Seizure (36 page)

‘Henry, hi, it's me,' the recorded female voice said. ‘Detective Superintendent Andrea Makin from the Met – remember me?' How could I forget her, he thought. ‘Give me a call back on this number. I'm working Organized Crime now, by the way. Look forward to hearing from you. Bye.'

He called immediately. ‘Andrea – Henry Christie. How are you?' he cooed. He had no trouble visualizing her, although he did redden a little at the memory of him being on top of her and, for some unaccountable reason, not being able to get an erection. But that was another story, so he blanked it out of his mind, had a bit of chit-chat with her about a case they'd fairly recently worked on together, then asked her what he could do for her.

‘It's actually what I can do for you,' she corrected him nicely.

‘All ears,' he said.

‘We have an ongoing investigation into a crime family down here . . . and, to put it simply, we've used a bit of a honey trap which uncovered a plot to have someone murdered . . .'

‘Sounds interesting.'

‘Scenario: single woman comes along, starts a relationship with a married man. Married man, unfortunately, is married to the mob. His wife is the daughter of a very big player down here in north London.' As Henry listened, everything inside him froze up, as did his skin, which contracted and became tight on him. Andrea Makin continued, ‘The marriage went pear shaped because of the arrival of this single woman, and as you know, there's nothing worse than a woman scorned. Unfortunately this woman, being the daughter of the crime boss, wanted this loose woman killed, so they contracted someone to do it. With me so far?'

‘Hell,' was all Henry could say.

‘And that contract killer, a rather pathetic figure if truth be known, is sitting in a cell in Lower Holloway, singing like Tweety Pie. Saying it all went wrong, he panicked, missed his target and shot a guy by mistake, instead of the woman he'd been contracted to waste.'

‘The guy being my DI.'

‘That just about sums it up.'

There was a pause. ‘And the name of the single woman?' Henry asked, half-hoping it couldn't be who he knew it was.

‘She's known as Lisa Christie,' Makin said. ‘Ring any bells?' she laughed.

Henry closed his eyes. Then said, ‘I'll dispatch that DI down to see you immediately, work out what needs to be done.'

Flynn had already done one of the two things he needed to do. That was to visit a west London cemetery to lay flowers on the grave of Gill Hartland. He spent about an hour with her, chatting about what might have been, but not getting too upset, because what they'd had, had been brilliant, even though cut short. When he walked away from the plot, he did not look back.

He was in the process of doing the second thing, sitting in the open air eating breakfast at the Two Friends Patio Restaurant in Key West, Florida. The food consisted of a ham-and-egg omelette with potato bits and wheat toast and a large, strong filter coffee, accompanied by a Grey Goose Bloody Mary, which really hit the spot. He was enjoying the food as he looked along Front Street. It was still early but already the heat was rising and approaching eighty degrees.

When he'd finished the food and was suitably refreshed, he paid the check and sauntered along Front Street, in the general direction of the Key West Bight and Charterboat Row. The plethora of boats made Puerto Rico look sick, many of them far more expensive than
Lady Faye
or
Faye2
. A sportsfisher's paradise, but a little over the top for him. He liked how basic Puerto Rico was, much more down to earth and seedy, even.

Of course, Key West was every big game fisherman's dream location, made famous by the exploits of people like Ernest Hemingway, and many years ago Flynn had thought he would love to live in a place like this. No longer, though. He'd found what he was after in the Canaries, understood the place, loved the people and had no desire to relocate and start again. If he'd had the chance twenty years ago, maybe the whole story would have been different.

He paused and looked with pleasure, not envy, at the boats and their crews – and the many lovely ladies adorning them. Maybe Puerto Rico could pinch one or two ideas, he thought.

He strolled to a pavement café with a pleasant view of Charterboat Row, and waited patiently with another coffee for company.

Moored in the water opposite him was a fine Albemarle sportfisher called
The Riff
. It was a forty-one footer with everything a client could want. The skipper was busy preparing the boat for a charter and did not see Flynn cross the road and approach the stern.

Flynn watched him for a few moments before the guy glanced up, squinting against the sun that was behind Flynn. It took a while for him to focus, and then he stood up slowly to his full height.

‘I knew you'd come,' Jack Hoyle said.

‘You're so predictable, Jack,' Flynn replied. ‘Not very hard to find at all.'

‘Yet you're the only one who has.'

‘Trust me, pal, I'm probably the first in a long line.'