Seizure (31 page)

‘Hey, no problem.' Rik sounded relieved. ‘The quack says I can get back to work next week – light duties. I'm raring to get back.'

Not as raring as you could be, Henry thought. Rik's liaison with Lisa had put his eagerness to return to work on the back burner. ‘How's things with Lisa?' Henry asked, hoping it sounded innocent, especially when he added, ‘Just by the by, I'm OK with you two. I think it was just a big brother thing initially. But, fact is, you're two grown-up people, so it's none of my business – although bonking in my house is still strictly a no-no.'

Rik uttered a laugh of relief. ‘I'm really glad to hear that, H. It's going well and we had a great day today. She drove us up to the Lakes – Ambleside and all that. We're meeting up for a meal at eight. I think she'll be spending the night at my pad.'

‘Yeah, whatever.' Henry now tried to sound uninterested. ‘Anyway, glad you're feeling better.' He ended the call on a friendly note and snapped his phone shut. His face was screwed up with anger. He started the car and screeched away from the kerb.

Flynn let out a stream of muttered curses following his meeting with Henry Christie. Having thanked Jerry for fixing it up, he left police HQ and drove back to Blackpool, flummoxed as to how he was going to deal with his precarious position and save his son.

Depending on how Deakin was marking the hours, there was a maximum of three days left, time that was sifting through his fingers like fine sand. And he'd heard nothing on Craig's phone, which was constantly at his side.

He wasn't even sure what he'd hoped to achieve by his half-baked plan of speaking to Henry. Yes, he was. He wanted Henry to take him on board as some sort of ‘consultant' in the hunt for Deakin. The idea was that Flynn would be able to glean enough information from the investigation as to Deakin's possible whereabouts to enable him to wade in before the cops could move and liberate Craig, while killing Deakin if necessary.

That's how dumb and uncoordinated his thinking was. There was nothing joined up about it and now he was floundering.

Henry had been no help, but Flynn accepted that was his own fault as much as anything. Despite his grand claims, there had been nothing to offer, even though it was true Flynn knew as much as anyone about Deakin. After all, he'd spent months building up a huge intelligence and information dossier on him, much of it unused (and Flynn had a thought there that went nowhere), leading up to the ill-judged raid. If the raid had gone well, Flynn and Hoyle would have been covered in laurels as opposed to shite.

But the reality was Flynn knew nothing helpful to Henry. His claim about Deakin being in the country may well have been correct, but where was the proof to back it up? Other than revealing that Craig had been kidnapped and Deakin was demanding money with menaces, Flynn simply had zilch. And he didn't want to say anything to Henry about Craig because if Deakin got wind the cops were involved, Craig would be dead for sure. Flynn was positive that Deakin would either kill him outright or abandon him to die.

It didn't help Flynn's case when Henry asked him about why he'd phoned Jerry to ask about Jackman and Cromer, either. Flynn's evasive answer and body language told Henry Flynn wanted everything on his terms, and that wasn't the game Henry was going to play.

Hence the flea in his ear.

As much as Flynn did want to handle things his way, make the running, take the initiative, the means to do this eluded him. And time was running out.

He drove back to Faye's house on a small, neat estate in Blackpool South. It was actually the house they'd shared as a married couple until it all went sour. She had originally left, then had Flynn thrown out and came back to live with Jack. It was strange for Flynn to pull up outside the property that was once his.

He'd crashed out in Craig's room on arriving from Gran Canaria, avoiding the offer of a shared bed with Faye. Although they'd shared a passionate incident in Puerto Rico, it had been of the moment, not to be repeated. She got the message with a sad, understanding face.

For the first time ever – Faye wasn't strong in the kitchen department – there was food waiting for him on his return. A beef casserole and jacket potato that Flynn wolfed down with a mug of tea, observed by Faye while she picked at her food and spun a tall glass of Chardonnay by its stem as she sat opposite. She held back the questions until he finished eating.

‘How did it go?'

‘Dead end.' He swigged the last of the tea, which tasted wonderful. It was something he couldn't seem to recreate on the island. He declined the temptation of a beer because he wanted to keep his system clean now until this whole thing was over. ‘Henry Christie obviously despises me and even though I pleaded with him, there was nothing I could offer him. I need to start turning stones over by myself if I want things to happen.' He sat back, squinted at Faye. He still found her hellish attractive and knew if she tried to cast a spell, he'd probably dance to it like the mop in
Fantasia
. ‘Tell me about Jack,' he said.

‘What do you want to know?'

Flynn considered the question for a moment. ‘Why did he leave you?' He had to keep a note of triumph from his voice. He knew Jack had left his wife and moved in here when Flynn moved out. Flynn had then resigned from the force and gone to Gran Canaria. What he didn't know was how soon Faye and Jack had split after that. Because she had denied him access to Craig, Flynn had decided quickly, and probably misguidedly in hindsight, to sever all ties as he was hurt so badly by the betrayal. At that time it had seemed the right thing to do if he was to operate as a human being; it was only Craig's occasional secret phone calls that kept him and his beloved son in contact.

‘I don't know,' Faye answered the question. ‘He talked about the pressure of the situation, how his own wife was making life hell for him, which she was – bitch! His kids had turned against him, his other workmates didn't want anything to do with him, working under a cloud of suspicion.'

Flynn's mouth twisted sardonically here, resisting the urge to say, ‘And? What did he expect?' Jack had had the audacity to stay in the cops and try to tough it out despite the incredible internal pressure.

Faye went on, ‘He just upped and left one day, no explanations, nowt. Never saw him again, then I heard about the boating accident in Wales.'

Flynn nodded. ‘I don't think you know how much you hurt me, both of you,' he said.

‘Sorry. Maybe we could . . . when all this is over . . .?'

Even as she spoke, Flynn's head was shaking. ‘Let's just concentrate on getting Craig back in one piece.'

She took a long drink of the chilled wine and refilled the glass.

‘Did Jack ever speak of the money?'

‘Only that the allegation was untrue. He always denied it, saying Deakin was just being a stirring bastard, claiming the cops were bent. Were you?'

‘Never dishonest. Overzealous to get results, maybe.'

‘I knew that of you,' she confirmed to herself, ‘but not of Jack. Not that I ever saw any evidence of the money.'

Flynn's mind was working overtime, many simultaneous thoughts tumbling alongside each other, past, present, future. It was one from the past that grabbed him at that juncture as he recalled what had jarred his mind when he'd earlier been thinking about the information he'd gathered about Deakin. ‘When was the last time you went into the loft here?' he asked.

‘I've never been in the loft,' she said, puzzled. ‘Going into lofts isn't a woman thing.'

Flynn got to his feet quickly and went upstairs. The entrance to the loft was above the landing. He could easily reach the bolt to release the hatch, which swung down to reveal the black space in the rafters.

‘Where's the ladder hook?' Flynn was tall, but even he couldn't reach high enough to grab the extending ladders, the ones he'd fitted a lifetime ago. Faye was on the stairs, looking perplexed. ‘Y'know, the long piece of wood with a hook in the end you drag the ladders down with?'

Faye thought hard, her features scrunching up. Then it came to her. She went into the spare third bedroom. Flynn heard her muttering and moving a few things around, then she emerged bearing a length of cane with a hook screwed into the tip, another great piece of DIY created by Flynn. He was amazed at how skilled he'd been. Fitting the ladder had been the hardest thing he'd ever done, DIY not being one of his strongest points.

He dragged the steps down, climbed up and peered into the loft. He flicked on the light switch affixed to one of the joists and was surprised when a weak light came on. It was a mess up here. Boxes, old suitcases, Craig's Scalextric. Flynn experienced a momentary emotional lapse, remembering he'd bought it for Craig on his eighth birthday.

‘What're you after? The missing money?' Faye called.

‘I wish. No, an old file from work.' He hauled himself up and perched on the edge of the hatch, legs dangling. He reached in and moved a few things around. ‘Here we go,' he said, finding a foolscap document wallet, fastened by a rubber band. He turned the light off and came down the steps, sliding them back into place and closing the hatch.

The file was a good inch thick. Flynn opened it on the dining table, a trickle of trepidation tingling through him. This was the unofficial file he'd kept on Deakin while building up his case against him. Flynn had a habit of doing this, keeping a file that ran parallel to the official one. While it contained and mirrored much of that file, there was stuff in it for his eyes only. He did this because he was acutely aware of the disclosure rules in criminal cases, where the prosecution were obliged to disclose virtually everything to the defence, even scraps of paper with notes scribbled on by detectives. Things that might not be evidentially valuable, but could be crucial to tripping up an investigation. Flynn knew what he did was wrong, but sometimes things got written down baddies shouldn't see.

He leafed slowly through the file. Much of what it contained was pretty harmless and he didn't actually know what he was searching for – if anything. There was a lot of background information on Deakin and his organization, its structure and finances. Flynn knew much of this had been sanitized into court-friendly documents. It included lists of associates, family, contacts, and in a separate envelope some names of possible informants in Deakin's set-up. One of the names had a pink highlighter line over it. This puzzled Flynn. He could not recall why he'd done this. There was a question mark next to the name –
Dennis Grant?
– but the mists of time had dimmed his memory as to why. There was an address alongside the name.

He sat back thoughtfully.

‘Something?' Faye asked. She had been watching him.

‘Name Dennis Grant mean anything to you?'

She was tipping the last of the Chardonnay into her glass, shaking the bottle to get all the drops out. Flynn recalled that drink had always been a bit of an issue with her. ‘Nahh . . . huh! Dennis the Menace,' she hiccuped and belched quietly.

‘No, this is serious. Dennis Grant,' he said firmly, then, ‘Look, getting arseholed won't help our cause here.'

She stared at him through watery eyes, lips pursed. Then she dissolved into tears. ‘I know,' she wept. ‘I just don't know what to do, how to handle it. Suppose Craig gets murdered . . .' Her shoulders shuddered and she covered her face with her hands.

Flynn touched her arm. ‘He won't, I'll make sure of that.' And then a thought struck him: Dennis the Menace. He and Hoyle had spent a lot of time gleaning information from informants. Some they shared, some they dealt with properly – by the book – and some they kept to themselves, not even allowing the other partner to know their informants' identity. Much of what he and Hoyle did was completely against regulations concerning the handling of sources, but they had always flown by the seat of their pants and never cocked up. They respected each other's rights to have their own personal informants, even if they did constantly try to discover their identities, usually unsuccessfully. A little game both played.

Flynn remembered that when they were closing in on Deakin they had used a lot of info gleaned from one of Jack's sources who, he claimed, was close to the target. It was information provided by this guy that eventually led to the raid on the counting house.

Flynn racked his brain. Something had clicked in a deep recess. A memory of a fleeting conversation with Jack. Hardly anything, but one where Jack had realized he'd said too much about an informant he had referred to as ‘a right menace'. He'd become worried, coughed and changed the subject – quickly. Subsequently Flynn had gone through the unofficial file, highlighted Grant's name and speculated whether or not this was Jack's informant. Now he remembered dismissing the idea after checking Grant's criminal record and Intel file. He was too low level to be providing anything useful.

Or maybe Flynn had been wrong. Perhaps Grant
was
the source:
Dennis the Menace
.

Flynn found Grant's record at the back of the file. It was basic stuff: name, address, date of birth, etc. The connection to Deakin was that Grant was a low-level gofer, a fetch-me, carry-me man, delivering and collecting drugs, money, guns and occasionally people. The man who would get caught and take the rap. A mule. Low down the chain, his position of importance probably exaggerated by Jack. But maybe Grant was in the know or had heard something vital – like the janitor no one ever thought about.

His address was in Blackpool, a flat in North Shore. But it was five years ago, every chance he'd moved on. There was a mobile number for him, too. Once again, every chance it had been replaced a dozen times.

For Flynn, though, it was a start.

For Flynn, though, it was a start.

Henry tapped on the bedroom door. Behind it he could hear a hair drier on full blast and music blaring out. He knocked louder and both sounds stopped.