Seizure (28 page)

She nodded, edged further away, aware of the rebuke.

‘How much have you had to drink?'

‘Since yesterday? Who's fucking counting?' She slumped into a chair, misjudged the distance and slithered off it on to the plank floor, where she passed out.

‘Shit.' A lot of booze had gone into her, Flynn guessed. He heaved her up once and then lifted her up right across his shoulder, causing many a raised eyebrow, picked up her shoulder bag which seemed to be all the luggage she had, and carried her out of the bar. He'd briefly considered slapping her to bring her round but knew it would be a useless exercise. She was either one of two states when drunk. This one – pissed and passed out – or pissed and argumentative. Neither state made getting useful information out of her easy. On top of that, Flynn suspected she probably hadn't slept for a day. She needed to get some, then get sobered up and in a long hot shower before he'd be able to get a logical story out of her.

As he carried her through crowds of holidaymakers to his villa, he began to seethe angrily. Why the hell couldn't she have turned up compos mentis instead of blind drunk? If what she had blabbed was true, Craig was in serious trouble. Flynn guessed that she had been told to get her arse out to Gran Canaria and get him personally. This made him suppose there could be some time to play with, but not much. And Faye being drunk ate into that precious time.

He carried her through the public gardens and, reaching the villa, through to the bedroom. Having dumped her raggedly on to the bed, he regarded her for a few seconds, wondering if he should undress her or not. Not, he decided. She turned on to her side and started to snore.

Flynn drew the blinds and went to the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of mineral water and ice. There would be no time for alcohol now. He sat out on the patio and pulled out his mobile phone. As well as avoiding the media, Flynn had not used the phone over the last few weeks – other than, ironically, when he had made a secret phone call to Craig. It had been a very general conversation. Flynn wouldn't even have thought to mention Felix Deakin.

It was seven thirty p.m., as it would be in the UK, and although it was late he decided to try his luck. It took a few moments for the satellites to connect, and then for the extension to be reached.

‘DC Tope. Can I help you?'

Flynn exhaled a sigh. ‘Jerry, Steve Flynn.'

‘Ah, shit, what the frig do you want?'

‘I want to know what's going on in the cop world.'

‘Steve, I only just avoided deep shit from talking to you last time by a gnat's todger . . . I'm not going to get caught out again.'

‘In that case, find a secure phone and call me back on this number.' Flynn gave him the landline number of the villa, a phone he rarely used. ‘Otherwise I'm on the blower to Mrs Tope to explain to her how you begged me to lie for you all those years ago. It might have been a while back, but adultery is adultery. There's no limitations to proceedings, y'know.'

The word Tope uttered was lost as he hung up.

Flynn went inside to get the cordless phone, then back out to sit in the hot evening and ruminate.

Faye and his partner, Jack Hoyle, had been the two people he most trusted in the world. Old story, he supposed. Nothing new in that. But it had hurt like a dagger through the heart and, now resurrected with Faye drunk-asleep in his bed, he found the pain was still there.

He hadn't heard about Jack's death. It had come as a shock to him, again bringing very mixed feelings to the surface. Close partners for years, living in each other's pockets, saving each other's lives – and yet Flynn never suspected what was going on behind his back. Something that only came to light after the debacle of the raid, and the whirlpool of accusation and counter-accusation that followed. When his and Jack's lives were being scrutinized and their personal lives went to rat-shit. That was when the affair came out and Faye decided she and Craig were better off without Flynn, but with Jack. And she left, taking the son he loved, preventing all but the barest contact with him. It drove Flynn to despair. That, plus the way he was treated at work, the powers that be deciding he should never come into contact with the public again. Humiliation, basically, eventually resulting in his resignation and upping sticks to Gran Canaria and the fishing boats . . . no son, wife or partner.

And the ironically named
Lady Faye
, the only female of that name he could control.

‘Flynn,' he said, picking up the phone he knew would ring.

‘Me,' came Jerry Tope's hesitant voice. ‘And don't think your threat has anything whatsoever to do with me calling you back. I don't submit to blackmail. I just see you as a potential source of Intel with regards to the whereabouts of two men suspected of murder.'

‘Whatever.'

‘What do you want?'

‘Tell me about Felix Deakin.'

‘Not much to tell. He hired a professional team to spring him from custody and he's still on the run almost a month later.'

‘Where is he?'

‘If I knew that . . .'

‘Where do you think he is?'

‘Out of the country, we assume. Why?'

‘I want to know.'

‘OK, so I've told you. Now you tell me about Jackman and Cromer?'

‘Who?'

‘Oh, up yours, Steve.'

‘What happened to Jack Hoyle?'

‘Jack Hoyle? What's he got do with . . . Ahh.'

‘Ahh, what?'

‘Deacon's after that money, isn't he?'

‘What money?'

‘As I said, up yours, pal.'

‘Tell me about Jack.'

‘Not much to tell. One day he disappeared, missing presumed drowned in a fishing accident off Conwy, North Wales. Overturned boat, big seas, no body ever found.'

‘And you fell for that?'

‘Not up to me to fall for. North Wales police investigated. As far as I know he's somewhere in the Menai Straits. Crab food.'

‘He was an experienced angler and boatman.'

‘Happens to the best of us.'

Flynn growled doubtfully.

‘So why are you phoning, Steve?'

‘Who's leading the investigation to catch Deakin?'

‘Henry Christie.'

Flynn's heart sank to a new low. ‘Right . . . OK.' He hung up without any further formality. His head tilted back and his eyes closed. ‘Fuck-shit-damn-bollocks,' he uttered. ‘Not that bastard.'

His next idea was to phone Craig's mobile, which he did from his own. As it connected, it clicked automatically to the answering service. He hung up, rocked forward and got to his feet. He went in to look at Faye who was fast asleep, murmuring something unintelligible. She looked to be out for the count and although the temptation to shake her awake was intense, he resisted.

Instead he walked through the bedroom to the en-suite shower and cleaned the day off himself. He dressed in the bedroom, his clattering about doing nothing to dent Faye's sleep. He cancelled his date with the Dutch kiosk lady, which she took with only a mild shade of disappointment. Next he prepared a chicken casserole with two breasts he bought from the nearby Netto store. It cooked slowly in the small oven.

Then he waited.

Faye came to at midnight. She ambled through the villa with a sheet wrapped untidily around her.

‘I need a fag and a shower and a drink,' she moaned. ‘Not necessarily in that order.'

Flynn was still out on the patio in shorts and T-shirt, sipping water, wishing it was whisky, and staring into the distance. He frowned at her, then took her back through the bedroom and turned on the shower for her. ‘I think everything you need'll be here. Your bag's in the bedroom.'

He left her to it. She reappeared twenty minutes later with damp hair, wearing one of Flynn's T-shirts, which dropped to about halfway down her thighs. She sat next to him and lit up. He never liked her smoking but loved the action of it. She crossed her slim legs and he couldn't fail to notice the lack of underwear.

‘Jeez, that's better,' she said after a long drag. ‘Now a drink,' she declared but caught his disapproving eye. ‘Just one, or two,' she said meekly.

‘Red wine or beer?'

‘A beer, then a wine.'

Flynn's eyeballs rolled, but he got up and waited on her, bringing a plateful of chicken casserole with the drinks, including a plate for himself. The chicken was tender, falling to pieces. Faye took a mouthful and groaned in a heavenly way.

‘I'm so hungry,' she said approvingly.

‘Enjoy,' Flynn said, ‘and speak at the same time.'

‘It was just a phone call out of the blue. Corny sounding, but scary, too. Y'know – if you want to see your son alive again, go to such and such a place.'

‘Where to?'

‘On the front at Blackpool, near North Pier.'

‘What happened?'

‘I was stood there and a guy brushed past me, shoved a padded envelope in my hand and was gone – phtt! I opened it and it was Craig's mobile, switched on. It started ringing and I answered it and it was Craig. God, he sounded so cool, but said he'd been kidnapped and if I wanted to see him alive again I had to do certain things.' She screwed up her face. ‘After my initial panic, I thought it was a big hoax. I told him to stop messing about, but then he cracked and I could tell it was for real.' She took a steadying breath. ‘Poor little lad.'

‘Keep talking,' Flynn said hastily.

‘I was told to look at a video clip on his phone, then the call finished. I did. It was Craig sitting there. He was tied to a chair with a hood over his head, then someone took the hood off and held a gun to his head . . . never came in shot, though.' Listening, Flynn went ice cold with fury. Every muscle in his body tensed, his teeth grating. Faye was finding it difficult to carry on, the memory affecting her. She placed her fork down and gathered herself together. Flynn resisted putting a hand on her arm. ‘And that was it. I was standing in a crowd of holidaymakers and had just been told my son had been kidnapped.'

‘Then what?'

‘Dunno. I was in a panic trance of some sort. I just went up and down the prom, bumping into people, just didn't know what I was doing. Then the phone rang again. A man said, “Steve Flynn has got a million pounds of my money and I want it back, or else your son is a dead son.” Exact words, stuck in my brain.'

‘Did he say it was Felix Deakin?'

She shook her head. ‘It could've been somebody else.'

‘Then what?' Flynn said again.

‘The line went dead. The number had been withheld, so I couldn't call back. I just sat in a tram shelter. It started to rain and the tourists seemed to disappear and I was by myself and I didn't know what to do. I must've sat there an hour, holding the phone, looking at it, couldn't believe any of it. Then it rang again.'

Flynn waited for her to compose herself. ‘And?'

‘Same voice said if I told the cops, Craig would be killed. All I had to do was contact you and get you to pay up. Simple.'

‘What did you say?'

‘That if I phoned you, you'd think it was a stupid ex-wife trick and wouldn't take me seriously. So they said I had to convince you. I said I'd only be able to do that face to face. They said, do it. So here I am, Steve. Do you believe me?'

‘Would you tell me a lie about Craig?'

‘No, never.'

‘Then I believe you. Did you bring Craig's phone?'

‘It's in my bag. But what about Craig? Do you' – her bottom lip began to quiver – ‘think he's really in danger?'

Flynn considered the question. ‘All I know is that Felix Deakin is a violent, brutal man who wouldn't think twice about killing someone, or having someone killed, including a kid. So, in answer to the question – yes, he's in mortal danger.'

‘And can you save him?'

‘Yes, of course I can. He's my son, isn't he?'

Faye sobbed uncontrollably. Flynn's face set hard and he held himself together – just, not remotely certain he could achieve what he had just claimed.

Faye dragged herself wearily back to Flynn's bed half an hour after she'd eaten and drunk three glasses of wine and a beer. She was still pretty much in a daze as she removed Flynn's borrowed shirt and stood there naked in front of him. He hadn't seen her body in about five years, but everything looked in first-class order.

‘I'd like you to come to bed with me,' she said simply.

Despite himself – and the situation – Flynn stirred, but he shook his head and retreated to the patio where he butt-ended two plastic chairs, grabbed a couple of cushions from the settee and settled himself down, deciding that a single shot of Jack Daniel's would come in useful.

He had the glass on his chest, his feet up across the chairs as he lay looking at the stars. He knew he would be unlikely to get any sleep. His head began to hurt, a painful throbbing behind his eyes.

It was his intention to get a flight back to the UK next day, hopefully the one Faye had a ticket for, but if that wasn't possible he'd pay the admin charge to have her ticket reallocated to him and she would have to return later. He wanted to get to the UK and deal with this himself. Not sure how. He'd have to wait for the next contact and take it from there.

He switched on Craig's mobile. Flynn's missed call beeped.

Then it rang.

Flynn jumped and answered it.

‘Flynn,' he said suspiciously.

‘Dad, it's me, Craig . . .'

‘Dad, I'm OK . . . honest, they haven't hurt me yet,' came Craig's childlike voice.

‘They'd better not, you goddam tell 'em, they'd better not.'

‘I am OK . . . Dad, just do what they say, please . . .'

‘Yeah, yeah,' Flynn gasped desperately on hearing his son's voice. ‘Don't worry, bud, you stay cool.'

There was a movement behind Flynn. He glanced over his shoulder to see a bleary-eyed Faye standing there, the sheet wrapped around her, having been woken by the ring tone and Flynn's voice. She started to say something. Flynn held up a silencing finger. ‘Listen, buddy,' he started to say to Craig, but was then interrupted by a male voice he didn't recognize. Could have been Deakin, but he wasn't sure.