Low Profile

by Nick Oldham

  Woodcock nodded and left.

  Henry was alone in the office. He looked at the receipt books that Tope had so gleefully unloaded, sighed and dragged them towards him, regretting his hasty volunteering. In truth, there was no way he wanted to haul them home. Tonight had to be a show of solidarity with Alison and the sooner he got home, the better.

  Even so, he took the top book off the pile. It was a receipt book logging sales from Percy Astley-Barnes’s jeweller’s shop in Blackpool. Henry visualized the premises: one of those jewellers with a doorman and two security doors, outer and inner, designed to warn off both robbers and non-serious customers. Henry had been in once to buy an engagement ring for Alison and had left with his debit card thoroughly depleted.

  So it was never awash with customers but when they bought, they bought big, as Henry saw when he flipped through the receipt book and saw sales recorded of a thousand pounds, two and a half grand, one for eight hundred (cheapskate, Henry thought). Big money, and all the names and addresses of the customers recorded, no doubt to be re-contacted in a year’s time to bring the jewels back for spring cleaning. It was a very customer-oriented environment – just one at a time, thank you, please – and Henry had thought it quaint and unusual to have such details written and recorded by hand. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d given his full name and address in a shop, apart from Percy’s, although they always seemed to want to know his post code and house number.

  He skimmed though the book, not really concentrating.

  It was only after he had gone past one of the receipts that something clicked and he felt his bottom tighten as his fingers scrambled back through the pages.

  A quiet cough made him look up. It was the CCTV lady.

  Then his phone rang.

  SEVENTEEN

  Over thirty years as a cop, many of them spent in the environs of Blackpool and the Fylde, had given Henry Christie an excellent knowledge of a large number of thieves, vagabonds and other miscreants of that area.

  Because of this accumulated knowledge he instantly recognized the half-naked dead man on the bed.

  ‘Looks like a slam-dunk,’ Henry said, squatting down, knees cracking hollowly, and inspecting the man’s misshapen-in-death face. He looked back at Pete Woodcock, who nodded agreement. ‘Bled to death,’ Henry said, his eyes moving down the body, seeing the back of the man’s upper right thigh. ‘One of the pellets probably hit an artery inside … that is a lot of blood,’ he said, looking at the pool under the camp bed on which the man lay; and it was still dripping.

  Henry eased himself upright. ‘Looks like you’ve got a few more hours at work after all,’ he said to Woodcock.

  ‘At the very least.’

  ‘But he’ll be our man for Archie’s death … like we thought, burglary gone wrong, fight, cracks Archie with that –’ Henry pointed to a blood-stained baseball bat on the floor – ‘but, bless him, he still manages to blow a hole in the arse of this bastard, who limps home like a mortally wounded animal to die.’

  Henry, hands on hips, was looking down at the body of Roland Barclay, one of the better-known felons of the parish, a confirmed and convicted thief and fraudster. Henry knew he was an insatiable shoplifter, but also that he had form for what were known as distraction burglaries. These are where the offender poses as an official from, say, the water or gas board, and cons victims, usually elderly, into letting them into their houses, where the offender then steals money. Sometimes violence is used, especially when the victim realizes that they’re being conned and challenges the offender. Henry knew that Barclay had several convictions for this type of offence, and one that included violence towards the victim. He had beaten up an old woman quite badly when she’d had the courage to try and throw him out of her house.

  ‘Every chance there’ll be a blood match,’ Henry added, recalling the splatter in Archie’s front room. ‘Good result, except an innocent old guy has died, and try as I might, I can’t even start to feel any remorse at this guy’s passing. He bit off more than he could chew with Archie.’

  ‘Mm.’

  Henry thought Woodcock seemed a bit tight-lipped and less than pleased by this turn-up for the books; maybe he was just tired. The cops had been alerted by the landlord of the block, who had been after Barclay’s back rent and had entered the flat to find a blood bath with Barclay dead in the middle of it.

  Henry slapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’m pretty certain I can leave this in your capable hands … nothing spoiling now. Get a CSI up here, then get him down to the mortuary and pick it all up in the morning.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Henry had one last glance at Barclay, then left.

  Karen had dropped Flynn off at his villa on a sour note despite his reassurances, admittedly half-hearted. He watched her drive away without a backward glance, his mouth twisted. He shrugged and went inside the villa, which was still a mess from the invasion of someone who’d wanted to make a point, and from the police search. He had a small stash of euros hidden inside the fridge, which was still there. He changed out of the clothing that Karen had found for him – again probably left by an ex-boyfriend, he supposed – then got into a pair of three-quarters, sliding his feet into his spare flip-flops. Then he hauled some of the furniture back into place and threw some broken pieces on to the terrace, after which he went on the hunt for some information that was eluding him.

  He walked over to the marina on the other side of Puerto Rico, the Puerto Base, from which a row of sportfishing boats operated, all in gentlemanly competition with him.

  He wasn’t going to the boats but to one of the bars in the small complex on the Porto Grande behind the marina, specifically the Bar Inglés, a seedy, smoke-filled establishment with a dark wood, L-shaped bar and a maritime theme celebrating British sailors and ships. Even so, most of the clientele were locals because the booze was cheap and the atmosphere kept tourists at bay.

  Flynn stepped in and went to the bar, ordered a Cruzcampo on draught, which tasted amazing. Apart from when he had quenched his raging thirst after his release, this was Flynn’s first real drink. He had yet to eat. He drank it quickly, then ordered a second, which he sipped while surveying the bar.

  In a deep corner recess he spotted the man he was looking for. That one person could be found in every bar in every port in the world: the grizzled old sailor with an air of mystery about him, who seemed to just sit and watch life pass by; the old guy who had a history he never talked about unless ‘rummed’ up; the one who knew everyone and everything that was going on, all the tittle-tattle, the gossip, as well as being able to predict what the weather would be like next week. The oracle.

  In this case he was called Eduardo – no one seemed to know his last name – a seventy-year-old Spaniard who had spent his life as a merchant seaman, then in various capacities around the islands on the ferries, skippering a sportfisher and taking tourists out on pleasure cruises. He had been immersed in sea water all his life and also, wisely, perpetuated myths about himself as a gun runner from Morocco and a drug runner across the Straits of Gibraltar, neither of which was true. That did not detract from the fact that he had a deep knowledge of anything seafaring around these parts.

  Flynn had spent many a night listening to Eduardo spinning tales of the oceans, and women in every port, whilst he plied him with Malibu and Coke, his favourite tipple. He said it reminded him of the Caribbean.

  Flynn ordered the drink and walked over to him. He was sitting alone, smoking an evil smelling pipe.

  ‘Buenas tardes, amigo,’ Flynn said.

  ‘Tardes, Flynn.’ He coughed through the dense smoke, then took the drink Flynn had brought. ‘How can I help you this evening, amigo? An amigo who has un apuro grande?’ A friend in big trouble.

  ‘Information … la información.’

  Afterwards Flynn strolled across to the other side of the marina, skirting the beach and finding a spot in his favourite restaurant behind it, where he ordered blind paella, then relax
ed to wait for it with a San Miguel and a whisky chaser.

  He knew the ultimate answer he was seeking probably lay deep in the dangerous water at the foot of the cliffs that were called Punta de GuiGui. All this stemmed from there, and he tried to recall if Jack Hoyle had said anything significant during the short interrogation, before Flynn flattened his nose.

  Just the thought of being dragged off the street made his inner rage fire up to a simmer again and his first urge was to go back to the villa where he had been held captive, all guns blazing.

  But he didn’t have transport or a gun.

  He tried to chill, wondering when he would get both items back. His Nissan had been kept by the police and the Bushmaster was hidden in the secret compartment under the seats. Flynn was fairly certain he would get the car back with the gun still intact and undiscovered. The compartment he had fashioned was hard to find and he doubted if the Spanish cops were good searchers.

  It was just a matter of when.

  He calmed down, relaxed, then was surprised when Karen dropped into a chair opposite and stared at him, lips pursed.

  For a few moments they said nothing. Flynn sipped his beer.

  She broke the silence. ‘Flynn, I think I understand what you’ve got to do, though it doesn’t mean I’m up for it. But I know I’m crazy in love with you and if you get out of this in one piece, I’ll be there waiting for you.’

  ‘OK, sounds good.’

  ‘Do you love me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Then I want to make every moment count and I’d very much like to screw your brains out. What do you think about that?’

  ‘It’s a great idea,’ he swallowed, ‘but I’ve just ordered paella.’

  Karen leaned forward. ‘Faye is a two minute walk from here.’

  Flynn’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘I’d say that gives us, say, fifteen minutes of red hot sex, and we can be back here in time for the food.’

  Almost before she had finished talking, Flynn swooped across and took her hand, and the caveman who lurked very close to his otherwise sophisticated modern man surface almost dragged her to her feet. ‘Best get a move on, then.’

  By the time Henry arrived back at the Tawny Owl it was eleven p.m. He had called ahead to tell them he was running late so no one was remotely worried by his absence, but when he entered the bar all the customers turned with their drinks in hand, raised them to him and gave him a huge cheer. Donaldson was behind the bar with Alison and Ginny, serving on.

  Henry took a regal bow.

  Once he had shouldered his way through the throng and placed all the documents he had brought with him from work on the floor just inside the door leading to the private accommodation, he went to the bar where a drink was waiting for him, plus a meal consisting of a plate meat pie, chips, peas and gravy, which he carried over to a vacant table by the bow window. He was famished and the prospect of early hours indigestion did not put him off eating.

  Alison came to sit with him.

  ‘How has it gone, honey?’ he asked.

  ‘These people are amazing,’ she said, looking at the customers. ‘Drunk now, but amazing.’

  ‘They are. You’re very lucky. Not many communities like this any more.’

  ‘You’re part of it now, you know? Especially after the free drinks offer which, to a man, was taken up.’

  ‘Cheaper than hiring Group Four.’

  ‘What the hell d’you guys think you’re playing at?’ Donaldson scolded them. ‘A sniper’s dream, sitting next to a window. You’d get taken out in a doggone moment.’ He drew the curtains and sat next to them.

  ‘I’ve given Karl one of the guest rooms,’ Alison said.

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Once we’ve locked up for the night, we should be OK.’

  ‘I would have thought so … there will still be a few patrols passing occasionally and the place is very secure.’

  Alison said, ‘Have you found him yet, do you have any leads?’

  ‘To be honest, no, but his face is all over the media and ports and airports, so he’ll either get caught trying to leave the country – unless he is in disguise and has a false passport – or he’ll keep his head down until it all dies down a bit, then he’ll flee. He knows he’s frightened us both, so he might well leave it at that.’ Henry tried to sound convincing.

  Alison saw his expression. ‘Nice try, big boy. If he’s going to come, he’ll find a way, won’t he?’

  ‘He can try, but he is on the run now,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘I’ll be applying for an arrest warrant for him tomorrow and Karl and I will sort out the American angle so if he turns up across the water he can be arrested, then extradited. He’s screwed, love, but yeah, we have to be honest, he could well be nuts enough to give it a go.’

  Alison nodded as she took this in. Her chest rose and fell.

  ‘OK,’ she said and stood up. ‘I’ll go and see what the guys want.’ She went back to the bar.

  ‘Not happy,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘Understatement.’

  ‘So – what’s happened tonight?’

  ‘Looks like Archie’s murder has been solved, and it doesn’t have a link to Percy’s,’ Henry began, and filled Donaldson in with the details whilst shovelling his meal into his mouth, washing it down with the Stella. ‘And there’s something else … just wait here.’

  The food and drink were finished, so Henry took the plate to the bar and held out his pint for a refill. Whilst this was being done he went to the pile of documents from the corridor and returned with a receipt book, collected the fresh beer and went back to Donaldson, handing him the book as he took a seat. Henry explained it was used in Percy’s jewellery shop in Blackpool as a record of all sales transactions.

  Donaldson opened it, pouting. ‘Are we going to do this the hard way or the easy way?’

  ‘Look up two dates, twelfth February first, then twenty-second June, both this year.’ Henry sipped the beer.

  Donaldson flicked backwards and forwards through the pages. Each one was divided into four tear-out receipts with carbon copies under the originals. The copies were what remained in the books, the top copies having been torn out and handed to the customer. The copies were clear and legible.

  ‘Twelfth of Feb … ruary,’ Donaldson said slowly, finding the page. His eyes widened. ‘Get the fuck out!’ he exclaimed, looking sharply at Henry, who looked quite smug.

  ‘Now twenty-second June.’

  Donaldson’s big fingers scrambled through the pages until he found that date.

  This time he whispered, ‘Get the fuck out,’ in awe.

  Henry grinned. ‘I like coincidences. They make me happy – although I don’t know if there is any relevance to them in this case.’

  ‘So the nasty crippled guy, Liam Costain, bought two lots of jewellery from Percy’s shop on two separate dates this year, spent over four grand?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘Also looks as though Mr Wheelchair Man is going to get a revisit from you very soon.’

  ‘Looks that way,’ Henry said and took another mouthful of beer.

  As it happened, Flynn and Karen had to reorder paella and pay for the previous one, which was cold by the time they returned to the bar, flushed and very happy from their lovemaking in the stateroom of Faye. Rather than the estimated fifteen minutes, they took an hour, and sauntered back to the bar arm in arm, clutching each other.

  As they ate the beautiful dish and sipped some very chilled white wine, mostly in a contented silence, both enjoying a bit of post-coital bliss and the warm night drawing in, Karen surprised Flynn by asking, ‘Do you want to check out the villa they took you to?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind, but I don’t have transport because the cops still have the Patrol.’

  ‘Let’s drive up in mine. They won’t know it, will they? You could at least see if someone is still there.’

  ‘You sure?’ He looked quizzically at her.<
br />
  ‘Yeah … I want to help you with this. I’m part of it in some way, so yeah,’ she shrugged. ‘Let’s do a drive-by tonight … now.’

  ‘It’s at the end of a cul-de-sac, you can hardly drive past.’

  ‘I’ll drive, you keep your head down on my lap … oh, you’ve already done that, haven’t you? Well, you know what I mean,’ she smiled with mischief.

  Eventually all the customers were herded out of the Tawny Owl. They left unwillingly but good-naturedly and Henry locked the front door behind them. It was shortly after midnight as he turned the key in the lock, and he knew he was ready for sleep.

  Alison and Ginny were behind the bar, cleaning up. It was one of Alison’s insistences that the bar area was left pristine each night, all the glasses washed and dried, all the shelves restocked.

  Donaldson was sitting by the fire which was slowly dying in the grate, looking through the books Henry had brought home.

  ‘Let’s do a once-over through the premises, if you don’t mind,’ Henry asked him. ‘Then a nightcap by the fire?’

  ‘Sure, pal.’

  Fortunately, and unusually, there were no overnight guests, so Henry and Donaldson could check each bedroom and lock the doors. They crossed paths a few times during this process and ended up back in the bar. Luckily Henry got there just before the shutters were pulled down and locked.

  ‘Nightcap?’ he enquired hopefully of Alison. She gave him one of her stares; he came back with his best boyish grin, the look designed to melt any female heart, he believed misguidedly. Not impressed, she relented anyway. ‘You’ll ruin me,’ she said.

  ‘Already have … JD for me,’ Henry said. ‘Karl, what’s your poison?’

  ‘Same.’

  Alison started to pour the drinks when the front doorbell rang.

  Henry cursed, looked at the clock and exchanged glances with Donaldson, who moved swiftly to the bow window and peeked through a gap in the curtains without twitching them.

  ‘It’s a woman,’ he hissed.

  Henry sidled in behind him and peered over his shoulder. It was a woman wearing a duffel coat with the hood up, her face hidden in the shadow. Neither man could identify her.