language. He'd used open, reassuring gestures, maintained eye contact without overdoing it, not clamped up, been pleasant . . . so what was it about him?

Henry pondered. Maybe, he thought, it's because I simply cannot be swayed to trust a single freaking word that comes out of his mouth.

And, on reflection, that was probably the root of Henry being a good jack. He started every investigation on the basis that everything he heard was a lie. It was a bit like gathering corn, sorting the wheat from the chaff. Everyone's a liar until proved different. Even the witnesses.

There was a flicker of a smile on Deakin's cruel lips.

Naomi and Baron had retreated to the corridor to discuss some legal points, leaving Henry and Deakin alone in the interview room, across the table from each other.

‘I get the impression you don't like me.'

‘Not only do I not like you, Felix, what's much more important is that I completely and utterly mistrust you and your motivation. That's the key,' Henry said, using his forefinger to emphasize the point. ‘Plus anyone who threatens my family is not top of my Christmas card list.'

‘That was just words.' Deakin flicked a dismissive gesture. ‘Nothing meant.'

Henry gave a disbelieving snort.

‘It's true, Henry. Wives, girlfriends, kids – all out of bounds as far as I'm concerned. The players, however . . .' He shrugged innocently. ‘Anyway, it's old hat. But the truth here is that I am being selfish. I want the chance to get out of this shit hole before I'm an old guy and if I can do it by bringing down another crim, then, hey! And perform a public service too. Y'know, ying and yang?'

It was transparent that Henry's face displayed his disbelief. ‘To coin a phrase, you're a lyin' sack of shit and I don't believe anything, so I'll be keeping a close eye on you if the CPS are stupid enough to go along with this charade. Pardon me for being an old cynic . . .' Henry would have ranted on, but the door reopened and the two briefs entered. From their faces, Henry saw that they had reached an agreement and his opinion from now on was purely academic.

Earlier that day two men sat quietly in the international departure lounge at Terminal 2 of Manchester Airport. They had suffered the indignity of the intrusive customs searches and now they waited patiently within sight of one of the departure monitors, sipping coffees bought from Starbucks, scanning newly purchased magazines and exchanging occasional words.

They were wiry, tough-looking individuals, having the look of ex-soldiers perhaps. They exuded an air of menace that made other passengers give them a wide berth.

When the monitor declared that all passengers for the flight should go to Gate 32, they picked up their hand luggage and sauntered in the right direction. Hand luggage was all they had. They travelled light, without encumbrance. They seated themselves at the gate and continued their patient wait until the flight was called.

A few minutes later they were settled in their seats, strapped in.

At eleven thirty-five a.m., the jet rumbled on to the runway. The engines powered up, the brakes were released and seconds later the plane was rising steeply towards the clouds, the start of their four and a half hour flight. Destination Las Palmas, Gran Canaria.

Flynn guided
Lady Faye
into harbour at four p.m. Although the heat had gone out of the day, there was no breeze in port and it was stifling – just how he liked it. With the ease of an expert, Flynn manoeuvred the boat into her allotted mooring and Jose leapt on to the quayside to tie her up.

The seasickness sufferer scrambled ashore and within seconds of being on dry land he had recovered. His three mates, satisfied by the afternoon's fishing, clapped Flynn on the shoulder and shook hands. It had been a good few hours from a customer point of view, with barracuda, roughtail stingray, angel shark, bonito, wahoo all caught, as well as two red snapper that Flynn claimed for himself. The guy who'd made the reservation slipped Flynn a hundred euros before climbing ashore and the four of them bounced away, knackered, suntanned and in one case, relieved to be ashore.

Flynn watched them go, giving them a captain's salute as they turned and gave him a cheer.

He split the euros – forty to Jose, twenty to Tommy and forty to himself. Then he selected a chilled beer from the icebox and washed away the tang of salt with a long swig of Cruzcampo. It tasted amazing. Its icy tentacles slithered through his chest. He turned to Jose. ‘Good afternoon?'

The Spaniard nodded approvingly and rubbed the euro notes between thumb and forefinger. ‘
La cuenta
,' he said.

‘
Si
– and what's your plans for tonight?'

‘Home – wife – paella – fucky-fucky.'

‘Sounds good.'

‘You?' As he asked the question, his eyes glanced past Flynn's shoulder and he went, ‘Ahh.' Flynn looked around. Gill Hartland was strolling along the quayside. ‘She leave tomorrow –
si
?'

‘
Si
.' Flynn found it a heartbreaking word to say.

‘In that case,
amigo
, Tommy and me will clean up and lock up . . . you go and enjoy your last hours together.'

‘You certain?'

‘For a forty-euro tip, I'm certain. You know, most Brits haven't yet realized that one euro is worth almost a pound, have they?'

‘And long may that continue.'

Flynn picked up the red snappers and dropped them into a carrier bag. He thanked the two guys and almost ran off the boat to meet Gill. She looked stunning. Not because of how she was dressed – a red basketball top, blue cut-offs, flip-flops and sunglasses, nothing special. She simply looked amazing to Flynn, whose heart whammed a little too wildly for comfort. He wondered if the no-strings agreement was beginning to look a bit creased around the edges.

‘Hey – look what I got.' He showed her the fish in the bag. ‘Fancy a bit of alfresco tonight? These babies are beautiful on the barbie.'

She flashed her eyelashes at him. ‘Sounds ace.' She upped on to her toes and pecked him on the cheek, twisted around and slid her arm into his. They strolled comfortably along, chatting amicably, passing all the boats and then the first bars and restaurants.

They were so engrossed in each other that neither noticed the two men sitting at a table in Pablo's. Men who watched the two lovers silently as they went by.

SIX

F
lynn cleaned the barbecue, filled it with charcoal briquettes bought from the local Aldi, and lit them. He filleted and scraped the red snappers, gutted them and sliced off their heads before stuffing them with herbs and garlic, brushing them in extra virgin olive oil and wrapping them in foil. He fixed the grill pan high over the heat and set the fish to cook gently while preparing a tossed salad and some dirty rice.

The sun had set by the time the food was prepared and he and Gill sat out in the tiny front garden, drinking chilled white wine and eating.

‘This fish is delicious,' Gill enthused. She was right. It was thick and meaty and full of flavour. ‘As is everything else. I've never had dirty rice before.' She raised her glass to Flynn, who smiled modestly, took a sip then placed his glass on the patio. They were eating off plates on their knees and everything seemed perfect. ‘This is much better than hotel food.'

‘Thanks.'

When they'd eaten, Flynn swilled the dishes then returned to the patio to finish off the wine.

‘I've had a great time,' Gill told him, ‘despite the tragedy.'

‘Me too – despite the TV people.'

‘Sorry . . . but I've had loads of magazines wanting interviews with you, men's ones as well as women's. I don't suppose . . .? There'd be good money in it.'

Flynn held up his hand. ‘I want to retreat back into my shell, please.'

‘OK, OK,' she relented. She relaxed back into the slightly unstable folding chair and inhaled the sweet aroma of the bougainvillea and the dampness of the recently watered lawns beyond the garden wall. Her chest rose and fell jerkily. She shook her head. ‘Don't wanna go home. Can't believe I'm saying that, but it's true.'

Flynn's own chest started to tighten. ‘You've got all those clients clamouring for your attention.'

‘Screw 'em,' she sighed, blew out her cheeks. ‘I'm usually raring to get back 'cos I love my job, but . . . this island, as developed as it might be, has really got to me.' She turned to face Flynn. ‘And so have you.'

He almost choked on his wine.

Henry Christie was back in his office at police headquarters, having decided to review a copy of the case files on Deakin and Johnny Cain. It took him less than ten minutes of skimming, and knowing what he was looking for, to see the glaring hole in the police evidence against Cain.

‘Shit,' he said. There was no way he wanted Deakin involved in Cain's trial, but looking at the case, the knowledge he claimed to have simply couldn't be ignored. Out of the blue, Felix Deakin had become a vital witness.

His desk phone rang, the tone indicating it was an internal call. ‘Detective Superintendent Christie . . .'

‘Boss? Rik Dean . . .' There was a hint of urgency in the DI's voice. ‘We've got a problem of sorts.'

They had a hurried conversation and Rik, who was presently in Blackpool, arranged a meet at Henry's house in forty-five minutes. Henry gathered his files together and tidied his desk, leaving his office locked and scurrying to his car. As he hurried, he was on the mobile to Kate.

‘Any change?'

‘No, love, she's still as she was.'

‘Look, sweetie, I have to turn out to something . . . going to be a late call I think . . . I know.'

‘It's OK. I'll visit her shortly. There's nothing you can really do.'

‘Other than be there like a son should be?'

‘Well at least Lisa's arrived.'

Lisa was Henry's younger sister and only sibling, three times married, three times divorced, feckless and rootless. Henry was surprised by the news. He'd dropped her a quick text to say Mum was poorly, but hadn't expected her to turn up until the fat lady sang. Or at least until Mother died. Then she'd be around for the crumbs. ‘Jeepers,' he said and slid into the new car.

‘I've told her she can have Leanne's room for the time being.'

Henry's face showed displeasure at the thought. His kid sister was always best kept at arm's length. ‘Whatever,' he muttered resignedly.

‘She has come up from London.'

‘I know . . . it's just that . . . look, I'll see you soon. I'm meeting Rik at our house, then going on in one car. I just phoned to keep you in the picture.'

‘Thanks. Appreciate it, love.'

To keep in regular contact was one of the things Henry had promised Kate since they'd seriously got back together and ultimately remarried. One of many things that had irked Kate about him was his inability to pick up the phone. Now he tried his best to do this, even though it didn't come naturally for him. There was something inbuilt that made him feel he was being supervised, even though he realized other couples kept in touch as a matter of course. ‘It's part of being a committed couple,' Kate had insisted.

He pulled away from headquarters, his mind on his sister whom he hadn't seen for about three years. He wasn't really relishing the encounter.

They walked around the outer harbour wall with the easy pace of a holidaying couple, pausing to gaze out across the Atlantic. After a few minutes with Gill settled in front of him, his arms wrapped around her, they strolled down the steps and then back past
Lady
Faye
until they reached the beach bars and restaurants. Flynn steered her to his favourite bar, owned by a Spaniard who often bought fish from him. They found two big comfortable cane chairs with soft cushions right on the sand and ordered cold beer. There seemed to be no need for anything fancier. The bars were busy, but the hubbub was just background to Flynn and Gill. Flynn had to do a quick internal double take when he, fleetingly, thought he might be falling A over T for this woman. The feeling terrified him.

‘Y'know, I've been coming here for six years now,' Gill started hesitantly. ‘I've seen you for four of those years and we've met and fucked and caught fish, then said
adios
, but' – here she screwed up her face – ‘I don't know a damn thing about you, other than your prowess at sea and in the sack.'

‘When you have a no-strings arrangement, that's the way it goes, I reckon.'

‘Mm,' she said doubtfully and sipped her beer. ‘About that arrangement.' She turned and faced him squarely. ‘I'm not sure I want it to continue.'

Flynn's insides slumped dramatically.