Ambush

by Nick Oldham

  He stood, stretched and yawned, rolling his neck muscles in an effort to eliminate the headache.

  Everything seemed to have worked against him getting a half-decent night’s rest and already there was more than a hint of dawn in the eastern sky. He knew it was pointless trying to sleep now.

  He pulled on his ragged basketball vest and then his equally ragged trainers, took a long swig of water from a bottle, then with another, smaller, water bottle in hand crossed to the jetty and began a slow jog. He had it in mind to head along the coastal path in a north-easterly direction up to Es Canar, the resort where the famous weekly hippy market took place, and then back, a distance of about eight miles over variable terrain.

  He knew it was the only way to get his blood pulsing, to clear his head for the coming day’s work. By the end of it he knew he would be exhausted, but at least on the far side of it, and this time he should get a good night’s sleep.

  Moments later he was cutting past the Punta de s’Església Vella – the Old Church Point – and heading towards the bay known as Ses Roquettes.

  Already his head was beginning to clear.

  Rik Dean had always wanted to be a detective superintendent, his career goal to be a Senior Investigating Officer on FMIT. He had never imagined it would be as stressful as it turned out to be.

  Being in charge of murder investigations was one thing, and he revelled in that. It was the other dross that came with the rank and role that dragged him down. The constant pressure from the hierarchy to get better results, the endless strategic and tactical meetings, locally and nationally, and then stuff like the Women’s Institute and other such bodies constantly sucking him dry of time.

  He often wondered how his predecessor had coped.

  As much as Dean was horrified by the enormity of the brutal call-out to the killing of Craig Alford and his family – and Dean knew Alford well – there was also a frisson of excitement in him, because he knew this was a very big deal indeed. The execution of a police officer and his family by what seemed to be a professional hitman. Dean was savvy enough to know that a successful conclusion to it could define his career – just as failure could.

  But Dean was in no mood to fail.

  He had decided to run the investigation out of the force Training Centre at Hutton Hall, to commandeer a couple of classrooms and convert them into a major incident room. He could have chosen to run it from Preston police station, which was geographically closer to Alford’s house, but for the sake of a few miles, the Training Centre offered easier access for vehicles coming and going, and specialists, such as the intel unit, were pretty much on tap.

  Once he had done what he could at the scene, then entrusting it to an experienced crime scene manager, Dean returned to his office in the FMIT building at the Training Centre – a converted, refurbished accommodation block – and set about pulling his murder squad together while, with a DI, board-blasting the initial investigative strategy.

  By ten a.m. on the morning after the Alford family murder he had secured two interconnecting classrooms on top of a training block close to FMIT, one of which would serve as a briefing/tasking room, and a mixed bag of cops had assembled in front of him.

  Dean had watched them all filter in, trying to remain calm and composed on the surface and also wondering where Jerry Tope had got to. Dean knew Tope’s computer-based investigatory skills would be invaluable.

  He rang Tope’s mobile number from his smart phone and got no response; it, and Tope’s home number too, clicked on to voicemail. Dean left a terse message on both – a ‘Where the fuck are you, Jerry?’ kind of terseness – then dialled through to the intel unit based in the headquarters building a short distance away. No one there had seen Jerry and his desk, apparently, looked the same as it had done when he’d left it: pristine.

  ‘Fuck is he?’ Dean muttered to himself and looked up across the gaggle of officers, all waiting patiently with serious faces, some sitting on the chairs provided, some lounging against the walls.

  Two of their own had been taken and all wanted to catch the killer.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,’ Dean said after clearing his throat. ‘I’d like to say welcome but you all know why you’re here, and welcome doesn’t seem an appropriate word to use. Two of our police family, DCI Craig Alford and his wife, the very popular DC Carrie Alford, and their two lovely children have been brutally – callously – murdered and it is our job to catch a very dangerous killer …’

  Dean stopped his opening, unrehearsed, speech.

  The door at the back of the classroom had opened and someone was edging through the assembled officers saying quietly, ‘Excuse me, pardon me,’ until he reached the front.

  Dean scowled at the interruption by one of the detective constables who worked for him on FMIT, then his expression changed to one of puzzlement at the grim look on the younger man’s face. He had a piece of paper in his hand which he held out to Dean.

  ‘Boss … sorry to butt in,’ he began.

  Because Jerry Tope’s body had floated tight up to the side of the dock wall, it was an hour before a passer-by, a man out walking his dog, paused for breath and happened to spot Tope’s legs in the water below him. The police were on the scene less than ten minutes later, but after that it took some time to retrieve the body because the waterline of the dock was about ten feet below the level of the surrounding walkway. It was impractical to reach down with hooks or ropes, plus the first officer on the scene, having peered perilously over the edge, saw the wounds to the back of the floater’s head and realized this could be something more than a simple drowning. His first thoughts were that the body of the man could have been the victim of a mugging.

  Tope’s body was eventually recovered by use of a Rigid Inflatable Boat owned by the chandlery at the opposite end of the dock and two CSIs and two uniformed constables dragged Tope on board and then brought him ashore on to one of the wooden jetties in the marina, which was then secured and cordoned off as a crime scene.

  Rik Dean met the first officer on the scene at the point where Tope’s body had been pointed out to him in the water. The PC indicated exactly where he had seen Tope floating face down in the water, explained how he had seen the wounds in the back of the head but had thought they could have been caused by a blunt instrument. It was only closer inspection that revealed they were bullet entry wounds, and it was only when Tope had been hauled into the RIB that the exit wounds had been seen and Tope identified.

  Dean nodded gravely as he ingested the information, all the while looking across the port at the converted warehouses opposite with all those apartments and balconies and windows facing this way.

  Then, rather than driving the quarter of a mile or so, he decided to walk along the dockside to where Tope’s body had been drawn on to a jetty.

  Although it was not a long walk, it felt so to Dean, but he wanted to do it to get a feel for the scene – even though this was an area he was familiar with.

  He reached the small marina, populated by a few uninspiring motor boats, canal barges and small yachts. He was met by a PC at the security gate and allowed through after identifying himself.

  Tope’s body lay under a plastic sheet.

  ‘Let’s look,’ Dean said to the CSI standing next to him.

  The woman bent down, picked up a corner of the sheet and drew it back.

  Dean stared down at Tope’s body, hardly able to draw breath. His nostrils dilated and his heart hammered against his rib cage. The grinding of his teeth echoed around his cranium.

  ‘This was floating on the water next to him,’ the CSI said. She handed Dean a clear, sealed bag containing the sodden photograph of Craig Alford and others, all of whom Dean recognized. ‘Don’t know if it’s relevant or not.’

  Dean looked at it and shrugged. ‘Inasmuch as two of the people in the photo are now dead in bloody quick time, you’d think it might be.’

  Like his predecessor, the man into whose rather large shoes Dea
n had stepped, very much a mentor and patron to him over the years, Dean liked coincidences because, as that previous incumbent had once declared to him, ‘Coincidences is clues.’

  Steve Flynn ploughed through the day with his clients, a nice family group – mum, dad, two teenage kids – who had rented the boat with him as skipper; Santiago came along and helped with food and drinks and the social side of things, at which she was far more adept than Flynn.

  He sailed north out of Santa Eulalia, stopping off at a few secluded bays to allow swimming and snorkelling and eating and drinking at a leisurely pace.

  Apart from keeping everyone safe and allowing them to enjoy themselves it was an easy day’s work, though by the time Flynn re-entered the port at five p.m. he was exhausted and politely declined the offer to join the family for an evening meal.

  All he wanted to do was hose down the boat, prepare her for the next day, then get showered, hit a restaurant for a pizza, get back on board, chill and crash out: evening sorted.

  He thought maybe he was getting old.

  The wash-down took an hour, after which he and Santiago each took a shower – one at a time (they’d tried to double up on the boat before, but it hadn’t been a great success because of the lack of space and Flynn’s tendency to get over-excited). After washing their clothes and hanging them out to dry they changed into fresh gear and strolled along to the Mirage Restaurant, outside which he had cornered the armed robber on the previous evening.

  It was a good meal, and he weakened; instead of a pizza he ordered sizzling chicken, Santiago having the same, and local lager.

  Afterwards as darkness came they sat and watched boats returning to harbour, mainly very expensive motor yachts and big speed boats. He enjoyed watching experienced skippers manoeuvring their boats into tight moorings without a scrape.

  ‘My boss has been on at me,’ Santiago sighed. ‘Needs me back, he says.’

  ‘That’s a shame … what’ve you told him?’

  ‘That I’d get back to him.’

  ‘That’s my girl … don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from your cop friends in Ibiza Town?’

  ‘Nothing. They said they’ll let me know if anything happens … you still worried about your photo in that man’s possession?’

  ‘Curious rather than worried.’

  ‘I’d be worried,’ she admitted.

  ‘But I’m a big, tough guy. The only thing that worries me is trying to read long words and adding up numbers … other than that, nothing.’

  She regarded him mock-cynically. She’d seen his soft underbelly and knew that although he had the outer swagger of a male lion, inside he was a kitty cat, especially when people he cared about were under threat. Then she laughed out loud, enjoying herself. She was here for the summer with Flynn and was thoroughly relishing it. She would try to keep her boss at arms’ length for as long as possible. She did not want it to end.

  They strolled back to the boat, arms entwined, easy with each other. Flynn, not for the first time, pointed out stars and constellations and named them all. She pretended to be impressed.

  As they stepped on to the rear deck Flynn said, ‘Just need to pay a visit.’

  He went ahead of her, down the steps to the toilet, while she prepared a whisky nightcap, then sat on the rear deck.

  Somewhere amongst the various strains of music around the resort, Santiago picked out the tones of Elvis, or at least someone purporting to be him.

  She slid back, comfortable.

  Flynn reappeared, took his drink and sat next to her.

  They chinked glasses.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘To us.’

  ‘Really?’ she asked, taken aback.

  Flynn – alley cat, love ’em and leave ’em kind of guy – twisted around and gazed meaningfully and deeply into Santiago’s eyes, which shimmered in the reflected light of the resort.

  ‘Yeah. To us.’

  With his left hand now dithering slightly he took a sip of whisky, and was about to say something even more courageous to Santiago – whose heart had started to beat very quickly indeed – when the moment was interrupted by the ring tone of his mobile phone.

  He swore softly, placed his glass on the coffee table and picked up the phone. The screen did not help much, telling him the number calling was international, nothing else.

  ‘Hullo,’ he answered gruffly.

  ‘Can I ask who I’m speaking to?’ asked a male voice.

  ‘You can ask, but you should tell me first because you called me.’

  ‘My name’s Detective Superintendent Rik Dean from Lancashire Constabulary.’

  ‘And I’m Steve Flynn.’ He sat up.

  ‘Ahh – we know each other.’

  ‘We certainly do, Rik … how are you, and what do you want from me at this time of night?’

  There was a pause. Flynn’s brow furrowed. He knew Rik Dean well enough, had known him way back as a great thief-taking PC on the streets of Blackpool, then on and off as a detective. They had been involved with each other on a few occasions over the past few years when Flynn himself had been innocently dragged into scenarios he would rather have avoided.

  ‘Er …’

  ‘What’s up, Rik? Is this about Craig Alford? I haven’t seen the guy in years.’

  ‘You know about his death?’ Dean asked, surprised.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘May I ask how?’

  ‘Hey, look, I don’t want to get anyone into any trouble.’

  ‘You won’t. Did you hear about it from Jerry Tope?’

  Hoping it would do no harm, Flynn said, ‘Guilty. He wanted me to know because he and I and some others worked on a special task force with Craig way back. But like I said, I haven’t seen or heard from Craig in a very long time.’

  ‘OK, I get that.’

  ‘So why phone? I’m pretty sure I can’t offer any help.’

  ‘When, exactly, were you in contact with Jerry?’

  Flynn swallowed, not liking the tone of Rik Dean’s voice now at all. ‘Like I said, I don’t want to get anyone into trouble … Jerry was only telling me because—’

  ‘Steve,’ Dean cut in sharply. ‘No one’s getting into trouble here. Jerry can’t get into trouble …’ His voice faltered.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Flynn stiffened.

  Rik Dean told him.

  The disease had crept up slowly on Dave Carver. He was only fifty-six when the first ‘real’ symptoms were noticed, first by himself, then gradually by others. Seven years later its progression speeded up and it was virtually impossible for his family to care for a once proud, quick-witted intelligent man who no longer recognized any of them, who could not dress himself in the right order and whose eruptions of violent temper petrified his wife and grown-up children. He was sixty-three when he was placed in a home specializing in the care of dementia sufferers.

  The only comfort for his family was that most of the time Dave Carver did not remotely comprehend anything that was happening to him.

  If, indeed, that was a comfort.

  It made no odds to the gently smiling man standing patiently at the reception desk of the care home, waiting for someone to appear. In fact, his smile was the only thing that could clearly be seen of the man’s face, because most of it was obscured by the shadow under the pulled-down peak of his baseball cap.

  ‘You can come through now.’ A woman beckoned as she opened the secure door by the desk. She was dressed in the smart uniform of the care home.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The two walked along a corridor.

  ‘We haven’t seen you here before,’ the woman said, chattily.

  ‘Bit of a black sheep of the family,’ the man murmured. ‘Live down south … lots of family baggage, you know? But I couldn’t not come up here and see the old guy, even though I know he won’t recognize me.’ He sighed sadly.

  ‘I know. It’s a terrible disease.’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  She led him along the c
orridor, up a set of stairs to the first floor, a level of patients’ rooms only.

  The man kept his head tilted low, particularly when passing or approaching the very obviously placed and quite old-looking CCTV cameras on some of the ceilings. They were clearly not up to date, yet the man knew they could still be damning and were something to be wary of, work around.

  ‘This is your father’s room.’

  The man said, ‘Can I ask the patient–staff ratio?’

  ‘Well, we have thirty patients and a core of four staff on at all times and then a number of very reliable part time staff and volunteers who come in to bolster up numbers. Now, for example, there are four full time staff on duty – myself and three others – plus three part timers.’

  ‘That sounds adequate,’ said the man, as though he was satisfied by the statistics. ‘How much care, time-wise, do you give Dad?’

  ‘Depends. Mainly he’s self-sufficient between meals and toilet breaks … like now, he’ll be sat in here reading.’

  ‘Reading?’ The man tried to sound interested and surprised.

  ‘He reads a lot … but then …’

  ‘Doesn’t know what he’s read?’ the man guessed.

  ‘Correct.’

  They smiled sadly at each other, then the woman said, ‘You don’t look much like him.’

  He shrugged. ‘Like I said …’

  ‘Black sheep.’

  If she had not made that comment she might have lived. Her additional, ‘You have a sort of eastern European look to you, if you don’t mind me saying,’ only added to the certainty.

  ‘Not at all.’ The man grinned.

  She smiled and gestured. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘After you,’ he said gallantly. Already his right hand was sliding inside his leather jacket.

  The woman opened the door and stepped through into Carver’s room, the man, just behind her, closing the door.

  Carver was sitting in an armchair by the side of his bed, fully clothed with a book on his lap. He was, however, staring vacantly into space. It took a few moments for him to catch his concentration and bring his eyes to focus on the two people who had just entered the room.

  ‘Dave?’ the lady said. ‘Your son is here to see you.’ She stepped sideways to reveal the man.