Low Profile

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Where the fuck is this bitch going?’ Hawke growled at the wheel of the Nissan Note. The car he was following seemed to be travelling for ever and he was getting annoyed now, wondering if it was worth it … though he knew it was.

  He had travelled behind the four by four all the way from the point where the woman driver dropped the detective off, then along the A586 through Great Eccleston and St Michael’s on Wyre until it hit the A6. She turned left and headed towards Lancaster.

  In spite of the raging pain in his chest and upper right arm, Hawke kept to his task.

  The four by four drove through Lancaster and straight on to the A683, under the M6 at junction 34 and out into the rural area that was the valley of the River Lune.

  ‘Fuckin’ bitch going?’ he demanded again, not having a clue as to where he was as they drove through a village called Caton and continued along that ‘A’ road until eventually bearing right before reaching Hornby, on to very narrow country roads that wound and twisted and were virtually devoid of traffic, making following her without alerting her much harder. He kept a respectable distance, guessing that even if she had seen him behind her, she wouldn’t be too concerned. Why would she be? She had no reason to suspect that a hit man was following her.

  She drove quickly and confidently along these tight roads which she obviously knew well, cutting and speeding into corners with skill.

  Hawke kept her in sight.

  Eventually she reached a village signposted as Kendleton, the road plunging down into it. She slowed and turned into the car park of a large old pub called the Tawny Owl, jumped out of her car and walked swiftly in through the front entrance. The place was open for business and as Hawke drove past he saw a sign advertising en suite rooms, breakfasts, morning and afternoon teas and coffees, lunches and dinners.

  He swung the car around at the first available turning point and came back into the village, into the pub car park, stopping alongside the four by four.

  He was going to go in and say hello.

  But first, he needed to re-grease himself.

  He slid off his zip-up jacket, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it down, having to contort his neck in order to be able to look down at his injury. He peeled off the gauze and revealed the ugly, weeping burn on the upper right quarter of his chest, shoulder and bicep where the flare had hit him. Hawke hissed at the pain as he reached for the soothing ointment he had with him and spread it carefully across the wound, gritting his teeth and wincing. He knew he needed proper medical treatment, but that would have to wait until he had done his homework. He replaced the gauze and eased his shirt and jacket back on, then swallowed a handful of extra strong ibuprofen tablets, just to take the edge off the pain. He checked his face in the rear view mirror and snarled at the crescent-shaped cut on his forehead caused by the lucky throw of the torch; fortunately it had now stopped bleeding. Then he was out of the car, walking towards the pub.

  He looked at the sign above the door on which the licensee’s name was displayed: Alison Marsh. His eyes glanced over the ego-certificates on the wall just inside the entrance. This was a pub-cum-hotel really, advertising half a dozen rooms, and had been awarded various accolades by tourist boards and the local council.

  The aroma of frying bacon wafted out, making him feel suddenly hungry.

  He had not eaten since his plunge into the river off the jetty and now he was famished. A full English breakfast was just what he needed, so he pushed his way through the revolving door and entered.

  To his left, in the dining room, an oldish couple were being served breakfast by a young waitress and as he entered the woman he had just tailed all the way here emerged from the kitchen, fastening on an apron.

  She smiled at Hawke. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Hi there … saw the sign for breakfasts. Not too late, I hope?’

  ‘Not at all.’ She beamed pleasantly. ‘Would you like to take a seat in the dining room and I’ll bring a menu?’

  ‘Very kindly of ya.’

  He went into the dining room and saw there were actually two couples breakfasting. He nodded amicably at them and found a seat at the table by the bow window, overlooking the car park and the village further down the road. The woman came back with the menu.

  ‘Would you like a drink to be going on with?’

  ‘Filter coffee?’

  She nodded.

  ‘This is a great place,’ he said generously. ‘Is it yours?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled proudly.

  He looked at her face, which was very pretty, though there was something slightly out of kilter with it … plastic surgery – not much, but there if you looked.

  ‘Wow! Y’run it with your husband?’

  She smiled shyly. ‘No … I don’t have one of those …’

  ‘Oh gosh, sorry, didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘No, it’s not that.’

  ‘Hey – no problem.’ He glanced at the menu, then raised his eyes. ‘Full English, I reckon … rude not to.’

  She nodded. ‘You’re an American.’

  ‘Yeah, just passing through,’ he drawled, putting it on thick. ‘Checking out the Lake District.’

  ‘Ah well, you’re slightly off target.’

  ‘Well,’ he corrected himself, ‘I know that, but just following my nose, I guess, exploring all around.’

  ‘Don’t blame you … it may not be the Lakes around here, but it’s just as nice … where are you staying?’

  ‘Relatives,’ he said vaguely.

  ‘Oh, OK.’

  ‘But maybe I should have a night or two here.’

  ‘We have vacancies tonight,’ she offered. ‘I’ll get your coffee and breakfast.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Hawke watched her go, wondering about her face … thinking how much he would like to pound it to a mush, then put a thirty-eight through her skull.

  Henry was still at the crime scene, reluctant to leave, reluctant to let anyone touch it or move anything because he knew there was only ever one chance and once the vultures descended – to do their jobs, admittedly – there was never any going back.

  The position of the bodies had been recorded by the CSIs on digital cameras and video, as had the whole of the living room and all the approaches to the scene through the house, up the drive, along the lane. When they had eventually been turned over, that moment too was recorded, and the full extent of their head wounds was revealed.

  Henry watched dispassionately, but there was a little flutter in his chest as he realized that he could easily have been the third victim here and a crime scene examiner could now be heaving his body over for a better look.

  He banished the thought; best not to dwell on it. He looked at DCI Woodcock. ‘Let’s go for a stroll.’

  Hawke had to admit that the full English was excellent, though it was not really the type of food he embraced. After eating he sat back with his second coffee and tried not to think too much about the burning sensation.

  ‘Was that OK for you?’

  It was the woman again. He said yes, then, ‘So you must be the lady whose name is over the door on that fancy hand-painted sign … Alison …?’ He pretended not to be quite able to remember her surname.

  Alison picked up his plate. ‘Marsh … yes, that’s me.’

  ‘So … look, sorry, not to pry, but how come this place is yours? Must be an interestin’ story there.’ He posed the question in a conversational way.

  ‘It’s a long story, but I run it with my stepdaughter, Ginny.’

  ‘You said you didn’t have one of those husband things …’

  ‘I don’t … like I said, long story.’

  ‘Hey!’ He held up his hands. ‘I apologize … just curious, and don’t mean nothin’ by it … but I also can’t help but notice the rock on “that” finger … third finger, left hand … engaged?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘Us Yanks do … inbuilt curiosity.’ He grinned, although it was more a grimace than a gr
in as a shot of pain made him want to crease over.

  ‘I am engaged – you’re right,’ she said.

  ‘Wow – congratulations.’ Hawke held out his hand. Alison, holding his plate with her left hand, shook it with her right. ‘Who’s the lucky guy?’

  ‘Erm, his name’s Henry,’ she said, almost shyly.

  ‘Does he work here?’

  ‘No, not yet. He’s a police officer … hopefully he’ll retire soon and then we’ll run this place together … at least that’s the plan.’

  ‘Well, ma’am, you have my very best wishes for the future,’ Hawke said magnanimously.

  ‘Thank you, you’re very kind.’

  Alison collected everything from the table but Hawke’s coffee, gave him a sweet smile, then headed back to the kitchen.

  Hawke turned to the window, his cold eyes not focusing on the pretty village scene in front of him, his mind collating the information he had just put together by asking a series of very innocent questions. He drank his coffee, left more than enough money on the table for the meal and walked out of the pub.

  He had every intention of returning.

  FIVE

  As instructed, Flynn turned east towards the African mainland once the boat was clear of Puerto Rico; then, when far enough away from the possibility of prying eyes, he spun Faye around and headed back, keeping Gran Canaria on his right. He ploughed west through the deep Atlantic, following the lower curve of the southern edge of the island, eventually heading north.

  The sea was comparatively smooth, but even so Faye crested and dipped through the white caps as she made easy progress. These were the type of sea conditions she revelled in, and Flynn loved being at the helm of a boat he adored. It was a movement, however, that did nothing to alleviate the seasickness that had taken over Costain’s girlfriend, who Flynn had learned was called Trish. She hung pitifully over the side, retching horribly on an empty stomach and getting no sympathy from Costain, who seemed unaffected by the motion and stood behind Flynn in the cockpit.

  ‘She might be better in the stateroom,’ Flynn suggested over his shoulder. ‘She can crash out there in air-conditioned splendour.’ He did know, though, that doing this – lying down, eyes closed – often made the condition worse. ‘Or failing that she can have a coffee and food. There’s some sarnies in the cool box. Sometimes eating actually helps.’

  Costain just sniggered.

  The girl was left to heave.

  They passed Puerto Rico, then, further along the coast, Puerto de Mogán, a more upmarket resort than the now slightly squalid Puerto Rico. Although they were well out of sight of each port, the mountains behind rose grandly, reminding Flynn, as ever, that Gran Canaria was stunningly beautiful.

  Beyond Mogán, the coastline became more barren and hostile and less accessible, although there was a series of excellent beaches along this stretch, Lomo Tasarte, but they were difficult to get to other than on foot along some precarious footpaths, or by boat.

  Costain was consulting a fold-out tourist map of the island he had taken from his rucksack.

  Over his shoulder, Flynn said, ‘If you’re sightseeing, you won’t see much of the island from this distance. I need to get in closer.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. Just drive this thing, will you?’ He glanced at the map, then Flynn. ‘Where are we now?’

  Flynn checked his GPS. ‘Just about level with Veneguera now.’ That was one of the sandy beaches on this stretch of coast.

  Costain nodded. ‘Keep going and let me know when we get near Punta de las Tetas.’

  Flynn said, ‘OK.’ He set the automatic pilot and stood up from his seat.

  ‘Where the fuck d’you think you’re going?’

  ‘To make coffee and to look after my customers. You can keep an eye out for other boats if you want, but the radar will scream like a banshee if we get too close to anyone.’

  He shouldered past Costain and crossed the deck to Trish, who had slumped down in a ragged collection of limbs and a lolling head. She glared malevolently at him and growled, ‘Fuck this.’

  ‘You might be better inside,’ Flynn said. He crouched down next to her. ‘At least you can lie down and it’s cooler.’ He held out his hand and was amazed as an expression of gratitude came over her face; she reached out and grabbed it. He hauled her gently to her wobbly legs and held on to her hand as Faye rolled sideways. She staggered a little two-step, so he slid an arm around her waist to steer her across the deck into the stateroom, past Costain who watched darkly and offered no help. Once inside, she flopped gratefully on to the settee and covered her face with her hands, moaning as only a seasickness-stricken person could. Flynn felt sorry for her, being dragged along on this expedition. ‘There is chilled water in the fridge and some sandwiches in the cool box,’ he told her, but the prospect of food consumption only made her moan even louder, then roll over and bury her face in the cushions.

  Flynn came out of the stateroom under Costain’s watchful eyes. ‘Best place for her is under a tree,’ he said.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Flynn twisted on to the helm chair and took control of the boat again after having put the kettle on. Checking their position he saw they were sailing parallel to Playa del Cerrillo, about twelve kilometres up the coast from Puerto Rico.

  He was suddenly aware of Costain up uncomfortably close behind him. The man’s mouth was close to his left ear. A chill slithered down his spine.

  ‘Ever touch that girl again and I’ll take umbrage,’ Costain breathed. ‘Get my meaning?’

  Flynn sighed. ‘I did what you should have done when I suggested it. Helped a lady in distress.’ He used the word ‘lady’ advisedly.

  ‘I decide what help she gets.’

  ‘And I decide what goes on on my boat. And I decide if we turn back to port or not. Get my meaning?’ He turned to Costain, who had taken a step away.

  They locked on to each other, then Costain’s face cracked into a smile. He backed off, hands raised. ‘Hey man, only joshing, fuckin’ hell!’ He was backtracking in every sense.

  ‘Go check on her,’ Flynn said, ‘then come back on deck and tell me exactly where you want to go and what you want to see.’

  Costain’s face set hard again, not responding well to other people’s orders. He went past Flynn into the stateroom, muttering and slamming the sliding door shut.

  The old man’s voice was croaky, distant, harsh. ‘Where the hell are you?’

  Hawke negotiated a tight bend in the road whilst holding the mobile phone to his left ear. ‘On my way back.’

  ‘How did it go?’ the old man demanded.

  ‘It went. He’s dead. Just a bit of a complication.’

  ‘I like the word “dead”. I don’t like the word “complication”.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be a problem for you, it’s one I have to sort.’

  ‘Make certain of that.’

  After hugging the coastline – but not too closely – in a slight north-westerly direction, they rounded the Punta de las Tetas where the island met the sea dramatically in rugged cliffs plummeting into the ocean. Costain emerged from the stateroom and asked Flynn for their current position.

  ‘This is where you wanted to be.’ Flynn pointed towards the harsh landscape.

  Costain shaded his eyes. The sun was well up into the morning sky now and the heat was beginning to sear. ‘The Punta de las Tetas?’

  ‘That’s the one. Wanna go in, take some photos or something?’

  ‘Nah, carry on sailing, pal. Up the coast, then tell me when we reach Puerto de la Aldea.’

  Flynn sighed. ‘OK.’ He settled back and decided simply to enjoy the ride. It was quite rare for him to come this far north, as most of his fishing was concentrated in the deep waters south of Puerto Rico.

  Costain flopped on the sofa bench in the cockpit and laced his fingers behind his head as he surveyed Flynn critically.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ Costain asked at length.

&nb
sp; Flynn did not even glance at him. He took a sip of his coffee, then said, ‘Should I?’

  Costain shrugged and said, ‘Because I know who you are.’

  Flynn’s mouth dried up instantly. His skin crawled. ‘Really – and who am I?’

  ‘A bent cop,’ Costain said with a supercilious smirk.

  The grounds of the house were being searched by a team of support unit officers; other cops had been dispatched to do a house-to-house in the vicinity, although there were few houses around to knock at; and a couple of police divers were at the small jetty, about to drop in and trawl the area around it.

  Henry hoped they would find the remnants of the flare and maybe some of the killer’s skin with it.

  He walked with DCI Woodcock around the big garden, retracing the steps of his pursuit, reliving it and cursing himself for getting old and past it.

  He spent a few moments looking at the height of the garden wall and gates, shaking his head at the thought of not being able to scale them last night, although as he weighed them up he was fairly sure that even in daylight, with a good tail wind, he wouldn’t be able to do it … which was a slight comfort.

  Age, along with the gunshot wound to his shoulder and the general deterioration of his fitness: not a good combination. Maybe five years earlier he could have given it a go, but not now. His career in the cops, the batterings he’d received, the injuries, seemed to be coming home to roost in the decline of his physical abilities.

  ‘You OK, boss?’ Woodcock asked him.

  ‘Oh yeah … just feel like a knackered old fart these days … I just know that I should be pulling pints, not being bloody shot at.’ He glanced knowingly at the DCI. ‘Retirement is imminent.’

  ‘Surely you’re too young yet, sir?’ Woodcock quipped.

  Henry gave him his best Clint Eastwood stare. ‘Brown noser, eh? You’ll go far.’

  ‘Who, me? Just an honest viewpoint.’

  The two men chuckled. Henry said, ‘Let’s keep walking.’