Ambush

by Nick Oldham

  Dean answered, ‘Not sure yet … I don’t wish anyone dead, but I hope to hell it was Tasker or heads might be rolling.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Flynn said.

  ‘Can we go back to earlier in the evening?’ Dean asked Milne.

  ‘Sure.’

  Milne pressed a few buttons and the image changed from a fiery inferno to a more sedate split-screen view of the prison landing. A couple of inmates leaned on the railings overlooking a quadrangle below; another pair walked along, chatting amiably. Tasker’s cell door was open wide and then, suddenly, there he was in the picture, walking along with another prisoner. Tasker paused at the cell door in conversation with the man. They chatted for a good minute, then Tasker casually turned face on to one camera, then to the other one at the opposite end of the landing. After this he went into the cell alone and the other man walked away.

  ‘So, you see, he went into his cell at eight thirty p.m.’

  ‘“Look at me, look at me,”’ Flynn said cynically. ‘“I’m going into my cell.”’ He remained unimpressed.

  ‘He did not come out again,’ Milne said with certainty. ‘We’ve been over these tapes quite a few times and he definitely did not re-emerge that night, except in a zip-up body bag.’

  Flynn’s mouth twisted. He shook his head at Santiago, then folded his arms grumpily.

  Milne ran through the footage until the point where three other men entered the cell a while later, all managing – casually, it seemed – to keep their faces away from the camera lens. One was wearing a cowboy hat.

  ‘This is the pontoon crew,’ Milne said.

  ‘The pontoon crew?’ Dean asked.

  ‘Yes, you know, Twenty-one, the card game? They were regular players and met up in Tasker’s cell to play for matchsticks. They never caused a problem. Just like Tasker himself, in fact, despite his reputation.’

  ‘My arse,’ Flynn grumbled, not taking any of this well.

  Milne continued, ‘They were seen on several occasions by prison officers, one of whom stepped into the cell for a chat on a couple of occasions, as he reported on his log.’

  ‘Who were the men?’

  ‘Tasker you know. The others were Felix Loveday, double murderer; Sam Rawtenstall, in for sexual assault; and Ben Dudley, a serial …’ Milne caught his words.

  ‘Serial what?’ Flynn said. ‘Killer?’

  ‘In a way, yes … he was responsible for killing three students at their digs in Preston.’

  ‘So, yeah, serial killer.’

  ‘No,’ Rik Dean interrupted. ‘I know him … Henry Christie dealt with him a while back.’ Dean looked at Flynn, who fidgeted at the name Christie. ‘He was a firestarter, a serial arsonist, from when he was a kid. Used to set fire to rubbish skips, then animals … only a matter of time before he killed people; then he did. He was suspected of killing more than three students.’

  ‘So he knows how to start fires?’ Santiago said.

  ‘Oh yeah … an expert. The other guy,’ – Dean looked at Milne – ‘Sam Rawtenstall, his name rings a bell, too … can’t quite …’ He shot a glance at DS Bromilow. ‘Find out who he is, will you?’

  ‘Will do, boss.’ Bromilow rose and left the room, his phone to his ear.

  ‘You on my line of thought here?’ Dean said to Flynn and Santiago.

  They nodded. Santiago said, ‘Individuals who could be useful to him.’

  ‘You’re making things fit how you want them to fit,’ Milne said.

  ‘Maybe, maybe,’ Dean admitted. ‘Tell us about the other guy.’

  ‘Felix Loveday, a gay man, convicted of double murder when he was a teenager thirty years ago … he’s the one who went in with the cowboy hat on.’ Once more Milne’s voice faltered. ‘He was released on licence the day after the fire … well, the same morning as the fire.’

  Flynn, Santiago and Dean rubbed their foreheads.

  ‘Let’s see the footage,’ Dean said.

  Milne skipped through the remainder of the evening in the prison. It was uneventful until, at 22:45 hours, a prison officer was seen standing at Tasker’s cell door. Then he stepped into the cell out of camera shot, closing the door behind him. He reappeared a few moments later, closely followed by the three men who had entered Tasker’s cell earlier for a night of cards. They were dressed in exactly the same clothes as when they had gone in and fell casually into single file as they came out.

  Milne paused the video and pointed at the screen. ‘The one in front is Rawtenstall, the one in the middle is Loveday and the one at the back is Dudley.’ He started the action again. The men walked along the landing, and the men at the front and rear both appeared happy to have their features recorded by the CCTV; the one in the middle, however, kept the brim of the cowboy hat down over his face, obscuring it, and stayed quite close to the man in front, Rawtenstall, so that his physical features could not be made out.

  Flynn rolled his eyes. ‘That ain’t Felix Loveday,’ he said. ‘If it is, I’ll show my arse in Burton’s window.’

  A minute later the same prison officer returned to Tasker’s cell. He did not enter but stood on the threshold, as though he was conversing with the inmate. He even gave a good night wave before closing and locking the cell door. He walked away.

  Milne insisted, ‘His report clearly stated that he spoke to Tasker before lockdown.’

  The door opened and Bromilow stepped back inside. ‘Doctor Sam Rawtenstall, life for serious sexual assaults on four female patients and twelve others lying on file. He drugged them and raped them. He was a GP, now struck off the register for life … obviously.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Flynn said with exasperation. ‘So Tasker goes to bed, sets fire to himself and dies? I don’t think so.’

  All eyes turned to Milne.

  ‘Prisoners being discharged? I’m assuming that process is videotaped?’ Dean asked him.

  He nodded. ‘I’ll have to get the disks for that … different system.’ He left the room.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ Dean said to Bromilow, who sat down and asked, ‘What have I missed?’

  ‘A sleight of hand,’ Flynn said.

  ‘Or a sleight of identity,’ Santiago said.

  ‘And with the collusion of staff and other inmates,’ Dean said.

  ‘Bets, anyone?’ Flynn said. ‘Because I’ll lay odds on three things: one, that Brian Tasker walked out of this prison as Felix Loveday; two, that the prison officer we’ve just been watching is the one who signed him out when the prison was in chaos the morning after because of the fire; and three, that Mr Loveday, much against his wishes, is now nothing more than ashes.’

  ‘You’re faced with this: to all intents and purposes, Brian Tasker was locked up alone in a cell which then caught fire,’ Flynn said. ‘So it was Tasker who died. Everything points to that. No need to question it. All the evidence appears to be there … or not.’

  ‘Confirmation bias, kind of,’ Santiago said.

  They all looked at her.

  ‘What you see supports what you think happened – to put it in very simple terms.’

  ‘Ahh,’ they said wisely.

  Tight-lipped, Milne slid a disk into the laptop.

  This time the view that came up was from behind the desk at which prisoners to be released were processed. Except that on the day of Felix Loveday’s release the camera had somehow been knocked slightly askew and all that could be seen were the feet of the staff behind the counter. According to the duty roster that Milne brought back with him the staff included the officer who was on duty the previous evening and who had visited Tasker’s cell on a number of occasions and then locked him up for the night.

  Flynn, Santiago, Dean and Bromilow were mute.

  ‘The facts are the facts as they are seen and presented,’ Dean said eventually, ‘and I can’t really jump down anyone’s throat for accepting them as such. A body burned beyond recognition, a trustworthy prison officer, CCTV footage that supports everything on the face of it – what could go wrong?’ He r
ubbed his face and looked very pale. ‘That said, the DI who dealt with this will be on my carpet first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘What about DNA?’ Santiago asked. ‘Presumably a sample was taken from the body and tested?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Dean admitted. He took a breath. ‘Anyway,’ he said, looking at Milne, ‘I want some things to happen without any fuss. Sam Rawtenstall and Ben Dudley … I want them brought here separately. I will then arrest them on suspicion of murder and I want them conveyed – still apart and each unaware that the other has been arrested – to Preston nick and booked in.’ He looked at Bromilow. ‘Fix that, will you?’ Bromilow nodded. ‘Then I want the same to happen to that prison officer who, you say, is on duty as we speak. And I want those CCTV images. I’m not completely convinced that your hypothesis is correct yet,’ he said to Flynn, ‘so let’s check it out by speaking to these individuals, and if I have to’ – and at that point his eyes flickered to Milne – ‘I’m going to break some heads.’

  Milne nodded numbly.

  ‘My boss, again,’ Santiago said to Flynn, waggling her phone at him.

  He responded sadly. ‘I know.’

  Detective Santiago, now very much a legend in the Canary Island police service despite the short time she had been stationed there, had received further texts urging – almost begging – her to return. As a result she had booked a late night flight back.

  ‘Apparently crime is rife in Las Palmas and he thinks a serial killer is on the loose. He wants me to head the team.’

  ‘Wow!’ Flynn said admiringly. ‘You should get back for that. Could be a career maker.’

  ‘Except I don’t want to go back.’ She pouted and batted her eyelashes. ‘I want to be with you … I’ve had a brilliant time, just don’t want to go …’

  He embraced her and she moulded herself against him. ‘I don’t want you to go, either, but I’ll be back soon and maybe we can, y’know, see how we can change things. I mean … and I’m just spit-balling here, as they say … if I could get this Ibiza contract every year from May to September, perhaps you could, uh …’ Flynn was having problems putting the words together.

  ‘Be with you full time?’ she ventured.

  ‘Yeah, something like that. There’d be enough money from that to make sure I could fish from October to April in Gran Canaria, enough for both of us … but you’d have to work your ass off, y’know?’ He gave said ass a playful pat. ‘I’m a hard task master.’

  ‘I’m liking that scenario.’

  They were in their hotel room at the Ibis at Broughton. It was early evening and they had just showered after their long day. Both were groggy with tiredness but knew they only had a short time remaining before Flynn had to drive her to the airport to board the flight she had so unwillingly booked.

  Each had a bath sheet wrapped around them.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked, snuffling her nose into his neck and then biting gently.

  ‘I need to get back to Ibiza. There’s a charter in the day after tomorrow and I don’t want to let Barney down. What’s happening here is for the cops to sort now and I know Rik will do a great job. He’s a good man hunter and once he confirms Tasker is alive and well, the game will change.’

  ‘But you’ll still be in danger.’

  ‘I’ll keep my head down and watch my back,’ he promised. ‘And we need to warn Jimmy Blue, too … once that’s done, I’ll jump on any flight I can get back to Ibiza.’

  ‘Separate ways,’ she said wistfully.

  ‘Another month in Ibiza, then I’ll be back to Puerto Rico and we’ll be together.’

  Flynn looked down into her eyes, just a little overwhelmed by his feelings for her, trying to fight them, if he was honest. The two of them had gone through serious hell to get to this point and maybe the future would be fantastic with her. He knew, as he stood there with just towelling separating them, that he was willing to give this a go and make all the effort needed.

  ‘You really do need to watch yourself, though,’ she warned him. ‘Tasker moves quickly.’

  ‘I’m good at running away,’ Flynn said.

  ‘You never run from anyone or anything.’

  ‘Whatever … but he has to find me first, so that’s a plus. And I don’t think he’s the one who’s actually killed Craig, Jerry and Dave. That’s the work of a hired hand. A good one, mind, but not Tasker himself. I think he’s holed up somewhere, directing operations. He won’t get me, honest.’

  Santiago held him tightly.

  ‘Under the circumstances, and as time is of the essence,’ Flynn said, feeling a surge of blood and shortness of breath, ‘we should mark our parting in the traditional manner, don’t you think?’

  He stepped slightly away from her.

  Apart from snagging on his erect penis on the way to the floor his bath sheet slid off fairly effortlessly, and Santiago’s followed suit. A moment later there was no gap between them.

  Flynn watched her walk straight through to the international departure lounge, where she turned at the very last moment and, with her eyes still shining from sex, blew him a sultry kiss, which he found himself catching and planting on his lips while trying to ignore the sniggers of two half-drunk youths who witnessed the moment.

  ‘I,’ he said to himself, ‘have truly morphed into a soft-arse.’

  Then she was gone and he was alone.

  He bought a coffee from a kiosk and took it out across to the multi-storey, which had been so packed with cars he’d had to leave his on the third level. He waited patiently for the lift to disgorge a family of four plus luggage, then stepped in and pressed button three.

  As the doors hissed shut a man stepped in and stood across from Flynn.

  He was youngish with tightly cropped blond hair and a gaunt face, slim built but tough-looking. He had an ex-military air about him. Flynn gave him a nod which was not returned. They both then stood, three feet apart, facing the lift doors.

  Flynn sipped his coffee, feeling slightly vulnerable.

  This man looked fit, healthy and maybe dangerous. He wore slim jeans, trainers and a black zip-up jacket … did he have an unnatural bulge underneath the left armpit?

  Flynn’s insides tensed, but he tried to fight his paranoia.

  Could this man be an assassin? Come to kill Flynn?

  Flynn eyed him surreptitiously and removed the lid from his steaming hot coffee, the first thing that would go into the man’s face, followed by a devastating series of punches, if there was even the slightest indication something was amiss.

  The man’s right hand casually pulled down his jacket zip. His hand went slowly inside.

  Flynn visualized the next move, saw the coffee in the face, the pivot of his hips, the blows.

  The hand came gradually out of the jacket.

  Flynn readied himself, knowing that how quickly he reacted in the next two seconds might mean the difference between survival and death.

  The hand emerged with nothing in it.

  Flynn relaxed slightly.

  The hand dropped to the man’s side.

  The lift stopped on three, the doors opened.

  Flynn made a polite gesture, allowing the man to step out ahead. He turned right. Flynn gave him a couple of seconds, then stepped out to see the man walking along a row of cars.

  He exhaled shakily, eased the lid back on to his coffee and went to find his car, muttering, ‘You’ve become a soft-arse in more ways than one, matey.’

  NINETEEN

  Flynn knew that resorting to violence or threats of violence wasn’t always a successful way in which to obtain a confession from a suspect, but sometimes needs must. And because he was no longer constrained by the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, or by any rules whatsoever, he didn’t even have to think of a way round it.

  He knew he needed a result and needed it fast and sometimes the only way to get it was to go straight for the jugular – although, to be honest, he didn’t actually intend to kill anyone that nigh
t.

  He left the airport unmolested and gunned his little hire car back down the motorway and eventually towards Preston.

  On the way he scolded himself for letting his imagination run riot in the lift, telling himself that not every salty dude he encountered was a killer out to get him – although he imagined quite a few were, not all of them connected to Brian Tasker; and then he recalled the last time he had bundled someone into the boot of a car in order to extract the truth from them.

  The villain in that case so long ago was someone suspected of knifing and almost killing a sixteen-year-old lad on a council estate in Blackpool – and there was a suitable, sweet irony to the story as he remembered it while he sped along virtually deserted motorway lanes.

  Following a mini-riot on the Shoreside council estate Flynn, then a uniformed constable just out of his probation period and already angling to become a detective, had gone to great lengths to investigate the offence and arrest the youth responsible for initiating the disturbance by sticking a blade into the son of an Asian shopkeeper on the estate.

  Once the public order side had quietened down – basically an Asian gang retaliating against the white ‘rulers’ of the estate – Flynn had homed in on the knife wielder, a young buck called Brent Costain, a member of the notorious Costain clan based on Shoreside. They were an extended family into drugs, theft and intimidation in a big way. Brent was only a peripheral cousin, not really one of the core family members, but was trying to up his street cred by using the knife.

  All it did was bring unwanted police attention upon the family.

  Flynn ‘lifted’ Brent as he walked through the maze of streets in South Shore. Costain had spotted him and done a runner but had been brought down by the super-fit Flynn, who in those days ran five miles a day, went to the gym twice a week and played squash and men’s hockey.

  Flynn had speed, strength and stamina and ran Brent down like a hunting dog, enjoying every moment as the unhealthy youth sagged to his knees, his young body already undermined by drugs, alcohol and cigarettes.