by Nick Oldham
Flynn said that would be very nice.
The new police station at Preston had been bought from United Utilities and refurbished long after Flynn had resigned from the cops, so he had never been in the custody suite.
The custody sergeants’ desk reminded Flynn of Captain Kirk’s bridge on the Starship Enterprise. It was a curved desk on a raised platform from which the sergeants could look down on the prisoners and their arresting officers and was a fairly effective barrier preventing the said sergeants from being easily assaulted.
Flynn had done a very short spell as a custody officer, a requirement imposed by the organization at the time he had been newly promoted to sergeant. The thinking was that six months behind the desk would be beneficial for any sergeant, especially those with aspirations to be detectives. It showed them the pressures of the position, the stresses that custody sergeants had to endure, and would make the wannabe jacks a little more empathetic in future.
Flynn hated every single minute of it, having to deal with drunks and violence and everything that went with the detention of offenders. The position put the sergeants between the devil and a hard place: protecting the rights of the individual (although clearly, Flynn learned, many did not deserve rights) while trying to ensure that the investigating officers could do their jobs effectively.
He knew some sergeants relished the role, and could appreciate that. Once a sergeant got the hang of it, the process was much like shelling peas.
But it took a person of a particular character to do it and enjoy it.
Flynn was not that person, but he did enjoy the physical side of it because not a week went by without a prisoner having some sort of dig at him and a legitimate, reasonable response was always in order.
Having to avoid shit being hurled at him, though, never went down well with him and twice he had been subjected to prisoners throwing their faeces at him.
He had been relieved to get the stint over with, never to return except with his own prisoners in tow, and he would find he had completely forgotten just how hard a job it was when he himself tried to bypass rules and regulations to get a result.
As Rik Dean led him into the custody office the back door opened and two young men were dragged in under arrest, kicking and fighting and spitting (Flynn had been spat on almost daily when a custody officer), even though they were handcuffed.
One was pitched into the holding cage and the other bundled up to the custody desk, where he continued to struggle and try to head-butt the arresting officer. Flynn recognized her as the policewoman who had earlier turned out in response to the report of a man in his underpants flagging down traffic.
Flynn’s natural reaction was to wade in and help. He didn’t. He left it to Rik Dean to step forward and give a hand.
The struggling youth did not spend much time in front of the custody sergeant, who took one look at the situation and announced, ‘Cell.’ A gaoler, another PC, the arresting PC and Rik Dean carried him between them into the cell corridor and deposited him in a cell, where he was pinned down and searched. His shoes and belt were removed and his handcuffs taken off; then he was left in the cell. He began to pound on the door, screaming obscenities.
The WPC came back into the custody office, breathing heavily after the exertion, followed by Dean and the others.
The custody sergeant, who hadn’t moved, smiled benignly at her and asked, ‘Circumstances of arrest?’
She caught her breath. ‘We turned out to the report of a man in the middle of the road at Broughton lights and just as we got up to North Road a BMW shot past with matey at the wheel’ – she gestured with her thumb at the prisoner in the cells – ‘and the other one’ – she indicated the holding cage – ‘in the passenger seat. Two females were in the back seats. I recognized the lads, Wayne Dixon and Billy Collins, and suspected the car might be stolen. It sped away, refused to stop and went through several sets of red lights on the A6 northbound at excessive speed. Went down across the motorway roundabout at Broughton and unfortunately ploughed into the guy who’d been in the road. He’s dead. The BMW veered off the road and embedded itself in the corner of the pub on the crossroads. Somehow none of the occupants were hurt. We arrested all four for vehicle theft and causing death by reckless driving. The two girls are in the back of the other section van. And I’m pretty sure the driver is over the limit, but he wasn’t amenable to a breathalyser. Traffic are still at the scene, plus ambulance, plus supervision.’ She shook her head. ‘The poor guy was, like, cut in half. Not identified yet.’
Flynn listened. His teeth grated. Shit, he said to himself, but try as he might he could not start to feel guilt or sympathy for the dead man – who he was certain would be Mulligan – because of what he had done to others.
He decided the best course of action was to say nothing to Rik Dean, believing that ignorance might be bliss in this case.
Maybe later.
But only if he felt he had to.
The custody sergeant tapped details into the computer, then glanced up at Rik Dean and said, ‘Boss?’
‘Interview with the prison officer, Birtwell, please.’
There was a large whiteboard on the wall behind the custody desk with cell numbers and their occupants written on it in black felt tip ten. Birtwell’s name was on the board with the names of the other two detainees from the prison. Other names were there, including a couple of prisoners with the word ‘Aquarius’ written in above them. Flynn jolted slightly, realizing these were two of the people arrested following the raids put together by Craig Alford and Jerry Tope, the big drugs bust orchestrated by Alford, the results of which he would never see.
The custody sergeant asked one of the gaolers to bring Birtwell from his cell and put him into an interview room.
Dean sidled over to Flynn and said, ‘That sounds a bad one,’ referring to the death at Broughton. ‘I’ll tell the night duty jack to get himself involved in it.’
‘Good idea,’ Flynn said with an inner cringe.
Dean had seen Flynn looking at the whiteboard. ‘I still need to oversee the operation Craig was running. There are a couple of bods still in custody here. There’s so much to think about,’ he moaned.
Tell me about it, Flynn thought.
Listening to the interview did not really help Flynn. It actually made him feel inconsequential as regards the whole investigation; because of that and the unfortunate fate of Mulligan (again, although he tried he could not dredge up much guilt) he decided that, even though he had thought he would perhaps delay Ibiza, he now wanted to get back as soon as possible, finish the contract, then get home to Maria Santiago, truly – and cornily – the love of his life.
Realistically, he had probably contributed all he could, sent the investigation off on to the right track, and there was nothing more he could do; he was now a spare part. He could not go out knocking on doors, knocking heads together, asking questions. He had to let the real cops do it now, and as he listened to Rik Dean questioning the prison officer, he knew things were in good hands.
Tasker would soon know, if he did not already, that he had been rumbled and his faked death – at the expense of some other poor sucker – had been exposed. He could no longer act under the cover of his demise.
He was alive, the cops knew it, Flynn knew it – and he would be caught.
The interview was concluded and the prison officer was returned to his cell.
He had readily admitted everything and pointed one finger squarely at the ex-doctor, Rawtenstall, for whom he had smuggled in the knock-out drugs required to put Loveday to sleep; his next finger was pointed at the arsonist, Ben Dudley, who knew enough about fire to fix it so that only badly charred remains would be left of the body of Loveday/Tasker.
Rik Dean found Flynn in the A/V room. ‘We need to call it a night,’ he said. ‘I’m bushed and beginning to hallucinate, don’t know about you?’
‘Yes, need sleep,’ Flynn agreed.
‘Any observations?’ Dean asked
him.
‘Not really. Just confirms that if you’re presented with a fait accompli you generally accept what you see. I wouldn’t be too hard on the DI who investigated the fire … it was probably just one of those jobs he could have done without, a burden on top of all his other burdens.’
‘We’ll see,’ Dean said, not convinced. Volume of work, in his estimation, should not contribute to a lack of professionalism. ‘I’ll make him poo his pants at the very least.’
‘Your prerogative,’ Flynn acceded. Then, wincing, he said, ‘Uh, there is one thing …’
‘Go on?’
‘The guy run down by the stolen car?’
‘What about him?’
‘Could be Mulligan.’
‘Eh? On what planet would that be the case?’
‘Er, I took him for a drive and a chat.’
‘In his underpants?’
‘And vest. And socks. His decision not to get dressed.’
‘Go on,’ Dean said, feeling his lungs contract.
‘We had our chat and I dropped him off at Broughton so he could walk home.’
‘And again I say, in his shreddies?’
‘I guess.’
‘You mean you dumped him in the middle of the road?’
‘Not exactly. He was annoying me a bit, but I did leave him on the side of the road.’
‘And now I regret accidentally showing you his address. If that comes out …’
‘I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.’
‘Fucking hell, Steve … I agreed you could come and offer some assistance and now I suddenly see what Henry Christie saw in you. You’re a bloody liability.’
Flynn was back in his hotel room fifteen minutes later, stretched out on the firm but comfortable bed, two miniature whiskies from the mini-bar clutched side by side in the palm of one hand so he could drink both at once.
Although tired he could not sleep. He wondered about booking the return flight to Ibiza and thought about his lovely boat, looking forward to getting back on board, working the few weeks until the end of summer, then returning to the Canaries with a big enough chunk of cash in hand to get the sportfishing business back up and running.
At the back of his mind, though, was a dark feeling that this Tasker stuff would not be going away soon.
His mobile phone woke him at ten a.m. He had been asleep for almost five hours, a black and dreamless sleep, the kind he liked.
Groggily he answered. ‘Flynn.’
‘Hey, Steve, my boyo,’ came the jovial, Scouse-accented voice down the line. He recognized the tones of Jimmy Blue instantly, the last surviving member, besides himself, of the Ambush team photo. He had rubbed along well enough with Jimmy and for a time they had been good drinking buddies, but once the operation ended they had returned to their respective units, Blue to Blackburn CID and Flynn back into the drug squad. They had rarely seen each other since.
Flynn shot upright.
‘Jimmy, my man …’
‘I’m hearing we’re the last men standing,’ Blue said buoyantly, not a whiff of fear in his voice. ‘Some very tragic news indeed.’
‘Yeah, yeah … how are you? How have you heard?’ Flynn said, his brain still a bit muzzy.
‘I’m good, family’s all good, local cop came round to tell me to watch my back, but I’m fine, we’re all fine. Got a shotgun, ain’t nobody going to get near us.’
‘That’s good to hear, but these are dangerous men, Jim.’
‘I got that, mate … and on that note, I only got half a story from the local cop … any chance you can fill me in on the whole thing? I know it’ll be inconvenient, I’m way out in the sticks, but I’d like to know what you know and then I can really protect my brood. I hear you’re over here.’
Flynn hesitated; again, his thinking was just a mite muzzy.
‘Steve,’ Jimmy Blue said, sensing the hesitation, ‘this is serious stuff … I could do with talking it through with someone who really knows it and I know that’s you. We could set up a Snapchat thing on the phones after, maybe, so we keep in touch, or do Facebook or something.’
‘I was going to go back to Ibiza today.’
‘I’d be really appreciative, and Ruby would love to see you. You can have a look at what sort of set-up I’ve got here; you could stay over if you wanted. I think we do need to talk, put a strategy together so we can keep in touch. Thing is, I’d come across there, but it’s lambing season and I need to be on hand for my ewes – sixty of the buggers all ready to drop.’
‘OK, you talked me into it … give me the address and a couple of hours.’
Flynn showered, taking a long time over the process, thinking about Jimmy Blue, the man who had always wanted to be a farmer. Which was a shame, because Jim was one of the best thief takers Flynn had ever known – but he had a dream to chase. He had finished in the job around the same time as Flynn, but whereas Flynn had left with his tail between his legs, Blue had gone out head held high with six chief constable’s commendations and a long service and good conduct medal behind him.
When dried and shaved Flynn sat on the edge of the bed and made a call to Santiago, which went straight to voicemail. Checking the time, he assumed she would be back in work chasing a serial killer.
He dressed in the same jeans and T-shirt he’d been wearing for far too long, packed his hand luggage and checked out. He had no intention of returning to the hotel and once he’d finished at Jimmy Blue’s (he intended it to be a flying visit) he would head for Manchester airport for the midnight flight to Ibiza. He had just booked this via the hotel, and the ticket had been printed off for him.
In the morning he would step aboard Maria, the second love of his life.
TWENTY-TWO
Flynn tried to enjoy the drive east across Lancashire towards the Rossendale Valley where Jimmy Blue had bought a run-down farm in the steep, harsh hills above the town of Bacup, midway between Burnley and Rochdale.
As a cop Flynn was never stationed in the valley, but because he had done a lot of roving on drugs branch he’d spent quite a lot of time there – a small valley with big secrets, he often quipped. So he knew how to get there and, more or less, get himself in the vicinity of Blue’s farm.
He tried to enjoy the drive, but couldn’t quite do so.
For one thing he just did not want to be bothered, but knew that Jimmy Blue should be told first-hand what was going on with Tasker. Flynn could not begrudge him that, even if it was an inconvenience, and he was probably the best person to do it. He would rather have mooched about today, got to the airport early enough for a leisurely meal and a drink and a bit of cut-price shopping for some of that Chanel perfume Santiago loved so much.
Also, something in his brain was chipping away like a woodpecker, trying to tell him something, but he could not work out what.
Not having heard from Santiago was troubling him but only because he wanted to hear her voice, not because she hadn’t even replied to the cheeky/rude text he’d sent her.
Even if she was interviewing a serial killer she had no right not to respond to him, he thought – and chuckled. He guessed her boss was on her case, big style.
His route took him from Preston on to the M6, bearing left on to the M61 and then on to the M65, arcing across the county from east to west and passing the old mill towns of Blackburn and Accrington, with Darwen somewhere in between.
Once past Accrington (home of the once world famous Nori brickworks) but before reaching Burnley, he hooked right on to the A56, which took him spectacularly across Moleside Moor and dropped him into Rossendale at Rising Bridge. From there he decided to do a little town run, came off the A56 and then drove through Haslingden, then on to the A681 into Rawtenstall itself where, as ever, he saw sheep grazing on the grassy roundabout that was Queen’s Square. He went straight on, not even thinking twice about farm animals grazing in a town centre, because it was the kind of thing that went on in this neck of the woods. Nothing unusual.
He blinked.
In his mind, something came and went, was gone.
‘Duh!’ he said, and clonked his forehead with his knuckles. ‘Think, doom-brain.’
The A681 carried on towards Bacup and soon, turning on to the A671, he wasn’t too far from Jimmy Blue’s farm, which was somewhere on the moors between Bacup and Burnley.
In Bacup town centre, his phone rang.
Rik Dean had had an ugly night, not least because of what Flynn had told him about Mulligan. As much as he tried to convince himself that Flynn was blameless for the unfortunate death – the man had been sliced in half by a car travelling at over eighty miles per hour – Dean was not happy. Nor was he happy he had allowed Flynn to see Mulligan’s address and given the nod and wink that it was OK to go and have a quiet word with the corrupt, useless ex-cop. If that chain of events ever surfaced, he would be for a very high jump and a sudden stop.
A lesson learned.
Keep cop things for cops, not renegade individuals who could not be trusted not to compromise you. Flynn, useful at first, had sunk in Rik Dean’s estimation and he was very cross with himself.
Fancy taking him for a midnight run in his underpants!
Fuck, what was I thinking? Dean pummelled himself mentally.
Bleak thoughts about Flynn were not the only things keeping him from sleep in those early hours.
The complexity of what had happened over the last few days was almost overwhelming him. From the brutal murder of Craig Alford’s lovely family to the point he was at now – discovering the murder in prison which was a cover for the break-out of Brian Tasker – it was blowing his mind.
In some respects he was glad of Flynn’s intervention; otherwise a lot of time could have been wasted chasing false leads. They would probably have been working on the assumption that Alford and Tope had been murdered because of their link to Operation Aquarius and wouldn’t have made any connection to the death of Dave Carver … until, perhaps, a forensic or ballistic link had become evident. That would have wasted even more time. Possibly other people would be dead and he would still think that Brian Tasker was dead.