Seizure (30 page)

Problem now was that time was passing. A cop had died horrifically and there was obviously a panicky feeling about that someone's head needed to roll. And it would be Henry's, if he wasn't careful, no matter how much the chief might say he supported him. That was a carpet that would be pulled PDQ if FB felt under threat.

And on top of that was Henry's personal pride. He knew he was doing a good job, but the situation spoke for itself.

In respect of the supermarket robbery/murder – no arrest. It wouldn't be so bad if he could prove that either of the murdered robbers, Last or Sumner, had pulled the trigger, but he couldn't.

In respect of their double murder – no arrest yet.

In respect of Deacon's breakout and the death of a cop – no arrest.

A sorry tale of woe.

His gut told him that Deakin had left the country, although he had no evidence to back this up. The way to get to the escapee could be much closer to home in the shape of Barry Baron, the man who must know everything. The solicitor who acted for Deakin like a
consigliere
to a Godfather. If only he could sweat the bastard.

Obviously he'd interviewed him about his meeting with Last and Sumner, after which the pair were never seen alive again, and about Deacon's escape. But the conversation had been frustrating and fruitless. Henry hadn't wanted to make too many unfounded allegations either, so in spite of wanting to toss the smug bastard into a cell and beat the living crap out of him, he had not burned any bridges by revealing any of his unsubstantiated suspicions about Baron. He was playing the long game, sure his day would come.

On top of that he was still dealing with his prodigal sister and a very poorly mother, neither of whom he had time to sort out.

His phone vibrated and did a little dance on the table. The number calling was withheld, but he answered it.

‘Henry, it's me.' He instantly recognized Naomi Dale's voice. ‘How did the review go?'

Henry hesitated. Having basically set the whole ball rolling, Naomi, through the machinations of the CPS, had insisted on being kept abreast of all developments in the investigation, a decision rubber-stamped by FB despite Henry's protestations. She had persuasively argued that the CPS had a vested interest in its progress and as such she should be assigned virtually full time to keep a consultative brief on the criminal law side. When Deakin was finally arrested, the CPS wanted everything to be watertight. Sullenly, Henry was economical in what he gave her, keeping her at oar's length, much to her chagrin.

‘Well enough,' he said flatly, failing to add the tempting, ‘But it's none of your business, lady.'

‘What does that mean?' she asked in a chill-factored tone.

‘It carries on the way it has been.'

‘And you're still in charge?'

‘Why wouldn't I be?' he retorted irritably.

‘I'd just heard that . . . oh, no reason,' she corrected herself.

‘Heard what?'

‘OK – through the grapevine I'd heard you were going to get stiffed and chucked off the investigation, if you must know.' She sounded indignant, then her tone changed. ‘Look, I'm sorry all this happened. I, we, the CPS, thought it was the right thing to do to get a conviction when all along, Deakin just wanted to escape.'

‘Duh,' Henry said.

Her voice softened again. ‘And not everything was horrible, was it?'

He sighed and relented. ‘No, suppose not.'

There was a slight pause while Henry visualized himself in Naomi's arms in the few seconds before panic struck and he did a runner. He could recall her body, her smell.

Then she said, ‘So how is the investigation going?'

‘Well, in terms of it being a well-structured, well-led, well-run investigation, it's going spiffingly. In terms of catching any of the miscreants, that's where it all seems to be going down the pan.'

‘Surely you must have some leads?'

‘We think Deacon's abroad. Unfortunately because his organization pretty much crumbled while he was in prison, there's no one really to put any pressure on. The gang who freed him are based in southern Europe and they've split up, which they always do after pulling a job. They won't resurface until the next one . . . My gut feeling is that the door we need to be banging on is closer to home . . .' He faltered, then clammed up.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Oh, nothing,' he said vaguely, sensing he'd said too much. It wasn't that he didn't trust her, but it would have been idiotic to reveal his suspicions about Baron. Cynic that he was, he truly believed all solicitors pissed in the same pot. Telling Naomi only to find it whispered in Baron's ear via a very efficient grapevine would be too much of a chance to take. ‘Anyway,' he said, drawing the chat to a close, ‘I'll keep you posted . . . Sorry, someone's just come in the office and I need to speak to them urgently,' he lied. ‘Byee.'

He ended the call and stared at the phone. Then he took another sip of his coffee and continued to gaze out of the window at the quad.

How to kick-start the investigation? he thought. How the hell do I get the drive back into it? Motivate nearly seventy detectives and thirty other members of staff?

As these considerations tumbled formlessly through his brain, he became aware of the presence of someone at his shoulder. Turning forty-five degrees he saw it was DC Jerry Tope.

Jerry held his hands together at his chest, wringing them. Henry almost expected him to say, ‘I'm yer 'umble servant,' or something equally Dickensian. The fact that Jerry had recently allowed his sideboards to grow long and thick didn't help. He looked like a character straight out of
Oliver Twist
.

‘What is it, Jerry?'

‘Err . . .'

‘Goz it out.'

‘Got someone to see you.'

Henry craned his neck a little further to glance behind Jerry. There was no one there.

‘Remember I mentioned Steve Flynn?'

Henry's hackles began to rise. ‘How could I forget?'

‘Well, he's back over here from Gran Canaria and I sort of said it'd be OK for him to see you.'

‘Really?'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘Where is he?'

Jerry jerked his head. ‘In the foyer.'

‘Why does he want to see me?'

Jerry had moved around in front of Henry so as not to put a permanent crick in his boss's neck.

‘Because I think I can help you, Henry.'

Henry spun in his seat again. Steve Flynn now stood there, healthy, big, broad, tall, bronzed, good looking, though with an edge of weariness to his demeanour. Around his eyes he looked tired. Behind him, Henry noticed two probationer policewomen entering the dining room who couldn't keep their eyes off Flynn. They giggled unprofessionally as they shared a sharp intake of breath and walked to the coffee machine. Henry shot them a disapproving look, but it went right over their heads. They had no idea who he was, the power he wielded.

Flynn thrust out a hand, but Henry recoiled a fraction and said, ‘This is all I bloody need.'

Despite his serious misgivings, he ungraciously invited Flynn back to his office. On the short walk back to the FMIT block, there was no small talk, but Henry thought about Flynn and how their lives had crossed in the past.

Their clash had come after Flynn's badly conceived raid on Deakin's counting house and the subsequent shit-on-fan fallout.

Fortunately for Henry he had not been involved in anything connected with the raid, and he thanked heaven for that mercy. But following it, he had been requested by the Professional Standards Department – or the rubber heel squad, as they were otherwise known, the cops who police the cops – to look into the allegation made by Felix Deakin. Namely, that mysteriously, almost a million pounds of drug money had disappeared into the pockets of Flynn and partner Jack Hoyle, even though a more realistic fifty grand or so had been seized from the raid.

To do this, Henry had to spend some time looking at the careers of the two detectives, and he didn't like what he found. Two jack-the-lads operating on the edge, often alleged to use strong-arm, intimidatory tactics to get results. Maybe Henry didn't like what he found because he saw a blurred reflection of himself – without the tough-guy approach – in Flynn particularly. Investigating Flynn was a little like investigating himself.

As it happened, both Flynn and Hoyle were resolute in their stories and recollections about the raid and could not be budged. They'd made a fifty grand seizure in cocaine-tainted wads of cash, plus a substantial amount of cocaine itself, so why wouldn't they have basked in the glory of seizing a million if it had been there to grab?

Henry recalled believing Flynn more than Hoyle, but couldn't remember why. Both were obviously sleazy cops, coming across as devious and sly, but Flynn seemed a more pleasant character. Henry thought that having a guy like Flynn behind him in a touch and go situation would be a good thing. In the end, though, he didn't take to either man.

During the internal investigation Henry had been required to interview Deakin about the allegation. Deakin had lost his temper with Henry when it was suggested he was making up the story about the missing money just to put up a smokescreen. Deakin's OTT reaction had been to threaten Henry and his family, and it was then that Henry saw Deakin for what he was – a cornered tiger, lashing out at everything and anyone just to get free.

And yet . . . a little worm continued to eat away at the back of Henry's mind, even though he couldn't prove if the money existed or not.

Finally Henry recommended there was no case to answer. But because there were many unfounded allegations against the duo historically, including intimidation of suspects, unproven assaults and heavy-handed tactics, he suggested that both men be taken off the front line and given menial jobs which kept them from coming into contact with the public. This recommendation was upheld and Flynn and Hoyle found themselves ignominiously removed from the sharp end, stuck in dusty offices in cop shops at opposite ends of the county. The powers that be made it hard and uncomfortable for both men and Henry wasn't surprised when he heard Flynn had subsequently resigned.

That little job had only been a minor side road in Henry's career and he'd soon forgotten about it . . . until Deakin re-appeared in his sights.

In his office he sat loftily behind his desk, indicating with a regal wave for Flynn and Jerry to park their backsides opposite. Jerry, still looking humble and a little terrified, remained standing.

‘Should I stay, boss?'

‘You brought him here,' Henry said bluntly. ‘So sit down.'

Jerry shot into a chair.

‘OK, Mr Flynn – you've got a maximum of ten minutes to make your pitch.' Henry made an exaggerated show of checking his watch, adding, ‘I'm extremely busy, y'know.'

‘I'm just going to come to the point,' Flynn said. ‘I won't dwell on any past history between ourselves or anything like that.'

‘One minute's nearly gone.'

‘I'd like to come in and help in the investigation to recapture Felix Deakin,' Flynn said simply. ‘I know the guy, how he operates. I know a lot of his cronies and I also know something you don't.'

‘And that would be?'

‘He's still in this country – right under your nose.'

SEVENTEEN

H
enry went home via his mother's bungalow in the sheltered accommodation complex. He let himself in loudly, rattling his keys, banging the door and announcing his arrival with trepidation. Every time he visited her now, he expected to find her dead on the bathroom floor. There was no pleasure in entering the house until he confirmed she was alive and kicking.

‘I can hear you, no need to shout,' came her screechy voice from the lounge. ‘I'm not completely deaf.'

‘Other than when it suits,' Henry said under his breath. He exhaled with relief. At least she'd made it through another day – although, as Henry found her in the living room still dressed in grubby night attire, he guessed she'd been sitting in the same position all day. The meals on wheels service had obviously been and delivered lunch, evidenced by the tinfoil cartons on the tray at her feet, but there was nothing that said she'd had anything else all day. Henry's blood began to boil when he went into the kitchen and touched the cold kettle.

‘How are you then, Mum?' he asked on his return.

‘Old, knackered and not completely deaf,' she said, touching her ear.

‘What've you had to eat today, other than meals on wheels?'

‘I don't know.' She looked at him through milky eyes. ‘I could murder a brew, though.'

He collected her tray and made her a mug of tea. He threw out some mouldy bread, defrosted a few slices from a loaf in the freezer and made her a ham sandwich. He made a cuppa for himself, too, sitting with her as she ate ravenously. She hadn't lost her appetite, but the chewing noises she made turned his stomach.

After she'd finished, Henry switched the TV on for her, then wandered through the bungalow. Her bed was unmade and starting to whiff slightly. Discarded clothing surrounded it, which Henry collected into a bundle to take home. The toilet was unflushed and stinking, so he flushed it, found some bleach and cleaned the pan.

His ire continued to rise. The evidence was that she'd been alone all day.

Dispirited, Henry did a bit of tidying up, made the bed with fresh sheets and added the ones he'd removed to the bundle of washing. He spent another half-hour with her, reprogrammed the TV and found a satellite comedy channel, helped her to the loo, found a change of night attire for her, then left her with a brew and some chocolate biscuits.

Outside, he sat in his car for a few minutes before calling Rik Dean on the mobile.

‘Hi, boss,' Rik answered cautiously.

‘Rik, how you doing mate?' Henry asked perkily, so as not to put him on guard. ‘Just a quick welfare check. Wondering how you were doing. I've been up to my neck in it as you know, so apologies for not calling sooner.'