Headhunter

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Nick Oldham from Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Recent Titles by Nick Oldham from Severn House

  The Steve Flynn Series

  ONSLAUGHT

  AMBUSH

  HEADHUNTER

  The Henry Christie Series

  BACKLASH

  SUBSTANTIAL THREAT

  DEAD HEAT

  BIG CITY JACKS

  PSYCHO ALLEY

  CRITICAL THREAT SCREEN OF DECEIT

  CRUNCH TIME

  THE NOTHING JOB

  SEIZURE

  HIDDEN WITNESS

  FACING JUSTICE

  INSTINCT

  FIGHTING FOR THE DEAD

  BAD TIDINGS JUDGEMENT CALL

  LOW PROFILE

  EDGE

  UNFORGIVING

  BAD BLOOD

  HEADHUNTER

  A Steve Flynn Thriller

  Nick Oldham

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2017 by Nick Oldham.

  The right of Nick Oldham to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8729-0 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-846-0 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-906-0 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  To Philip, Jessica and James – all amazing young adults on the starting blocks of some very big journeys.

  I wish you all the best for your futures.

  ONE

  The man had to die and Steve Flynn had to be his killer.

  Flynn broke the man’s neck with ease, and although he knew he had instantly killed him, just for good measure – and to avoid any error – he kept his forearm jammed tight across the man’s neck to crush the windpipe and shut off all blood flow to the brain.

  Almost intimately, nose-to-nose with the man, Flynn watched his eyes first glaze over and turn milky in death and then, as Flynn continued to squeeze and keep up the pressure, he saw them almost bulge out of their sockets and then haemorrhage red as what blood remained in his head was forced into the orbs.

  Only when he was completely certain the man was dead did Flynn release his neck-hold and allow his head to flop. Then he let the lifeless body slither out of his grip and thump down hard on to the metal floor pan of the police van. Flynn did not gently lower him down and the back of his head smacked against the metal edge of the bench seat while his body twisted unnaturally on to the floor.

  To have eased him down, to have given him that final piece of dignity, would have been too much like an act of kindness or contrition on Flynn’s part. It was much more than this man, whose name was Brian Tasker, deserved and certainly more than he had afforded any of his victims.

  Flynn’s usually craggily handsome face was twisted, sweaty and ugly with pain and effort. The sinews in his neck were taut like strands of plaited steel cable.

  He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, wiping away the spittle, then glanced down at his outer right thigh and his bloodstained jeans. A wave of nausea rolled up from his lower gut and almost engulfed him, but he fought it to remain focused and concentrating.

  The leg had been very basically dressed by a paramedic earlier, and Flynn knew that, in an ideal world, what he now needed was hospital treatment for the gunshot wound.

  But Flynn was operating in a far-from-ideal world and a hospital admission would have to wait its turn.

  Bracing himself to ignore the agony from his leg and also the throbbing of a burst eardrum, he slid along the bench seat to the back door of the van and pushed it open.

  He knew his time was limited.

  Although the act of killing Brian Tasker had seemed to take place in slow motion over many minutes, like a woozy nightmare the reality was that from entering the police van – parked up close to the door leading into the custody office at Blackpool police station – to killing Tasker and then leaving the van was perhaps less than sixty seconds.

  Flynn had to move quickly, though, to escape, to seek further justice, maybe revenge.

  He dropped out of the van, jarring his injured leg which almost crumpled under him; then, clinging to the side of the van to keep himself upright, smearing the Lancashire Constabulary logo with his blood, he edged like an upright crab to the driver’s door and checked to see if the key had been left in the ignition.

  It was a vain hope, but occasionally vain hopes pay off.

  The key was in.

  Flynn tore the door open and, using the frame, hoisted himself on to the driver’s seat, then had to physically lift his right leg in and position it with his hands before slamming the door and twisting the key.

  The van started. Gripping the steering wheel tight, he forced his right foot down on the accelerator pedal, depressed the clutch and crunched into first. The van jerked as the sharp bite of the clutch caught him by surprise and he stalled the engine with a judder. He fired it up again, released the clutch a little more carefully and, as the van began to move, Flynn glanced into the door mirror to see the two uniformed cops who’d been crewing the van emerge from the back door of the station.

  They halted in momentary shock at seeing the van moving.

  Then they gave chase and screamed for Flynn to stop, although at that point they thought it was their prisoner who had somehow managed to get out of the van and steal it to escape.

  Flynn gunned on down the shiny concrete surface of the police garage, the tyres squealing. He aimed for the accordion-like exit door which, if he recalled and hoped correctly, opened automatically on the approach of vehicles leaving the station.

  He was right.

  The door began to fold open, but far too slowly for Flynn.

  He had to slam on the brakes, virtually standing on
them, hissing with pain from the leg wound which felt like shards of hot glass being shot into his body. The van screeched to a halt. From behind, he heard and felt Brian Tasker’s body roll, then thud against the reinforced panel dividing the front cab from the rear section of the van.

  The door continued to slide open with agonizing slowness.

  He glanced into the side mirror.

  The two cops were almost alongside him.

  Flynn’s face creased as he jammed his right foot down again on the accelerator, the door opening just wide enough for the van to scrape out, snapping off the nearside door mirror as he shot through just as the quickest of the cops banged his fists on the side panel and screamed at Flynn to stop. The cop spun away from the van as Flynn ignored the request and left him standing.

  Once more, he heard and felt Tasker’s body rolling around in the back and, glancing in the door mirror again, Flynn realized he had left both the back door and inner cage door of the van wide open.

  He gave a shrug and powered the van along the short stretch that was Richardson Street, then swung right into Chapel Street and, with no particular plan in mind, raced towards the seafront.

  Before reaching the traffic lights opposite Central Pier, Flynn flicked on the switch for the blue lights and two-tone horns and swerved through the lights, which were on red, and sped north on the promenade, again hearing and feeling the roll of Tasker’s dead body in the back like a heavy duvet clunking about in a spin dryer as he careened through the teatime traffic.

  His eyes flickered to the door mirror once more and he caught sight of Tasker’s arms as his body rolled out of the still-open door and on to the tarmac of the promenade.

  Flynn punched the air as the car behind anchored on, tried to swerve but was unable to avoid Tasker’s body, mounting it and crushing it under the front wheels.

  Flynn grunted, but not unhappily, as he raced on, recklessly negotiating traffic then swinging across the tram tracks on his left, narrowly missing an oncoming tram and driving on to the car-free promenade itself. He weaved around a few pedestrians and, as he came close to the entrance to North Pier, he re-crossed the tram tracks, back on to the road again, still heading north as the road cut inland at the Metropole building. Then he went a tight right on to Springfield Street, which was narrow and made even snugger by cars parked on both sides. The gap between them was just wide enough to allow one vehicle to pass at a time.

  Another car was heading towards him.

  Flynn braked hard, as did the driver of the other car, who tried to tuck his vehicle into a space between two parked cars in order to allow the police van to squeeze through, as it was obviously on the way to a dire emergency.

  Flynn silenced the two-tones as he negotiated the constricted gap and made it through by snapping the wing mirror off a car parked on his nearside. He gave the open-mouthed driver of the car that had allowed him through a quick wave of thanks, then put his foot down again, swung left and entered the warren of terraced streets behind the promenade, until he finally met his match and his luck ran out when he swerved though a junction, skimmed the side of another oncoming van and, because he was travelling far too fast, flipped the police van over on to its side. It spun once, embedded itself in a parked car and Flynn, not wearing a seat belt, was pitched across the width of the cab, crashing awkwardly against the passenger window.

  He hauled himself out, clambering through the driver’s-door window and tumbled on to the road, much to the dismay of the driver of the van he had just collided with.

  ‘You OK, mate?’ the man asked. He had rushed back to the police van to try and assist. He juddered to an uncertain halt when he saw Flynn’s feral appearance, blood-soaked jeans and wild face. Realization dawned. ‘You’re no fuckin’ cop. You fuckin’ nicked this, didn’t you?’ the man demanded.

  The man was not small, but chubby and unfit. That did not prevent him from approaching Flynn while at the same time reaching for his mobile phone. This was too good a photo opportunity to miss.

  Flynn, slightly dazed from the accident, stood there momentarily, gasping and swaying. His wide shoulders were hunched and his big shape resembled that of an exhausted mountain gorilla.

  The man’s phone flashed. Photo taken.

  Flynn winced. The flash actually hurt his eyes.

  Then he came back to life and made a threatening gesture towards the van man, who recoiled in terror.

  Flynn turned and, as quickly as he could but with both hands clasping his bloodied leg, he fled the scene and plunged into the gathering darkness of an alleyway.

  Behind him, van man tapped out a treble-nine on his phone after posting Flynn’s photograph on social media.

  Flynn pushed himself as far as he could before the agony overwhelmed him and brought him down in a dank alley somewhere close to Dickson Road, one of the resort’s main thoroughfares, running parallel to the promenade on North Shore. He staggered, tried to keep upright by clinging to a reeking, overflowing wheelie bin, but eventually submitted to the inevitable and sank on to his backside on cold cobbles. He leaned against the bin, his brain a seething whirlpool of rage, pain and confusion about the way forwards.

  He exhaled unsteadily, his heart ramming mercilessly against his chest until the beating subsided and he calmed himself down, tried to think of a way through while both his hands cradled his throbbing leg.

  The first thing was quick medical treatment. That was the priority.

  He could hardly present himself at the A&E department at Blackpool Victoria Hospital because the first thing they would do was call the cops, as they tended to do when a wild man with a gunshot wound clattered through the doors.

  He knew he had to get treatment of some sort, though. The question was how to achieve it under the radar.

  Once, many years before, Flynn had been a cop here in Blackpool and had known the resort and its inhabitants well, particularly the less-savoury denizens of this particular jungle. That had been over a dozen years ago. He had known backstreet abortionists (they still existed) and struck-off doctors (often backstreet abortionists) who he could have approached, but not now, not at that moment. They were all past history.

  He was alone without a plan, a phone or money or access to transport. Nor did he have his passport, which he knew he would need soon.

  He gritted his teeth as he fought off another wave of pain-induced nausea.

  Maybe he could self-medicate.

  He looked down at his bloody jeans, swallowing hard.

  The paramedic who had dressed the wound had told him the bullet had gone all the way through the flesh of the muscle of his outer right thigh, in and out, although Flynn had not been taking too much notice of the diagnosis at that time. Other things had been on his mind, such as murder.

  He eased his arse off the ground and slid his jeans down to his knees. The dressing applied by the paramedic was saturated in blood. Flynn slowly eased the padding away from his flesh and exposed the wound. He had been shot purely to debilitate him, a bullet put in him just to keep him from moving. It had worked.

  He slid his right forefinger into the gaping hole, trying to work out if it was possible to treat it without having to go to hospital. He hoped that if it was simply a hole, with no bone or artery damage, just tissue, maybe it could be done. A wave of giddiness hit him, making him feel like he had his head in a bucket and the Doctor Who theme tune was being blasted around it.

  He extracted his finger, with blood, up to the middle joint.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he gasped.

  He reapplied the now useless, blood-soaked dressing and pulled his jeans back up. Glancing down the alley towards Dickson Road, he saw the lights of a shop on the opposite side of the road. Almost as if he were seeing a mirage, he shook his head and refocused – but it was still there, for real. Flynn’s oasis. He whispered, ‘Thank you, Lord.’

  Using the wheelie bin to haul himself back to his feet, he hobbled towards the end of the alley and stopped by the wall, keepin
g in shadow from where he surveyed the shop and the immediate surroundings.

  Suddenly, from his right, a police car with flashing blue lights appeared over the slight rise in the road and hurtled down Dickson Road from the direction of the town centre. Flynn flattened himself against the wall, a metre into the alley, and watched the car whizz by, recognizing the Ford Galaxy as an ARV – an Armed Response Vehicle – with two cops on board, a man and a woman. Flynn knew they were out looking for him and soon the whole resort would be flooded with cops searching for a murderer.

  He gave it a minute to disappear, then took a steadying breath and limped quickly across to the shop, a pharmacy.

  It was not a big shop, just a corner store, one of a small, local chain.

  Flynn entered.

  There was one customer at the counter being served by a middle-aged lady. Behind the white-coated shop assistant was an eye-level dividing wall, beyond which was the prescription preparation area where all the drugs were kept and dispensed. Working in there, head down tipping out some pills into a container, was another woman in a white coat who Flynn assumed was the pharmacist. None of the three even glanced in his direction.

  He selected a basket from the stack by the door then went to the shelves, found plasters, dressings, bandages and antiseptic cream which he scraped into the basket, all the while keeping an eye on what was happening at the counter. The customer was served and went out. Flynn edged behind her as she exited and, as soon as the door was shut, he flipped over the ‘closed’ sign to face outwards, ran up the top bolt and went to the counter.

  The woman behind had turned to speak to the pharmacist, and when she looked back at Flynn her face sagged in horror.

  He slammed the basket on the countertop.

  ‘I want the best pain relief you’ve got,’ he rasped hoarsely. His eyeballs rolled as he fought with the agony shooting up inside him.

  ‘That’d be Co-codamol,’ she squeaked.

  ‘Nah. Stronger than that,’ he insisted.

  ‘You’d need a prescription.’

  Flynn leaned ominously towards her, not wanting to frighten her but doing so anyway. ‘I don’t have a fucking prescription,’ he growled, unimpressed with himself for making a woman cower away from him but unable to rein back the wounded beast that he was. ‘So you’d better just give me the pills or I’m gonna get angry and help myself.’