by Nick Oldham
‘Never what?’
‘You know – kapow!’ She punched the air with a few boxer-like digs.
He turned face on to her. ‘Of course I fucking did.’
‘Thought you might have.’ She smiled at him and her voice softened again. ‘I can see why it affected you.’
He nodded. ‘In more ways than one.’
Santiago narrowed her eyes questioningly.
‘I also found out why my so-called mate, Jack Hoyle, was so reluctant to get involved with Ambush … because it meant I would be away, and he and my wife,’ Flynn said peevishly, ‘could continue their illicit affair behind my back and Jack’s wife’s back … but I only found that out quite a bit later when other stuff happened.’
‘I’m sorry, Steve.’
He shrugged. ‘Such is life.’ He did not go on to mention that he did find some solace in the arms of a very pretty lady doctor and an even prettier Flower Girl. As to those two assignations his lips would remain for ever sealed.
There was a nice charter in for the day, two chilled-out, almost horizontal and very wealthy couples who just wanted to swim, sunbathe and eat. Flynn and Santiago took them out around Tagomago, the private island just off Ibiza owned by a zillionaire German industrialist, then dropped anchor at the tiny inlet of Es Pou des Lleó where they swam, ate at a beachside café and swam again in the tepid water.
Flynn was back by five p.m. and, after receiving a very generous tip, he and Santiago cleaned down the boat and prepared it for the next day. Then they strolled out to the Babylon Beach restaurant for an evening meal on the cliffs.
He had immersed himself in work for the day and forgotten about the real world, although there were a few pensive moments at Babylon Beach when he mulled over Brian Tasker and the deaths of Craig Alford, his poor family and Jerry Tope.
Undoubtedly Tasker was more than capable of committing these atrocious crimes. Yet he was in prison, incarcerated for the remainder of his lifetime … though Flynn wasn’t convinced that Tasker could not have done them. Maybe he had contracted someone to do his dirty work for him and make his death promises come true.
But from a prison cell? Maybe …
Looking out across the calm sea to the Illa de Santa Eulalia and the S’Argamassa headland, Flynn made a decision and picked up his mobile phone. Tasker had to be checked out.
It rang before he had the chance to make a call.
‘Flynn,’ he answered.
‘Steve? Rik Dean,’ came a flustered voice.
‘I was about to call you.’
‘Oh, right … look … some more bad news, I’m afraid …’
Flynn glanced at Santiago and mouthed, ‘Rik Dean.’ He leaned towards her and tilted the phone so she could hear the conversation. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Dave Carver.’
‘What about Dave Carver?’ Flynn’s guts tightened ominously.
Dean drew in an unsteady breath. ‘He was in a nursing home, suffering from dementia.’
‘I know that.’
‘He’s dead.’
‘You may have to expand on that, Rik.’
‘Shot in his room in the home.’
‘Suicide?’
‘No … a nurse was killed, too, undoubtedly a witness … signs of a struggle … looks like Dave put up a fight … and the security tapes have been taken too … a professional hit … he’s been murdered.’
‘Shit.’
‘That’s three out of the six guys in that photograph, Steve – Craig, Jerry, now Dave.’
‘That is not lost on me … look, Rik,’ Flynn said earnestly, ‘I’ve been thinking about this. It’s got to be Brian Tasker. He’s the link and it doesn’t take the Brain of Britain to work that one out, even if he’s – and I use this word advisedly – “masterminding” it from his cell.’
‘I’d go with that one hundred per cent, except for one thing,’ Dean said.
‘That thing being?’
‘Because he’d have to be masterminding it from the grave … he’d have to be a ghost.’
‘Grave? A ghost? What d’you mean?’
‘Brian Tasker died three months ago in a fatal fire in his cell in Lancashire Prison.’
SIXTEEN
Flynn studied the photograph, the six men, the Lancashire contingent on Operation Ambush, the ones who led the hunt for Brian Tasker, self-styled drug cartel leader (UK version), ruthless killer and not one to shoulder blame for anything. Nothing was his fault, everyone else was responsible.
The six men who had been there, literally, at the death.
The cops who were responsible, as he saw it, for making him kill his girlfriend and baby son. And Flynn, the one who had brought him down in a field and, just for an instant, had made him believe he would take a bribe.
Flynn had been a hard-edged cop, often broke rules and heads, but there was only one thing he wanted and that was to see bad men, and occasionally women, face justice.
He was beyond bribes.
No amount of money would ever have made him deviate from his goal and he had been offered money many times because drug squad officers chasing down wealthy villains were open to it.
In fact, the more money on offer, the more pleasure he took in saying no and then slotting a reference to the attempted bribe into his witness statements, just to make the defendant cringe in court.
He had loved seeing Brian Tasker marched away down the Crown Court steps never to see real light of day again, and Tasker’s death threat had made it even sweeter.
Flynn had laughed in his face, which had had the desired effect of riling him into a rage.
Flynn rubbed his face, thought it through.
Three – Craig, Jerry and Dave – murdered in quick succession. Lincoln Bartlett was already dead through natural causes, thereby leaving Jimmy Blue and himself still breathing and possibly the next two targets.
It was always possible Jimmy had already been murdered and the news had not yet surfaced. According to Rik Dean, Jimmy’s whereabouts were currently unknown, but he was making enquiries with the pension and HR departments, who should know.
Flynn glanced at Santiago.
They were back at the Mirage, mid-morning, the day after the phone call from Rik Dean. Both were at a loose end after a charter party cancellation, although Santiago was on the phone to her boss in Gran Canaria, who wanted to know when she was coming back to work. Something was bubbling that he needed her for.
Flynn sighed. Although the facts as outlined by Rik Dean stated otherwise, one thing he did not believe was that Brian Tasker was ashes.
Santiago ended her phone call, but almost immediately her mobile rang again. She rolled her eyes and took it, but Flynn didn’t listen in. It was in Spanish anyway and his grasp of the language, even after all the years he’d lived in Spain, was pretty tenuous, although Santiago was giving him some personalized tuition and he was becoming quite good at it in some situations, such as ordering food and drink and asking for sex.
She ended the call. ‘That was the detective in charge of investigating the armed robbery we interrupted. Would you believe it …?’
From the look on her face, Flynn did. ‘They got bail?’ he guessed.
She nodded. ‘The police found their apartment, they’d been renting it for a couple of months, so the magistrate was happy enough there was a permanent residence.’
Flynn wasn’t surprised. Even though they had terrorized two shop assistants and been happy to use firearms, the courts were probably more concerned about their human rights. He said, ‘So they’re as stupid here as they are in the UK.’
‘So it would seem.’
Flynn watched the boats in the marina. A big motor cruiser owned by an American billionaire had just berthed and disgorged various occupants, mainly middle-aged ladies shrouded in gold and diamonds and wafting kaftans, stepping into stretch limos on the quayside. Flynn assumed they were being whisked away somewhere glamorous to have their toenails done or bikini waxes updated.
/> ‘Do you think you’re next on the list, if there is a list?’ Santiago asked. ‘And if so, what are you going to do about it?’
‘Er … at the moment I’m not too concerned. No one really knows I’m here for the summer, but once I get back to Gran Canaria people will know, and that includes quite a few crims. I try to keep a low profile, as you know’ – here he exchanged a knowing grin with her – ‘but somehow my head keeps popping up over the parapet.’
‘What about your family?’ Santiago almost choked as she said the next two words. ‘Your ex?’ Then she cleared her throat and said, ‘And your son?’
‘Faye is away with her latest boyfriend, somewhere in Phuket, I believe, appropriately enough.’ Santiago chuckled meanly. ‘My lad is trekking somewhere in the Himalayas with his uni mates, so I think both are safe enough for the time being. I didn’t know you were bothered about my ex,’ he said cheekily.
‘Old Frosty, you mean?’ She had nicknamed her that after Flynn had once told Santiago about her. She had taken an instant dislike.
He laughed and touched Santiago’s hand tenderly. ‘Me and you, babe,’ he assured her. Santiago’s face softened. Then he went on, ‘I think it would be wise to make the assumption that Jimmy Blue and I could be the next targets, and what I don’t want to do is sit back and let some arsehole sneak up behind me.’ He paused, a pained look on his face. ‘I need to make the running, somehow, and I kinda think the only way to do that might be to head to the UK and do some digging, make sure Jimmy’s OK, and see what worms I can dig up. Rik Dean might be grateful for any help I can offer, though I won’t hold my breath on that. I’ve offered help before and been cold-shouldered by the cops because of my history.’
‘I think you need to rephrase part of that,’ Santiago told him.
‘Which part?’
‘The “I need to make the running” part. It should be “we need to make the running”.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that.’
‘But I’m a woman,’ she protested. ‘Why aren’t you saying this is no sort of a job for a girlie like me?’
‘Because I’m a modern man,’ he boasted. ‘I see women for what they are and what they can contribute and not just as sex objects and housewives, and because you’re my special girlie – my hot bitch, remember?’
She punched him quite forcefully on the arm.
Rubbing his bicep, he said, ‘I’m going to contact Rik Dean and see what he thinks about me going over, but there is one thing we need to do first.’
‘And that is?’
‘Pay someone a visit.’
Flynn had not been to Ibiza many times before and usually the visits had been fairly fleeting. The last time had been several years before to buy a sportfishing boat to replace one destroyed in a fire set by two enforcers who thought he owed money to a drug dealer. Their belief was wrong but it hadn’t prevented the boat being sunk in a terrible explosion. That had been his first boat as a skipper and he still missed her to this day.
He had only ever been to San Antonio once before, the nightclub capital of the island. He had been surprised at how pretty the town was but how that all changed once night descended and it became a heaving, sweaty mass of young humanity coupled with pounding disco music of all genres. Not that Flynn would have been able to differentiate any of the genres even if they had been piped directly into his eardrums. He was pretty much an Eighties child as regards music, but even a lot of that passed him by.
The taxi dropped him and Santiago off on the sea front of the town and they took a short stroll to get a feel for the place, knowing that if they were successful in what they had to do it would not take long, and also that they had a little time to kill because their flight did not leave until after midnight.
After the walk and a lingering cup of coffee they strolled up to the old town, into the maze of tight streets set back from the bay, until Santiago led him to the address he was seeking, an apartment above a shop selling lace and trinkets. The entrance was a door to the left of the shop and the buzzer panel showed eight apartments up there, but there were no names in any of the card slots.
Flynn pressed all the buttons several times. Eventually an occupant spoke. Flynn grunted something about a lost key and the entrance door clicked open.
Apart from being tiled throughout, it was much like stepping into any one of the less salubrious apartment buildings Flynn had frequented as a cop. The smell was the same urine/vomit/sweat/food/weed reek, the sounds too – muffled music, someone shouting, someone having sex, possibly with someone else – and underfoot was the same, the crunch that says you’ve just stepped on a used needle.
‘Nice,’ Santiago commented.
‘Love it.’
Flynn went up the narrow staircase on to the second floor via a couple of tight dog-leg landings until they reached number eight.
He tried the door handle: locked. He knocked politely.
No response.
He arched his eyebrows at Santiago. She shrugged.
‘Definitely number eight?’
She nodded.
Flynn stepped back, his body almost touching the opposite wall, raised his right foot, took aim for what he thought was the weakest point on the door just by the Yale type lock and flat-footed it.
It rattled loosely and on the second blow crumpled open as though he had kicked it in the solar plexus.
He gave it a third one to send it clattering all the way open on just one hinge, then stepped inside the studio apartment.
It was empty, but a mess. One unmade single bed and one camp bed, both looking as though they had been slept in for months without a change of covers. Unwashed dishes were strewn in and around the sink, many with black-green mould growing unhealthily in them.
The room reeked of sweat and cannabis.
Flynn flicked through the bedding, looked through drawers and in the minute bathroom and came to a conclusion.
‘Done a runner.’
Since Rik Dean had been amenable to Flynn coming back to the UK so he could share his knowledge of Tasker with him – something Flynn found a bit of a surprise – he had booked a flight from Ibiza to Manchester at 00:30 hours. Flynn and Santiago caught a taxi from San Antonio after their breaking and entering episode, arriving at the airport with just hand luggage. They passed quickly through check-in and immigration, then found a pleasant spot in one of the bars in the departure lounge. Flynn drank tea and Santiago decided on a glass of red wine. He didn’t travel well on alcohol.
They boarded and took off on time and settled – too snugly for Flynn’s wide frame and long length – into a pair of seats on which he felt as if his knees were up to his chin. This confirmed him in his view that one day, when he was a successful international businessman, he would always travel first class and never on a budget airline – unless he owned it.
Santiago, smaller, slimmer, prettier, had plenty of space.
The flight was an uneventful two and a half hours, during which Flynn visited the cramped toilet once.
When he returned to his seat he gently woke the snoozing Santiago and whispered in her ear.
When the plane touched down he and Santiago were first through the door, hurrying from the arrival gate through the quick formality of customs and passport check before entering the arrivals hall, where a weary Rik Dean had agreed to meet them.
Flynn did not have time to explain but quickly asked one of the waiting taxi drivers, who was holding up a clipboard with the surname of a passenger written on it, if he had a spare piece of paper and pen.
Flynn then positioned himself directly opposite the arrivals door he had just come through and held up the piece of paper with the name he’d written on it.
Rik Dean, not having had anything explained to him, looked on bemused.
Flynn and Santiago had been well ahead of the other passengers, who now began to filter lethargically out in dribs and drabs and included a certain Dwayne Assheton, the young man Flynn had chased from the scene o
f an attempted robbery, now on bail.
As Flynn had earlier stumbled through the plane to reach the toilet and empty his tea-filled bladder, having to keep his head low, he had tripped on someone’s outstretched foot and caught himself from falling by grabbing a head rest on the back of a seat. Pulling himself upright in the gloom – the cabin lights having been doused to allow passengers to doze – Flynn caught sight of the sleeping young man in seat 26A, next to a window.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Dean hissed in Flynn’s ear.
‘Meet ’n’ greet,’ Flynn said.
At these words, Dwayne Assheton came out through the one-way doors and sauntered cockily towards the barrier where Flynn stood in a line of taxi drivers.
Assheton had his hood over his head. At first he didn’t see Flynn even though he was standing directly in front of the doors. Then his eyes picked out his name on the A4 sheet of paper, plastered in thick black felt tip pen.
Rising another few degrees, his eyes stopped at Flynn’s gurning face.
Recognition took a moment – then the young man’s facial expression screamed, Shit!
‘Taxi for Assheton.’ Flynn beamed brightly.
The lad sprinted, and for the second time in a matter of days he found he was being pursued by a man who rarely gave up. He zipped sideways, elbowing between a couple ahead of him.
Flynn dropped his piece of paper and went with him, closely followed by Santiago and Dean, who was just tagging along for the hell of it.
For a few metres Flynn and Assheton were side by side, divided by a steel barrier, but then Assheton upped his pace. Flynn vaulted the barrier but could not quite reach his prey with his fingertips as Assheton veered around a taxi driver bearing a name plate, knocking it out of his hands.
Flynn dodged the man, who spun in amazement and gawped as the two men ran either side of him, followed by another man and a woman.
Assheton was undecided. He moved quickly, agile and lithe, but Flynn was more of a bulldozer, and the young lad’s indecision was his undoing. His hesitation gave Flynn an extra metre and he caught him exactly underneath the ‘Meeting Point’ sign and flattened him.
Assheton struggled but Flynn overpowered him easily and dragged him to his tiptoes by his hood, at which point screams of warning permeated Flynn’s skull.
