Seizure (5 page)

‘What's the prognosis?'

‘Dunno . . . not good. She's old, weak and knackered – but she is a fighter. I'm not sure I'll see her walk out of here, though,' he concluded bleakly. He sighed, ‘Anyway . . .'

As he spoke, the door to the operating theatre opened and a guy who was obviously the surgeon stepped out, theatrically removing bloodstained latex gloves, then his cap. He was round faced and young. Henry and Rik stood up slowly – again, a little bit theatrically – even though Henry's right knee cracked and nearly gave way with a jolt of pain, which would have made it comic theatre if he'd gone down. He managed to retain his balance.

‘Are you the police?'

Henry nodded.

‘ID please.'

Henry fished out his warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Christie. I'm in charge of this case.'

‘Well in that case, officer, I'm afraid things have taken a turn for the worse. I couldn't save him and now you've got a murder on your hands.'

So Henry was right after all. It was a shitty end to a crappy day.

‘That was the most moving thing I've ever done in my life,' Gill Hartland sighed reflectively.

Steve Flynn, naked, returned from the bathroom and settled himself on the edge of the king-sized bed in her hotel room. ‘It was pretty good for me, too,' he cracked, bringing a punch on the arm from her.

‘Not that, you idiot, although it was good,' she said rolling back onto the bed, intertwining her fingers behind her head. ‘You know what I mean. Today.' She blew out her cheeks and stared at the ceiling. ‘First catching that marlin, beautiful, beautiful fish . . . then those poor, wretched people . . . unbelievable . . . and that baby.' She rubbed away a tear. ‘I don't do crying.'

Flynn sighed too. ‘Nine thousand boat people turned up in the Canaries last year, hundreds more died on the way. No one'll ever know how many. First time I've been involved with any. I always steer well clear of their boats.'

Gill rolled on to her side. The thin sheet slid down her arm, revealing her well-toned body as far as her waist. She reached out and grabbed Flynn's wrist. ‘You're a bit of a hero, aren't you, Steve Flynn?'

‘I'd've been a dead hero if Jose hadn't plugged that hammerhead.'

‘Jose?' she chortled. ‘Did he say he shot it?'

‘He didn't say anything, actually. I assumed . . .' Flynn's expression changed. ‘You did it!'

She smiled shyly. ‘Nearly made the winter Olympic shooting team years ago.'

‘Wow – thank you,' Flynn said sincerely. ‘It was an amazing shot.'

‘It was nothing.' She continued to search his face with her eyes, as though seeing him for the first time. ‘But you are a hero.'

‘Unsung – and I'd like to keep it that way.'

‘You're too modest.' Her eyes narrowed. ‘I've just realized I don't know anything about you, Mr Steve Flynn.'

‘Nothing to know.' He said it with a gentle finality that Gill picked up on and decided to change the subject. ‘And actually – you
were
pretty good.'

‘Pretty good?' Flynn roared mock-dramatically, glad the subject had moved on. He wanted to avoid any navel gazing. What had happened had happened. He recognized he had been driven by a fundamental human force, the instinct that drove people to protect and save others, and he hadn't particularly liked it. The last thing he needed was any deep, embarrassing introspection where he might be forced to get in touch with his sensitive side. He was a man of action, did what he had to do and got on with it. So he twisted and pinned Gill to the bed. He tugged the sheet right off her, exposing her wonderful body, and stared lustfully into her eyes.

‘Don't you need half an hour?' she teased. ‘That's what blokes usually say, isn't it?'

‘Not this one.'

‘So I see,' she smirked and slid a warm hand around the back of his neck, paused eye to eye, then yanked his head down. Their mouths clashed as they kissed passionately while Flynn rearranged himself above her. Then for the second time that night they made love. The first session had been fast and urgent, driven by their reactions to the day. This time it was slow, long and perfectly timed.

An hour later an exhausted Flynn was fast asleep, snoring softly.

Gill eased herself away from him. She tied a flimsy wrap around her body and quietly made her way to the decking outside her room. The clifftop hotel situated between Puerto Rico and Mogan had a magnificent vista across the ocean, of which Gill's expensive, ground floor garden room took full advantage. She settled herself on to one of the chairs, lit up a menthol cigarette – a treat she saved purely for her holiday – and ran over the day she'd just had. Turning to look through the wispy curtains, she watched Flynn sleeping. He was well gone. She picked up her Blackberry and started to make a few calls. Even though the hour was late, the Canary Islands were in the same time band as the UK, and there were people she needed to speak to, to get the ball rolling.

THREE

B
reathing heavily now, Flynn weaved his way through the narrow streets of Puerto Rico, his feet pounding the concrete footpaths, avoiding the numerous potholes and broken tiles along the way which had tripped many an unwary holidaymaker. He ran easily, descending all the time until he reached sea level at the beach, with the Puerta de Escala away to his right where
Lady Faye
was moored. For the moment, though, she was not his destination.

Cutting underneath the digital day/date/time/temperature display board by the curving sands – already reading twenty-four degrees at seven thirty a.m. – Flynn trotted down the few steps on to the beach and ran to the water's edge. He paused briefly to divest himself of his running singlet, shorts and trainers – fortunately he was wearing his swimming trunks – then ran on and plunged into the water. He began to swim powerfully across and back over the width of the bay in the tepid water. Eventually he dragged himself out after covering about a mile from side to side. He refitted his trainers, and wearing only his Speedos and carrying his other garments, he started running again. Not far this time, a few hundred metres.

Flynn's present accommodation was in a small, terraced villa backing on to the Doreste y Molina. It was a property owned by a fishing charter customer who rarely used it in the summer months. The idea of having someone in it who was sound and trustworthy had been one Flynn had sold to the owner after a particularly fruitful week of fishing in late May. He found himself ensconced for free in a pleasant two-bedroom villa, set halfway between Puerto Rico's busy commercial centre and the harbour. In October he knew he'd have to find a winter hidey-hole, but that didn't worry him. He had a few soft touches in the pipeline and this was how he'd lived for the past four years. He knew he'd be very unlucky not to be able to find somewhere cheap and cheerful, or free, to lay his hat over winter and to park his Nissan Patrol, which was presently squeezed on to the tight drive at the back of the property.

After warming down for a long ten minutes, Flynn showered thoroughly, shaved and changed into three-quarter length cargo pants, his beloved Keith Richards T-shirt, tatty baseball cap and deck shoes. Then he set off to the marina. On the way he stopped at a café run by a British couple where he grabbed a large black coffee and a full English breakfast.

Today, he knew, would be a tough day in more ways than one, and he wanted to be as fortified for it as possible.

As he stepped out from the shade of the café, the heat smacked him in the face. It was going to be another scorcher on Gran Canaria.

In contrast the streets of north Manchester were bitingly cold for a morning in late July. Henry Christie shivered, hunkered down in the front passenger seat of one of the firm's Vauxhalls and shoved his hands deep into his jeans pockets. He took a deep breath and wondered, not for the first time, about the sense in him being out here on the front line, especially with what was happening at home.

As if he could read Henry's mind, Rik Dean said, ‘You don't need to be here, y'know. Besides which, it's always pretty dangerous for me being out and about with you.' Rik rubbed his thigh, recalling a similar situation in the not too distant past when he'd been shot in the leg partnering Henry on a stakeout that went skew-whiff.

Henry squinted sideways at the DI. They had known each other for a long time. Henry had been instrumental in getting Rik on to CID when he'd been a mere PC with an uncanny ability for taking thieves. Rik's subsequent promotions had been down to himself alone and now Henry was trying his level best to wangle a place for him on FMIT. ‘I might as well be here,' Henry said. ‘There's nothing I can be doing back home . . . I just had to get away. It was doing my head in.'

He thought back to yesterday evening.

After having received the shocking news about the security guard, Henry had decided to strike while the iron was still a bit warm. Revelling in the new-found weight that came with the rank of superintendent, he got a manhunt up and running immediately. If the robbery hadn't turned into a murder he would probably have got a fully fledged major investigation under way the day after, but the death changed things completely. He hastily convened an urgent heads-together at Blackpool nick to implement a plan of action based on what was already known about the robbers from their previous two crimes and the intelligence gathered from them.

He knew that the Intel had matched up known offenders to the MOs – i.e. persons who had committed similar crimes in the past. There were a couple of ongoing surveillance operations, each targeting a likely crook from Manchester who had a history of pulling off similar jobs. Henry quickly brought himself up to date with the current position of these operations. He found himself extremely pissed off, but not surprised to find that the last time either of these guys had been surveyed was over a week ago. Problem was that the surveillance branch had limited resources and everyone wanted them. There was a lot of good will, but a limited amount of time people would work overtime without payment, or the likelihood of getting time off in lieu.

Henry ripped the fax off the machine in the CID office. It had just arrived from the surveillance branch, showing copies of the logs relating to the two suspects. In front of him were details of their previous convictions, Intel sheets from Greater Manchester Police, and their mugshots. He skimmed through the stuff and passed it round to the detectives he'd managed to assemble, giving them all ample time to read the contents.

‘These two guys are the main suspects for all three armed robberies, a suspicion based on past intelligence rather than firm evidence. Both men are very surveillance and forensically aware. They are careful, professional and extremely violent individuals. They both have a history in the use of firearms, as you can see.

‘They've been followed on and off since the second robbery, but their activities have not raised any suspicions – which means nothing, of course, except that the surveillance unit were pulled off to deal with something more pressing . . .' He scratched his head and lost his train of thought.

Rik Dean noticed the senior moment and picked it up for him. ‘They seem to be the best we've got at this stage. As we speak, my DS is swearing out warrants with a tame magistrate.'

‘Thanks, Rik,' Henry nodded, bringing his focus back on track. ‘This investigation will kick off big style tomorrow, but I'd like to get the ball rolling now. Greater Manchester are already sitting on these guys' addresses. It would seem they are both at home, waiting for us to kick their doors in. I'm pulling together two arrest squads, including firearms officers, and we're gonna hit both addresses simultaneously tomorrow morning, assisted by GMP.'

A murmur of approval rolled around the detectives like an audible Mexican wave. Most detectives liked action and that was now a feature of FMIT since Henry had moved into its highest echelon. He was a proactive leader and didn't spend much time ruminating.

The detectives spent the next hour planning strategies and tactics, a lot of time on phones.

It was after eleven p.m. when all the planning had been done and everyone other than Rik and Henry dispersed for a pint before a short night's sleep. Henry's would be shorter than everyone else's.

He had often been exhausted at work. It was the nature of what he did – long hours, often for no reward, other than the satisfaction of nailing villains. But today was very different. He had started at the normal time and it was after eleven now. That was pretty much a regular span for most adults, but the hospital interlude with his mother had seriously drained him.

‘You going back to see your mum?'

Henry nodded.

‘I'll come back up to the hospital with you, see how the FLO's going on,' Rik said. He was referring to the family liaison officer who'd been attached to the family of the dead security guard. He knew that the FLO and the grieving widow were still at Blackpool Vic.

Henry had returned to the cardiac unit, walking through deserted corridors until he found Kate. Loyally, she had stayed at his mother's bedside, even though their relationship had often been strained over the years.

Henry hugged her, getting a shot of much-needed energy from the embrace.

‘How is she?' he whispered. He stepped up to the bed and looked at his mother. She was sleeping, her chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly. If it hadn't been for that movement, Henry would have mistaken her for a corpse. She looked no better than earlier. A lump hammer pounded in his chest and he caught a brief glimpse of himself in the mirror on the wall over the wash basin.

He too looked old and ragged. His eyes had heavy bags under them and his skin was drawn. He reminded himself of a Gulag prisoner in some Russian novel. He looked like hell.

‘Stable,' Kate said. ‘Comfortable.'