Low Profile (10 page)

The two men, Henry and the DCI, raised their heads from their discussion as two hearses crawled regally down Pool Foot Lane.

The body shifters had arrived.

Henry stopped in his tracks. He swallowed something that tasted of petrol: bile. Fear tore all the way through his chest to his groin.

He was looking down the twin side-by-side barrels of a shotgun which were maybe three feet from his nose. Despite the weapon being old and rusting and the barrels looking slightly curved, he truly believed it was still capable of being fired and removing his head.

His eyes moved along the barrel to the shrivelled old man holding the gun.

He could have been a tramp. His white, unwashed hair stuck out at all angles as though he had been electrocuted. The stubble on his face was uneven and unpleasant; his eyebrows sprouted like black caterpillars and nasal hair bushed out like a thicket. His grey eyes, though, were sharp and fierce.

Henry raised his hands slowly, keeping his eyes on the man's right forefinger which was curled around the double trigger. ‘Police officer,' he said nervously.

The man sneered contemptuously. ‘That's what the last stranger told me – then he robbed me blind.'

Henry could not help but glance past the man at the dilapidated farmhouse behind, which was his home. He also knew that the robbery referred to – more a con, really – had netted two men purporting to be detectives somewhere in the region of one hundred thousand pounds' worth of cut diamonds.

The offenders had arrived at the old man's house with a story that he was urgently needed at Lancaster police station where there were two men who had been arrested following the last theft from the man's home, and he was required to come with the detectives and identify them.

One took him away – all the way to Lancaster – and dumped him in the city centre. The remaining one entered the farmhouse and stole the diamonds.

It was not the sort of crime that Henry investigated, but he knew of it and that no one had ever been arrested for it.

‘ID,' the man demanded, shaking the shotgun.

Henry slowly extracted his warrant card, saying, ‘We met a while back when I investigated another possible robbery involving your family, when a gang planned to kidnap Percy. I'm Detective Superintendent Christie – remember?' He showed him the warrant card and flashed his best ‘please don't shoot me' smile.

The man snatched it with his left hand and peered at it closely, comparing the photograph on it to Henry's actual face. Henry could tell that the man did not recognize him at all.

‘Urghh,' he said doubtfully, and handed the card back.

Old Archie Astley-Barnes was a bit of a legend to the cops because he had been conned at least half a dozen times by offenders using a similar ruse: pretending to be police, taking him away from his property and leaving him miles away whilst stealing from his home. Each time it happened, the gangs – none believed to be connected – had become more suave and convincing, but so far none had used actual violence against him. Henry was sure that time would come, because he was easy pickings for thieves in the know. It was estimated he'd had over a million pounds' worth of diamonds stolen from him over the years.

He was also the nominal head of the Astley-Barnes diamond empire – and was Percy's father.

He had made his money from small beginnings, but as he grew older he gradually withdrew from the retail business which Percy had effectively steered for the last twenty years. Old man Archie, however, had not lost his love for diamonds and the wholesale trade and until recently he had kept his hand in though it had become apparent that his mind wasn't what it had been, particularly since the death of his wife, and maybe dementia was setting in.

These were some of the things Henry had learned from his last dealings with the family. It seemed an odd set-up to him, but who was he to judge?

‘Could you lower the weapon – please?'

‘Where are your so-called colleagues?'

‘I'm all alone,' Henry said.

‘No partners in crime?'

‘Just me.'

He lowered the barrel, seemingly satisfied, then said, ‘Do you want to see my rats?'

Flynn backed
Faye
into her mooring at Puerto de Escala, the marina in Puerto Rico, watched by the judgemental eyes of Jose, whose face sagged when he saw the damage to the windows of the boat he cherished as his own.

Flynn tossed him the ropes, then cut the engines and played out the electronic gangplank out to the quayside. Jose tied the ropes and rushed to the plank, but Flynn shot him a gesture that stopped him dead.

‘Stay ashore,' Flynn told him.

He turned as Costain opened the stateroom door and beckoned rudely to him. Flynn walked over; Costain said, ‘In' and jerked his thumb.

Flynn passed him and went into the stateroom where Trish, having suffered from horrendous seasickness, was now sitting upright, recovering quickly now that the boat was tied to terra firma. Once on land, her recovery would be complete within seconds.

Flynn said, ‘What?' to Costain.

‘You say fuck all to no one, you got that?'

‘My boat has come back into harbour shot to hell … people notice tiny details like that.'

‘Lie to 'em,' Costain said. ‘Just keep your gob shut. If I hear you've been saying anything –' Costain drew his forefinger across his Adam's apple – ‘dead man, and I mean it.'

Flynn glared at him, wondering if this was the time to lay that punch on him.

‘I'll pay for the damage,' Costain said.

Flynn's mouth closed tight.

‘And I want to hire you again tomorrow.'

‘You must be—'

‘Two thousand euros for the day.'

The rats were in cages in the lounge. Living, breathing creatures of all species. Big ones, fat ones, small ones, very nasty looking ones, all well cared for. Their cages were on the top of an old piano, a sideboard, a bureau, the dining table and coffee table, maybe twelve in total, each with a couple of the creatures inside, scraping away. The whole place stank horribly and was a mess. The settee and armchairs were huge and old with straw-like stuffing sprouting from inside the cushions, as though cultivated. The pictures on the walls were rotting with damp and Henry cringed at this. He knew they were original paintings. Not by young unknowns, but by recognized masters. A Monet, a Picasso and a Constable amongst them. To Henry, they looked as though they were beyond any sort of restoration. It was a criminal act, he thought.

His eyes moved to the bureau; it had a dozen slim drawers in which he knew the old man kept diamonds of all shapes and sizes.

Archie sank into an armchair when Henry broke his sad news.

Deep shock registered in his face as he closed his eyes, shook his head.

‘Can I get you anything?' Henry offered, guessing the kitchen would be in as bad a state as the living room.

‘No.'

‘I'm so sorry,' Henry said.

‘Not your fault.'

‘But it is my job to catch whoever killed him.'

Archie inhaled deeply, seemingly having aged considerably in the last few minutes.

A rat scratted the bottom of its cage.

‘I'm going to need to ask some very searching questions,' Henry said apologetically, ‘and I'll need to delve into the business to see if there are any answers or clues there. And into Percy's private life.'

‘I don't know much on any of those subjects.'

Henry frowned.

‘The business was all Percy's these days. I have nothing to do with it any more, and as for his private life, I don't know anything either.'

‘But you are still a diamond merchant?'

‘Not in retail. That was Percy's side of the fence. I didn't like the way it was all going, all that TV advertising stuff. I like it neat and personal, and I like wholesale too because that's still one to one. Yeah, Percy ran the shops, I didn't. That said …'

Henry always liked it when someone said, ‘That said …' It was always a good little phrase for a detective … but then Archie's eyes misted over. Henry waited for the big reveal. He had been very lucid for a few minutes and Henry worried that possibly his mind was drifting. To keep him on track, he prompted, ‘That said, what?'

Archie sighed unsteadily.

‘He came asking for help a couple of months ago … don't know … can't quite think straight.'

‘It's OK,' Henry said, seeing the old man was struggling now. ‘I do need to have a chat with you sooner rather than later … I know your son's death is a major shock …'

‘What? What do you mean? My son's death? Just who the hell are you?'

Flynn pounded the pavements, taking his usual route, jogging over the cliff-hugging path to the west of Puerto Rico down to the man-made beach at Amadores, where he turned and retraced the run, dropping back down into the port, descending the tight steps to the road – the Doreste y Molina – that ran alongside the beach. He crossed over and, sweating heavily now, ran on to the beach, then sprinted to the water's edge, flicked off his trainers and plunged into the bay, still wearing his running gear. He swam ferociously back and forth for twenty minutes until his limbs were like jelly and he was desperate for a drink. He dragged himself out of the water, collected his trainers and, dripping, walked off the beach and up to the small, semi-detached villa where he lived, just on the perimeter of the town park.

He dumped his footwear on the terrace, entered through the sliding patio doors and went straight under the shower which he ran hot for about ten minutes, then cold for one last blast, emerging refreshed and gasping for food and drink.

And answers.

He dressed in his three-quarter length cut-off jeans, canvas flip-flops and his favourite, but now very tired looking, Keith Richards T-shirt, which had seen much better days.

Then, with a wodge of Scott Costain's money in his back pocket, he headed up to the commercial centre in Puerto Rico with a headful of anger and a feeling that the night ahead could degenerate quite badly.

The lucidity came in bursts from Archie Astley-Barnes. He had a clear memory of some things and no memory at all of others, then no recall of things he had been specific about.

Henry struggled, getting frustrated, because it felt like Archie was toying with him, although he knew this was not the case.

It was like trying to interview a butterfly. Just when he thought he had the man pinned down, he was gone again, and Henry, who had had some experience of dementia in the period leading up to his father's death, realized that Archie needed a home help of some sort at the very least – and some family around him.

He left after an hour, feeling quite emotional, helpless and drained, and was on his new mobile phone straight away, geeing up the officer who was trying to trace Archie's family.

But as tired as he was, Henry still didn't have time to go home and pamper himself for a while yet. There was another death message to deliver.

The Centro Commercial in Puerto Rico had seen much better days. Many of the cheap shops and fast-food restaurants were boarded up, the recession having taken its toll. Now there were days and evenings when it was a bit of a ghost town, although the well run businesses still thrived, even if they were not the cheapest.

Flynn headed initially for one of the Irish bars, the one owned by his boss, Adam Castle, but even that place, normally heaving, was quiet. He wanted somewhere to eat, drink and talk, so he quit the shopping centre and retraced his steps back past his villa to the beach, where a string of restaurants and bars was tucked under the sea wall, overlooked by the promenade. At least he could sit, drink and eat on the beach, even if he couldn't find company. He went into one of the restaurants where he was a regular, found a table literally in the sand and ordered paella for one and a large San Miguel from the tap.

The chairs were big and padded and they swivelled, so he sat back with his drink, waited for his food (twenty minutes) and nibbled some olives while he chewed over his day.

They were a nice family living in a wealthy part of Lytham, one of the huge detached houses within two or three minutes' walking distance of the sea front.

Henry destroyed their lives with a few words.

He watched their world crumble before his eyes, almost wishing he could suck the words back in, reverse away from the house and run.

Mother, father and younger sister – who lived out of town – so mother and father first, then the sister later, if necessary.

No easy way around it. The opening questions, the establishers, the gathering of information, the growing anxiety and puzzlement from the parents. Why was this very senior detective here asking these questions about the whereabouts of their daughter, and who was her boyfriend and what sort of car did she drive? Why was he asking these questions? Henry could see this behind their eyes, the frowns of incomprehension.

‘When did you last see your daughter, Charlotte?'

Why the hell did he want to know that?

The mother's hand moving slowly to cover her mouth. The gnawing terror in her eyes.

And then the reveal. The reason for all these questions, on the face of it innocuous, but in the context they were being asked, very, very unpleasant.

The moment when he had to make sure there was no misunderstanding and tell them that their daughter had been brutally murdered.

Not passed away, or gone to a better place, but taken savagely, murdered, dead, gone.

And her boyfriend, too.

Then the terrible shriek from the mother's mouth, the horrendous, unworldly wail that came with the trauma of losing a child, that one dreadful thing that was against the natural course of events. Children should not die before their parents.

Henry stepped back, hovering, allowing the family to have their moment of grief, knowing from experience when to keep his mouth shut tight and when to open it. He had delivered many death messages over the course of his career, the first one when he was only nineteen, barely out of short pants, doing things as a young cop that affected people's lives for ever. The majority of the death messages he delivered in that era of his career as a uniform cop were pretty straightforward, even if they did represent tragedy and sadness to the recipients. Those from hospitals, or from relatives in other parts of the country, or possibly after road deaths, but all he had been was a bearer of bad news.