Ambush (21 page)

‘Do you think you're next on the list, if there is a list?' Santiago asked. ‘And if so, what are you going to do about it?'

‘Er … at the moment I'm not too concerned. No one really knows I'm here for the summer, but once I get back to Gran Canaria people will know, and that includes quite a few crims. I try to keep a low profile, as you know' – here he exchanged a knowing grin with her – ‘but somehow my head keeps popping up over the parapet.'

‘What about your family?' Santiago almost choked as she said the next two words. ‘Your ex?' Then she cleared her throat and said, ‘And your son?'

‘Faye is away with her latest boyfriend, somewhere in Phuket, I believe, appropriately enough.' Santiago chuckled meanly. ‘My lad is trekking somewhere in the Himalayas with his uni mates, so I think both are safe enough for the time being. I didn't know you were bothered about my ex,' he said cheekily.

‘Old Frosty, you mean?' She had nicknamed her that after Flynn had once told Santiago about her. She had taken an instant dislike.

He laughed and touched Santiago's hand tenderly. ‘Me and you, babe,' he assured her. Santiago's face softened. Then he went on, ‘I think it would be wise to make the assumption that Jimmy Blue and I could be the next targets, and what I don't want to do is sit back and let some arsehole sneak up behind me.' He paused, a pained look on his face. ‘I need to make the running, somehow, and I kinda think the only way to do that might be to head to the UK and do some digging, make sure Jimmy's OK, and see what worms I can dig up. Rik Dean might be grateful for any help I can offer, though I won't hold my breath on that. I've offered help before and been cold-shouldered by the cops because of my history.'

‘I think you need to rephrase part of that,' Santiago told him.

‘Which part?'

‘The “I need to make the running” part. It should be “we need to make the running”.'

‘I was hoping you'd say that.'

‘But I'm a woman,' she protested. ‘Why aren't you saying this is no sort of a job for a girlie like me?'

‘Because I'm a modern man,' he boasted. ‘I see women for what they are and what they can contribute and not just as sex objects and housewives, and because you're my special girlie – my hot bitch, remember?'

She punched him quite forcefully on the arm.

Rubbing his bicep, he said, ‘I'm going to contact Rik Dean and see what he thinks about me going over, but there is one thing we need to do first.'

‘And that is?'

‘Pay someone a visit.'

Flynn had not been to Ibiza many times before and usually the visits had been fairly fleeting. The last time had been several years before to buy a sportfishing boat to replace one destroyed in a fire set by two enforcers who thought he owed money to a drug dealer. Their belief was wrong but it hadn't prevented the boat being sunk in a terrible explosion. That had been his first boat as a skipper and he still missed her to this day.

He had only ever been to San Antonio once before, the nightclub capital of the island. He had been surprised at how pretty the town was but how that all changed once night descended and it became a heaving, sweaty mass of young humanity coupled with pounding disco music of all genres. Not that Flynn would have been able to differentiate any of the genres even if they had been piped directly into his eardrums. He was pretty much an Eighties child as regards music, but even a lot of that passed him by.

The taxi dropped him and Santiago off on the sea front of the town and they took a short stroll to get a feel for the place, knowing that if they were successful in what they had to do it would not take long, and also that they had a little time to kill because their flight did not leave until after midnight.

After the walk and a lingering cup of coffee they strolled up to the old town, into the maze of tight streets set back from the bay, until Santiago led him to the address he was seeking, an apartment above a shop selling lace and trinkets. The entrance was a door to the left of the shop and the buzzer panel showed eight apartments up there, but there were no names in any of the card slots.

Flynn pressed all the buttons several times. Eventually an occupant spoke. Flynn grunted something about a lost key and the entrance door clicked open.

Apart from being tiled throughout, it was much like stepping into any one of the less salubrious apartment buildings Flynn had frequented as a cop. The smell was the same urine/vomit/sweat/food/weed reek, the sounds too – muffled music, someone shouting, someone having sex, possibly with someone else – and underfoot was the same, the crunch that says you've just stepped on a used needle.

‘Nice,' Santiago commented.

‘Love it.'

Flynn went up the narrow staircase on to the second floor via a couple of tight dog-leg landings until they reached number eight.

He tried the door handle: locked. He knocked politely.

No response.

He arched his eyebrows at Santiago. She shrugged.

‘Definitely number eight?'

She nodded.

Flynn stepped back, his body almost touching the opposite wall, raised his right foot, took aim for what he thought was the weakest point on the door just by the Yale type lock and flat-footed it.

It rattled loosely and on the second blow crumpled open as though he had kicked it in the solar plexus.

He gave it a third one to send it clattering all the way open on just one hinge, then stepped inside the studio apartment.

It was empty, but a mess. One unmade single bed and one camp bed, both looking as though they had been slept in for months without a change of covers. Unwashed dishes were strewn in and around the sink, many with black-green mould growing unhealthily in them.

The room reeked of sweat and cannabis.

Flynn flicked through the bedding, looked through drawers and in the minute bathroom and came to a conclusion.

‘Done a runner.'

Since Rik Dean had been amenable to Flynn coming back to the UK so he could share his knowledge of Tasker with him – something Flynn found a bit of a surprise – he had booked a flight from Ibiza to Manchester at 00:30 hours. Flynn and Santiago caught a taxi from San Antonio after their breaking and entering episode, arriving at the airport with just hand luggage. They passed quickly through check-in and immigration, then found a pleasant spot in one of the bars in the departure lounge. Flynn drank tea and Santiago decided on a glass of red wine. He didn't travel well on alcohol.

They boarded and took off on time and settled – too snugly for Flynn's wide frame and long length – into a pair of seats on which he felt as if his knees were up to his chin. This confirmed him in his view that one day, when he was a successful international businessman, he would always travel first class and never on a budget airline – unless he owned it.

Santiago, smaller, slimmer, prettier, had plenty of space.

The flight was an uneventful two and a half hours, during which Flynn visited the cramped toilet once.

When he returned to his seat he gently woke the snoozing Santiago and whispered in her ear.

When the plane touched down he and Santiago were first through the door, hurrying from the arrival gate through the quick formality of customs and passport check before entering the arrivals hall, where a weary Rik Dean had agreed to meet them.

Flynn did not have time to explain but quickly asked one of the waiting taxi drivers, who was holding up a clipboard with the surname of a passenger written on it, if he had a spare piece of paper and pen.

Flynn then positioned himself directly opposite the arrivals door he had just come through and held up the piece of paper with the name he'd written on it.

Rik Dean, not having had anything explained to him, looked on bemused.

Flynn and Santiago had been well ahead of the other passengers, who now began to filter lethargically out in dribs and drabs and included a certain Dwayne Assheton, the young man Flynn had chased from the scene of an attempted robbery, now on bail.

As Flynn had earlier stumbled through the plane to reach the toilet and empty his tea-filled bladder, having to keep his head low, he had tripped on someone's outstretched foot and caught himself from falling by grabbing a head rest on the back of a seat. Pulling himself upright in the gloom – the cabin lights having been doused to allow passengers to doze – Flynn caught sight of the sleeping young man in seat 26A, next to a window.

‘What the hell are you doing?' Dean hissed in Flynn's ear.

‘Meet 'n' greet,' Flynn said.

At these words, Dwayne Assheton came out through the one-way doors and sauntered cockily towards the barrier where Flynn stood in a line of taxi drivers.

Assheton had his hood over his head. At first he didn't see Flynn even though he was standing directly in front of the doors. Then his eyes picked out his name on the A4 sheet of paper, plastered in thick black felt tip pen.

Rising another few degrees, his eyes stopped at Flynn's gurning face.

Recognition took a moment – then the young man's facial expression screamed,
Shit!

‘Taxi for Assheton.' Flynn beamed brightly.

The lad sprinted, and for the second time in a matter of days he found he was being pursued by a man who rarely gave up. He zipped sideways, elbowing between a couple ahead of him.

Flynn dropped his piece of paper and went with him, closely followed by Santiago and Dean, who was just tagging along for the hell of it.

For a few metres Flynn and Assheton were side by side, divided by a steel barrier, but then Assheton upped his pace. Flynn vaulted the barrier but could not quite reach his prey with his fingertips as Assheton veered around a taxi driver bearing a name plate, knocking it out of his hands.

Flynn dodged the man, who spun in amazement and gawped as the two men ran either side of him, followed by another man and a woman.

Assheton was undecided. He moved quickly, agile and lithe, but Flynn was more of a bulldozer, and the young lad's indecision was his undoing. His hesitation gave Flynn an extra metre and he caught him exactly underneath the ‘Meeting Point' sign and flattened him.

Assheton struggled but Flynn overpowered him easily and dragged him to his tiptoes by his hood, at which point screams of warning permeated Flynn's skull.

‘Stop – armed police!'

Flynn froze but kept his grip on the dangling man, who writhed and wriggled like a fish, but Flynn had caught bigger and heavier ones than him. Flynn slowly raised his left arm in a gesture of surrender to the two armed airport cops who stood, their weapons – which they were clearly willing to use – drawn and pointed.

‘Fuck you, fuck you all!'

Dwayne Assheton slouched challengingly in the plastic chair, scowling at Rik Dean and, behind him, Flynn and Santiago.

The appearance of Rik Dean's warrant card and rank had appeased the armed officers, plus the hurried explanation that Assheton had broken his bail conditions set by a court in Ibiza and illegally skipped the country. The police were happy enough with that and happy to haul him away to the detention centre at the airport and book him into custody.

Unfortunately no details of his bail conditions were available on any computer system as yet and it would be later in the morning before it could be confirmed whether or not he was on the run, but Dean and Santiago were convincing enough for the custody officer to keep him.

The police were also more than happy when it transpired he was travelling on a false passport under the name of Harold Bruce.

So for the time being he was going nowhere and when he was hustled into an interview room to face Dean and the other two, he was defiant and obnoxious.

‘You can't fuckin' interrogate me without my brief,' he snarled.

‘We don't interrogate people,' Dean corrected him, ‘we interview them. And this is not a formal interview, anyway. The purpose of this chat is to gather intelligence and information from a willing witness – you. We are not investigating an offence.'

‘Not talking.' He folded his arms.

‘And anyway, you have spoken to a solicitor on the phone, who saw no reason to get out of his warm bed until the police have confirmed your status as a fugitive travelling with a false passport.'

‘Fugitive – very dramatic.'

‘Well, that's what you are, Dwayne, a fugitive.'

Assheton continued to scowl, but also squirmed uncomfortably.

‘But that's not why we want to chat to you.'

‘So what is this about? I know my rights. I should be allowed to have some sleep. I've been locked up often enough to know that.'

‘You can have a sleep soon enough,' Dean said.

‘And what's he doing here?' Assheton's eyes flickered to Flynn, standing tall and erect.

Dean glanced sideways at him.

Flynn said, ‘Something I didn't get the chance to ask you after I'd chased after you and caught you, even though you fired a gun at me.'

‘I missed, din I? Anyway, ask me what?'

‘Why you had a photograph of me in your apartment.'

‘I don't know, do I?'

‘You don't know why you had a photograph of me?'

‘Nope.'

‘It was in the back pocket of a pair of your jeans,' Santiago said.

Assheton pulled his face at her. ‘And?'

‘Tell us,' Dean encouraged him, but all he did was shrug and avoid further eye contact.

Flynn tapped Dean on the shoulder and jerked his head at the detective. Dean rose and followed him to the corner of the room where they appeared to have a hushed confab with their eyes constantly looking over at Assheton, who continued to shift uneasily.

Nodding in apparent agreement, Dean split away from Flynn and resumed his seat.

‘What?' Assheton demanded.

‘We've just had a little chit-chat and we're in agreement.'

‘About what?'