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  It was a large, three storey villa, very classy.

  The drop was perhaps six feet on to a footpath. He found himself in a cul-de-sac where there was a cluster of very expensive executive villas, none of which seemed to have any lights on or show any signs of habitation, other than the one he’d just left. The only lighting was from fairly dim street lights along the roadside.

  He recognized where he was, remembered once having picked up a charter party from one of the villas.

  He crouched as he landed, then ran low, keeping close to the wall for cover and drawing the gun from his waistband. He ran along the cul-de-sac towards the exit and remembered that it was controlled by substantial, remotely controlled metal gates that he knew would be very hard to scale quickly.

  That looked as if it would be a problem for him because he did not want to end up caught halfway over like an insect on a zap-trap.

  He glanced back.

  No one there yet. There would be.

  His run slowed whilst he tried to figure this out. He looked up a steep driveway leading to another villa which was all in darkness, but his good eye opened wide. There was a yellow and black sports car parked on this driveway, and the gates were open.

  Still crouching low, he ran up the drive alongside the car, now recognizing the sleek shape as that of a Lamborghini. The villa behind was another three storey monstrosity, rising high into the night, and seemingly unoccupied at the moment. The car was a gorgeous piece of engineering and Flynn hesitantly tried the driver’s door, wondering if his luck would hold just once.

  ‘Yesss,’ he hissed triumphantly as the door opened. And saw the ignition key in the lock. ‘Smug rich bastard,’ he thought. ‘Never expect to get thieved.’

  The door cracked and Flynn expected it to open towards him, but it went upwards like a raptor’s wing.

  He folded himself uncomfortably into the tight driver’s seat, his big frame really far too huge for the confines of such a sports car, which was obviously made for midgets. Or tiny rich people.

  He pulled the door down, pressed the clutch, slotted the gear stick into neutral and turned the ignition key, dabbing the accelerator gingerly.

  The engine came to life with a shrieking roar, then screamed as he tapped the gas pedal again and the twelve cylinders came to life in what seemed to be a very bad temper.

  Flynn was now enclosed in what was essentially a bullet on wheels, the like of which he had never driven before, or even sat in … ‘This night,’ he thought, ‘just keeps on giving.’ He found reverse, released the handbrake, eased up the clutch very gently to find the bite, tapped the accelerator.

  Before he knew what was happening the Lamborghini sped backwards down the steep drive at an incredible speed. Flynn hung on to the wheel.

  There was a horrible crunching, metallic scraping noise from underneath as the car skimmed the footpath and Flynn realized that taking this very low slung car out was probably best done slowly and carefully.

  Not tonight.

  He slammed on the brakes just before the car embedded itself in the wall of the villa opposite – and stalled the beast.

  Glancing sideways he spotted the dark shapes of two men running towards him, then the muzzle-flash and crack of a shot as one fired a gun. He ducked instinctively and heard the ping of the round glance off the bonnet of the car.

  He restarted the engine, ground it into first on the gatefold gear change. Another bullet slammed into the front wing. The men were closing rapidly. Flynn had visions of being shot to death at the wheel of one of the world’s greatest supercars, which probably wasn’t the worst way to go.

  Not tonight.

  He released the clutch, yanked the steering wheel down, hit the gas. The car skidded away, the tyres screeching on the asphalt. Almost instantly it was moving at a speed that jarred Flynn’s head back against the rest, the power absolutely incredible as the nose lifted and it charged like a black marlin towards the closed metal gates at the end of the road.

  Once more, in a parallel thought, Flynn realized he was doing something he had pined to do since he was a lad: screw the backside off a Lambo.

  He closed his good eye, gripped the wheel as tight as a rod hooked into a sailfish and floored it.

  Less than a second later, with a terrible crunching, tearing noise, the car burst through the wrought iron gates and, although he was not certain, he got the feeling that all four wheels left the ground and the car actually flew.

  As it landed on the road beyond the gates, he opened his eye and fought to control the car, knowing that directly opposite was a deep ravine and if he didn’t manage to turn, the car would definitely be in mid-air.

  Yanking the wheel around, he managed to turn the car right, keep it on the road and race away, fumbling to find the headlight switch.

  Flynn knew where he was and where he was going. That he was up in the mountains inland from Puerto Rico and the roads were unlit and treacherous for the unwary – and possibly those with only one eye. The first hairpin bend was approaching and he was doing ninety mph.

  Flynn abandoned the Lamborghini near the police station in Puerto Rico. He gave it a rueful backward glance, sorry he had caused so much damage to it, but glad he’d had the chance to drive it, in spite of the circumstances. He dropped the gun into a storm drain after wiping it for prints and hobbled his way painfully up to the commercial centre, which was buzzing with late night revellers, some stag and hen parties stumbling from club to club, the sound of loud music pummelling his ears.

  In spite of his appearance he attracted only one or two looks of passing horror, but that was all. A beaten-up person at that time of night in the centre was not an unusual sight.

  He went to each bar in turn, walking through, trying to spot his prey: Scott Costain. The man on whom Flynn laid all the blame.

  He was eagerly anticipating pinning him up against a wall and interrogating him.

  Six bars later he still had not located him and was becoming angrier by the second. In the seventh, he gave up.

  Costain would have to wait, because Flynn needed to lick his wounds and think about the not too distant future. He eased his way to the bar, ordered a pint of San Mig with a double Johnny Walker chaser, took his drinks to a deserted booth, sat back, breathed out and sank the whisky in one, feeling the spirit burn its way down his throat into his chest.

  Then he drank half the beer, not realizing how dehydrated he was as the adrenalin ebbed out of him and he came down.

  As he placed the beer down, he looked up and saw Scott Costain and his girlfriend, Trish, buying drinks.

  Flynn moved quickly.

  One moment he was seated, next he was behind Costain and dragging him out of the bar by the scruff of the neck. A table went over, two chairs, people stepped out of the way, a few saying ‘What the fuck …’

  By then Flynn had Costain out on the main concourse, keeping him off balance, then into the unlit ginnel by the side of the bar where Flynn spun him and lived the dream. He pushed him up against the wall and punched him in the guts twice. Costain sagged and Flynn let him drop to his knees. Then he side-swiped him with the back of his right hand. The blow lifted Costain off the ground which he hit hard, then started to scramble away from the onslaught – at which moment Trish leapt on to Flynn’s back and began strangling, beating and kicking him and screaming dementedly at him.

  Flynn spun her round like a helicopter blade, trying to fling her off, unpeeling her forearm from across his throat. But she clung on like a limpet and he could not shake her free.

  Then, suddenly, she was hauled off him.

  Flynn turned and saw that Karen Glass had pulled Trish off and had her face down on the floor.

  He gave her a quick nod of thanks and went for Costain, lifting him bodily by the front of his T-shirt and placing him back against the wall of the bar. Flynn’s enraged face was an inch from that of Costain, who struggled desperately.

  Flynn dug him once more in the guts and every last ounc
e of fight whistled out of Costain.

  ‘What,’ Flynn demanded, smacking him against the wall, ‘have you got me into?’

  Costain was physically no match for Flynn, even now, and he knew he was beaten in this contest. Even so, he sneered at him, showed no fear. ‘What the hell d’you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been kidnapped and beaten up because of you,’ Flynn said. ‘Look at my face! What is going on?’

  ‘Nothing you need to know about.’

  ‘I’m in it, I’m part of it. I don’t want to be, but I am,’ Flynn growled, spittle flying from his bust lips, pink with blood. ‘I want to know what’s down in the water.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Costain said – and spat into Flynn’s face.

  ‘Well then, let’s do this the hard way … been wanting to do this since I laid eyes on you …’

  From behind, flashlights suddenly lit up the scene; shouts and the sound of a big dog barking.

  Two cops had arrived. One had his gun drawn in one hand, a strong torch in the other. The second cop was doing his best to hold back his German Shepherd dog, desperate to sink its fangs into human flesh.

  Karen gently eased Flynn’s blood-stained Keith Richards T-shirt over his head and dropped it into a wash basket. He winced as the neck of the shirt brushed against his swollen lips and bashed eye.

  ‘You wuss,’ she chided and took a step back to look at him. She had seen his upper body naked before, but not from such close quarters. Despite the scars of his battering, the raised weals, the scratches and cuts, she caught a little breath in her throat, then raised her eyes to his.

  ‘I know – I’m a real soft arse,’ he admitted miserably and sat down creakily on the edge of the bath. ‘Been a bad night.’

  They were in the bathroom of Karen’s rented apartment on the Avenida de Gran Canaria, on the steep valley side, overlooking the commercial centre in Puerto Rico directly below and, to the south, the port. It was in a fine position. It was the first time Flynn had ever visited.

  She moved to stand in front of him, put her fingertip underneath his chin and gently raised his face to the light.

  ‘Crikey,’ she said.

  ‘You should see the other guys,’ he said, then thought through that little quip. Maybe not: one dead, skewered by a chair, one with a very broken nose, another shot and very probably dead. And more, he thought. This was not likely to end well, so he added, ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘Is this all about the Costain guy?’

  Flynn nodded and told her of his adventures, sticking to the truth mostly, leaving out the dead men bits which she did not need to know. Then his escape from the luxury villa – leaving out the Lamborghini – and his hunt for Costain which ended in a scuffle in a seedy alley where the participants were separated by the cops – fortunately with no arrests made.

  ‘Good job you turned up when you did,’ Flynn said. ‘I didn’t seem to be able to shake that young lady off.’

  Karen grinned. ‘As I came into the bar with my friends I saw you escorting Costain out through another door, then I saw her follow you. Thought you might need help …’ She paused, her eyes playing over him.

  ‘Have you had a good night?’ he asked.

  She pouted. ‘So-so.’ She seemed to brace herself to blurt something. ‘I wish you’d turned up, though.’

  ‘Didn’t want to spoil the party.’

  ‘You’d have made it,’ she said deeply. Her hands slid on to his broad shoulders. ‘I don’t really want to go back to England, you know?’

  ‘Thought you had big plans?’

  ‘I’d rather be here.’

  ‘Not much opportunity for advancement in anything here,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know …’ She leaned forward and kissed him softly, making him wince again. ‘Did that hurt?’

  He nodded and swallowed. ‘Agony.’

  ‘How come you never made a move on me, Steve Flynn?’ she whispered.

  ‘Because that’s all it would have been – a move, a conquest.’ He arched a sore eyebrow. ‘I’m not into the long haul.’

  ‘Things change … people change … you never know …’

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

  ‘Or is it that you don’t want to hurt yourself?’

  Flynn grimaced at the words and the perspective – and truth – she described.

  ‘Whatever, Steve,’ she said softly, ‘you need to move on … and so do I, and I’ll tell you one thing, big guy …’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’m not leaving this island until we’ve made love.’

  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.

  NINE

  Henry 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 ha
d 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.