Ambush (28 page)

‘I know her,' Dean said. ‘She's based at headquarters.' He sighed sadly again. ‘I hate corruption, especially in public office.'

‘Me too.'

They sipped their coffee in philosophical contemplation.

‘So, where are we up to?' Flynn said at length.

Dean's head rocked from side to side – more contemplation. ‘I need to ensure these three are dealt with and get statements, admissions, off them, pin 'em down.'

‘Have you asked if they know where Tasker is?'

‘I have; they don't – and I believe them. So, to answer your other question, there's a few things running. I need to continue to investigate the murders of Craig and his family, Jerry Tope and Dave Carver, none of which, I believe, were actually committed by Tasker himself. I think, as you do, it's a hired killer or killers and they are still out there, after you and Jimmy Blue, so I need to provide adequate protection for you and him … but what about your family, Steve?'

‘They'll be OK. My ex is out of the country and my lad's somewhere up a mountain in Asia. They'll be all right for a while.'

‘Then we need to make sure Jimmy Blue's OK and then start a manhunt for Tasker.'

Despite his reservations and commitments, Flynn found himself saying, ‘Can I tag along, somehow? In a non-involved, consultancy capacity … I'm very cheap.'

‘You can't be hands on,' Dean said, reluctantly and after consideration.

‘I get that, but I spent a long time chasing Tasker. I know a lot about him and I could be valuable, could possibly pick up on something you might miss.'

‘You can't be in on any interviews but I'll keep you up to date on everything we do, how's that? You've already done enough, Steve, and it is appreciated. I can't even begin to see why Henry Christie hated you.'

They both laughed sheepishly.

‘Tasker has killed people I cared for … I just want to be around, but not under your feet.' Flynn knew he had to get back to Ibiza, but didn't need to get a flight until next evening – which he still needed to book – so he would be at a loose end all day, which did not appeal to him. It would kill some time.

‘Fine.'

‘And if he comes for me with you around, I can use you as a human shield.'

‘Thanks for that.'

‘Where do we go from here, then?'

Dean checked his watch. ‘I'm going to go back and interview the prison officer … there's an A/V link just off the custody unit. You can watch and listen if you like.'

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.'