Ambush (26 page)

It was now time to experience the sweet irony of the Brent Costain boot ride.

He got out, walked along the pavement to the front of the flats and easily entered the foyer, which should have been secure but was not. He took the stairs up to level two, flat one, the address that Rik Dean had ‘accidentally' allowed him to see.

He paused, listened. Just the normal noises again. Voices. TVs. Music. Shagging.

The door to the flat was locked and daubed with crude graffiti.

Flynn knocked, just a tap.

Then harder, louder.

The person inside shouted an obscenity.

He was home.

Flynn knocked again, only to be met by more slurred obscenities, which suited Flynn. A bit of alcohol down a man could make a chat go much more easily, exactly why interviews with drunks were strictly controlled under PACE.

He knocked once more, received more abuse, then stood back, braced himself and flat-footed the door just by the lock. It shattered instantly and clattered open. Flynn still got a great deal of pleasure from kicking doors down.

He stepped directly into the living area of the minuscule flat and found the occupant slouched on a tatty two-seater settee dressed in only a stained vest, boxer shorts and ankle socks, with a half-bottle of nameless cheap whisky balanced on his pot belly.

‘What, what the shittin' …?' the man said, trying to heave himself into a sitting position to challenge the intruder. Beyond him was a large screen TV showing some free late night soft porn, a naked girl on a phone encouraging people to call in while she wobbled her boobs at the camera. The rest of the room was untidy, unpleasant.

In essence, the man had not really changed since Flynn had last seen him. He did have the pot belly now but his legs and arms were spider thin and his torso reminded Flynn of a dung beetle. His face, though aged, was just the same, with the same pencil moustache, his little trademark.

‘Fuck outta here,' he shouted at Flynn.

‘Terry Mulligan, get your pants on, you're coming with me,' Flynn said.

The former detective jerked a middle finger up. ‘Who the fuck you think you are?' he demanded.

The reek of alcohol, sweat and bodily emissions made Flynn's nose twitch. He stepped forward. ‘Remember me, Terry?'

His bloodshot eyes showed no sign of recognition. ‘Should I?'

‘Maybe not. Doesn't matter – now get dressed or don't get dressed, I don't care. You're coming with me because you've been a very naughty man.'

‘You can fuck off out of here.' Mulligan stood up and staggered towards Flynn, who hit him once. He sank to his knees.

Five minutes later Flynn had folded him neatly behind the back seats of the Punto with the parcel shelf closed over his head. Not very secure, Flynn realized, but it would have to do for the time being.

Time for a ride in the country.

Flynn chose the scenic route. On to the A6 – driving past Craig Alford's house – then left on to Station Lane and the narrow, bumpy, winding, bucolic roads of that area, not so far away from the farmhouse where Brian Tasker had holed up with such fatal and far-reaching consequences all those years before.

First there was a bridge over the main western rail line between London and Glasgow. Then a narrow but very pronounced hump-back bridge over the canal, where the Punto took off and landed like a stock car, throwing the body in the boot around with a thud, a cry and then another thud.

Flynn slammed on to make a point, and felt and heard Mulligan smack into the back seats.

He set off just as suddenly, throwing Mulligan back with another thud, groan and curse.

Flynn drove the little car hard, braked hard, cornered tight until he drew up after a few kangaroo jumps on a deserted car park in front of a country store. He ran around to open the hatchback and hoisted Mulligan out. The guy staggered and went down on to all fours, vomiting and making very miserable mewing sounds. Flynn towered over him, careful not to put his shoes into the sea of sick. But for good measure he kicked Mulligan hard in the ribs, flipping him over on to his back; he rolled over into a foetal position crying, ‘What have I done, what—?'

Flynn balanced on his haunches, grabbed Mulligan's hair into the ball of his fist and wrenched his head around.

‘You know exactly what you've done,' he growled. ‘Now then, you talk right now or you go back in the car and we go round and round Beacon Fell until you beg to talk.'

‘You can't do this, you can't fucking do this. I have fucking rights, human rights, what about PACE?' Mulligan protested. ‘You've assaulted me.'

‘Yep.'

‘I'll fuckin' complain … I recognize you now, you're a cop. This isn't legal, not allowed.' He spat out phlegm and some porridge-like lumps of spew.

‘What makes you think I'm a cop?'

‘I recognize you. I can't remember your name, but I bleeding recognize you.'

‘And I'm just taking a leaf out of your interview technique book, Terry … remember?'

‘Oh, God, I remember it all … and you're not a cop any more, are you?'

‘Which is why I don't have rules.'

‘Shit.'

Mulligan sat on the edge of the open hatchback, breathing heavily.

‘I don't know, I don't know, OK? It was just a job, nowt else, a bloke on a phone.'

Flynn stood in front of him. Inside he could feel his heart trembling as he fought to control his utter loathing for this man and the desire to mash him to a pulp.

‘I'm a private investigator, a snoop, you know?'

‘Sleaze ball, you mean?'

Mulligan's eyes rose maliciously. ‘I lost my job. Since then I've done every dirty job that comes along. I'm broke. I won't draw any pension for years and when I do it'll be pitiful; so when some guy rings up and says he's got a simple job for me at a ton a shot, I take it, OK?'

Flynn swallowed drily, his adrenalin overdosing into his system. ‘Who was he?'

‘I … don't … know … name didn't matter, money did.'

‘What did he ask you to do?'

‘J-just watch Craig Alford go to and leave work each day for a few days and send a text when he drove past, that's all. Use a different phone and SIM each time.'

‘So you're not averse to spying on former colleagues?'

‘Former colleagues got me fired, so no.'

‘You're a scumbag, Mulligan … do you know what you did, sending those messages?'

Mulligan's head drooped.

‘Essentially notified a killer his victim was on the way … nice one … where are the phones you used?'

‘In a drain. Like I said, I was told to get a burner for each one out of what I got paid.'

‘A drain as in next to where you sat in the layby?'

His head shot up. ‘How did you know I was in a layby?'

‘Lucky guess.' Flynn was struggling to keep the hatred off his face. ‘Anything else to tell me?'

Mulligan blinked, but even in the darkness Flynn could see something shifty in the expression.

‘What else?' Flynn said.

‘Look – whoever it was – and I don't know who it was – asked me if I could get some details and pass 'em on.'

‘What details?'

‘Some, uh, contact numbers and addresses for retired cops.'

‘And could you?'

‘I, er, still have a contact in HR, a woman I've known for a long time … was shagging her way back.'

‘Whose names did you get?'

‘He asked me for four names and addresses …'

‘Whose?'

‘Dave Carver, Jimmy Blue, Lincoln Bartlett and … shit, now I know your name … it's Steve Flynn. Fuck, now I really do remember you.' He held his head in his hands.

‘What did you do with the names?'

‘Passed them on … but …'

‘But what?'

‘Lincoln Bartlett was dead, Dave Carver was in a nursing home and for some reason there were no addresses for you or Jimmy Blue … except …'

‘I need you to finish your sentences, or I'm really going to get cross,' Flynn warned him.

‘I managed to find out where Jimmy Blue lives. I passed it on … but I couldn't find your address. Got your photo, though.'

‘How did you pass the information?' Flynn asked.

‘Like old-fashioned spying … a dead letter drop. I never saw who picked it up.'

‘Anything else?'

Mulligan's eyes closed. ‘I got addresses for two serving officers, too.'

‘Who?'

‘Craig Alford and DC Jerry Tope, I think it was. I'm really, really sorry.'

‘How much did you get paid for that information?'

‘Two-fifty per address.'

‘What's the name of your bent contact in HR?'

‘Lizzie Dawn … look, keep her out of this, she just did a favour for an old mate.'

‘Fuck that,' Flynn said. ‘As far as I'm concerned you set up Craig Alford and his family, Jerry Tope, Dave Carver and a nurse who was caring for him … and they're still coming after Jimmy Blue and me. Get back in the boot.'

Twenty minutes later Flynn drew up on the car park outside the new police station in Preston. Not exactly purpose built – it was formerly a water board depot – it had been refurbished and modernized. A cell complex had been added, and because it was just on the periphery of the city centre there was more space to operate and more room for staff to park than at the old station.

Flynn knew that Rik Dean was still on duty and dealing with the two inmates and prison officer from Lancashire Prison who were now detained at the nick.

Flynn called him on his mobile. ‘I'm outside, any chance of a catch-up?'

‘Give me ten.'

Flynn ended the call and tried to phone Santiago who, if her flight was on time and his calculations were correct, should just have landed in Las Palmas, Gran Canaria.

She picked up instantly. ‘Steve … I'm just walking towards passport control.'

‘Good, you landed safely. How was the flight?'

‘OK, but I wish you could have been with me.'

‘We'll be together sooner rather than later,' he promised her.

‘You know I've fallen in love with you, don't you, Steve Flynn?'

He swallowed and, though fighting it, became misty-eyed. ‘You could have told me earlier.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I might've told you the same,' he stuttered. Suddenly his palms were very damp.

‘You can tell me now.'

There was a tapping on the driver's door window. Flynn jumped and looked to see Rik Dean with his face up to the glass.

‘Rik's here … look, let's speak soon.'

She laughed, that light tinkling sound he had grown to love. ‘OK, Steve, not a problem.'

He hung up, knowing it was a problem, knowing that time was running out for him and he had to grab this opportunity with both hands and go for it. In that instant he made plans: get all this Brian Tasker crap out of the way, finish the season in Ibiza, chug back to Gran Canaria, then get down on one knee and do the decent thing for himself and her.

Good plan … yet somehow there was a cloud of premonition at the back of his mind.

He shook it off, got out of the car to speak to Dean.

From the side door of the police station two uniformed cops hurtled out, dragging on their jackets and fitting their appointments into the requisite holes before scrambling into a liveried patrol car, reversing out of the parking slot and accelerating towards the gates, blue-lighting as they went.

Rik Dean waved them down.

The car lurched on its front suspension. The policewoman in the passenger seat lowered her window.

‘What's the rush?' Dean asked.

‘Apparently there's a drunken guy in the middle of the road junction at Broughton just in his underpants, trying to stop traffic.'

Dean waved them away and turned to Flynn. ‘I kinda miss jobs like that.'

‘Me, too,' Flynn said, all innocent.

T
he car had been stolen by two teenagers who lived on a council estate in Ribbleton, Preston. They had been on the prowl for some high-octane adventure and had known they were unlikely to find anything of interest on their estate. They'd been on speed all evening and wanted something external to match their inner surge of energy.

They found the big BMW on a good class estate in Fulwood and were soon into it. It wasn't a new car, not protected by modern technology, and both of the lads were adept at getting into such cars and being on the road within a minute.

They worked in silence to steal the beast and resisted the temptation to rev the engine as it rolled off the drive. That pleasure was kept on hold until they were out of the cul-de-sac.

Then they floored the accelerator.

‘Can't wait to see this one,' Joanne Farmer said. She was the female officer in the police patrol dispatched from the station to investigate the drunk in the road at Broughton. ‘Always love a piss-head in skivvies.'

This made the PC at the wheel chortle.

He drove out of the police station yard up to the junction with the main road, the A6, which at that point was called North Road. He stopped and began to pull out, but slammed on as a speeding BMW shot past, just missing the nose of their car, heading north like a mini-rocket.

It was late, it was dark, but Joanne Farmer recognized the scowling face pressed tight against the front passenger door window and also the profile of the girl in the corresponding seat behind him.

The face of the young man was etched in her mind because Farmer had come on duty four hours before her night shift to deal with this lad, who had reported to the station on police bail to face an allegation of taking a motor vehicle without consent. A BMW.

Although she did not quite see the driver of the speeding BMW, she could guess that it was the lad's best mate, who had also reported for bail earlier.

So, three hours before, the lad in the passenger seat, Wayne Dixon, and his friend, Billy Collins, charged with car theft offences, had been given bail to appear at Magistrates' Court in two weeks' time and a release. Then they had simply gone out and repeated the crime within hours, stealing yet another BMW and giving their girlfriends the ride of their lives.