Headhunter

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Eh?’

  She pointed towards his lower stomach. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed …’

  Flynn raised his head to look. She was correct; he hadn’t noticed. He had seen the drain from underneath the dressing of his leg wound but had not seen or felt the catheter tube sneaking out from the other side under the hospital gown. It had been inserted into his bladder via his penis, draining his urine into a bottle affixed to the other side of the bed.

  ‘Feel free,’ she said, ‘to pee.’

  He thought she had a very cruel expression on her face which, despite the circumstances, he now realized was far more than pretty. She was actually quite stunning.

  After a nurse had primped up his pillows, made him comfortable, emptied his piss and puss bags and organized a small meal for him of scrambled eggs on toast, which she diced up for him like he was three and gave him a plastic spoon to eat it with (as the police had informed the hospital that real cutlery should not be given to him because he might use it as a weapon), which he had then gobbled down, and then administered more intravenous painkillers and saline into him via the drip, creating a soporific effect, Flynn had dozed off into a troubled sleep peppered with flecking blood and the undead.

  He woke an hour later, still feeling groggy and sore.

  The armed policewoman – Molly Cartwright – was still watching over him, sitting by the door, busy with her mobile phone but facing him this time.

  She had earlier given him some detail about the period of time from their first encounter when she had Tasered him – ‘You went down like a baby,’ she’d sneered at him, and the fact he had passed out, been taken to A&E at Blackpool Victoria for treatment, was admitted, underwent surgery on his leg and was where he was now. It filled in a few gaps for him because the time between the Tasering and waking up post-surgery was a period of blackness, interspersed with vivid, wild images, none of which made sense.

  The period of time from breaking Brian Tasker’s neck up to the Taser zapping him was quite clear in his mind, though.

  Molly glanced up at him from the screen of her phone as Flynn moved and made a dry clacking sound with his mouth, which had gone dry again. He eased himself into a more comfortable sitting position, not easy with one arm manacled to the bed and the other an input for drugs.

  The over-bed tray had been wheeled to the side and he was unable to reach the jug of weak orange juice on it.

  ‘Need a drink,’ he croaked weakly. ‘Could you do the honours?’

  She closed her eyes impatiently for a moment, then slid the phone into her cargo trouser pocket and stood up. Flynn watched her face, curious to confirm if he had been correct as to how beautiful she was; yes, he had been right, but now he also saw that her eyes were red raw from crying and she avoided making direct eye contact with him.

  With sloth-like reluctance, she half-filled the plastic tumbler for him, then manoeuvred the tray across his knees so the drink was now in reaching distance of his free hand.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Flynn enquired, picking up the juice and taking a long swig of it. Even though it was tepid, it tasted good and sweet.

  This time she did look at him. He saw that her previous facade of hard features was now not quite so granite like.

  Annoyed with herself, or so it appeared to Flynn, she rubbed her eyes ferociously with her knuckles and said, ‘No o’your business.’

  ‘OK,’ Flynn said philosophically. ‘When’s Mr Dean coming to see me? I mean, what time is it now? Midnight?’

  ‘One a.m. And when’s he coming? When he’s free. You’ve given him a lot of things to sort out, not least his own injuries. He’s been in casualty.’

  ‘Casualty?’

  ‘Yeah, y’know, A and E – the place you go when someone assaults you, breaks your cheekbone and knocks you unconscious.’

  ‘Oh, that casualty,’ Flynn muttered. ‘I’d almost forgotten about that.’

  ‘You literally punched his lights out, didn’t you?’

  ‘Suppose I did.’ Flynn sighed. Headbutted, actually, but he didn’t correct her. It had hurt his own head doing so. ‘I had my reasons.’

  ‘I know,’ Molly said. She looked at him, he thought, with some compassion in her sea-blue eyes. ‘But you’re like a bull in a china shop. I am sorry about your girlfriend … I have heard,’ she finished quietly.

  A dreadful image spliced into Flynn’s mind’s eye: a severed head being juggled around by the hair, like a football in a net bag.

  ‘Yeah.’ Flynn’s voice was muted by the memory. He blinked as his own eyes became moist before he forced himself to expunge the vision.

  ‘Look!’ Molly said. Flynn turned his head slowly, the anguish clear. She was pointing at her own teary eyes. ‘Nowhere near what you’ve been through,’ she said quietly. She swallowed. Flynn saw her throat rise and fall as she gave an apologetic shrug. ‘I just dumped my bloke, that’s what these are about. Caught the bastard cheating on me – and other stuff. Now he’s been sending me pathetic texts and I’ve been sending pathetic ones back.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘I don’t know why, but I thought he was for keeps.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Flynn said sincerely. He too had been dumped in the not-too-distant past by a woman he’d been convinced he would spend the rest of his life with. It wasn’t to be because she needed more than he could offer: the life of a sportfishing boat skipper on a sun-baked island, always scrabbling for cash, clearly did not do it for her, but that was all he had. Then fate brought someone else into his life – a dark, beautiful, incredible woman now cruelly, brutally taken from him by men of evil.

  The flash of that ghastly image again: the severed, bloody head, one eye open, the other closed, mouth distorted, the sawn-through neck.

  Flynn said, ‘Want me to pay him a visit when I get out of this?’

  ‘What? No!’ Molly blew out her cheeks and made a horrified face at the prospect of Flynn beating up her ex. ‘No, it’s fine … I’ve seen what you do when you get angry, and anyway, I’m not convinced you’ll be out of this situation any time soon … And anyway, why am I even talking to you? You’re a murderer and you smashed up a police van.’

  ‘Because I have an honest face?’ Flynn ventured.

  She regarded him stonily, shook her head and backed away.

  Out of the blue, Flynn asked, ‘Who’s the biggest drug dealer in town these days?’

  ‘What?’ Molly’s face screwed up, confused by the change of tack.

  ‘Who’s the biggest, baddest, richest drug dealer in town?’ Flynn asked again.

  Before she could reply, the door opened and Rik Dean, the Detective Superintendent in joint charge of Lancashire Constabulary’s Force Major Investigation Team (FMIT) stepped in. Flynn fleetingly spotted another armed cop, presumably the policewoman’s firearms partner, standing in the corridor beyond the door.

  Rik Dean dismissed Molly with a curt jerk of the head. She frowned – not at the superintendent as that could have been seen as insubordination – and left, then Rik dragged the plastic chair Molly had been sat on over to the side of the bed and eased himself painfully down next to Flynn, who was sardonically eyeing the senior detective’s face.

  The left side was badly swollen, puffed up, bruised red and purple around the eye socket. His bottom lip was cut inside and out, the visible wounds glued back together, but it still flopped big and puffy like a burst inner tube.

  Rik leaned forwards, rested his elbows on his knees, interlocked his fingers and turned his head slowly and with a certain degree of malevolence to glare at Flynn through one good eye and one closed up to a sticky slit.

  Flynn sniffed. ‘That looks sore.’

  Rik nodded in agreement. ‘Sure fucking is, Steve. You head-butted me very, very hard and just the once, for Christ’s sake – so how did I get all this?’ he demanded. ‘One hell of an impact.’

  ‘Mm,’ Flynn said, ‘it didn’t quite land as intended.’

  ‘I’ve had to have my frickin’ skull X-rayed. Not fr
actured, luckily, but my cheekbone is splintered like a dry twig, you bastard. I can only see out of one eye and even then I’m seeing double.’ Rik’s voice sounded slightly disconnected. Flynn guessed his mouth was numbed up by painkillers and synching his voice to his lip movements wasn’t easy.

  Flynn said, ‘I had to put you down. It was the only chance I’d get … to cause a diversion, to get people falling over themselves like the Keystone Kops, just long enough …’

  ‘Just long enough for you to get into the back of an unattended police van and kill the occupant – a prisoner in police custody.’

  ‘Let’s face it, Rik,’ Flynn said, ‘you were a tad reluctant to let me get in with him, so I had to think outside the box. Once he was in a cell it would’ve been much more difficult for me.’

  ‘To kill him?’ Rik interrupted, his rubbery, distended bottom lip flapping. Normally Rik Dean was a pretty handsome guy, but now he looked in bad shape following his encounter with Flynn’s forehead. ‘Jeez,’ he continued, the ‘z’ sounding like ‘thh’ as his injuries made him lisp. ‘The word “reluctant” seems to imply I was in two minds: should I let him get in with a prisoner or should I not? I wasn’t in two minds, and now we know why. Christ, and then you even nicked the section van with him in the back, dead, until, of course, he rolled out into the path of the car behind – the body is one hell of a mess – and the driver is now having a shed collapse. Then you crash the van and try to rob a chemist’s shop of its junk. What the fuck were you thinking, Steve? We had Tasker, banged up, bang to rights, and now you’ve completely ballsed it up, particularly for yourself.’

  Flynn listened to Rik’s lisping rant without apparent emotion, then thought for a few moments before opening his mouth and saying flatly, ‘Brian Tasker killed, or had killed, or killed on behalf of others such as the Bashkims, too many people close to me,’ although his heartrate monitor could not hide just how quickly his heart had begun to pound. He was seeing the faces of all those dead people, not least the face of Maria Santiago, whose head had been severed from her body and shaken on a video link for Flynn to see, to be taunted and traumatized in the moments before Tasker intended to murder Flynn himself. Just so he knew, prior to his own horrific death, he had lost everything and the final image he would take with him was that of Maria’s head.

  But Flynn’s end was not to be. The armed cops surging into the basement where he was being held captive ensured that.

  ‘Fuck, Steve.’ Rik hung and shook his head despondently. ‘You’re as bad as Tasker now, and the Bashkims. At least we still have two Bashkim guys under lock and key, out of your reach,’ Rik said, referring to the two men who had been arrested in the basement, who were steadfastly still refusing to reveal their personal details. Rik exchanged a quick look with Flynn. ‘Oh, no, no, no, no – you’re not getting anywhere near those two … and anyway, they’re just enforcers, gofers.’

  ‘Who also killed people we both know, liked and worked with,’ Flynn pointed out.

  ‘Maybe so, but Brian Tasker and those two should now be in the justice system on the first step of a journey lasting the rest of their lives, rotting in jail.’

  ‘He was already in prison,’ Flynn reminded him about Tasker. ‘He escaped, then came after the people who sent him there in the first place.’ Flynn pondered a moment. ‘He should’ve been in jail for life then, and to be fair I used to believe in that sort of justice, Rik.’ Flynn’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘But not now – not for people like Tasker or the Bashkims. They don’t deserve to be fed and watered on the taxpayer.’

  ‘And now, instead, that’ll be you inside, Steve. I’ll have to charge you with murder.’

  ‘I didn’t have a choice, Rik.’

  ‘Everyone has choices.’

  Flynn looked meaningfully at Rik Dean, a man he had known for a lot of years. ‘This isn’t over, not by a long chalk, not even started … You know that, don’t you?’

  THREE

  Viktor Bashkim slowly wiped his lips with the Egyptian cotton napkin.

  The nine-course meze had been delicious – mini-courses with a basic Albanian theme served over a leisurely two-hour period to him and his four guests, his main partners in crime that he now had to deal with directly since the demise of Aleksander, his son. Following the food, they had all been shown to their individual bedrooms in which their treats awaited: three hand-picked girls, one for each of the sexually voracious men, and another girl for the woman.

  Bashkim had bid them all a goodnight, because with one exception they all deserved their presents. The one who didn’t would be dealt with in due course but was treated with the same courtesy as the others so as not to arouse suspicion. Bashkim would not see any of them for the remainder of the night as he would be ensconced in his own very palatial cabin where he would sleep alone. Pleasures of the flesh were long behind him, and now that his wife had died he was eager to retire alone, listen to some simple Albanian folk music for a while then, hopefully, sleep.

  First he needed a progress check.

  He indicated for Mikel, the head waiter, to start to clear away the dishes, then, dropping his napkin on to the table, he made his way to the bridge where the skipper remained at the controls, alert but lounging now.

  He shot upright when Viktor entered.

  ‘News?’ the old man asked.

  ‘Nothing has come through as of yet.’

  Viktor scowled and walked over to the control panel, leaned with both hands on it and stared thoughtfully at Zante harbour.

  ‘We should have something by now.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘What is Niko doing?’

  ‘He’s … er … in his room,’ the skipper answered delicately.

  ‘Get him.’

  Rik Dean left Steve Flynn under no illusions.

  Flynn was under arrest and under armed guard, the latter for his own safety and also because he was now considered a dangerous man in his own right. Once a doctor confirmed he was well enough to travel and be in custody, he would be taken to a police station and thrown into a cell. Until his good health could be confirmed he would remain a hospital patient, would not be interviewed formally but would understand he was under caution and not be allowed to contact anyone else. And he would stay handcuffed to the bed.

  Flynn bleated that this was a blatant breach of his basic human rights.

  Rik counter-argued that he had buggered up that argument by murdering someone and nicking a police van, but promised that once he was banged up he could have all the human rights under the sun.

  When Rik had gone, a nauseating tsunami of tiredness threatened to overwhelm Flynn.

  He swallowed back a horrible, bile-like taste in his throat, lay back on his pillows and closed his eyes.

  He wanted to sleep but the image of Maria’s severed head refused to leave his mind’s eye. Unable to un-see what he had seen, he began to cry.

  ‘Grandpa, what the fucking hell?’ Niko protested wearily as he appeared on the bridge, tightening a silk dressing gown around himself. His thick black hair was tousled but his face was gaunt, showing deeply etched lines from the ravages of cocaine, vodka, sex and little sleep.

  ‘There has been no news,’ Viktor stated.

  Niko shrugged without care. ‘I can’t help that,’ he whined. ‘There was always going to be a delay of some sort, only natural.’

  Viktor had been perched on the skipper’s chair. He slid off, walked over to his grandson and glowered up into his face. Viktor was much older and physically inferior now, although he’d once been a bull of a man, but his aura still made others cower like beaten dogs.

  ‘Put your cock away, wipe your nose and find out what has happened,’ he ordered the younger man. ‘Do it now and let me know as soon as possible. I will be in my room.’

  More drugs helped Flynn relax – took the pain away but not the mental torture. He managed to sleep for about four very fitful hours until eventually coming awake again, opening his eyes and se
eing PC Molly Cartwright still on guard duty over him. She was sitting on the plastic chair by the door, arms folded across her chest with her legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles.

  She was staring into space, lost in deep thought and initially unaware of Flynn’s awakening until he shifted position slightly and the handcuff clanked on the bed frame. Her face turned towards him. Her eyes were red raw.

  Although Flynn’s mouth had dried up again, he managed to say, ‘A right couple of crybabies, us two, aren’t we?’

  Molly’s lips twisted cynically. ‘I’ve been instructed not to talk to you, or if I do, to record the conversation and remind you you’re under caution,’ she said frostily.

  ‘I don’t actually recall being cautioned in the first place,’ Flynn said, ‘after you electrocuted me.’

  ‘Whatever.’ She shrugged. ‘But no conversation, eh? Then our lives’ll be much easier.’

  ‘How about filling that juice glass again for me?’

  She sighed, rolled her eyes and stood up. She filled the glass on the over-bed tray and manoeuvred it across him. He took it and drank half.

  Molly backed off a few steps.

  ‘So we can’t talk? Sad, that,’ Flynn said.

  ‘Way of the world. You’re a murderer.’

  Flynn accepted the accusation with a small gesture and laid his head back on the pillows, now deeply indented by his head.

  ‘I don’t want to jeopardize the investigation,’ she explained.

  ‘I understand. Still sad, though. The two of us going through our own trials and tribulations and no one to blab to … Problem shared and all that.’

  ‘I’m not sure you can halve your problem. All I’ve done is dump a cheating love rat and gambler. Just one of those things, whereas murder isn’t …’ She paused. ‘One of those things.’

  ‘But you do want to talk about it?’ Flynn offered. ‘Promise it won’t jeopardize the murder investigation. I’ll listen, you talk … keep my mind off a certain image that keeps playing through my brain.’

  At the mention of which, it came back. His face twitched.