Revenge (39 page)

Chapter One Hundred
and Twenty-One

DI Timothy Branch was relieved to finally be able to give Michael Flynn some useful information. In fact, he’d excelled himself. He drove into the scrapyard and parked his BMW neatly, walking into the Portakabin like a conquering hero.

Michael and Declan were already there as he had expected. He bowled into the room all smiles and smugness until he registered that both Michael Flynn and Declan Costello looked tired and angry. It occurred to him that Michael’s daughter was still missing, so he removed his smile, and settled his face into what he saw as serious work mode.

‘I got here as soon as I could. I think you will be pleased with the information I’ve gathered.’

He waited to be offered a seat. Michael obliged, sweeping his arm out towards the old typist’s chair, saying tightly, ‘Sit and talk. It’s about fucking time you earned your keep.’

Timothy sat down as requested, but his earlier euphoria was gone. Michael Flynn was a very scary man, there was no doubt about that. Declan and Michael were both watching him warily, waiting to hear what he had to say to them.

Timothy Branch knew that this was his only chance to redeem himself. He opened up the file he had on Steven Golding which he had brought with him, and cleared his throat noisily, feeling very nervous once again.

‘First of all, from what I have found out, Steven Golding has been under psychiatric care for many years. When he was fifteen, his mother, father, and two young sisters were all killed in a fire. It was an arson attack – deliberate. He had stayed overnight at a friend’s so he survived. But he has never fully recovered; he has been in and out of psychiatric facilities for the best part of the last thirty-odd years. He was released again, four months ago, having accrued a large amount of money over the years from his benefits, et cetera. It came to over twelve thousand pounds in total. It seems he removed that from the bank in cash, and no one has seen him since. He hasn’t turned up for any of his outpatient appointments, and he hasn’t been near the flat he was allocated by the housing trust. He is unknown to the police – never been arrested for anything. According to his doctor, he suffers from delusions, and he is often unable to differentiate between fantasy and reality. But they have assured me that he is
not
violent. He is on quite heavy medication, Dolmatil and – ’ Timothy Branch stared down at the page, unable to read his own writing – ‘I can’t read that, I’m afraid. But I assume it’s an anti-psychotic drug of some description. Steven Golding has a very high IQ and is an avid reader – he can read a book in a day. He was last seen three weeks ago when he withdrew all his money out of the bank.’

Michael Flynn opened his arms out in a gesture of supplication. ‘Is that it, then?’

Timothy Branch nodded. ‘That is everything I could find out. I’ve got my people watching out for him.’ He quickly pulled out a picture from his file, and handed it to Michael. ‘This is a recent photo of him.’

Michael Flynn looked at it. Steven Golding appeared older than he actually was – he was as grey as a badger and his eyes were the same dull grey; he looked almost lifeless. He was looking directly into the camera, his mouth was hanging open, his teeth were black, rotten, and his skin looked thick, like orange peel. He was not a man anyone would stop to talk to, that much was obvious.

Timothy Branch took a deep breath, and then said seriously, ‘From what I can gather, if he doesn’t take his medication he can become paranoid and quite aggressive. But I must stress that, according to his doctor, he is not a violent man – when he is taking his meds, of course.’

Michael handed the photograph to Declan. ‘So, Timothy, let me see if I’ve got this right. Basically, he left the nut house three weeks ago, he cleared his bank account, and he is now on the missing list with twelve grand and, to add insult to injury, without his meds, he has a seriously bad fucking attitude?’

Timothy Branch didn’t know what he could say to that. He was hoping that someone spied the fucker somewhere, so he could help Michael to track him down.

Declan passed the photograph back to Michael. ‘Fuck me, Michael, what a smooth-looking bastard he is! Mouth full of dog ends, and a face like a bag of fucking hammers. At least he won’t be hard to pick out in a crowd!’

Michael Flynn smiled; Declan could make him laugh even at a time like this.

‘If he’s got my Jessie, he has had to rent somewhere for cash. We need to get our blokes out there asking around. Like you say, Declan, it’s not like they wouldn’t fucking remember him, is it? He isn’t exactly the answer to a maiden’s prayer.’

Timothy Branch stood up, a bundle of nerves once more. ‘I will get all my people out there. I will let you know if I hear anything.’

Michael Flynn didn’t even bother to answer. This man was useless in every way.

When Branch had left, Declan said with incredulity, ‘How the fuck can these people just be allowed out of the nut farms? No one is monitoring them, looking out for them – they just let them go out into the community without a fucking thought. It’s outrageous.’

Michael Flynn agreed with his friend. ‘I tell you this much, Declan – if anything bad happens to my Jessie, whoever signed that cunt out of the funny farm had better be a fucking good runner, because I will hunt them into the ground. I will make sure they never have that kind of responsibility again.’

Declan grinned. ‘You’re preaching to the converted, Michael. I will be right beside you, mate. But, remember, now we know what he looks like.’

Chapter One Hundred
and Twenty-Two

The pavement was alight with rumours. Jessie Flynn was missing and there was a fifty-grand reward up for grabs, so it was in everyone’s best interests to keep an eye out. Now they were being shown a photograph of a right strange-looking cove. It wasn’t as if it would be hard to pick
him
out of a line up. The word was out.

Michael Flynn had everyone on his payroll asking questions, and insisting on answers. His house was like Fort Knox – there were people watching it twenty-four/seven. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that this was the real deal. The fifty grand was an incentive, for everyone concerned. It was not just a big chunk of change, it was also proof of how serious Michael Flynn was about finding his daughter and, more to the point, punishing the person who had caused him so much aggro.

Michael Flynn was a legend in his own lunchtime; no one in their right mind would take him on. After seeing the photo of the man he was looking for, it was obvious that he was a fucking nutbag – he had to be.

A few of the people had heard the name Golding, and put two and two together. He had lost his whole family – of course he was a fucking nutter. But why had he singled out Michael Flynn’s only daughter? The gossip was Michael Flynn had refused to pay a ransom for her, and that seemed feasible; after all, Jessie Flynn wasn’t the most lovable of people. She hated her dad as well, everyone knew that. She talked about him like he was a piece of dirt – she had always enjoyed the shock and awe she had caused when people heard her cunt her father into the ground.

That was shocking enough, but what was more so was the way that Michael Flynn ignored it. It had to be hard for him, knowing that his only daughter talked about him as if he was nothing. If anyone else had dared to say what his Jessie had said, they would have been dead within twenty-four hours.

So people were willing to believe that he wouldn’t pay the ransom asked for his daughter, and a big majority of those people didn’t blame him. They thought that the fifty-grand reward was so he could locate the fucker responsible – and if Jessie was there then that was just an added bonus.

The whole underbelly of the British Isles was looking for Steven Golding. His photo was being shown everywhere. He was famous, but for all the wrong reasons.

Chapter One Hundred
and Twenty-Three

Josephine was listening to her grandson as he chattered away to her about school. Dana had brought him in to her, along with a tray of drinks and cake, and she tried her hardest to concentrate on what he was telling her.

Michael had been so right – she
didn’t
have any true interest in her grandson. She loved him, but she didn’t want to be bothered with the day-to-day care that was required. Dana saw to that. Josephine was always nervous that he would somehow interfere with her belongings.

Ever since Michael had let rip at her, she was deeply worried that they were never going to be able to recover. She had not seen him since – he had not even called her. She wondered if this was the end of the line for them. She didn’t even encourage sex any more – she didn’t want it. If she
did
succumb to him, she didn’t take an active part, she just lay there and waited for it to be over. Michael wouldn’t force her into something she didn’t want – he was too decent, too kind to ever make her do anything she didn’t want to. But now she wondered if she had inadvertently shot herself in the foot. He was still a handsome, vibrant man, and he could easily find a young woman to fulfil his needs. She had always believed that his love for her had been enough, but now she wasn’t so sure. She always looked perfect, but that wasn’t enough.

‘Will you answer me, Nana!’ Jake was cross, and his strident voice had broken into her reverie.

Josephine smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry, my little darling. What were you saying?’

But Jake didn’t answer her, he was feeling very cross. It was hard trying to talk to his nana when she was so obviously not listening to him. She
never
listened to him!

‘Please, Jake, I’m
so
sorry. I didn’t hear you. Nana has a lot on her mind today.’

Jake stood up, he had been sitting at her feet as usual, but he wasn’t in the mood for his nana’s strangeness today. ‘I’m going, Nana. If you won’t talk to me then I want to be in the garden.’

Josephine was mortified. Jake looked so cross with her. He really was Michael’s double – he even had her husband’s expressions, especially now as he stood before her with folded arms, his handsome face dark with anger.

‘I’m going to ask Dana to play with me outside and when Granddad comes home, I’m going to ask him when my mummy will be back.’

He stormed out of the room, and Josephine didn’t stop him. She sat back in her chair, aware that she should have chased after him, made him feel wanted. But how could she do that when, in all honesty, she didn’t really want to?

She leant down and picked up his sweet wrappers; he had eaten a Kit Kat and a miniature Mars Bar. She folded both of the wrappers up neatly and carefully and placed them in the box beside her chair.

She started to tremble all over. She was having trouble breathing, and she closed her eyes and concentrated on taking deep, long breaths. It was an awful feeling. Her doctor said the panic attacks came on when she was feeling stressed. Well, of course she was stressed! Her daughter was missing and her grandson was cross with her. Coupled with her husband’s angry shouting, it was inevitable.

She forced back the tears that were threatening and, going to her dressing table, she repaired her make-up carefully. It didn’t make her feel better as it usually did. She sat back down in her chair and wondered if her husband was going to ring her, and put her mind at rest. She poured herself out another large glass of red wine and, as she sipped it, she decided that she would put on one of her favourite DVDs.

Chapter One Hundred
and Twenty-Four

‘Look, Lana, I am doing all I can to locate my daughter. If I was
you
, I’d try and fucking sort out your
own
daughter – my
wife
! In case it’s escaped your notice, she hasn’t left her fucking bedroom since the old King died! Now fuck off and stop ringing me. If I have any news, you will be one of the first to hear it.’

Michael slammed down the phone. He was so angry. Who did she think she was? Lana was like Josephine and his mother – they expected him to miraculously sort everything out for them. And he did, most of the time, but the only thing he wanted to concentrate on now was finding Jessie, and chasing down that fucker Golding. The last thing he needed was to spend time on the phone with people he would happily avoid if he wasn’t related to them!

Declan Costello laughed. ‘Well, that fucking told her, anyway!’

Michael looked at Declan; he was such a good friend to him, despite everything that had happened in the past. ‘Fucking Lana! She’s a pain in the arse. Josephine takes after her. She thinks that everything in the world revolves around her and fuck everybody else. Do you know something, Declan? Josephine hasn’t left the house for years. That mad cunt who’s got my Jessie sent her a letter with a number to call, and she didn’t even fucking ring me to tell me! She now can’t even make a phone call apparently! The fucking mad bitch. But she can take a call. You tell me where the logic is in that?’

Declan sighed. ‘I know, Michael, you told me this before, mate. We all know your Josephine is a bit eccentric. But don’t say anything you’ll regret tomorrow, eh?’

Michael had always played down Josephine’s oddities. Personally, Declan thought she was fucking barking. But then he wasn’t married to her, thank fuck.

Michael snorted with derision. ‘
Eccentric?
Is that what you really think? She is a fucking card-carrying, bona fide head banger. I just wish I’d admitted it to myself ages ago. My mother, another fucking so-called “strong” woman, warned me about her from the off. She said she was a bit fucking doolally tap. But I had to have her. I loved Josephine so much, like she was a fucking terminal disease I’d contracted. I let her get away with murder. No matter how fucking nutty she got, I just kept pretending that it was perfectly normal. But it’s not, Declan. She doesn’t give a fuck about Jessie, not really, or little Jake – or even me for that matter. All she cares about is herself, and her fucking problems. I am so fucking sick of it.’

The phone rang and Declan picked it up quickly, glad to shut off Michael’s conversation. It was not like him to say anything derogatory about his Josephine.

Michael watched closely as Declan listened to whoever was on the other end of the phone.

‘Are you a hundred per cent sure?’

Declan was once again the listener, and Michael was watching his every nuance. ‘Good man. Fucking result. Tell them to bring it here. Canary Wharf.’

Declan replaced the receiver and, looking at Michael, he said quickly, ‘It appears our Mr Golding has been spotted. That was Jack. It seems that one of his blokes is visiting his old mum in Essex – she lives in Canewdon, near Rochford – and he thinks he saw him coming out of the local SPAR there. By the time the geezer had got parked – and we all know what Essex is like for parking – he’d lost sight of him. But he’s purchased the CCTV from the shop, and it’s being brought to us now. So at least this is something, Michael. If it is him, we have a location.’

Michael Flynn felt tearful; the relief he felt was so potent, and overwhelming. Never before, in the whole of his life, had he felt so useless. He was the main man, everyone came to him for their earn, he dealt with the Colombians, he basically held Europe in the palm of his hand and yet, for all that, he still couldn’t locate his own daughter. The irony.