Low Profile (15 page)

Flynn rose slowly from the side of the bath. Karen took his hand and led him through to her bedroom. He followed meekly. Then she turned to him and slowly pulled her T-shirt over her head, dropped it, then slid her hand behind his back and crushed herself against him. He could not deny that her touch, her skin, her nipples hardening against him, felt so very good.

Then, all the pain in the world, all the villains, all the conspiracies, all the doubts, had to be put to one side as she tilted her head to him and they kissed hard and passionately.

H
enry Christie was up with Alison at six. She had guests in who wanted an early start and breakfast had to be got under way, so Henry took full advantage of the food being prepared. He wasn't normally a fry-up breakfast kind of guy, usually opting for equally fattening croissants, but he knew he needed to fuel up for what was going to be a long day and that the rest of his meals would probably be taken on the hoof. So he snaffled bacon, sausages, fried eggs and toast and two cups of the best filter coffee he had ever tasted. As he ate he planned the day, knowing that, whilst planning might be divine, where an SIO is concerned it usually goes to rat shit.

He had decided to use the new purpose-built Major Incident Room facility at Blackpool where he would be by seven to have a heads together with DCI Woodcock. Work out how to get the incident staffed – always a problem – then there would be the first briefing and tasking at nine a.m., post mortems at ten a.m.; somewhere in there he needed to have a detailed conversation with Lisa about Percy's frantic phone call. The post mortems would probably take in excess of four hours, he guessed, and although this would slow him up he decided he had to be there to know every detail of the double murder. Yesterday he had delegated this task to the DCI, thinking they might have been carried out last night – but that was when he'd been feeling dead to the world; now, feeling almost chipper, he wanted to go personally, then get back to the incident room to be briefed on progress, which he assumed would be slow.

But he would not allow it to go slowly. He knew the first seventy-two hours were crucial and if it went beyond that, the investigation could hit the rocks. There was literally no time to lose and, as dramatic as that might sound, it was the truth.

The big thing in his favour was that he had come face to face with the killer.

Not that he'd had much time to study the guy's features – Henry had spent most of his time in the man's company fleeing from him – but he
had
seen him, still held something visual in his mind's eye, and it was his intention to get the description down on paper, spend time putting an e-fit together and get it circulated quickly.

Henry had already scheduled a meeting with the e-fit people for eight a.m. so that he would have something to show at the briefing an hour later.

He finished his food and five minutes later he was in his car.

The road out of Kendleton was deserted as Henry pushed the Audi along the tight highways he had come to know so well over the last months, enjoying the speed whilst listening to the latest Rolling Stones CD, recorded live in Hyde Park.

As he listened, though, his mind drifted, his thoughts criss-crossing as he mulled over yesterday, even up to the point where Alison had climbed into bed with him and told him about the American visitor.

Henry narrowed his eyes. The car slowed as he approached the junction with the A683, where he stopped. In his mind he recreated the moment Alison had mentioned the American and the moment he had come head on with Percy's forensic-suit-clad killer.

You shouldn't have seen me … I've nothing against cops.

I'll show you mercy if you come out now.

I'm wearing night vision goggles, so I will be able to see you.

Henry remembered the man's voice.

At the time it had been all excitement and fear and although he had understood the words, what he hadn't taken in, in his blind panic to stay alive, was one vital thing: the accent.

Not northern, or southern. Not Geordie or Scouse or Cockney. Not from anywhere in the UK.

The guy had been speaking with an American accent, for Christ's sake.

‘Shit!'

Henry punched the centre of the steering wheel, jammed the accelerator down and pulled out on to the main road, heading for the motorway at junction 34. At the same time, he dialled a number he knew well on his new mobile phone, which was slotted into a holder on the dashboard and linked to Bluetooth.

As ever he felt like a pretentious twerp when he curled the earpiece and mic around his left ear. He thought he should have got used to it by now.

A sleepy, croaky voice answered. ‘Who the fuck is this?' it demanded.

‘Who the fuck is that?' Henry retorted playfully.

The man cleared his throat. ‘Whaddyawant?' Henry heard him yawn loudly.

‘Information.'

‘Right,' he drawled. Henry could imagine him rubbing and distorting his tired face. ‘What sorta information?'

‘Information on a killer.'

Flynn stirred, lay there, trying to get a measure of his body and how he was feeling.

Some parts good, others not so good. No doubt about it, he ached and was very sore from head to toe. The pounding his skull had endured in the moments after being thrown into the Mercedes was pretty much how a football must feel after ninety minutes of being booted around, but he was certain that no damage had been caused internally. The remainder of him also felt intact, but battered, everything repairable.

He opened his eyes.

He was on his back, his left arm trapped under Karen's shoulders, and she lay on his bicep as if it were a pillow, her face turned towards him, still asleep, breathing deeply and regularly.

Although Flynn had opened his eyes, only one of them – the right one – actually came open. The other was still swollen and closed. He touched it carefully with his free hand, confirming the size of the swelling – big, soft to the touch like rotten fruit, and tender.

‘Yuk,' he said. There was the possibility that a doctor might have to have a look at it.

To more pleasant things: Flynn focused on Karen's face and recalled the night they'd had.

A silent ‘phew' passed his busted lips. To say it had been incredible was a bit of an understatement. Flynn's lips curved into what probably looked like an evil leer but was meant to be a half-smile at the memory and what it might mean to them both.

Karen's eyes flickered and she caught him looking.

‘Hi, babe,' she said dreamily, ‘is that the one-eyed ogle?'

‘Yes … and hi to you, gorgeous,' he said, feeling slightly self-conscious at his use of the lovey-dovey term. Flynn wasn't really in touch with his romantic side. He was a man of action, a doer, and part of that psychological profile, the ‘doing' bit, meant he loved 'em and left 'em. It didn't make him feel proud but he knew he had been avoiding any form of intimacy beyond the actual bedroom, so he was a little afraid that this woman was already changing that.

‘Your face is a mess,' she informed him, ‘but I still think you're handsome.'

‘That's both a reality check and reassuring.' He paused unsurely, urging himself on. ‘And I think you're beautiful … actually have done for months now.' He almost choked on the words, but he did mean them.

She raised herself on to one elbow, allowing the blood to flow back down Flynn's arm. His fingers tingled. She leaned forward and kissed him lightly. ‘Last night was great,' she said.

‘It was … I need to get going,' he said.

‘Yeah, I know … but don't even begin to think you're running out on me. That's not going to happen, you do know that?'

Flynn swallowed. ‘I know and I'm not.'

‘Not least because I want you inside me again.' She held his gaze as she reached down under the single sheet and grasped him. He responded instantly.

Henry headed for Blackpool nick first and the poky office he had there as part of the FMIT presence on the Fylde coast. He kept his brewing tackle in a locked cupboard behind his desk, so he dug out his small kettle, his mug and some coffee and got things under way. Then he sat at his desk and corralled his thoughts whilst gazing out of the window overlooking the rear of the Sea Life centre, over which a huge shark was affixed that he had nicknamed ‘Dave' after an old boss of his.

He raised his mug to that bastard's memory, spun back to his desk, opened his A4 size notepad and started writing.

With the help of aspirin and paracetamols, the pain had subsided slightly throughout Flynn's body as he made his way on foot from Karen's apartment. He was wearing a T-shirt she had found in her wardrobe that he suspected might have belonged to an old boyfriend. Anyway, it fitted him. She promised to boil wash the blood-stained Keith Richards T-shirt even though Flynn did think it added a little something to it. Blood and Keith seemed to meld well together.

The sun, even so early, was rising nicely in the sky, promising another day of swelter. It felt good on him.

What also felt good was the feel of Karen's hand in his as she walked alongside him. The last time he had walked holding the hand of a woman was over four years ago, so it felt good, but also strange – and he liked it.

He knew that something had withered and died in him when he had lost Gill Hartland, but as he strolled along with Karen that ‘something' deep inside was starting to stir again. When he thought back to Gill he remembered it had taken both of them too long to be brave enough to admit their feelings for each other, and then it had been snuffed out in an instant; the time they'd spent together had only been fleeting.

Flynn knew he could not make that mistake again. He squeezed Karen's hand and peeked at her. She knew he was looking but kept her profile to him, a proud smile on her face.

They walked down the steep steps from the apartment into the commercial centre, their plan being to stroll down to the marina and grab a lovely breakfast at one of the quayside cafés in the small shopping centre nearby.

First, though, Flynn wanted to call in to his villa, which they would pass on the way. They trotted across the road near the police station. Karen touched his arm, pointed and said, ‘Look. What sort of car is that?'

The yellow and black Lamborghini was being chain-hauled on to the back of a breakdown truck, its front end mangled massively.

‘It looks like a Ferrari,' Flynn said innocently. This had been an area that he hadn't shared with Karen when he'd told her about his abduction: he'd just fudged how he'd got from the villa back to Puerto Rico.

‘What a shame.'

Flynn swallowed. It was a shame. The damage was extensive and seriously expensive. Two cops watched the car's slow journey on to the back of the truck as they listened patiently to another man. Even from this distance, Flynn could tell he was upset and having a right rant and rave, gesticulating as he spoke to the cops. The owner, Flynn supposed. His pride and joy, stolen and wrecked. Serve him right for leaving it unlocked and with the key in, Flynn thought.

They crossed the road and reached the exact point at which Flynn had been bundled into the Mercedes. He carried on walking with Karen through the public gardens.

His villa was set on the right, its small terrace behind a high rattan fence, giving it some privacy. He went through the gate and stopped dead. The sliding door was open and he knew he had left the place locked up. Karen bumped into him, not expecting the abrupt halt.

‘What—?'

Flynn held her back and gestured for her to stay put as he approached the door, then stood on the threshold looking into the open plan living and kitchen area of what, essentially, was nothing more than an upgraded holiday apartment.

The settee and two chairs had been tipped over, their cushions slashed open. The flat screen TV had been ripped from its wall mountings and smashed to pieces on the tiled floor. In the kitchen area he saw that all the crockery had been broken, the cutlery thrown everywhere. He stepped carefully inside, once more feeling the rise of rage at this invasion of his life. What instantly made it worse was the fact that this place did not belong to him. He was the custodian and had promised to care for it on behalf of the German owner, one of his clients.

The walls had been spray-painted with loops and whirls of black and red metallic car paint, almost impossible to remove. It had also been sprayed all over the furniture.

‘Hell!' Karen said behind him. ‘Kids?'

Flynn didn't reply but walked carefully through the up-ended furniture into the bedroom beyond, which had had the same treatment, as had the bathroom.

Flynn inhaled, exhaled, trying to hold himself together, but struggling as the implications of this invasion also struck home.

‘I've been half-arsed about this, Karen, tripping through the streets like a lovelorn teenager. This is a dangerous game I'm in and there are people out there who mean me real harm for whatever reason. I'm not sure it'll be a sensible thing for you to be associated with me for a while, until I get this sorted …'

‘What d'you mean?'

Before he could answer, Karen's mobile phone rang out. She almost cancelled the call, but saw that it was Adam Castle, her brother, phoning.

‘What …? Right … yes … we'll be there …' Her eyes became frightened. ‘Five minutes,' she said and hung up. ‘That was Adam … we need to get to the marina … someone's wrecked
Faye
.'

‘Put Rik on … I said, put Rik on,' Henry insisted. ‘Jeez.'

Rik Dean came on the line. ‘Henry – what's going on, what've you just told her? She's really upset.'

Henry explained he had just phoned Lisa to ask exactly what Percy Astley-Barnes had said when he'd called the evening before last. Henry had somehow wanted to avoid breaking the news of Percy's horrific death to her, but had been left with no options and had told her more bluntly than he had intended. This had set Lisa off ‘on one'.