Seizure (7 page)

Which was the case with Richard Last and Jack Sumner.

Henry knew he would struggle to put either of them at the scene of the robbery. If they were involved, they were very cute forensically and so far, neither the CCTV footage, witnesses nor intelligence had come up with anything useful.

And on top of that, Henry was beginning to suspect that neither man was involved anyway.

So the discovery of firearms at Last's house and a massive wodge of cocaine at Sumner's hidden under floorboards, did help matters. It gave the cops a toehold.

‘I've done nowt,' Last said cockily, and not for the first time. He was feeling better. His bowels had been evacuated and he'd had a chat with his solicitor, a sly, deep-eyed brief from Manchester, who sat back and watched the interview proceed with cold detachment.

‘I want to know where you were yesterday, what you did, who you saw, who you spoke to, which car you used,' Rik Dean insisted. ‘Then after I've followed all that up and spoken to the people concerned, I might believe you.'

Last took a slightly hesitant breath and his eyes flicked to his solicitor. It was an insignificant movement, but Henry saw it and hoped it would be captured on the videotape recording of the interview. He swallowed and his nostrils flared with the scent. Perhaps his earlier assumptions had been wrong. Maybe Last was involved.

‘I was at home all day.'

Up to that point, Henry had tended to believe Last's denials. But no longer. There was just
something
. Henry rolled forward. ‘Home all day?' he said sarcastically.

‘That's right.'

Henry allowed himself a half-smile, one not captured on tape because the camera was recording the back of his head. Last saw the smile, as did his solicitor.

‘I want to talk to my client,' the brief said, entering the conversation for the first time since introducing himself for the benefit of the tape. ‘I think we've reached a suitable juncture . . . gentlemen?'

The guy's name was Baron. He had trailed all the way from his practice office in Rochdale to represent Last. He was a squat, powerful-looking individual with a severe haircut that made him look more like an SAS trooper than a man of the law. Most were soft and pudgy in Henry's experience, but Baron had the feel of a cougar.

‘OK,' Henry said. Rik brought the interview to a halt.

‘Thoughts?' Henry said. He and Rik were in the canteen on the top floor of Blackpool Police Station, sipping coffee, eating bacon sandwiches. The detectives interviewing Last's partner, Jack Sumner, were still at it, but by all accounts getting nowhere.

‘Not much for us to go on if he sticks to his story.'

Henry nodded sagely, as superintendents are known to do when they have a head full of nothingness but would like people to think different. ‘At first I believed him, then there was a twitch when you mentioned his whereabouts. A smidgen of doubt.'

‘I saw it.'

‘OK. There still officers at his house?' Henry wanted to know. Rik nodded. ‘Contact someone there and get them knocking on neighbours' doors. See if anyone can cast a light on Last's comings and goings yesterday. If he's going to stick to his story, let's shove it up his arse if he is lying. Do we have someone there who could do that?'

‘Yeah. I'll sort it now.'

‘I'm also conscious the clock's ticking, so I might be looking at releasing these guys and doing some more work on them. And I want that surveillance operation back on them twenty-four seven from the moment they step out of custody. My authorization.'

‘I'll sort that, too.'

‘So unless they change their stories in the next three hours, or something turns up from the neighbours, both of which I doubt, let's bail them to come back here in a fortnight. Then we should also be somewhere down the line with the guns and the drugs, if nothing else.'

‘We could keep them in custody based on what we found in their homes,' Rik said.

‘Maybe we'll do that next time.' Henry smiled dangerously. ‘In the meantime, let's give them enough rope and see if they hang themselves . . .'

Flynn was sweating profusely, but the hard work was paying off.
Lady Faye
was looking as good as new. He stood erect, his knees and back aching, and surveyed the deck. It was midday and he was disappointed the boat wasn't up for charter because he was raring to get out on the ocean again and hook into some marlin. The sales kiosk further down the quayside had already turned away three half-day charters – good money – and they'd gone to other boats in the marina. Flynn was tempted to take
Faye
out himself for a couple of hours, maybe dispose of the rifle at the same time.

He squinted across the quay and spotted Gill Hartland approaching, accompanied by a man Flynn didn't immediately recognize. She was talking animatedly, gesturing towards the boat in a way which gave Flynn a queasy feeling. A sensation that increased tenfold to almost vomit level when he noticed another group of people behind Gill clambering out of a hire van.

Flynn could make out the logo on the sides of some aluminium suitcases being unloaded from the vehicle by these other folks – the emblem of a very well known UK breakfast TV company. Flynn realized the luggage being placed on the quayside was in fact equipment cases. One of the people was even unfolding a large aerial of some sort.

Flynn's face dropped as the man with Gill stopped and shouted something at the people by the van, thereby confirming his fear that they were connected.

Flynn's whole being stiffened up. The man with Gill was saying things he could not hear but he seemed to be giving instructions, then he turned and pointed in Flynn's direction.

Jose emerged from the small galley with two mugs of tea. He picked up on Flynn's shocked expression and stared at what Flynn was looking at.

‘What is it?'

‘Not one hundred per cent, but I have a very nasty taste in my mouth at this moment in time.'

Jose handed him one of the mugs. ‘Here, drink,
amigo
. Sorry it is not something stronger.'

It was one of those raging arguments held out of the hearing, but in full view of others. Two people head to head, trying vainly to keep their voices below a scream, but with their body language betraying their every emotion. One of them using open, placatory gestures, asking for reason; the other pointing, enraged, one hand slashing down in a karate-like chop into the palm of the other hand, until finally spinning away, arms up in the air; then making a strangling gesture before turning back to the other person, relenting and calming as she stepped forward and snaked a hand around his neck . . .

‘Hey babe, c'mon, calm down,' Gill Hartland cooed, stepping into the seething rage of Steve Flynn, sliding a hand around his neck.

Flynn's lips had been drawn back tight against his teeth in a snarl, but her touch and soothing words gradually brought him down from the heights.

‘I don't want to be on TV,' he stated. ‘It's not me. I don't want to draw attention to myself.'

‘Steve, you're a mega hero, shark wrestler, baby saver, people saver . . . you're an unbelievable guy.'

‘You'll be telling me next my middle name should be Crocodile.' He emitted a long, steadying breath.

‘Maybe it should.' She took hold of his T-shirt and gave him a gentle shake. ‘You did something heroic and it should be brought to the attention of the public. And your story will also highlight the plight of these poor people. People in the UK hear things about them occasionally, but this'll bring it slap-bang into their consciousness.'

‘For how long, two days? It's the breakfast time equivalent of chip paper. It'll change nothing.'

‘So what?
You
still deserve the recognition.'

Flynn looked along the quayside. The TV crew and presenter stood in an impatient huddle around a camera and sound boom. Jose stood to one side of them, smirking.

‘You managed to get people from a UK TV company to jump on a plane at short notice just to come and speak to me? You must have some clout.'

‘Yup.'

‘I think I recognize that presenter guy.'

‘He's pretty well known.'

Flynn sighed for the hundredth time and regarded Gill. She raised her finely lined eyebrows. ‘Think of the free advertising. The charter business will go through the roof.'

He ran a hand down his features. ‘Jee-sus,' he whined. ‘You did it without asking me.'

‘If I had done, what would you have said?'

The corners of Flynn's mouth twisted down cynically. No need to reply to that one.

‘I have advised my client to tell you the truth and once he has said it, there will be nothing more forthcoming from him. It is patently obvious, detectives, that you are on a fishing expedition' – on those words, Henry swallowed – ‘and have arrested my client on a wing and a prayer.' The solicitor, Baron, sat back and invited a retort from Henry or Rik Dean.

‘Let's hear what he has to say, then,' Henry said. ‘Mr Last?'

‘I had nothing to do with this robbery or the killing of that security guard. I was at home all day yesterday with the exception of spending half an hour in the garden. It was a nice day, but I spent most of it watching TV and DVDs. End of,' he concluded.

Henry nodded, pouted, considering the pithy statement. Then his eyes levelled with Last's. ‘I don't believe you. However, you have some very serious allegations to answer anyway in connection with the firearms found at your premises. What we intend to do is this: check out your story, have the guns forensically examined and speak to you again in two weeks' time, unless something comes to light which necessitates an earlier conversation.'

‘Does that mean you're giving me bail?'

‘With certain conditions, yes.'

‘Which really means you have fuck all on me—'

‘Mr Last,' the solicitor cut in quickly, warning him with a look that said, ‘Shut it.'

Henry smirked. ‘That remains to be seen, Mr Last.'

It was one of Steve Flynn's most unpleasant experiences and when the rather intimately fitted microphone was extracted from his clothing, his relief was evident. He was a shy man at heart, did not like to blow his own trumpet, and retelling his deeds of derring-do (not mentioning a rifle) was arse-twitching for him. He had been cross-examined in court on many occasions but he found sitting in front of a camera being asked inane questions by a smarmy presenter was far more painful.

‘You were brilliant,' Gill Hartland told him. ‘Now what they want to do is go out on the boat so you can take them to where the rescue actually took place and maybe show you fishing as well.'

Flynn's face screwed up for the umpteenth time. ‘Why – what are you getting out of this, Gill?'

She regarded him cynically. ‘On this occasion, nothing. I'm doing it for the reasons I've already told you. I've got the connections to get this story told and the fact that you're a bit of a hunk and can string more than three sentences together – unlike most of my clients – is a bonus. You're a hero, Flynn – bask in it.'

‘Y'think I could get a modelling contract?'

‘Mm, age may be against you there,' she kidded, but then her eyes narrowed. ‘But I could get you on a dozen daytime chat shows and you could sell your story to a women's magazine I have a contact with. I bet I could get you twenty-five grand out of all this . . .'

‘Whoa – hold it right there.' Flynn raised his hands to stop her before she really got into her flow, her eyes sparkling with possibilities. ‘Let's just leave it at this, shall we? I've already had my fill of the media, ta.'

‘Wouldn't the money come in useful?'

‘Any money would come in useful, but not this way. Not my scene.'

‘OK babe, fair enough,' she relented.

‘Besides which, I don't want some greedy agent taking twenty per cent of my hard-earned dough.'

FOUR

F
elix Deakin had become a creature of habit. He knew better than most that routine could be fatal in his line of work, because once the enemy, whoever they might be, whichever side of the fence they might be on – law or lawless – got to know where you were and what you might be doing at any point in the day, they could use that knowledge and move in for the kill. It was a fact of life, and regularity and predictability were things Deakin had been at pains to avoid ever since he'd learned as a youngster on the streets that the packages his father asked him to deliver were not full of caster sugar.

But for the moment he was past caring and couldn't give a toss who knew where he was and what he was doing at any time of day.

The first habit he'd got into was waking up at six forty-five a.m. precisely every morning. Then he would lie in his king-sized bed, his hands clasped behind his head, listening to the twitter of garden birds in the trees outside and the gentle breathing of the woman next to him. The heat of the Mediterranean day was already rising.

An idyllic peace.

Next he would turn to the woman who, familiar with his habits and needs by now, would flutter open her eyes, blink the sleep away and gaze adoringly at him.

‘Hi, hon,' she would always whisper in that throaty, early morning way.

‘Darlin',' he responded with a half-smile.

She would snuggle in close, her voluptuous naked body hot and soft against him from the night's sleep. He could feel every contour of her and would start to respond as her fingertips danced lightly across his hairy chest, down over his stomach, making his muscles quiver as she took hold of him. This forced a grunt from his throat as she worked him deftly. Then at the right moment her tousled head would disappear under the single sheet.

Afterwards he would clamber sleepily out of bed into the en-suite shower for a long hot soapy wash, followed by a close wet shave and the application of a soothing balm to moisturize his face and keep his skin young looking.