Seizure (13 page)

Henry's eyes worked down the body.

The face had been beaten into a mush, probably by a bat of some sort. The hands had been crushed, the fingers splayed and broken at all angles. Knife slashes were whipped across the chest. The knees looked as though they had been sledgehammered and Henry could tell from the unusual shape of the shins that they had been broken.

‘'Kin' 'ell,' Rik's muffled voice came behind him.

‘Someone spent a lot of time in here,' Henry said, ‘having fun.'

Body two was in the front bedroom above the lounge. Another white male, again naked, he had been tied to the double bed, his arms stretched and fastened to the headboard, his legs splayed and attached to the rail at the foot of the bed.

Henry approached the figure slowly, using his eyes to take in as much of the scene as possible because he knew he would never be able to replicate this moment again. As he got closer, he almost leapt out of his skin as a white-clad figure appeared from a crouching position on the opposite side of the bed, backlit from the diffused lighting filtering through the drapes.

‘Hell's teeth,' Henry gasped, recognizing the man – his big ears, which stuck out of his head at right angles, giving the game away. It was the Home Office pathologist, Professor Baines, a man Henry knew well. He had covered many of the murders Henry had been involved with over the years. The two had often shared a few pints after a grisly post-mortem to discuss its finer points.

‘Heard you creeping upstairs. Thought I'd give you a thrill.'

‘Cheers, Prof . . . I can feel fibrillation a-go-go.' Henry patted his chest. He was standing about three feet away from the body. Behind his mask his face screwed up with distaste at the sight. There was a cut throat, dismemberment and deep gouges across the chest of the corpse in the shape of a cross.

Baines stood by the corpse. He was a very proactive pathologist and liked to visit murder scenes, rather than just be presented with a body on a dissecting table in a mortuary. He never did anything at the scene but look, being very aware of the need to protect and preserve evidence, and Henry always trusted him not to interfere at the scene of a killing. Not like some others who waded in like their TV counterparts as though they were running investigations. Baines knew his role in the overall scheme of things.

‘Bit of a compendium, this, before you ask,' Baines said.

‘A compendium?' Henry's muffled voice asked.

‘This one, for example, has been mutilated – dismembered and slashed across the chest.' Baines pointed out what Henry had already seen. ‘A bit like a combination of Jack the Ripper and the Da Vinci Code.'

‘I know about the ripper but not the Da Vinci thing . . . Having said that, do you think we're dealing with a religious nut or something?'

‘Doubt it.'

‘Why not?'

‘Well,' he said, stretching the word, ‘unless these two guys are high priests on the run with a secret that will ruin the Vatican, they've simply been tortured and murdered by two people having fun doing what they were doing . . . acting out some scenes in books and films they liked . . . But don't quote me, I'm not a psychologist.' He moved carefully around the bed and stood next to Henry.

‘What about the one downstairs?'

‘Ever seen
Casino Royale
, the new James Bond movie?'

‘Nope – read the book though.'

‘When Bond gets tortured by the baddie?'

‘Oh yeah.' Henry visualized the dead man downstairs, strapped to a chair with the seat cut out. Bond had been tortured in the same way, having had his dangling genitals smashed with a carpet beater. Bond had screamed in agony. ‘Two people, you reckon?'

‘As a minimum,' Baines said.

‘And why not religious fanatics?'

‘Because even though these two men were mutilated, they were tortured in the good old-fashioned way to get information out of them – by breaking bones and fingers. Tried, tested, usually with great results. There are no leads to God here – at least in my humble opinion.'

Henry went silent, ruminating.

‘So, old adage – find out how they lived, find out why they died,' Baines said.

‘I already know how they lived,' Henry said, looking at the body of Richard Last, suspected bank robber. He adjusted his face mask because the smell was beginning to overpower him.

SEVEN

I
t was the first joint decision of their relationship. Catching a taxi from the harbour in Puerto Rico up to Gill's hotel, where they could spend the remaining hours of the night together and get some sleep – possibly – in a big, comfy king-sized bed, as opposed to the ‘seen better days' three-quarter width one in Flynn's villa. They could have a leisurely breakfast and a morning by the pool before Gill left for the airport. She had to get home. Work was stacking up, clients were whingeing and there was a lot of straightening out to do.

It was five a.m. before they fell asleep, following a long, slow bout of inventive lovemaking that had Flynn scraping the headboard with his fingernails as Gill's dug into his buttocks leaving an arc of scratches.

Five a.m., though, even at the best of times, is a low-ebb hour for anyone. Coupled with the evening of boozing and sexual debauchery they had just enjoyed, they were zombies at four minutes past that hour and were unable to react in any meaningful way to what happened when a nightmare became reality.

At four fifty-seven a.m. Flynn was taking a long piss in the bathroom, admiring himself dreamily in the multi-mirrored room. That was when he saw Gill's fingernail digs in his arse and smiled stupidly at the memory – and the pain – while tensing his gluteus maximus. That had been a good moment, when both of them realized they were howlers in bed. He finished, yawned, then trudged wearily back to bed. Gill was already asleep, curled up tight.

Flynn flopped gently on to the bed so as not to disturb her, eased up the single sheet. In a flash he was asleep, just a moment after he'd spotted the time on the bedside digital clock: 4:59.

Then he was out of it.

It couldn't have been timed better.

Not that a forced entry was required. The hotel room was on the ground floor, part of an annexe situated by the cliff edge, and each room along that section had a large terrace and a small wall. The two men simply bided their time and enjoyed the sounds and occasional glimpses of energetic lovemaking between Flynn and Gill through the net curtains wafting at the open French windows. They even winced when Gill dug her nails into Flynn's rump.

They were patient guys, which is why they were so successful in their chosen trade.

They gave Flynn four minutes to fall asleep, knowing the poor soul would be exhausted. Not that it mattered if he was asleep or not, but it was preferable.

They rose from the shadows, stepping silently from their hiding place, approached the French windows and edged in – then it all happened very quickly.

They grabbed Flynn as he slept, yanking him violently from the bed, twisting him on to his face and smashing him to the floor.

In moments he was trussed up with cable ties. His hands were fastened behind him, his ankles then bound together with duct tape – and only at that moment did he really wake up. To find himself being dragged bodily across the room by his ankles, his head being repeatedly punched before he was dropped face down on the tiled bathroom floor. There he was kicked savagely about the head, unable to protect himself from any of the blows.

He tensed hard, arching his head away from the feet and generally thrashing like a fish.

‘You bastards!' With a ferocious scream, Gill launched herself through the bathroom door and laid into one of the attackers. He turned, parried her blows and hit her once in the face, a well-placed decisive blow that crushed her nose and sent her spinning back into the bedroom on her arse. The man who'd hit her stepped out with her while the one standing over Flynn smashed his boot down on his temple, sending him into instant blackness.

Dawn did not want to come. The previous day had been like a proper summer's day but overnight clouds had scudded in from the Pennines and settled low across the county. Henry had spent a long night in the east, ensuring the double murder scene had been properly dealt with. Even though he now ran murder investigations without the prospect of someone pulling the rug from under him, those cold times he'd spent on every callout rota possible, just to stay in the investigative loop, had drilled some particularly good habits into his noggin. Mainly: get the ball rolling as quickly as possible; seize and secure evidence; start trolling for witnesses. And always remember that the first hours of a murder inquiry were critical.

Hence he worked until four a.m. with an increasingly grumpy Rik Dean. But at least Henry knew that if they only got three hours' sleep each, they would hit the ground running later in the day.

The pair drove back to Blackpool, the sky behind them lightening dismally in the east, but the day refusing to get going. Rik's head sagged a few times at the wheel, but Henry punched him hard and kept firing questions at him, putting hypotheses to him, opening the window to give him blasts of icy wake-up air.

‘I'm goosed,' the DI admitted. ‘It's hard working with you. You keep rotten hours.'

‘I'm tired too . . . So, our armed robbers have bitten the dust, eh? Richard Last and Jack Sumner . . . So what's it all about?'

It was a conversation they'd had several times over the last few hours.

‘Money – always is with lowlifes like them.'

‘Well if they fell out between themselves, they did a helluva job on each other.'

‘Third party,' Rik said. ‘Mr Big, or a sleeping partner. I'll bet it's fuckin' money.'

‘This is serious stuff, though . . . Why the torture? Why the mutilation? Why not just shoot them?'

‘'Cos someone wanted to know something.'

They had reached the motorway junction at Marton Circle, the Blackpool exit.

‘You want dropping off at home?'

‘Nah – I want a McDonalds. Go to the twenty-four hour drive-through on Preston New Road.'

‘A McDonalds?' Rik said in disbelief.

‘Famished.' Henry rubbed his stomach.

‘You're the boss.'

‘My favourite phrase.'

Flynn's chin lolled and rolled on his chest. Blood cascaded down his nose. Pain arced through him like a pickaxe in an ice face, under and around his brain. He forced his eyes open as consciousness ebbed back and he realized he was propped up on the toilet, naked. There was something awful in his mouth. He spat it out, trying to aim between his thighs into the toilet bowl. Instead he splattered it down his lower stomach and pubic hair.

His neck muscles screamed as he raised his head and tried to focus on the man standing in front of him. He could feel the side of his face ballooning out like some sort of movie special effect. It almost creaked as it swelled.

‘You're two tough guys,' Flynn said through a mouthful of phlegm and blood. Something hard crunched in his mouth. He spat out a broken tooth. ‘Knocking women out . . . pathetic bastards.'

The man snorted a laugh. He was lean, but wide shouldered with a dead-fish expression, which even then told Flynn he was face to face with someone cold and dangerous.

‘You haven't seen the half of it,' he said, smirking with a twitch.

The second of the two men stepped into the bathroom rubbing his hands with delight. He was the one who'd pounded Gill and heaved her back into the bedroom, smacking her hard and repeatedly, knocking her into a state of insensibility. ‘That felt good.' He smiled genuinely at Flynn.

Flynn said nothing, but inside the rage burned like a furnace. Without warning he launched himself head first at the guy, trying to get a grip for his bare feet on the blood-slippery bathroom floor, but he slid and went down on to one knee. This made it easy for the first guy to use Flynn's own momentum, place his hands on the back of his head and drive his face into his knee.

Something broke in Flynn's face. He went down on to the floor, then the men dragged him back up and rebalanced him on the toilet.

The one who had assaulted Gill stepped out of the bathroom briefly, returning a moment later.

‘Look what I got!' He held the item aloft for his companion to see. ‘A travel iron.'

‘Nice one.'

‘Not as effective as its steam cousin, but they do get real hot.'

Flynn retched and slid off the toilet woozily.

‘I'll plug it in. Only take a mo.' The second man left.

‘Now then, Flynn, my boy,' the first one said.

‘If you've hurt her, I'll kill you,' Flynn croaked.

‘Don't be silly,' he grinned. ‘An unwise thing for a man to claim in your position.'

‘What the fuck do you want?'

‘We just need something sorting.' He squatted on his haunches, getting down to Flynn's eye level. ‘Need a bit of a repayment . . . I think you know what I'm saying – don't you?'

At the drive-through, Henry bought a sausage muffin, hash brown and a coffee. Rik passed on everything.

‘Drive me up to the hospital. Drop me off there and after I've blagged my way in to see my mum, I'll walk home.'

‘Hell, that's a long way.' Rik estimated it was at least two miles from hospital to home. ‘You'll be leaving for work before you know it. You'll be meeting yourself coming up your own arse if you're not careful.'

‘I reckon I can get a couple of hours kip in.' Henry unwrapped the muffin and bit into it. It tasted completely wonderful. The perfect dawn breakfast after a long night at a murder scene.

‘I reckon you're kiddin' yourself.'

‘I don't feel sleepy now. Ooh . . . idea.' Henry fished out his mobile phone, tabbed through the contacts list, selected a number and dialled. ‘Jerry, it's Henry . . . yes I know it's friggin' early . . . I'm watching the shit rise in Blackpool as we speak. Look, get yourself into work ASAP and read the circulation about a double murder in Rossendale . . .' Henry went on to explain what he wanted the groggy DC Jerry Tope to do, but whether he took it in was another matter. ‘Anyway, hope I didn't wake you,' Henry concluded and snapped his phone shut. ‘He likes to feel wanted,' he said to Rik with a quick grin.