Headhunter

by Nick Oldham

  Not a great look.

  The two of them, Molly and the superintendent, were in Rik’s FMIT office at Blackpool police station. His main office was at police headquarters where FMIT was actually based, but the department had satellite offices dotted in the major police stations around the county. This one, tucked into the corner of the high-rise block that was Blackpool nick, had an uninspiring view through the narrow, floor-to-ceiling windows (designed never to be opened) on to Bonny Street which ran parallel and one step back from the promenade, and belied its name: it was far from Bonny, a grim thoroughfare.

  Molly was now dressed in civilian clothing after her uniform and equipment had all been seized for forensic analysis. She had suffered the indignity of having to undress in the ladies’ locker room under the watchful eye of a female detective who had bagged and tagged each item as Molly handed them to her. Molly had changed into the spare set of clothes she kept in her locker just for emergencies: tracksuit bottoms, a zip-up hoodie top, a battered Rolling Stones T-shirt and a pair of shitty trainers.

  And that was before any of the real questioning began.

  It had been a long, gruelling day, not helped by the creeping onset of a genuine whiplash injury to her neck and shoulders from the smash she’d endured.

  She told the honest truth because there was nowhere else to go.

  The security escort had been ambushed. Many shots had been fired. Vehicles had been overturned and seriously damaged. There had been a shoot-out and she had been fighting for her life.

  She had killed a man.

  Steve Flynn had killed a man, then escaped from custody.

  Her partner Robbo had been injured in the smash.

  The driver of the Ford Galaxy had been seriously hurt, although he was expected to survive.

  And PC Mike Guthrie was dead, caught in a hail of bullets, one of which had ripped out his throat.

  Molly took the proffered mug from Rik. She was sitting on a reasonably comfortable chair with a coffee table next to it. Rik eased himself down into a chair opposite and gave her a washed-out smile.

  She sipped the brew, holding it in both hands, enjoying the warmth on her palms and down her throat. Normally she hated tea with sugar but she’d asked Rik to lace the brew with three heaped teaspoons. She needed the comfort and sustenance.

  ‘How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Horrible,’ she said, rolling her shoulders gently. She could feel the muscles starting to tighten and contract. She recalled the impact of the tractor unit into the Mondeo and could visualize the movement of her body in response, jolting forwards, then her head jerking back like a crash test dummy. So far she had refused hospital treatment, but she knew she needed to go soon and get her condition confirmed. Not that they would be able to do anything, but a good dose of strong painkillers was appealing.

  The questioning, carried out by two very experienced FMIT detectives, had taken about six hours in total. She hadn’t been under arrest but had been under caution, and she knew if she decided to get up and walk out she would have soon seen the inside of a cell. That said, she did use a duty solicitor, feeling it would be prudent even though she had nothing to hide and, because this was only the beginning of a very long haul, she wanted to get it right.

  ‘You did very well,’ Rik said. ‘I want you to know that.’ He added, ‘The force is behind you all the way.’ When he saw her cynical expression, he said, ‘It is, Molly. An armed ambush. Extreme violence being used. One officer dead. Two injured – plus you. Two bad guys down, tough shit on them … You pull a gun …’

  ‘You open a door,’ she finished for him, ‘and you have to live with what comes through. Same applies to me,’ she said flatly.

  ‘I know, and I also know that if you hadn’t responded as you did, your own life could have been lost. I’ll be behind you all the way – honest,’ he stressed.

  ‘Even when the IPCC gets a grip?’ She was referring to the Independent Police Complaints Commission, the body that would investigate the incident.

  ‘Especially then.’

  She sipped her tea. ‘I have never been so utterly shit-scared in all my life, boss.’ She blinked. ‘And I don’t mind saying it, but I’m glad Flynn was there and I’m glad I released him … just pissed off he legged it.’

  ‘He’s playing to his own agenda.’ Rik was tight-lipped. Both knew what he meant.

  Molly eyed him. The one thing she hadn’t admitted in the interviews was that Flynn now possessed her mobile phone and she couldn’t quite understand why she didn’t tell the interviewers. She almost blabbed it to Rik, and also the question Flynn had asked about a drug dealer’s name. That was another little snippet she hadn’t mentioned, and again, she had no idea why not.

  Rik looked at her curiously. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing.’

  ‘What do you think Flynn’s up to?’ Rik asked after a pause.

  She shook her head. It hurt to do so. ‘I don’t know the specifics, boss, but I think we both know what he wants to do. And do you know what?’

  Rik waited.

  ‘I hope he fucking succeeds.’

  He kept his movements around his former marital home to a minimum, not wanting to draw the attention of any of the neighbours, though he doubted they would be interested. He knew Faye kept herself very much to herself, and Flynn had occasionally crashed here when she had been here as well as when she had not, so his presence wasn’t too unusual if he was spotted. He did try to keep out of sight, though, keeping all the lights off at the front of the house.

  There was a certain amount of recklessness in returning here but there was nothing on police records about the house, unless his old personnel file was unearthed. He hoped this had been scrubbed from the day-to-day computer system and would only be accessible via the head of HR, who probably didn’t know the access code to the archives anyway. Flynn knew these were assumptions but he did not intend to spend much time here because, once he got what he needed, he would be gone on the wind.

  The key had been under the plant pot.

  Once inside, Flynn locked the door then went to the kitchen, where he knew the first-aid kit was kept in a cupboard.

  Once he had found that, he dropped his newly acquired pants and inspected his leg wound, peeling back the blood-soaked dressing carefully. It was bleeding because the stitches had split. Flynn dabbed it clean, squeezed a blob of Savlon into it, then, using several plasters, he pulled the wound back together and put more plasters over it to keep it in place, then finally re-wrapped a bandage around the whole thing.

  It was as good as it was going to get.

  Next, he went upstairs. On the landing, he reached up and released the loft hatch, which swung down. He found the ladder pole in the main bathroom and reached up with it, hooked it into the loft ladders and dragged them down.

  Once in the loft, he duck-walked to the far end and found an old storage box in which he knew were some of his old belongings, including clothing. Fay had once mentioned this to him – that she still had some of his gear in the loft but couldn’t be arsed to throw it out through laziness rather than for sentimental reasons.

  There were old jeans and T-shirts and a zip-up windjammer, together with a couple of old pairs of trainers, all having seen better days and all smelling slightly musty.

  He came back down the ladder, replaced it and closed the hatch, then got changed. The T-shirts were fine – he liked old and baggy – but the jeans were tight around his waist. Even a fit guy like Flynn, who had spent years on a sportfishing boat, had spread somewhat with age. The trainers fitted fine.

  Back in the kitchen, the kettle went on, tea was brewed and, with his old mug in hand (another thing Faye had not binned), he sat at the kitchen table and looked at Molly’s phone, which was already showing a dozen missed calls (all from Alan xx), and three voice messages that Flynn assumed originated from the same source.

  Flynn ignored them and dialled a number dredged up from the bowels of his memory, wh
ich he knew might not even connect now.

  It rang out and was answered. A cautious voice said, ‘Hullo?’

  ‘It’s me, Steve Flynn.’

  ‘Molly?’

  She spun at the voice behind her.

  ‘Alan,’ she said coldly.

  She had just walked across from the police station into the multi-storey car park and was almost at her car when Hardiker stepped out from behind and called her name softly. Up to that point, she had been walking in a trance following her chat with Rik Dean. From his office, all the way to the car park, a rising feeling of dread had grown like a death shroud over her, constricting her lungs, making her breathing laboured.

  She had taken someone’s life. She had been involved in what could be a life-changing incident. And now a huge manhunt was underway.

  Signing on, volunteering as a firearms officer, there was always the possibility of that happening, however remote.

  She had once pointed a gun at a person in anger, an armed robber who’d swung a sawn-off shotgun at her, a situation that had ended peacefully. She wasn’t sure if she would have pulled the trigger then, but assumed she would have done given the fact she had now killed someone.

  Now that moment of decision would be scrutinized and picked through meticulously. That microsecond would be pulled apart, dissected and put back together like the most intricate Airfix model imaginable.

  She knew she had nothing to fear.

  Her actions had been lawful in the circumstances, the use of force reasonable. She wasn’t even too concerned by the probing questions that would be asked of her in relation to giving Flynn her Glock. They had been under attack and it was the only thing she could have done to protect them.

  She would live with the criticism.

  What she wasn’t certain of was how to handle the killing of a man, even if he deserved it. It was a subject often discussed and analysed by firearms officers and their appointed counsellors, but now Molly realized that no training, however realistic, was preparation for the real thing.

  These thoughts had crowded her mind as she walked towards her car, but all dissolved on the sound of Hardiker’s voice.

  She turned slowly. ‘You need to stop hanging around in car parks. You could get your bollocks kicked up into your throat on a regular basis.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ His hands made a conciliatory gesture. ‘Look, I’ve been calling you. I’m just glad you’re OK. You haven’t been answering your phone.’

  ‘Been a tad busy,’ she clipped.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, fair do’s. But you’re OK, are you? It must have been horrendous.’

  ‘It was horrendous,’ she confirmed. ‘You don’t know the fucking half of it.’

  ‘Y’know, if you need a hug, I’m here for you,’ he offered pathetically.

  Molly was glad to note that there wasn’t even the slightest nanosecond of reconsideration on her part, no weakening, no thinking that to fall back into his arms would be a good thing.

  ‘I’d rather hug a roll of barbed wire.’ She held up her right hand in a stop sign. ‘I’ll handle it myself, OK?’

  She saw the expression on his face mutate from wet sand into concrete.

  ‘And seriously, do not hang around in car parks.’ She spun round and headed to her car.

  Flynn was pleased that his errant ex-wife’s habits hadn’t changed much in the years he’d been away as he raided her secret stash of money – a plastic sandwich box stuffed with ten-pound notes he had once discovered during a period of marital turbulence, hidden in the back of a kitchen cupboard. He hadn’t let on he had found it, but had occasionally helped himself to funds. Why she had continued to keep it post-divorce, he could not fathom, maybe just the habit of a lifetime; however, here it was, a nice butty box stuffed with cash – rolls of tenners to the value of a hundred pounds each. Flynn counted £1600 in total and took four rolls for his upcoming expenses.

  Then he left the house under the cover of darkness and walked in the direction of South Shore, keeping to the shadows but not seeing any cop cars or any sign of the law. He emerged on to the promenade near to the Pleasure Beach, feeling the chill wind from the Irish Sea, and walked into the Dragon & Horse pub on the nearby seafront.

  He ordered a mineral water and slid into a chair by the big bay window overlooking the promenade with his glass.

  He did not see the woman approaching, only knew she was there when she perched down on the seat opposite.

  Flynn swallowed.

  Sue Daggert was at least ten years younger than him and looked as stunning as when he had first encountered her almost twenty years before and fallen into bed with her to begin a torrid but short-lived and very perilous affair with a woman who was the girlfriend and later the wife of one of the north-west’s biggest, most violent drug kingpins.

  ‘Flynn,’ she said throatily. Her blue eyes sparkled at him. ‘Never thought I’d see you again.’

  ‘Nor I you. How are you, Sue?’

  ‘Can’t lie.’ She displayed the rings on her fingers, a glittering but subtle collection of expensive jewellery, then touched the diamond pendant on her necklace, nestling just above her cleavage. She pointed past him outside the pub to a stunning Bentley convertible on the car park.

  ‘And Jack?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘All legit now, after ten years inside thanks to you.’

  Flynn smiled. ‘That’s good to hear.’

  ‘He still wants to kill you, though,’ she informed him.

  The tyres on Molly’s Mini squealed as she powered the little car out of her parking space and made Hardiker jump aside as she screwed it past him and aimed the car down the ramp, out of the car park. The first time she checked the rear-view mirror was when she reached the junction with Richardson Street and saw that it was smashed. As she twisted to look at it over her shoulder, the pain of whiplash made her cry out.

  Flynn bought Sue Daggert an Orange and Passionfruit J2O from the bar – with a shot of Grey Goose vodka – and placed it in front of her as he retook his seat. She sipped it, looking across the rim of the long glass through hooded eyes.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ Flynn complimented her.

  ‘Thank you. And, up to a point, so are you.’

  Flynn gave a short, double-edged laugh. ‘I’m assuming hubby doesn’t know of this little tryst?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. He’s in Spain for the duration anyway … property, y’know.’

  ‘That’s his business then?’

  ‘More or less.’ She pouted. ‘So, Steve Flynn, ex-cop, I can’t say it isn’t nice to see you again – it is – but we had our time. Fun, dangerous …’ she said whimsically.

  ‘Especially the time I hid in your attic and Jack came a-huntin’ with a double-barrelled shotgun.’

  ‘Oh, that was fun.’ She chuckled at the memory. ‘But that was the tipping point for us. He had his suspicions but couldn’t prove anything. If we’d’ve kept going he would have found out, though – and we’d both be dead.’

  Flynn nodded. It had been a wild time, truly on the edge, playing people, messing with emotions, running the gauntlet with Jack Daggert, one of the most dangerous men in the country. Exciting and ultimately unsustainable, as both Flynn and Sue realized. Jack suspected she was having an affair but not with whom, and definitely not with a cop, the ultimate betrayal. Flynn had been mercilessly trying to elicit information from her about Jack’s criminal activities but she had been shrewd, just happy to enjoy a fling, revealing nothing of value to Flynn. It all got very ugly when Jack beat her up because of his never-proven suspicions, and that made her and Flynn end the affair, but it also gave her the impetus to drop Jack in the shit yet still stay with him.

  Flynn had led the raid on one of Jack’s big drug deals and sent him down for a ten-year stretch with Jack stating his intention to kill Flynn: not because of the affair, of which he still knew nothing, but because he’d been caught with half-a-million-pounds-worth of cocaine and £300,000 of drug-tainted notes in hi
s pockets.

  It was a lot to lose, and Jack was the sort of man to bear a grudge.

  ‘I take it you’ve come to pump me for information,’ Sue quipped. ‘I don’t mind the pumping bit but I’m not keen on giving out information. Me and Jack are simpatico now. He’s a changed man and, like I said, on the straight and narrow now … sorta.’

  ‘You know I’m not a cop now, don’t you?’

  From her reaction, he could tell she didn’t.

  ‘No reason why you should, I suppose. I left about twelve years ago.’

  ‘So what’s this then?’ She shrugged and flipped her hands to indicate the situation, clearly puzzled.

  ‘I’m on the run and I need some information.’

  Rik Dean thought it would be impossible to describe the impression on his face. It was an eclectic mix of stress, worry, excitement, doubt and tiredness, all mixed into the crock pot that was his countenance. He guessed it did not look pleasant.

  He was sitting behind his desk in this FMIT office at Blackpool, long after Molly Cartwright had left.

  He held a document in his hand: Steve Flynn’s passport.

  He was wondering what he should do with it.

  It had come into police possession together with a holdall full of Flynn’s clothing and other belongings found in Flynn’s hire car that he had been using before the now-deceased Brian Tasker had abducted Flynn in order to make him witness several brutal murders, including the most horrific one of all – the beheading of Maria Santiago.

  Rik Dean was furious with Flynn.

  Because the ex-cop had taken it upon himself to administer summary justice on Tasker by breaking the man’s neck (something Tasker deserved, Rik secretly acknowledged), it had left Rik with a horrible, horrible mess.

  Rik got it.

  He got it that Flynn wanted revenge on the Bashkims, who were behind the whole thing. He got it – grudgingly – that the best the cops could do, and there was no guarantee even of this, was to make arrests and to try and dismantle the Bashkim crime family by legitimate means.

  He got it that this wasn’t good enough for Flynn.