Ambush (22 page)

‘Well, to be fair, breaking bail conditions in Ibiza isn't all that interesting to us. Nor, to be honest, is the passport thing, really.'

‘What d'you mean?' Assheton was rightly suspicious.

‘What I mean is that we're thinking of wiping the slate clean and letting you go. I'm sure I can convince the good people here to let this happen.'

‘Why would you d-do that?'

Dean's eyes were only inches away from the prisoner's as he leaned towards him keeping eye contact, then flicking his pupils sideways with just the faintest twitch of his head.

Assheton frowned.

Rik Dean did it again, then whispered, ‘The big guy wants to see you in private to discuss things. He seems to think he has unfinished business with you after that fracas in Ibiza.'

Assheton's couldn't-give-a-shit demeanour faded in an instant and he became horror-struck. His lips, previously zipped tight, plopped open with a tiny, bubble-bursting noise. ‘You wouldn't,' he almost choked.

‘You have his photo and he wants to know why, so yeah, I would.'

Assheton's eyes tore away from Dean and looked into the smirking face of Steve Flynn. ‘We have a lot to discuss in private, possibly in the dark corner of a car park with no CCTV cameras,' Flynn explained.

Assheton looked back at Dean. His Adam's apple rose and fell with an audible ‘dunk'. ‘Bastards.'

‘Just tell us why you had his photo, that's all. Simple equation. Tell us now, open up, spill the beans, sing like a canary,' Dean said, enjoying himself, ‘and your life will be much less … painful, shall we say.'

Assheton rocked back, jerking nervously. He started to gasp, on the verge of hyperventilation. ‘Look, I'm just a fuckin' nobody, y'know? I'm just the shit on your shoes. I'm a chancer, a fuckin' scavenger. I deal drugs, I steal to buy 'em too. I use drugs. I rob people. I'm your friendly neighbourhood scumbag, so I don't know nowt, OK?'

‘Your release from custody is imminent,' Dean said.

Greater panic consumed Assheton. ‘This is all being recorded, right?' he asked hopefully.

‘What do you think? I told you, this is information gathering.'

‘We were just asked to look out for him.' Assheton gestured loosely at Flynn. ‘Given a picture and a phone number, that was it.'

‘Who's we?' Flynn asked.

‘Dunno. People like me.'

‘Where, when, who?'

‘Coupla weeks ago, just before I went to Ibiza. A picture and a number to call if you were spotted, like a wanted poster.'

‘Where?' Flynn demanded.

‘Pub in Blackpool.'

‘Name it!'

‘I can't fuckin' remember, OK?'

‘Name it!' Flynn insisted.

‘Fat Billy's, I think … they were just like circulating.'

‘You mean people were giving out my photograph and telling you to phone a number if I was ever seen?'

‘Yeah, wanker! Do you not get it?'

‘Who?'

‘No friggin' idea … five hundred squiddly-doos for it,' Assheton said. ‘Do you still not get it?'

Flynn blinked, getting it.

‘There's a fucking contract out on you.'

‘F
ive hundred pounds! Five hundred measly quid?' Flynn was affronted almost to the point of apoplexy that such a paltry sum could have been put on his life.

‘Darling,' Santiago cooed, ‘that was only the price for information leading to your whereabouts.' She was trying to comfort and reassure him but despite the seriousness of the situation she could not keep a grin from her face.

‘Yeah,' Rik Dean said, ‘I'm sure whoever takes you out is bound to get ten times that.'

Flynn was unimpressed. ‘Whatever,' he said tiredly.

The three of them were sitting in Dean's car in the car park outside the Ibis Hotel at Broughton, north of Preston, close to the M55/M6 motorway link. Flynn had booked a room for four nights. It had taken just over an hour to get there from Manchester airport where they had left Dwayne Assheton in custody.

In spite of repeated questioning Assheton maintained that he had neither phoned the number associated with Flynn's ‘wanted' poster nor would in the future. Just to make sure of this Flynn had taken Assheton's mobile phone and deleted every number in his contacts list as well as the made and received numbers in case he was lying, so he could not make the call now even if he wanted to. He had also snapped the SIM card in half.

The journey from the airport had been relatively silent. Flynn and Santiago had taken up residence in the back seat of Dean's car and Santiago had curled up, rested her head on his shoulder and slept. He had stared through the windows as the motorways zipped by in a blur.

The £500 whinge had been the only thing Flynn had said, but then the reality of being the target for an assassin or assassins hit him quite hard. If the person – man or woman – who had been awarded the contract was the same one who had already killed Craig Alford and his family, Jerry Tope and the already dying Dave Carver, then even Flynn realized he had something substantial to worry about.

His mind was a whirr of tumbling thoughts as he attempted to piece it all together and draw conclusions.

But now he was tired and needed sleep.

Dawn was almost upon them, some weak British sunshine rising slowly and reluctantly.

Before getting out of the car Flynn had said, ‘Can I just chew the fat for a minute?'

‘Course,' Dean said.

‘If we are right in the assumption – or the fact – that the guys in that photograph are being picked off one by one, three down, two to go, one already dead anyway, and I'm the only one to feature in a wanted poster that's doing the rounds of the Blackpool underworld, can we draw a conclusion from that?'

Dean thought it over.

Santiago stretched, coming groggily awake. ‘The whereabouts of everyone else but you are known,' she ventured.

‘Could be,' Dean conceded.

‘In which case, if Jimmy Blue's whereabouts are known, he could be next on the list and somehow we, you, need to contact him and warn him. I half-remember he always fancied being a farmer, but I would have thought that the pension or HR people should know where he is.'

‘It's not an infallible system. Once you retire or leave the job, the pension payments just go to your bank account. They should have an address, but that's dependent on the individual concerned notifying them of any changes. Sometimes they don't, but that doesn't stop the pension being paid.'

Flynn accepted that and moved on, ‘But that still leaves the question as to why people are being murdered. Answer that and you could be on a roll.' He sighed. ‘Mind's a mush. It's all over the place, need sleep. Look,' he said to Dean, ‘I have a rental car being delivered here later this morning. When I get that, the first thing I want to do is visit Marina, Jerry's wife … widow. I know you've spoken to her but I think I need to see her and offer my, our, condolences.' He glanced at Santiago. ‘Maybe she might have thought of something more.'

‘You'll have to show some sort of ID,' Dean told him. ‘We have her under guard for the time being – at home, obviously – in view of what happened to Craig's family.'

Flynn nodded and reached for the door handle. ‘I know it's a bit obvious, but killing a whole family is extreme, isn't it? It's not really something any of our home-grown organized gangs would usually stoop to, but it is something Mexican and Colombian drug cartels are more than happy to do.' His eyes narrowed. ‘And Brian Tasker had ideas about running his businesses along cartel lines, murdering innocent people. That's partly why his own family disowned him – he likes killing too much.' He let go of the handle, sat back. ‘And he's not averse to setting fire to people so he can escape from custody. He killed his girlfriend and kid. He has no conscience, no feelings.'

‘You talk like he's still alive, Steve,' Dean said.

‘Are we really sure he's dead?'

Flynn left the question hanging in the air as he and Santiago climbed out. He thanked Dean and went to the reception desk, then to bed.

‘I am so sorry,' Flynn said to Jerry Tope's widow Marina, a slightly rotund woman with the hint of a moustache.

He was perched on the edge of the settee in Tope's living room, leaning across and holding Marina's chubby fingers between the palms of his hands. She seemed numb, almost catatonic in her grief.

‘I can't believe he's gone,' she whispered. ‘If only I hadn't been away.'

Flynn glanced over to Santiago on the armchair opposite. She smiled sadly.

‘He was a good friend,' Flynn said.

‘Who would want to do that?' Marina demanded as if she hadn't heard him. ‘All he did was sit and mess with computers all day. He wasn't even a real detective.'

‘Yes he was,' Flynn said softly. ‘He just had a different skill set. He was as much a detective as any of the others, and better than most.'

‘Yes, yes, I suppose you're right,' she conceded with a sigh. ‘You were a good friend to him.'

‘Really?' he said, surprised.

‘Covering for him all those years ago, saying
you
were the one who had a one-night stand with a slapper.'

Flynn was shocked. ‘I don't know what you—'

‘I've known all along,' she said. ‘I'm a woman. We know things.' She exchanged a glance with Santiago.

‘How?'

‘Someone told me the truth, one of the other guys you were out with that night.'

Grab-a-Granny night, Flynn thought. Preston town centre, as it was in the 1980s, before city status. A night out on a detectives' course. Tuesday, known unkindly as Grab-a-Granny night, the night on which tradition had it that the ‘older' end of the female spectrum hit town and eventually tumbled down the steps into Squires nightclub to become willing prey for hunting detectives and other cops on courses at Hutton Hall; and the night when Jerry Tope, normally so risk averse, got himself stupidly pissed and into the panties of a lady almost twice his age.

Then the cover-up – and Marina, Tope's young bride, had known all along.

‘It made him a wonderful husband,' Marina said. ‘In my mind I forgave him as soon as I knew. It was just a stupid night. Didn't make it right, but it was a mistake, and now it's killing me I never forgave him to his face and he will never know.' A tear teetered on the lower rim of her right eyelid, shimmered, then lost its balance and tumbled down her cheek.

She rubbed it away crossly. ‘Shit. I already miss him messing about with gadgets, here and in his car, and stuff. Who's going to drink all that home-brewed beer and wine? It's horrible stuff, but he loved it.' She laughed. ‘Now he'll never have a microbrewery and a tiny pub … never. And what about these bloody cops outside?' She made a wild gesture.

A double-crewed ARV was parked on the avenue outside the house.

‘Who would want to kill
me
? I don't know anything.'

‘That's not the point, I don't think. It's about keeping you safe,' Flynn said.

‘I know, I know.' Her head dropped into her hands. ‘Oh, fuck.'

Flynn and Santiago stood outside Tope's house. Tope's car had been returned home from where it had been found, close to the place he had died, and parked on the driveway. Flynn leaned against it and tried to make a contact call with Rik Dean, but got no joy. He thrust his phone back into his pocket and stared glumly at Santiago.

‘All those years I blagged him for information by threatening to reveal his dirty little secret to Marina, and she knew all along. And now I feel such a bastard, too. He'd been mentally paying for that one night of idiocy for all these years. It must've been hell for him. Funnily enough I really liked doing it, loved making him squirm … what an utter – bah! – I am.'

Santiago touched his arm. ‘Don't beat yourself up about it. What's done is done. You two ended up in a good place with each other, so that's what matters.'

‘Suppose so.' He turned away, slightly tearful, not wishing to blub in front of her. He placed his hands on the edge of the car roof and leaned against it like a prisoner about to be searched, with his head drooping between his shoulders. Then, raising it slightly, he stared blankly into the car.

The imprint of a ring on the dashboard caught his eye – as if a wet cup had been balanced on the black plastic.

Flynn wondered what it could have been. Possibly a satnav, the type of gadget Tope would have liked; but peering into the car he saw there was a factory-fitted satnav in the dashboard itself.

‘What?' Santiago said, noticing his change of posture.

‘One second.' Flynn pushed himself off the car and went back to the front door of the house, tapped on it. Marina appeared a few moments later.

Flynn apologized for the inconvenience and asked, ‘Did Jerry have a satnav for the car?'

‘Er, no.' She scratched her head. ‘I mean, yes – it's in the dashboard, came fitted.'

‘In that case, what was stuck on the dashboard that would leave a round mark like a cup or a sucker?'

‘The mini-cam, one of those things that records journeys, what's happening in front of the car. He had one in the back window, too. He was terrified of those false accident claims, y'know? People claiming you've bumped into them or knocked them over when you haven't, and then going to your insurance company. He said it was rife in this area – and he always took the cameras out when he got home because he said they were a thieving bunch around here.'

‘He was a cautious man,' Santiago said.

‘Not cautious enough,' Marina said bleakly.

‘What are you thinking?' Santiago asked Flynn.

‘It's probably nothing,' he said, and turned back to Marina. ‘Did he record every journey?'