Seizure (27 page)

Baron shook his head. ‘No, I don't believe it. They're solid and had a good rep.'

‘Every fucker has his price. And . . . and . . . what about Dick Last's missus? You've been leaning on her. What's the result on that? Did she tell you where the money is?'

‘No, but she did threaten to grass on you.'

‘Did you deal with that?'

‘She got a warning.' Baron was unwilling to go into detail, not wanting to complicate matters any further, or get Deakin any madder.

‘I need more money,' Deakin said. ‘I need to get out of this shit hole of a country with more than sixty grand. I'm talking about a lifetime here, a life on a beach somewhere, greasing the locals and keeping my head down. That costs more than sixty grand. I want that million back. That's what I want. Why do you reckon you haven't heard back from the deadly duo then, if they're so friggin' honest?'

Baron shrugged. ‘I don't know. But I do know they located Flynn . . . From that point, who knows?'

‘And Flynn's still alive?'

‘Far as I know.'

Deakin sat down heavily and picked up a foil tin containing the remains of a prawn bhuna. He scraped some of the sauce up on his finger and sucked it off. He was thinking hard.

‘Flynn's a hard bastard, isn't he?'

‘Supposedly.'

‘Maybe too hard and devious even for Cromer and Jackman? Maybe he scared them off – or worse?'

‘I really don't know.'

Deakin slid his finger through the sauce again, sucked it off with a pop. ‘That money must still be knocking around somewhere – and I'll bet he's got it.'

‘Him or his partner, Hoyle.'

‘He's dead, isn't he?'

Baron shrugged. ‘The body was never found.'

‘So Flynn's got it.' He ran his finger through the sauce again and pointed it at Baron. ‘I know a lot about Flynn. Made it my business to know my enemy – and I know just how to get it back.' Once more, he sucked off the sauce.

FIFTEEN

I
t had been a good day at sea. Six hours of superb fishing with a determined party of two businessmen, experienced big gamers, resulting in the tag and release of two blue marlin, each somewhere in the region of 250lb. Both contests had been hard fought and the businessmen were buzzing with excitement all the way back to port.

Flynn, too, was excited and relaxed, at the helm of the new, second-hand boat that had replaced
Lady Faye
. This one had been renamed simply
Faye2
and although she was a very different boat in terms of handling and manoeuvring, Flynn had got the measure of her by the end of a month.

He glanced down at the charter from the flying bridge. Jose was serving them a chilled bottle of Cruzcampo each, and one for himself. All three looked up at Flynn and held up their drinks in acknowledgement. Jose removed his cap and wiped his sweaty brow, giving Flynn one of those deep-leg shudders as he saw Jose's damaged head. His scalp had almost completely been removed by the explosion and had been refitted and stitched back on by a plastic surgeon who must have been under the influence. His scalp was misaligned, skew-whiff. If it hadn't been so tragic it would have been hysterical.

In truth the repair hadn't completely healed yet, not by a long way. Flynn had told Jose not to come back to work, but he needed the money and insisted.

Flynn gave them the thumbs-up and turned forward, increasing the power of the engines.
Faye2
dug her stern into the water and rose with a burble.

For Flynn, the last few weeks had been a decent period of rehab. Adam Castle had dithered for a few days as to whether to keep Flynn on; at the same time Flynn had seriously thought about the move south to Cape Verde. But Castle's problem was that Flynn was the best skipper he had. He did not want to lose him.

When the insurance money paid out (amazingly quickly and without too much haggling), Castle could have pocketed the cash and used it to prop up the other facets of his business. But he was a dedicated big game fisher himself and it was the most enjoyable side of his business. What was more, Flynn was in demand from new and repeat customers. The sooner he got him back on board, the sooner he'd be making money again.

When he told Flynn he didn't want to part company, there were tears in the eyes of both men.

Flynn had spent a few days salvaging equipment from
Lady Faye
when Adam appeared at the quayside with a sheaf of almost a hundred papers – ads for sportfishing boats for sale that he'd downloaded from the Internet. He and Flynn spent a couple of hours shortlisting until they whittled it down to about half a dozen worthy replacements, berthed from Madeira to Ibiza and back down as far as Banjul in the Gambia.

‘I want you to look at these, test them, make a decision on one of them, then buy it for me. I'll arrange a banker's draft.'

Flynn stared at him. ‘Me? Why? How?'

‘Well, you ring the owners, make an appointment, book a flight,' Adam said, gesturing emphatically.

‘No, no, I don't mean how . . . I mean, why? Why me?'

‘Because despite all the crap, you're my number one skip – hotly contested, I might add, so don't get arrogant – and I trust your judgement about boats. Travel as cheaply as you can, I'll pick up all the tabs and get back on the water as soon as.'

Emotion welled up inside Flynn. He said simply, ‘Thanks, man.'

They clinked glasses. Next day Flynn had picked up a spare seat on a charter flight en route from Manchester to Banjul, which had stopped for refuelling and to drop off passengers at Las Palmas.

Even though it was a tough, full week – stretching to eight days – Flynn enjoyed himself immensely. Eventually he chose a boat moored in Ibiza Town. It was underused and undervalued, but Flynn saw through the crap and the faintly worn air and agreed a price with the owner, who was only too eager to offload it. Three days after a survey and financial completion, Flynn returned to Ibiza with the recently patched up Jose. After a night on the town, they packed the boat with supplies and fuel and sailed it back to Gran Canaria, with a stop in Tangiers on the way.

Flynn exhaled, powered down and manoeuvred the boat into its mooring in Puerto Rico.

One of the businessmen pushed five hundred euros into his palm and they all arranged to meet for dinner that evening to celebrate the day's fishing. Flynn split the tip fifty-fifty with Jose, then the two of them got down to the task of cleaning the deck and tackle ready for next day's pre-booked charter. Flynn was anticipating the evening. Nothing special, just a shower, a change of clothing and a meal down by the beach. A few beers, a hook-up with a woman he knew from Holland who sold water-park tickets from a kiosk on the quayside. Then sex at her apartment, and home for a good sleep.

As he worked and chatted, his mind drifted to Gill Hartland and something inside him died a little again. He stood upright, a fishing reel in one hand, and gazed skywards. Maybe they would have come to nothing as a couple, but –
fuck!
– Flynn would have given anything to find out. She was a terrible loss and he wasn't sure how long he'd take to get over her.

At least she had been avenged, but that hadn't felt good.

The two bodies of Cromer and Jackman were dumped in a deep, tight, inaccessible gully near the Roque Nublo and by now, with the help of scavengers, they should be nothing more than bleached bones. He had no remorse about what he'd done. It had clearly been them or him.

Yet he still didn't completely understand what they were after.

Felix Deacon's money, that's what.

Money Flynn had never seen, which he believed had never existed up to now because it had never been conclusively proved it had existed. But yet why would Deakin send out his best heavies to get it back?

He shook his head, not wanting to think about it, hoping it had now all gone away. That was a previous life, one he'd left behind, which had no bearing on his present circumstances – even if it had crept up on him and almost killed him.

‘You OK,
amigo
?' Jose asked.

‘Just thinking.'

‘Yeah, I know. She was a good woman.' It wasn't hard to read Flynn's mind.

He swallowed and returned to the task, cleaning off the reel, rubbing hard on the steel surface so it shone.

The two of them took over an hour before everything was to their satisfaction. It was six by the time they'd finished and every piece of equipment, every corner of the boat sparkled.

‘A good day,
amigo
,' Flynn said as they crossed the gangplank on to the quayside, Flynn behind the Spaniard.

‘
Muy bien
,' Jose agreed, stepping on to dry land.

Suddenly Flynn halted as though he'd walked into an invisible force field. ‘A good day, turned bad,' he muttered on seeing the person rushing along the quay in his direction. ‘What the hell are you doing here?' he demanded.

The woman was breathless, dishevelled and looked exhausted. None of these negative traits, however, detracted from the fact she was a stunning woman, with short-cropped auburn hair, piercing green eyes and a curvaceous body that could make a grown man cry.

‘It's Craig, it's Craig,' she babbled.

Oh my God, Flynn thought. His son was dead!

‘He's got Craig,' she said. ‘He's taken my son!'

Then Steve Flynn's ex-wife threw herself at him and clung on tight, sobbing uncontrollably, her face pushed into his chest, her legs going weak underneath her and her whole body convulsing with huge wracking sobs.

Flynn did not understand. ‘What d'you mean?' he asked, trying to disentangle himself from her arms. He held her away from him at arm's length. ‘What d'you mean, he's got him?' Then the words she'd said permeated into his dumb brain and a terrible sensation filled his chest with horror. ‘Who's got Craig?'

Faye Flynn looked up at him, eyes streaming with tears, and said the two dreaded words: ‘Felix Deakin.'

‘OK, right, calm down . . . c'mon,' Flynn cooed. He had all but carried Faye to the nearest bar, shouting for two whiskies to be brought to them as he sat her down on a seat near the beach. On the short forced march, though, he noticed she'd already had a skinful. Probably on the flight, he guessed.

She lit up, angling the cigarette upwards between her lips, blowing the first lungful of smoke up in the same direction, tightening her bottom lip as she directed the smoke. Despite the way she had treated him in the past, this little move – lighting up, exhaling – had always somehow got to him. He found it full of sexual innuendo, even though it was usually just Faye gasping for a fag. He watched her movements, saw the rise and fall of her full breasts, and the back of his throat constricted. Bitch, he thought. Bitch still has me. He coughed, wafting the smoke away. ‘What's happened?'

She took an extra long drag, filling up her chest, blew it out and got a grip on herself. She rubbed her forehead. ‘Need a Nurofen – or three. Head feels like it's about to crash.'

Flynn ground his teeth in frustration and went to the bar, returning with a blister pack of aspirin. Faye popped two and swallowed them down with her whisky, then pulled Flynn's untouched glass towards her. He bristled inside.

‘I got a phone call yesterday, early on. A guy said he'd got Craig. Picked him up on the way to school.'

Flynn was unable to comprehend what was being said. ‘What do you mean? He picked him up? How could he have . . .?'

Faye squinted at him through her headache. ‘You don't know, do you?'

‘Know what?' Flynn's hands flew up in bafflement.

‘Deakin escaped from custody. Apparently he'd been to court to give evidence at some trial or other and he escaped when they were taking him back to prison. A cop got killed. You really don't know?'

Flynn said no. Over the last weeks he hadn't read any newspapers or watched TV, just thrown himself into a world of work, sex and sleep, excluding everything else. It was easy to do this two thousand miles south of his homeland. He wouldn't know if the UK sank into the sea. ‘How long ago was this?'

‘Two, two and a half weeks. Dunno. It was all over the news for days.'

‘I didn't know,' Flynn admitted again. ‘Hell – so why Craig? What's going on?'

‘Deakin wants that money back from you – the million you and Jack took. You give that to him, Craig goes free.'

Flynn sat upright. ‘He's talking bollocks. I never had that money, even if it existed.'

‘Maybe Jack did,' Faye said simply – words that hit Flynn like a spade slamming into his chest. His mouth went dry, nausea waved through him.

‘Well, you'd know, wouldn't you?' But even as he spoke, he knew it was a rhetorical question. Of course she fucking well knew. The two were lovers, having a torrid affair behind his back, mocking him and sneering at his naivety and trust. Fucking each other as soon as he left the house. His nostrils flared at the memory of the betrayal which still lived with him.

‘I don't know if he did or not,' she said.

‘Why don't you just go and get it from
him
?'

‘Something else you don't know?' she asked as if he was thick.

‘What?'

‘Jack's dead.'

Flynn stood up and took a deep breath. He walked out on to the beach where he stood, hands on hips, for a couple of minutes, his brain a mush. He became aware of Faye positioned just behind him.

‘I don't know anything because I didn't want to know anything.'

‘The hard man with a soft heart.'

Flynn looked at her. ‘That's me.'

She staggered slightly. Flynn instinctively grabbed her and she shuffled into him, her body pressing against him. For a moment he went weak, especially when she looked up at him and moved her face to be kissed. He nearly fell for it, but he moved her gently away and said, ‘You need to tell me everything. What's important here is Craig.'