by Nick Oldham
Flynn kept altering course fractionally to stay parallel to the coastline until they reached Puerta de la Aldea, the little harbour town tucked under the mountainous cape to the north, almost the very western edge of Gran Canaria.
He eased back the power and announced their position to Costain who was still on the sofa, watching Flynn through slitted eyes.
‘OK, you can turn around, let’s go back much closer to shore now. I want to see everything from a short distance, especially the beach at GuiGui.’ He pronounced it ‘Gooey-gooey’. Flynn sneered, but was unable to bring himself to correct Costain. The correct pronunciation was ‘Wee-wee’, so there wasn’t much to choose between the two in terms of hilarity.
‘We passed that twenty minutes ago,’ Flynn said.
‘I know – but we were too far out to see it … now I want to see it, OK?’
He spun Faye around with more panache than necessary and headed back south. He knew the beach of GuiGui was fine, powdery sand and quite magnificent, but could only be reached on foot or by boat. It was often deserted but he knew some tourists made deals with fishing boats to be dropped off and picked up, and in high summer there were regular boat trips to GuiGui from Puerto Rico. Flynn had done the journey a few times and had always remembered to warn people of the tides in this particular stretch of coastline. They could be fast, high and lethal to the unwary.
Costain rummaged through his rucksack and came out with a pair of powerful looking binoculars. He then sat on the fighting chair, clamped the glasses to his eyes and began surveying the cliffs and bays as Flynn steered Faye in closer.
‘So what did a million quid feel like?’ Costain probed, shouting above the sound of the engines and the splash of the sea.
Flynn sighed, did not respond.
‘Bought you this boat, ey?’ he said cheekily. ‘A life in the sun.’
Flynn’s throat began to constrict.
‘Oh, sorry,’ Costain said. He lowered the glasses and rotated the fighting chair. ‘Never proved, was it? Never proved that you and your partner nicked a mill from a drugs baron and then, funnily enough, both left the cops. He fuckin’ disappeared, didn’t he? But here you are, livin’ the life of Riley. Whatchado? Squabble over the money, then kill him? Is he buried up in those mountains – down a deep gully?’ Costain teased harshly.
Flynn remained stony silent.
Costain shook his head, amused, and returned to scanning the shoreline with the glasses. The door to the stateroom slid open and Costain’s bedraggled girlfriend appeared, leaning against the door jamb. She looked as though she had just woken from a night on the town. Pretty dreadful.
‘How are you feeling?’ Flynn asked.
‘Bit better.’
The boat rose, then rolled on a swell. She held on to the door. Flynn saw her throat rise and fall as she seemed to swallow something that tasted quite unpleasant. She shook her head and retreated quickly backwards, crashing the door closed.
Flynn stealthily slid the throttle open a touch more. He heard the change in the drumbeat of the engine, but Costain did not, nor did he note the very slight increase in speed. Flynn now wanted to spend as little time as possible in the company of this obnoxious man and his puking lady friend, but he had to speed up with subtlety. His curiosity about what Costain was up to had now waned and he didn’t care any longer.
He glanced at Costain, who had the binos stuck to his eyes. Flynn gave the throttle another gentle touch, and smiled.
Although the Canary Islands were known for their all-year-round sun and did not really have a tourist off-season as such, there were times when the pace lulled and the tail end of September was one of those times – that gap between high summer and the half-term holidays in mid-October. Gran Canaria was close to its best at this time of year, Flynn thought. Some of the fierce heat had gone out of the sun and it was a time when the more discerning traveller came to the island. The knock-on effect of that was that on weekdays there were fewer pleasure and tourist boats plying around the waters, and on that particular morning Flynn had hardly seen any others.
‘Bit closer,’ Costain urged. They were not far now from GuiGui, at a point north of the beach where the almost perpendicular cliffs hit the sea. Flynn adjusted Faye’s nose. ‘And fuckin’ slow down a bit,’ Costain said, pulling the binos from his eyes and scowling at Flynn.
So the bastard had noticed.
Flynn complied, throttled back a notch and put Faye about two hundred metres from the cliffs and the dangerous rocks below, maybe half a mile north of the actual beach. Costain joined him in the cockpit, still looking through the binoculars, but forwards this time.
‘There!’ he said triumphantly.
Flynn frowned. He peered through the windows and in the distance saw a boat he did not recognize, about quarter of a mile away, anchored, or being held steady, quite close to the cliff face and in a fairly precarious spot, Flynn thought. There was activity on board and, even from this distance, Flynn could see that scuba diving equipment was stacked up on deck and someone – a man – was sitting on the side of the boat, kitted up with breathing equipment, two air bottles on his back. He adjusted his face mask, then rolled backwards into the sea.
Flynn pouted. Diving was a passion for many around the islands and a lot of boats took divers out from Puerto Rico, as did Flynn, although he was no great shakes as a diver. He knew the best and safest places to dive around the coast and this wasn’t one of them. Not least because of the ferocious way the sea ran here and the danger of jagged rock formations just below the surface that could easily pierce the hull of an unwary craft. And mainly because there was nothing to see down here. Divers liked wrecks and reefs and fish – and safe water – and as far as Flynn knew, this section of sea offered none of those.
Flynn edged Faye closer, picking up on Costain’s excitement.
‘Babe, babe … Trish, Trish,’ Costain yelled. ‘Get your sick arse up here, we’ve found them.’ He kicked the stateroom door to attract her attention.
Flynn’s nostrils dilated with anger. ‘Oi!’ he warned. ‘Don’t you kick my boat.’
Costain merely scowled at him and fixed the binoculars to his eye sockets.
The stateroom door slid open and Trish materialized looking no better. Pure white, ill. ‘What?’ she demanded.
Costain pointed. She turned and looked. He whispered in her ear. She became suddenly tense.
‘Take us in for a closer look,’ Costain ordered Flynn.
‘I’m not going in too close. These are dangerous waters.’
‘That boat’s there, why can’t yours be? You got that echo thingy, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, I have that “echo thingy”, but I’m still not going in close. It doesn’t make rocks disappear.’
Costain gave him a very pissed off expression. ‘As close as you can, OK?’
Resigned, Flynn edged towards the boat. Even closer, he still didn’t recognize it.
From about a quarter of a mile away it became obvious that the people on board this boat had clocked Faye’s approach. Two men were on deck, looking in their direction, talking and pointing agitatedly.
‘Keep going,’ Costain said.
Flynn steered towards the boat, which looked a very nice craft. It wasn’t a sportfisher but a pleasure cruiser. Flynn recognized the lines as that of a Fairline Targa, probably the Forty-eight model, a good half a million pounds’ worth of boat. The name Destiny was on her bows.
Flynn throttled back and Faye was just crawling along, getting even closer to the other boat.
A third male had joined the other two, looking towards Faye, binoculars to his eyes. One of the others began signalling, flapping his hands in a ‘go away’ gesture.
‘Keep going,’ Costain said again, his binos clamped to his eyes. Then he pulled them away and whispered something in Trish’s ear and she nodded. ‘Get in as close as you can. I want to see who’s on board,’ Costain told Flynn.
From the continuing gestures it was m
ore than evident the people aboard the Fairline did not want Faye any closer. One of the men turned and stomped into the cockpit. A moment later, Flynn’s radio came to life.
‘Calling Faye2, calling Faye2 … please answer.’
Flynn picked up his mic. ‘Receiving.’
‘This is Destiny … request you back off: private party, many thanks.’
Flynn looked at Costain. ‘They’re telling us to get lost.’
‘Are we in a public place, or not?’ Costain retorted. ‘Get in close … let’s look at those fuckers.’
‘Repeat,’ the voice said over the air, ‘pull away, please.’
Flynn said, ‘I’m not sure you can make that request. These are open waters and we are not putting you in danger.’
An edge came to the other man’s voice. ‘Do not, repeat, do not approach.’
‘They’re not happy teddies,’ Flynn said to Costain.
‘Fuck ’em. We’re allowed. Go in.’
Flynn hung up the microphone and concentrated on manoeuvring Faye a little closer. He could easily have gone alongside the Fairline because his echo-sounder was giving him a snapshot of the sea floor which showed plenty of depth and nothing to worry about, but he didn’t want to tell Costain this, or push things. For some reason the men aboard the other boat were getting shirty and didn’t want anyone else peeking over their shoulders at what they were doing. But whatever they were up to, they were doing it in public, so tough, and now Flynn was intrigued because this was obviously what Costain had come to see.
He took Faye closer, maybe one hundred and fifty metres away from the other boat now.
A shout came over the radio: ‘Faye2, please acknowledge. I will not remain polite for very much longer. Turn and go, please.’
Flynn flicked off the radio.
The man who had been making the transmission came out of the cockpit back on deck and then the three men all stood in a row and continued to glare at Flynn’s boat.
‘Closer,’ Costain said.
‘OK.’ Flynn was quite enjoying annoying people now – until he saw the man who had been on the radio turn back into the cockpit. He came out a moment later and Flynn swore as he swung a rifle up to his shoulder, one with a telescopic sight on it; he drew back the bolt action and slammed a round into place.
Surely not.
The man settled into the rifle and aimed it at Faye. A moment later the front screen of Faye’s cockpit shattered, there was a rush and zing of air over Flynn’s head and a microsecond later came the report of the shot.
‘Fuck,’ said Flynn, ducking instinctively – too late if the round had struck him. ‘Bastard’s shooting at us,’ he said.
Costain’s girlfriend screamed and fell over. Costain himself dropped to his knees and scrambled across the deck to his rucksack, throwing his binos aside.
Flynn held on to the helm and saw the man drawing back the rifle bolt to eject the used shell casing. Flynn slammed Faye into reverse and rammed on the power. Her aft sank and her bows rose as the engines roared – but this was a movement she was comfortable with, something Flynn did regularly to assist anglers to haul in their catches.
Another bullet hit Faye; this time a side cockpit window exploded and the round whizzed just above Flynn’s head.
Costain tipped out the contents of his rucksack and a Russian-made Makarov pistol, a semi-automatic, skittered across the deck; he dived for it and grabbed it. He hauled himself upright on the deck rail and aimed at the Fairline. Before Flynn could scream no, Costain started firing wildly at the other boat and all three men aboard ducked, although there was little chance of him hitting anything other than an unlucky seagull – distance and the motion of Faye reversing saw to that.
Flynn spun her around and gave her full throttle. She picked up her nose like a Grand National winner and moved quickly and regally forward.
‘Twats! Fuckin’ twats!’ Costain cursed, clinging on to the side rail, looking back at the other boat as Flynn put some real distance between them. The Makarov hung limply by his side.
Trish picked herself up carefully, now more dishevelled than ever.
Grim faced and fuming, Flynn put Faye on to autopilot and spun to face Costain, who was ready for the reaction. He was wild-eyed and feral looking now – and the Makarov was aimed at Flynn’s belly.
SIX
Henry Christie was beginning to feel cold again, and exhausted. His night-time drenching and near-death experiences were beginning to take their toll and over four hours at the scene of the double murder was enough. He needed to be somewhere warm and cosy, maybe have a long, hot, soapy bath, sit down and fall asleep with a JD for company. He had done as much as was necessary and it was now time to take the bodies to the mortuary at Blackpool Victoria Hospital where they would be stored under lock and key. The pathologist, Baines, who was as busy as ever, would not be able to carry out the post mortems until much later and Henry did not need, or want, to be there for that gruesome task. DCI Woodcock could have that dubious pleasure.
Henry and the DCI were at the front gate of Percy’s house, chatting through things as they waited for the arrival of the body removers.
It was a lot of procedural stuff – about setting up a Major Incident Room or MIR, getting the staff sorted, plus some fast-track actions. Henry wanted to get the investigation up and running quickly. There was already someone looking into Percy’s background, personal and business, and his recent activity, as well as looking at his girlfriend, Charlotte – or Lottie, as she had preferred to be known – although it looked as if she was collateral damage more than anything: wrong place, wrong time. A detective was trying to trace the origin of the Porsche Henry had seen in the driveway.
But however much Henry wanted to get a hot meal down him after his blessed hot bath, he knew his day wasn’t yet over.
One of the many responsibilities of an SIO, and one that Henry took very seriously and never shirked, was taking on the task of personally delivering a death message to the next of kin. Henry always did this in murder cases, first because it was the right thing to do and second because he wanted to see the reactions of the recipient, who might possibly be the killer or know something about what had happened.
He did not think for one moment that Percy’s family was behind this, or Charlotte’s family, but he needed to know, to see them face to face.
He also needed to speak urgently to his own sister, Lisa, who at that moment seemed to be the last person Percy had spoken to before his death, excluding Lottie and the actual murderer. From a scene search it appeared that the killer had taken Percy’s and Lottie’s mobile phones with him, so until the service providers had been identified and contacted, it would be impossible to say if Percy had called anyone else in the gap between speaking to Lisa and his death. That line was also being followed up.
Henry also needed his own mobile phone replaced, as it was unusable since its dunking, and headquarters had promised him that a new one with the same number was on the way, being brought across by police motorcyclist.
The two men, Henry and the DCI, raised their heads from their discussion as two hearses crawled regally down Pool Foot Lane.
The body shifters had arrived.
Henry stopped in his tracks. He swallowed something that tasted of petrol: bile. Fear tore all the way through his chest to his groin.
He was looking down the twin side-by-side barrels of a shotgun which were maybe three feet from his nose. Despite the weapon being old and rusting and the barrels looking slightly curved, he truly believed it was still capable of being fired and removing his head.
His eyes moved along the barrel to the shrivelled old man holding the gun.
He could have been a tramp. His white, unwashed hair stuck out at all angles as though he had been electrocuted. The stubble on his face was uneven and unpleasant; his eyebrows sprouted like black caterpillars and nasal hair bushed out like a thicket. His grey eyes, though, were sharp and fierce.
Henry raised his han
ds slowly, keeping his eyes on the man’s right forefinger which was curled around the double trigger. ‘Police officer,’ he said nervously.
The man sneered contemptuously. ‘That’s what the last stranger told me – then he robbed me blind.’
Henry could not help but glance past the man at the dilapidated farmhouse behind, which was his home. He also knew that the robbery referred to – more a con, really – had netted two men purporting to be detectives somewhere in the region of one hundred thousand pounds’ worth of cut diamonds.
The offenders had arrived at the old man’s house with a story that he was urgently needed at Lancaster police station where there were two men who had been arrested following the last theft from the man’s home, and he was required to come with the detectives and identify them.
One took him away – all the way to Lancaster – and dumped him in the city centre. The remaining one entered the farmhouse and stole the diamonds.
It was not the sort of crime that Henry investigated, but he knew of it and that no one had ever been arrested for it.
‘ID,’ the man demanded, shaking the shotgun.
Henry slowly extracted his warrant card, saying, ‘We met a while back when I investigated another possible robbery involving your family, when a gang planned to kidnap Percy. I’m Detective Superintendent Christie – remember?’ He showed him the warrant card and flashed his best ‘please don’t shoot me’ smile.
The man snatched it with his left hand and peered at it closely, comparing the photograph on it to Henry’s actual face. Henry could tell that the man did not recognize him at all.
‘Urghh,’ he said doubtfully, and handed the card back.
Old Archie Astley-Barnes was a bit of a legend to the cops because he had been conned at least half a dozen times by offenders using a similar ruse: pretending to be police, taking him away from his property and leaving him miles away whilst stealing from his home. Each time it happened, the gangs – none believed to be connected – had become more suave and convincing, but so far none had used actual violence against him. Henry was sure that time would come, because he was easy pickings for thieves in the know. It was estimated he’d had over a million pounds’ worth of diamonds stolen from him over the years.