by Nick Oldham
Flynn did as instructed. As Vincent walked past the car, he reached in and grabbed a big torch which he thumbed on. ‘Don’t try to be stupid, or I will just shoot you in the back . . . at least this way you’ll have a chance.’
Flynn stumbled on and Vincent shone the torch on to a path. ‘Down there.’
‘So you do have a big cat?’
‘Oh yes. Be sorry to leave him, but needs must. I’m sure you’ll give him a bit of sport. The last guy didn’t . . . mind you, he was dead . . . The one before that, he was alive but shit scared. You’ll be fun for him.’
‘I presume you have a licence? Get into trouble if you don’t.’
‘Hey, funny guy – keep going.’
They walked another twenty yards and suddenly there was a high, steel mesh fence in front of them with an integral gate.
‘The enclosure – runs right up the hillside,’ Vincent said. ‘Walk right up to it, Mr Flynn, put your nose up to it.’ To assist, Vincent pushed him violently and held Flynn’s face against the mesh with his left hand, digging the gun into his back with the other hand. Vincent kicked the fence, making it rattle, and shouted, ‘Kitty, Kitty.’
‘You’re out of your tree,’ Flynn said through his misshapen face.
Vincent leaned into Flynn, still holding his head hard, still digging the gun into his lower back. ‘No one fucks with me, Flynn.’ He kicked the fence again and shouted, ‘Kitty – come here.’
Suddenly there was movement on the other side of the fence. A shadowy figure in the darkness, lit by the broken beam of Vincent’s torch as it shone through the mesh. Inches away from Flynn, separated only by the thin fence. Flynn, with his head pinned, saw a beautiful, muscular beast, prowling back and forth along the fence, growling with each step it took, its eyes occasionally catching the light. The odour of it was overpowering and terrifying.
‘Jesus,’ he hissed in awe, ‘what is it?’
‘You like him?’ Vincent was still leaning on Flynn, trapping him against the fence. ‘Just a leopard, nothing fancy.’
‘You sick bastard.’
Vincent laughed, then pulled Flynn away from the fence and across to the gate, which was secured by two bolts, top and bottom.
‘I’d thought of feeding Jonny Cain to him, but changed my mind. You’ll do. Go on, open up and step inside – then fucking run!’
‘I don’t think so.’ Flynn was eyeing the angles, working out his chance of disarming Vincent, but he’d stepped right back beyond reach and the gun hovered threateningly.
‘I’ll kill you if you don’t, I don’t give a shit.’
The torch played on the fence, picking up the cat beyond, pacing, growling impatiently, wanting to eat, wanting to hunt. Vincent pushed Flynn against the gate, which rattled, surprising the cat. It reacted with a howl and the torch caught the ears pinned back, the long, pointed incisors revealed in their full glory.
‘See, he likes you – now open up, step inside. I need to get going.’
Flynn reached for the upper bolt and slid it back. Then he bent down for the lower one, images in his mind of having to outrun, outmanoeuvre an animal designed to bring down and kill others. A supremely designed killing machine.
Vincent was standing about ten feet behind Flynn, who therefore did not see it happen. He was holding the gun and the torch on Flynn, an evil, leering smile on his face which disintegrated spectacularly as the soft-nosed bullet struck his right temple, fragmented as it passed through the bone, made mincemeat of the brain tissue, then exited through the left temple, removing that whole side of his head.
Four days later
Henry Christie looked pale and unwell. He’d had to have a minor operation – under full anaesthetic – on his shoulder to dig out several shotgun pellets from the flesh. He was on the mend, but it still hurt like hell. He could easily have been on sick leave, but insisted on being at work. Not through any great altruistic or professional motive. He just did not want to miss anything.
He was in his office at police headquarters at Hutton, near Preston. There was a cup of coffee in one hand, a handful of tablets in the other, which he slapped into his mouth and swallowed down with a swig of coffee.
The office, although reasonably sized, was easily filled, as it was that moment. Henry was at his desk and in an arc opposite him, from left to right, were Steve Flynn, Karl Donaldson and the Chief Constable, FB.
Henry had just put the phone down on Rik Dean.
‘He’s at crown court with Calcutt, who’s due to be sentenced today. He’s been to see him in the holding cell. Apparently he’s reverted to type and is saying nothing more. He gave us the heads-up about a hit man being recruited by the same person who recruited him to take out Felix Deakin, and we know – although we still can’t prove it – that it was Jonny Cain. Looks like he got someone to take out Jack Vincent over some disagreement they were having . . . fortunately for you,’ Henry said, looking at Flynn, who made a gesture of agreement. ‘It’s to be wondered if he got paid, bearing in mind what happened to Cain.’
‘At that level, it’s usually half upfront. He won’t starve,’ FB said.
‘Seems a shame that we even have to try and catch him,’ Henry said, ‘but we will. I’ll use the same team that caught Calcutt.’
There was a pause.
Flynn said, ‘Where do I stand?’ He had spent two days being interviewed and giving a long, detailed statement to detectives. He still wasn’t sure if he was going to be arrested or not.
‘I’ll put it all in to the CPS,’ Henry said.
‘With what recommendation?’
‘That everything you did was reasonable and justified. There’s a lot of negotiating to do with them and Tom’s making a lot of noises about excessive force.’
‘That’s a joke!’ Flynn blurted. ‘He shot you. And killed his wife.’
‘He’s not admitting that yet, though. However, Callard can’t stop talking,’ Henry said. ‘Lots of stories about feeding people into crushers and such like.’
FB leaned forward and looked along at Flynn. ‘You have nothing to worry about, Steve, we’ll see to it – won’t we, Henry?’
Henry bobbed his head, a bit shamefaced. ‘Yeah.’
‘You will be required for any trial, though, whenever this all gets sorted out,’ FB went on.
‘That’s fine . . . does that mean I can go home?’
‘Home being?’
‘You know, where I live and work. It’s no problem to get back here, especially on witness expenses.’ He pushed himself up. ‘So, can I go?’
Henry nodded. ‘Yeah, I need to get on. Things to do, not least of which is try and find a good home for an arthritic ex-police dog and a zoo insane enough to take in a man-eating leopard.’
Outside Flynn breathed the cold air. Flecks of snow drifted down from the leaden sky. As he walked across to the car park, his plan was to get to the nearest library, log on to the Internet and book the first available flight back to Gran Canaria, no matter the cost. That was where he belonged, where he wanted to be. There was nothing to keep him here. As he reached his hire car Flynn pulled out his mobile phone and made a call.
‘Alison, it’s Steve, yeah. You still OK? Look,’ he said, checking over his shoulder to ensure no one was in earshot. ‘They’re certain Vincent was killed by a hit man hired by Jonny Cain . . . so everything’s fine. Yeah, please don’t worry. What you did was the right thing and it would have made life unbearably complicated for you if we’d told them what really happened . . . yeah, do not worry. You saved my life. You know you did right and having to justify it before a court could lead to all sorts of complications. Just hang tight, stick to the story and it’ll be fine. I will, if you will. Yeah, OK, good. Speak soon.’ He ended the call, breathed out, and leaned on his car roof, jumping almost out of his skin at the voice behind, thinking no one was near.
It was Karl Donaldson, who had somehow come right up to Flynn without him noticing.
Donaldson held out a hand. ‘It was nice to mee
t you, pal.’ They shook hands. ‘You seem a handy guy . . . but just a word to the wise.’
‘What would that be?’
‘Don’t underestimate Henry Christie. He was the first detective on the scene and whilst he may have been shot and injured and exhausted, he was still sharp as a knife.’ Donaldson looked knowingly at Flynn. ‘He’s a man who knows.’ Donaldson tapped his nose, turned and limped away without a backward glance. ‘And if you’ll excuse me, I need to see a man about a chicken.’
Flynn watched the American, mouth open, wondering just who the guy really was. His mobile phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. No number was displayed.
‘Steve? It’s me, Adam Castle.’
‘Boss, I was just thinking about you.’
‘Well, good – I need your arse back here as soon as,’ Castle said.
‘Why?’
‘We have a charter arriving in two days from Germany, that bunch of businessmen you took out last year. Two weeks, paid upfront – and they asked for you. Can you make it?’
‘Already on my way.’