Ambush (29 page)

‘That's good to hear, but these are dangerous men, Jim.'

‘I got that, mate … and on that note, I only got half a story from the local cop … any chance you can fill me in on the whole thing? I know it'll be inconvenient, I'm way out in the sticks, but I'd like to know what you know and then I can really protect my brood. I hear you're over here.'

Flynn hesitated; again, his thinking was just a mite muzzy.

‘Steve,' Jimmy Blue said, sensing the hesitation, ‘this is serious stuff … I could do with talking it through with someone who really knows it and I know that's you. We could set up a Snapchat thing on the phones after, maybe, so we keep in touch, or do Facebook or something.'

‘I was going to go back to Ibiza today.'

‘I'd be really appreciative, and Ruby would love to see you. You can have a look at what sort of set-up I've got here; you could stay over if you wanted. I think we do need to talk, put a strategy together so we can keep in touch. Thing is, I'd come across there, but it's lambing season and I need to be on hand for my ewes – sixty of the buggers all ready to drop.'

‘OK, you talked me into it … give me the address and a couple of hours.'

Flynn showered, taking a long time over the process, thinking about Jimmy Blue, the man who had always wanted to be a farmer. Which was a shame, because Jim was one of the best thief takers Flynn had ever known – but he had a dream to chase. He had finished in the job around the same time as Flynn, but whereas Flynn had left with his tail between his legs, Blue had gone out head held high with six chief constable's commendations and a long service and good conduct medal behind him.

When dried and shaved Flynn sat on the edge of the bed and made a call to Santiago, which went straight to voicemail. Checking the time, he assumed she would be back in work chasing a serial killer.

He dressed in the same jeans and T-shirt he'd been wearing for far too long, packed his hand luggage and checked out. He had no intention of returning to the hotel and once he'd finished at Jimmy Blue's (he intended it to be a flying visit) he would head for Manchester airport for the midnight flight to Ibiza. He had just booked this via the hotel, and the ticket had been printed off for him.

In the morning he would step aboard
Maria
, the second love of his life.

F
lynn tried to enjoy the drive east across Lancashire towards the Rossendale Valley where Jimmy Blue had bought a run-down farm in the steep, harsh hills above the town of Bacup, midway between Burnley and Rochdale.

As a cop Flynn was never stationed in the valley, but because he had done a lot of roving on drugs branch he'd spent quite a lot of time there – a small valley with big secrets, he often quipped. So he knew how to get there and, more or less, get himself in the vicinity of Blue's farm.

He tried to enjoy the drive, but couldn't quite do so.

For one thing he just did not want to be bothered, but knew that Jimmy Blue should be told first-hand what was going on with Tasker. Flynn could not begrudge him that, even if it was an inconvenience, and he was probably the best person to do it. He would rather have mooched about today, got to the airport early enough for a leisurely meal and a drink and a bit of cut-price shopping for some of that Chanel perfume Santiago loved so much.

Also, something in his brain was chipping away like a woodpecker, trying to tell him something, but he could not work out what.

Not having heard from Santiago was troubling him but only because he wanted to hear her voice, not because she hadn't even replied to the cheeky/rude text he'd sent her.

Even if she was interviewing a serial killer she had no right not to respond to him, he thought – and chuckled. He guessed her boss was on her case, big style.

His route took him from Preston on to the M6, bearing left on to the M61 and then on to the M65, arcing across the county from east to west and passing the old mill towns of Blackburn and Accrington, with Darwen somewhere in between.

Once past Accrington (home of the once world famous Nori brickworks) but before reaching Burnley, he hooked right on to the A56, which took him spectacularly across Moleside Moor and dropped him into Rossendale at Rising Bridge. From there he decided to do a little town run, came off the A56 and then drove through Haslingden, then on to the A681 into Rawtenstall itself where, as ever, he saw sheep grazing on the grassy roundabout that was Queen's Square. He went straight on, not even thinking twice about farm animals grazing in a town centre, because it was the kind of thing that went on in this neck of the woods. Nothing unusual.

He blinked.

In his mind, something came and went, was gone.

‘Duh!' he said, and clonked his forehead with his knuckles. ‘Think, doom-brain.'

The A681 carried on towards Bacup and soon, turning on to the A671, he wasn't too far from Jimmy Blue's farm, which was somewhere on the moors between Bacup and Burnley.

In Bacup town centre, his phone rang.

Rik Dean had had an ugly night, not least because of what Flynn had told him about Mulligan. As much as he tried to convince himself that Flynn was blameless for the unfortunate death – the man had been sliced in half by a car travelling at over eighty miles per hour – Dean was not happy. Nor was he happy he had allowed Flynn to see Mulligan's address and given the nod and wink that it was OK to go and have a quiet word with the corrupt, useless ex-cop. If that chain of events ever surfaced, he would be for a very high jump and a sudden stop.

A lesson learned.

Keep cop things for cops, not renegade individuals who could not be trusted not to compromise you. Flynn, useful at first, had sunk in Rik Dean's estimation and he was very cross with himself.

Fancy taking him for a midnight run in his underpants!

Fuck, what was I thinking? Dean pummelled himself mentally.

Bleak thoughts about Flynn were not the only things keeping him from sleep in those early hours.

The complexity of what had happened over the last few days was almost overwhelming him. From the brutal murder of Craig Alford's lovely family to the point he was at now – discovering the murder in prison which was a cover for the break-out of Brian Tasker – it was blowing his mind.

In some respects he was glad of Flynn's intervention; otherwise a lot of time could have been wasted chasing false leads. They would probably have been working on the assumption that Alford and Tope had been murdered because of their link to Operation Aquarius and wouldn't have made any connection to the death of Dave Carver … until, perhaps, a forensic or ballistic link had become evident. That would have wasted even more time. Possibly other people would be dead and he would still think that Brian Tasker was dead.

Over a coffee he tried to focus his mind on the day ahead.

Briefings were at eight a.m. at Preston nick with regards to interviews, and then nine a.m. at headquarters, and he had to be very prepared for them, which was why, only a couple of hours after climbing into bed, he had climbed out again, trying not to disturb his wife and going down to the kitchen.

He had sat with his coffee in the dining room with a pad and pen and tried to get his brain around things.

He had been back in work at seven a.m.

Once the prisoners who had hit Mulligan with the stolen BMW, and their two girlfriends, had calmed down and passed out, the cells at Preston nick, though full, became relatively quiet and no other prisoners were brought in that night. The custody sergeant could get his paperwork in order and the gaolers prowled the cell corridors, eyeballs regularly to peepholes.

Most prisoners were asleep under their rough blankets. Ex-doctor Sam Rawtenstall and arsonist Ben Dudley slept soundly, glad of the change of venue. Also, although they had been rumbled in their association with Brian Tasker and the events of that night (and everything leading up to it), nothing would change for them. They were both lifers and if they ever got out they would be old and haggard. Both were resigned to dying in custody anyway.

In another cell was the prison officer who had been bribed by Tasker to do the dirty work. He had initially tried to deny any wrongdoing, but the weight of evidence was against him, especially when the other two blabbed. And, like them, he was guilty of murder, plus many other things.

He knew he was right royally screwed, so he cried and whimpered pitifully all night and did not sleep.

Another prisoner in another cell not sleeping for a whole different reason was called Lawrence (Loz) Digson.

He was too busy working out percentages and odds, and the dangers and benefits of a decision he had yet to make.

‘Steve, Rik Dean.'

‘Morning.'

‘Just a contact call.'

‘Contact made,' Flynn said coolly.

‘You finalized your plans?'

‘You mean my “fuck off out of town” plans?'

‘No … yeah … sort of.'

‘I'm returning to Ibiza tonight … I'm just on the way to see Jimmy Blue at his farm in Bacup. He wanted to have a heads together and a chat through things, but he seems OK. Local cops have been to see him, so thanks for that … oops.'

Flynn negotiated a tight right hander at Broad Clough on Burnley Road, one controlled by double white lines. As he did this a car coming in the opposite direction inadvertently crossed the lines, causing Flynn to swerve to avoid a collision. In so doing he dropped his phone at his feet when he grabbed the wheel with both hands.

By the time the manoeuvre was over, the sharp swerve had made the phone slide underneath the seat, out of reach of Flynn's fingers.

‘Steve … Steve … shit …' Rik Dean shouted down the phone, and looked accusingly at the device when it showed the call had been disconnected. He redialled, muttering to himself, ‘I haven't said anything to the local bobbies yet.'

The line came through as engaged.

Flynn slowed right down and took a left turn on to the very narrow and steep Bacup Old Road. He knew this was a section of the ancient route from Bacup to Burnley, superseded many years ago by the A671 and still only just about wide enough for a horse and cart.

The road climbed steeply and Flynn had to slow down to a crawl to negotiate the bumps caused by old water run-offs that siphoned water off the adjoining fields in diagonal channels across the road. He scraped the sump of the Punto on one, but didn't seem to have done much damage, so he continued without even checking whether he was leaking oil. The road carried on rising until it eventually levelled out at its highest point, where he pulled in and looked across some quite magnificent moorland in all directions, west across Lancashire and east over Yorkshire, and he really could believe that he was in the land of the gods. Hundreds of thousands of acres of land on which about the same number of sheep seemed to be wandering.

‘Mm,' he thought, selected first gear and drove on, looking for a farm track which, according to Jimmy Blue, had a hand-painted sign on it pointing to Cunliffe Clough Farm. A couple of hundred metres further, there it was, and he stopped to look at it. ‘Cunliffe Clough Farm. James and Ruby Blue and family. Fresh free range eggs. Please drive in.'

Flynn nosed the Punto on to the track and passed two other farms before reaching the farmyard named Cunliffe Clough. He turned in between the huge concrete gateposts and parked in front of the farmhouse, old stone built and very substantial. From the back he guessed there would be great views across the moorland at all times of year.

He got out and stood by the car, looking around the yard and beyond to where a number of sheep were grazing, and a chill wind made him shiver.

Something slotted into place, but before he could make sense of what he was thinking he heard a voice behind him.

‘Flynnie! My man!'

He turned and saw Jimmy Blue emerge through a Judas gate in the large barn door across the yard. Jimmy waved and started across to Flynn. He was in a wax jacket and wellingtons, looked the part of a farmer.

Flynn could not help but smile, and he walked to meet him.

Jimmy's face was round and red but healthy-looking and the two men hugged and patted each other's backs. He was as tall as Flynn, but heavier and rounder and less fit.

‘Welcome, welcome,' he said effusively to Flynn. ‘Thanks for coming, marvellous to see you after all these years. Very grim situation, this.'

‘Good to see you, Jim … this place looks great.'

‘Thanks, it is.'

‘And how are you doing, you and the family?'

‘Making a real go of it … best thing I ever did.'

Flynn watched him carefully because his body language did not seem to fit the verbal language. His face, in particular, did not match the words coming out of his mouth. His eyes were red raw and his expression serious.

‘Good,' Flynn said. ‘I'm pleased, mate.'

‘Hey, come and have a look at the family first … we're all in the barn, just doing something. Then we'll go have a brew and you can tell me just what the hell is going on; how does that sound?'

‘Yeah, good.'

He beckoned with a jerk of his head, but again his expression, Flynn thought, was odd. It was as if he was trying to convey some sort of message to Flynn, but he was perplexed by it and followed Blue to the door inset in the bigger barn door.

Once there, Flynn paused as Blue opened up and waved a hand for Flynn to step ahead of him. Flynn stepped over the high threshold with his right leg and then stopped and frowned at Blue as that ‘something' he had been churning over in his mind suddenly became clear, now that he had driven past the livestock in Rawtenstall town centre and then seen sheep in fields, where they should be.

‘Jim, I thought you said your sheep were lambing? I don't see a lamb anywhere.'

Flynn was halfway through the door when he said those words, one foot in the barn, the other still in the yard, so he was slightly off balance as he turned to Blue and posed the question.