Instinct

by Nick Oldham

  It was a fairly typical style of building for Banjul. White, square, shutters on the windows, just one level to it, a flat-roofed bungalow. Flynn could not work out if it was a home or a place of work. Its whole appearance was alien to him.

  The door the man had entered looked flimsy, easily kick-downable. Light showed from the angled gaps in the Venetian-style shutters at the windows.

  Then Flynn noticed the car parked a little further down the street. The big, old, black Mercedes. Its sight jolted him. The car that the injured man had been helped into from Boone’s boat, the one that Boone’s killers had later turned up in.

  Flynn crossed the street quickly and flattened himself against the wall next to the door. The Glock was now in his right hand, held at his thigh, and he wished he’d had the foresight to bring along the shotgun that Michelle had almost killed him with. It would have been effective in a tight space. He reached for the handle and turned it slowly. Locked. He emitted an exasperated gasp of frustration, then stood directly in front of the door, turned the handle with his left hand and leaned his weight on it with his left shoulder.

  As he guessed, it was flimsy. He felt very confident he could open it easily, but it would make a horrible noise as he forced it down.

  He hated the lack of planning and wondered if it would be better to back off now. Recce the place in daylight, work out the logistics and practicalities. See who came and went. How many people would be inside, what the inner geography was like . . . all the sensible things.

  Unfortunately he did not get the chance to withdraw. That decision was taken out of his hands because as he stood there dithering, his mind whirring and tumbling as to the best approach, the door opened and he was instantly face to face with the man he had followed from the club, who was putting something into the inside pocket of his jacket, looking as though he was on the way out again.

  In those circumstances the outcome of such a surprise encounter was usually determined by the one who reacted first. The one who was ready.

  The man’s face dropped and a frown knitted his thick eyebrows together – and he hesitated, not immediately computing anything, not recognizing Flynn, not even beginning to understand why a white man was outside his door. By that time it was far too late for him.

  Flynn, by contrast, reacted instantly.

  He was bigger, stronger and much fitter than the guy, who himself wasn’t small and unfit by any means.

  Flynn’s left hand shot out, grabbed the man’s shirt at his chest and in the same movement brought up the Glock and rammed the muzzle of the bulbous silencer into the soft under part of the man’s wide chin.

  He did not waste time with words.

  He went for action, brutal force, speed.

  He forced the man back into the premises, knocking him off balance, running him backwards on his heels.

  Behind the door was a hallway of sorts. Three doors off. Using what little intelligence he had gathered from his short external inspection of the front of the building, Flynn thought the door to the left could be a living room of some sort. The one directly ahead was a kitchen – Flynn had glimpsed a sink beyond the open door – and the one on the right could be a bedroom. The one that concerned him in these opening seconds was the one to his left, because that was the one which was lit up.

  Flynn powered the man backwards, then jerked him to the left and ran him into this room, which had no door to it.

  With a massive heave, Flynn pistoned out his left arm and let go of the man’s shirt. He staggered, tripped and landed on his backside.

  Flynn took in the rest of the scenario. To his left a man lounged on a huge, dirty beanbag. This man had a bandage around his left bicep, his arm in a sling. This was the one Boone had managed to shoot on the quayside.

  Next to him, on the remnants of a battered armchair, was another man, a cup of something in his hand, which he spilled as Flynn came in through the door. This was the second, uninjured gun man.

  On the right, sitting primly on a dining chair, was the smartly besuited Aleef.

  The man in the armchair threw his cup aside and started to rise – his right hand picking up the revolver that was lying on the chair arm.

  The Glock came around. Flynn fired twice at the man’s body mass. Two shots, quick succession, double-taps. They struck him perfectly, less than an inch apart, entering his heart, left and right ventricle, shredding the organ, the power of the impact smacking him back in the chair.

  The beanbag man scrambled across the floor towards the AK47 propped up against the wall by an electric radiator. Flynn swivelled less than forty-five degrees, fired again. The man was side-on to him, his body mass a smaller target, so Flynn shot him in the side of the head, a temple shot, again a double-tap that entered the left side and exited at a downward angle, making a hole about as big as a drinks coaster. He jerked sideways, dead.

  Flynn came around. The man he had forced into the room was lying on his side, his legs drawn up to his chest in a tight foetal position, cowering and whimpering.

  Aleef, on the dining chair, had not moved. Flynn jerked the Glock at him, causing him to wince, dread on his face as he braced himself for the inevitable death that was coming. But Flynn swung the gun back around to the man on the floor and aimed.

  ‘No, no,’ he pleaded, his hands palm out.

  Flynn shot him twice.

  Then he turned to Aleef. ‘Are you armed?’ Aleef shook his head. ‘Get up.’

  He stood, legs wobbling, and looked at Flynn, but then his eye line flickered slightly over Flynn’s shoulder. He tried to disguise this, but Flynn saw it, recognized it for what it was, dropped a shoulder, spun round and was faced with the horrific sight of another man coming for him with a double-handed hold on a panga, the broad-bladed, deadly African machete. It was a weapon originally designed for use in sugar fields or for clearing jungles. More recently it had become a lethal weapon, responsible for thousands of horrific deaths and punishment amputations on the continent.

  What made it even worse was the appearance of the man who was brandishing the weapon. His face was horribly disfigured, burned and melted, and Flynn knew this was the man who had been caught up in the explosion caused by Boone’s bullet exploding a fuel barrel that the man had been seeking cover behind. He had been blown into the creek where Flynn assumed he had perished. Clearly he had survived, obviously to be deformed for the rest of his life.

  The panga was held high and was slicing down at Flynn. Had it caught him before he’d turned, his head would have been sliced cleanly open.

  But Flynn had caught Aleef’s look, turned, leapt backwards as the panga came down and just missed him, leaving the burned man wide open for a millisecond, an opportunity that Flynn did not miss.

  He shot him in the chest. The shot was hurried, and Flynn shot slightly high, the bullet breaking the man’s collar bone and spinning him away like a top. The second shot was even higher and removed most of the left side of his face.

  Flynn stood there for a moment, controlling his breathing, then he looked at Aleef, who emitted a little squeak.

  Flynn stepped over the dead men at his feet and gestured for Aleef to go ahead of him out of the door. Flynn came up behind him, slammed him up against the wall and frisked him quickly, expertly, getting close to the man, inhaling the cheap aftershave of which he stank.

  ‘You’re a very bad man,’ Flynn breathed into Aleef’s ear.

  ‘I’m just a businessman. Who are you, what is this?’

  ‘Who else is here?’ Flynn demanded, ignoring Aleef.

  ‘No one.’

  Flynn jammed the barrel of the Glock hard into Aleef’s spine at the small of his back. ‘Truth?’

  ‘Honestly.’

  Flynn gripped Aleef’s jacket collar and steered him out of the room into the hallway. He checked the room to the left, found a basic kitchen and a bathroom/toilet beyond. Then he manhandled Aleef into the next room, directly opposite the living room.

  It was empty.
<
br />   Flynn switched on the light with the butt of the Glock, a low wattage bulb dangling from a frayed length of wire in the middle of the ceiling.

  A thin single size mattress was on the floor in one corner of the room with a grimy, bloodstained sheet covering it. Flynn glanced around quickly and saw a small pile of bloody bandages and dressings discarded in another corner, flies buzzing around them. In another corner was clothing, a rolled up shirt and trousers and a pair of sandals. Next to the mattress was a plastic tray containing some crockery and cutlery, and next to that was a metal frame on wheels that held up an empty saline drip bag. Two other empty drip bags were in a bin, together with syringes and their packages. There was also a hessian prayer mat on the floor.

  Flynn computed all this, putting together everything he knew and had witnessed, everything he’d read.

  ‘Where is he?’ Flynn asked Aleef.

  ‘Who?’ Aleef responded innocently.

  Flynn buried the muzzle of the Glock into Aleef’s spine.

  ‘You know who.’

  ‘I . . . don’t know . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about . . . look, please allow me to go . . . I don’t know what this is about. I haven’t done anything.’

  Flynn backed off a step then brutally side-footed the back of Aleef’s right knee, causing the leg to fold and the man to drop on to his knees with a cry. Flynn pressed the gun into the back of Aleef’s head.

  ‘I said where is he?’

  ‘Gone . . . he’s gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir, I don’t know,’ Aleef wailed.

  Flynn forced him down to the floor, so the side of his head was crushed against the rough surface of the prayer mat.

  ‘Where is he?’ Flynn asked again, his instinct telling him that this mission of revenge for the death of a friend might have become something much more serious on a much larger scale.

  ‘Gone, gone,’ Aleef said, tears welling up in his eyes.

  ‘Who is gone? What is his name?’

  ‘Akram . . . Jamil Akram,’ Aleef confirmed.

  ‘And where has he gone?’

  ‘To finish what he started.’

  SIXTEEN

  ‘Suited and booted and now he’s in the traps with a gaoler watching over him. He’s asked for the duty solicitor, so we’ll just wait for him to land.’

  Henry nodded as Rik explained this and they walked down the dingy corridor towards the exit that would take them to the underground police garage.

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  ‘No, just blubbered a lot.’

  Henry pushed the door and the detectives walked out into the chilly garage. They made their way across to the plain Astra that had been used by PC Driver. Henry now had the key and clicked the remote to unlock it. As they approached the car they were pulling on latex gloves. Henry lifted the hatchback under which they had found the trussed up girl and looked at the items remaining. The girl was now in hospital being looked after by a policewoman, her parents on the way to the station. She was a mess.

  In the hatchback was a Nike sports bag that had not been looked at yet. Other items in the boot, untouched as yet by the detectives, included a full face ski mask with eye holes, a pair of overalls, a pair of trainers and a roll of duct tape.

  Henry’s mouth turned down distastefully. ‘What do we know about Driver?’

  ‘Not that much yet,’ Rik answered. ‘Just recently transferred up from Wiltshire, apparently, posted straight to Poulton . . . apart from that, I don’t know him. I suppose it’ll be a morning job for accessing his HR file.’

  ‘Not unless we knock up the HR manager.’

  ‘True,’ Rik concurred, liking the thought. ‘How did the chief take the news?’

  Whilst Rik had been booking the prisoner into custody, Henry had done his duty by informing the people who needed to know about things like a police constable being arrested on suspicion of rape and abduction. He’d phoned the divisional commanders of Blackpool and Northern divisions, the on-call ACC and the chief himself, all of whom had been tucked up in nice warm beds.

  ‘Grumpy old man at being woken up. Like prodding a hibernating grizzly. But more irate at being told one of his finest had been arrested for such serious offences – but also pleased it might take us somewhere with the rape investigation. A real conflict of emotion.’

  The two men looked from item to item in the hatchback, then Henry carefully unzipped the sports bag.

  ‘He must have been getting out of these overalls when he was at the back of the car, when we couldn’t see what he was doing,’ Rik said.

  ‘Which is why he only had half his uniform on. Caught in the act.’ Henry hooked his forefinger on to the zip and gently pulled the sports bag open, peered in and shone his mini Maglite torch into it. ‘Shit,’ he said. He reached in and slowly extracted a long, fine silk scarf, held it up and then looked at Rik, who even in the crap garage lighting went noticeably pale.

  ‘Trophy bag,’ Rik gulped.

  Henry nodded slowly. ‘This looks incredibly like the scarf that Natalie Philips had around her neck on the photo her mum provided for us.’

  ‘I know,’ Rik whispered. Both men could have been sick there and then.

  Henry’s mobile rang. He slowly replaced the scarf back into the bag and answered it.

  ‘Henry – you awake?’ It was Karl Donaldson.

  ‘I am now.’

  ‘Good, can you speak, or are you . . . y’know?’

  ‘I am just a bit busy, actually. Police work busy.’

  ‘Henry – do you know what time it is?’

  ‘Yeah, well as they say on TV, crime won’t crack itself.’

  ‘But you’re a superintendent! Aren’t you supposed to be tucked up, beddy-byes? You’re not setting a good example.’

  ‘Never have done . . . anyway, why’re you still up? You’ve been living in this country long enough, surely you’re not still suffering from jet-lag?’

  ‘Funny guy, huh? Even us Yanks work late occasionally.’

  ‘OK, banter over and out. What do you want?’

  ‘That apartment those suicide bombers were using?’

  ‘Apartment?’ Henry said. ‘That’s a bit strong. Even calling it a flat is pushing it.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Just teasing.’

  ‘You got any CSIs on call could do something for me?’

  ‘At the flat? Hasn’t it all been done?’

  ‘Yep, at the flat.’

  ‘When, now?’

  ‘Yes, and you might need a plumber, too.’

  ‘Karl – what the fuck are you talking about? It’s late and I’m dealing with something unpleasant.’

  ‘I wanna stick my fingers in a U-bend.’

  ‘Why, exactly?’

  Donaldson told him but he sounded like he was talking with his head in a bucket, and though Henry listened hard he only got half a tale. Irritably, Henry said, ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘M6 northbound, just passing Rugby.’

  ‘Two hours away,’ Henry calculated, even on empty roads and especially in Donaldson’s hulking four-wheel drive monstrosity. Henry pondered a second, mulling logistics. ‘Tell you what, head for my house and I’ll meet you there. Get a couple of hours sleep, nothing’s going to spoil in the meantime, and I’ll arrange to meet a CSI at seven this morning. How does that sound?’

  ‘Too lazy, but I’ll go for it.’

  At the same moment as Henry ended that call, Steve Flynn was making a call on his mobile phone to a number in the UK.

  The phone in the bedroom rang out shrilly, but only the man in the bed stirred and reached out for it, almost knocking everything off the bedside cabinet in his grogginess. The woman next to him, his wife, turned over and dragged the duvet off him and continued to snore softly.

  ‘Un-huh,’ the man said.

  ‘It’s me, Steve Flynn – and don’t you dare fucking hang up Jerry.’

  The man in the
bed, Detective Constable Jerry Tope, squinted at the bedside clock and muttered something which, though indecipherable, was clear in its meaning.

  ‘I take it you’re in bed,’ Flynn said.

  Tope gave an affirmative grunt and said, ‘Whajjawan?’

  Flynn managed a slight grin. ‘Get yourself out of there, away from the warm clutches of your lovely missus, and get your brain working – I need to pick it.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Just hand the phone over to Marina, and I’ll have a little discussion with her.’

  By that time, Tope had sat up and swung his legs out of bed, the phone to his right ear, his left hand scrunching his face into life.

  ‘I can’t talk to you, Flynn, you get me in shit,’ Tope whined.

  ‘If you don’t talk to me, you’ll be in real shit – personally and professionally, guaranteed.’

  Tope glanced at the sleeping mound in the bed, exhaled wearily and said, ‘Give us a second.’

  He stood up and padded out of the bedroom in his PJs, his top tucked neatly into the bottoms, cursing the fact he had ever become involved in a cover-up with Flynn.

  Way back they had been police buddies, colleagues verging on friends, in the halcyon days before Flynn fell out with the police hierarchy and became a pariah. After a particularly riotous night out in Preston, a Tuesday, on one of those nights known colloquially as ‘Grab-a-granny’, when it was alleged that slightly older and more experienced women were out on the razz and were easy prey, Tope, amazing himself, had done something very silly with a lady who was actually a grandmother – at the ripe old age of thirty-four. It was a sordid tryst that ended up with Tope pleading with Flynn to provide a cover story for him in order to put his highly suspicious wife off the scent. Flynn had done him the favour, saved the marriage and Tope had learned a very salutary lesson.

  What neither man expected was that Flynn would eventually use this piece of knowledge to prise information out of Tope after leaving the police. Flynn had only done this on a couple of desperate occasions and, in truth, got no joy from doing it. But it was certainly handy to have a lever on someone like Tope who worked as a DC on the Intelligence Unit, which gave him a position of great knowledge. It also helped that Tope was also a highly skilled interrogator of computers. A hacker, in other words.