Seizure (32 page)

‘Come in, I'm decent,' Lisa called.

Henry opened the door, annoyed he had to knock for permission to enter a room in his own house. Inside, it was a mess. Clothing and underwear was strewn over the bed, on the floor. A strong smell of perfume hung in the air and in the middle of this, clad in frilly lingerie, which included the briefest of panties, little more than a lace G-string, was Lisa, Henry's sister who had commandeered Leanne's bedroom.

‘Hi, Henry,' she beamed.

‘Lisa,' he said sonorously. He had to admit she was stunning looking, but boy-oh-boy was she hard work. He tried to mask his anger when he said, ‘Can you cover up? It's a bit distracting.'

‘Ooh, sorry.' She eased herself into a flimsy gown of the finest material.

‘Have you had a good day?'

‘Fine, fine.' She checked her watch.

‘I haven't had time to get around to Mum's today with all this shit at work. I just wondered how she was doing. I'll get around tomorrow on the way in to work. I know you've spent some time with her today.'

He'd prepared his lie and the body language to accompany it. Lisa hadn't had time to do the same, so when her eyes fell and her shoulders shifted uncomfortably, he could tell she was about to lie back. ‘She's really good.' She swallowed. ‘Doing OK, really pulling through.'

Henry nodded. ‘I lied – I have been round.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I've been round to Mum's and no one has been to see her today, except the meals people.'

‘Well that's not true.'

Henry held up a hand to stop her. ‘I also spoke to Rik. I believe you had a nice day up in the Lakes. A bit of convalescence for him.' He stepped forward with a faint air of menace and pointed at her. ‘Don't lie to me, Lisa. I deal with people who lie to me every day.'

She lowered herself on to the edge of the bed. ‘Sorry,' she said timidly.

‘Lisa, I don't know if the penny's dropped here, but Mum's dying. Bit by bit, hour by hour, she's going downhill. Coming out of hospital doesn't mean she's better. All right, we haven't reached the need for twenty-four hour care yet, but it's not far away. She needs help getting dressed, getting washed, getting food and drink. I'm working on getting social services to help with these things, but it'll be a while before I can pull that off. I thought you came up here because I sent you the text telling you she was ill, to help out. Or was it just a coincidence?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘That you were on the run from a difficult domestic situation at the same time as Mum had a heart attack?'

‘Difficult domestic situation?' She looked fiercely at her older brother.

‘Lisa, I'm a cop. I never take anything at face value – and your reappearance on the scene got me wondering.'

‘You checked up on me, you bastard.'

Henry didn't even bother to respond to that because it was true. He'd asked Jerry Tope to do some digging for him in the Metropolitan Police's incident files to see what he could unearth. He found that the police in Chigwell had attended a series of increasingly violent domestic disturbances involving Lisa, an irate wife, a wayward husband and a father-in-law who might very well be connected to the mob.

‘I got threatened,' she capitulated. ‘I mean, seriously threatened. The cops advised me to go, so I ran . . . So, yeah, it was a coincidence. Happy now?'

‘Not specially.' He shook his head despondently, wishing that in spite of everything he didn't love her so much. He found it hard to be really judgemental because he saw a lot of himself in her. He sat next to her on the bed so they were thigh-to-thigh. He took hold of her hand and marshalled his thoughts. ‘You want to tell me about it?'

‘No. It just got ugly and messy. I got involved with them through the jewellery business and they turned out to be dangerous people, so I cut my losses and got the hell out.'

‘Leaving a broken marriage behind?'

‘Um – yeah.'

‘What are you going to do now? Have you thought that through?'

‘Not really.'

‘Right, well, what about staying here and getting your head together?' He could hardly believe his own words, yet couldn't seem to stop himself blabbing. Lisa's face suddenly brightened as though the sun had risen across it.

‘You mean it?'

‘I haven't run it past Kate, yet, but I'm sure she'll be OK. There is one thing – no shagging in this house. At least not while we're in and listening. And you put the time in with Mum. That's a given, too. She needs all the care we can give her at the moment. I have a feeling she won't be here much longer.'

Flynn had lost count of the number of doors he'd kicked down in places like this, big terraced houses turned into flats and occupied by the underbelly of society. A subculture of the population he and Jack Hoyle had often invaded uninvited. And there was nothing to beat bursting in unannounced and catching your fish. Often they were tiddlers, occasionally marlin.

Flynn trotted up the steps and inspected the bank of doorbells on the wall next to the front door. Some had names taped alongside, some had flat numbers, but he couldn't see the name or number of the one he was interested in. The front door was locked, so he rang every doorbell and waited for a response, checking up and down the North Shore street that ran at ninety degrees to the promenade. He could hear the waves slapping against the sea wall. It was a high tide tonight.

One of the occupants buzzed him in and he stepped into the ground floor hall, checking the flat numbers. He was after Flat 4, which was obviously up on the first floor, so he climbed the uncarpeted stairs, the heel of his trainer crunching a discarded syringe, like stepping on a cockroach. He emerged on the first-floor landing and the first door he looked at had a number four hanging upside down on it.

Flynn fished out his mobile phone and dialled the number he had earlier keyed in for Dennis Grant. He watched the display: ‘Dialling', then ‘Connecting'.

Stepping closer to the door and listening hard, he wished and prayed, knowing he was operating on a wing and a prayer. Holding the mobile to his ear he heard it ringing out, or at least giving an audio-digital impression it was ringing. There was a slight delay, then from inside the room he heard a mobile phone ring tone. ‘Result,' he said.

‘Yuh, who's that?' a male voice answered. Flynn heard the echo of the voice inside the flat.

‘Is that the Menace?'

‘Who's that?'

‘Jack Hoyle, remember me?'

There was a beat of silence. ‘You're dead.'

‘Very much alive, actually.'

Grant hung up instantly.

Flynn grinned, placed his phone in his pocket, then slyly tried the door handle to Flat 4. Locked. He gave the door a gentle push and saw it was a little loose within the frame. He stepped back, gathered his strength, picked his spot by the lock and powerfully flat-footed the door. Flynn was a strong, powerful man. Four years of deep-sea fishing, hauling in 800lb marlin and sharks, living a life of physical exertion, had honed every muscle in his body. Smashing down the flimsy door of a shitty flat was nothing to him.

The door almost crashed off its hinges with the first kick. Flynn barged in, getting his bearings instantly as he entered what was nothing more than a one-room bedsit, with a toilet and shower room off it.

Dennis Grant was hunched on a low single camp bed positioned under the window. His mobile phone was still in his hands as he looked at it in disbelief. He looked up stupidly when Flynn came through the door before any reaction kicked in. Next to Grant was a bedside cabinet with three blood-filled syringes on it, an overflowing ashtray crammed with dog-ends and used condoms and two empty beer bottles.

A scrawny fifty-year-old junkie dressed in a pair of ragged boxers, he shot to his feet to protest. But before he'd even reached his full height, Flynn had kicked the door shut and had him by the throat.

It was like grabbing a skeleton. A lifetime of substance abuse had robbed this man of all his muscle and strength. All he could do to fight back was wriggle and kick out pathetically.

For Flynn it was no contest. He held Grant with one hand around his chicken-like neck and lifted him across the room, where he pinned him against the wall. Even by then, as muzzed as Grant's mind might have been, he knew he was beaten. All he had left was the power of speech, though even that was controlled by the pressure Flynn used on his windpipe. He gagged to say something, trying to prise Flynn's finger ends out of his flesh.

Flynn's face closed on Grant's. ‘This can be short and relatively pain free, Dennis. Or I can draw it out and give you pain like you've never felt before.'

‘What do you want?'

‘Know who I am?'

‘Yeah, Jack Hoyle's partner.'

‘Good memory. Now, then.' For good measure Flynn slammed Grant's skeletal body against the wall, hearing the hollowness of his skull bounce against it. ‘I'm going to let you down, but don't even think that this act of kindness means I'm weak. If you try anything, or yell out, I'll just break your neck – got that?' Grant nodded. ‘I'm not a cop any more, so I don't play by the rules, OK?'

He nodded again. Flynn eased him down and let go. But Grant's legs, having gone weak, couldn't hold him up. He slithered down the wall on to his haunches, knees clicking obscenely. He massaged his neck with his fingertips and gulped air.

‘Fuck – no need for that.'

Flynn towered over him threateningly, then hauled him back up by his T-shirt. He groaned in terror. Flynn held him up easily.

‘Quick questions, quick answers.'

‘Man, I need a fix,' Grant whined. ‘I can't handle this sorta shit.'

‘Tough.'

‘Look, whaddya want, man?' Grant gestured in a way that said he understood nothing.

‘You were Jack Hoyle's informant on Felix Deakin, weren't you?'

A pained expression crossed Grant's deeply lined, drug-addled face. ‘Is that what this is about?'

Flynn's right hand squeezed Grant's neck slowly and he sucked for air. A wide-eyed expression of dread came to his face as his bloodshot eyes almost popped out of their sockets. His breath rasped and panic gripped him as Flynn increased the pressure. Flynn could feel every contour of Grant's windpipe, felt as though he could slide his fingers all the way around it and tear it out of the throat if necessary.

‘Answer the questions, don't ask, OK?'

Grant nodded. Flynn released the grip. Air rushed back down to the lungs. He coughed and spluttered.

‘I was Jack's informant,' he declared.

‘Was it you who told him about Deakin's counting house?'

‘Yeah, yeah, man.'

‘What about the money that went missing? That million?'

‘Was no money.'

Flynn punched Grant very hard in the liver, just under the right side of his rib cage. He squealed. Flynn allowed him to double over. ‘Do not lie. I have no time for lies. If I think you're lying, I'll kill you. Tell me about the money.'

Cradling his stomach and emitting a noise like a broken foot pump, Grant angled his face upwards, saw Flynn meant every word and started to jabber. ‘It were a massive collection that night. About three months' worth of collections from all over the place. By the time you guys hit the place, I knew most of it would've been counted and bagged upstairs – back bedroom. I worked out a deal with Jack. He had debts everywhere and needed cash to pay 'em off . . . and the cops'd still come up smelling of roses 'cos there was a load still being counted at midnight.' He looked warily at Flynn. ‘It were all bagged up. Two holdalls. It were simple, 'cos simple is good, yeah? Jack just dropped it out to me. I were out back, waitin'. I got a cut, he got the rest.'

‘How much?'

‘'Bout nine hundred Gs. I got a hundred. I only did it 'cos I knew the case against Deakin were good and he'd be going down for a long stretch.'

‘How did you know about the money?'

‘I heard. I got ears. I was a nothing guy, harmless piece o' shit to Deakin. He got careless talking when I were about.'

Flynn stood up to his full height, thinking about the hasty explanation and how it fitted in with what he knew.

‘Where's Jack now?'

‘Dead as far as I know. Fell out of a boat, I heard,' Grant said unconvincingly.

‘You believe that?'

Grant shook his head. ‘Don't know one way or the other.'

‘Where's your cut of the money?'

‘What?'

‘Your cut. Where is it?'

Grant's red eyes rolled in their sockets. ‘Where the hell d'you think?' He held out his arms, twisted upwards, showing Flynn the soft flesh of each inner elbow. Flynn recoiled at the sight of years of injecting, searching all the time for undamaged veins, often with old needles. ‘I inject my tongue now,' Grant said. ‘That's where my cut went, every last penny. To people like Deakin who took over his business. I got nothing left, so I'm back to shoplifting and fencing gear . . .'

‘Nice of you to run it past me,' Kate said huffily. She drew the quilt all the way up to her chin, the message very clear: nothing for you tonight, my laddo. She looked cynically at Henry.

‘She's my sister.'

‘And you're a soft touch, pal.' She turned away and within moments she was breathing heavily, but not as a result of anything romantic Henry had done to her.

He lay back, hands clasped behind his head, his mind too busy for sleep. His thoughts flashed back and forth, eventually settling on Steve Flynn, the surprise card in the pack, maybe the joker. Henry could not fathom why he'd turned up. The story about knowing as much as anyone about Deakin might well have been true, but as a reason for coming back? To Henry it seemed as thin as tissue paper. Something else was going on. Perhaps something connected with the PR woman who'd died on the plane? That was something Jerry Tope had discovered – that the police in Gran Canaria and the Met were running a joint investigation into her death, which was caused following an assault by two men who had tried to rob her and Flynn in a hotel in Puerto Rico. Two men . . . Cromer and Jackman? Henry thought. He wasn't going to spend time agonizing over it. If Flynn wasn't prepared to be upfront, then he couldn't expect anything from Henry either.