Headhunter Read online

  That Flynn wanted to feel more necks breaking.

  But … If only Flynn hadn’t killed Tasker, because that meant Rik Dean had had to do his duty and arrest Flynn for murder (and for assaulting him).

  What Rik had severely underestimated in all this until now was the utter, cold-blooded ruthlessness of the Bashkims in their hatred of Flynn and their ability, at such short notice, to carry out such a daring and brutal ambush on a police escort.

  To steal two tractor units, to have the manpower and the brutal willpower to actually force the escort off the road, kill a cop and injure two more in the process of attempting to take out Flynn was terrifying.

  What they hadn’t reckoned on was Flynn himself, and also the professionalism of Molly Cartwright under fire, which had left two of the attackers, as yet unidentified, dead and Flynn a free man again.

  The prospect of Flynn being at large did not really bother Rik. What did worry him was how the Bashkims had learned that Flynn was being conveyed from the hospital to the cop shop.

  Rik tapped Flynn’s passport on his desk and wondered if the terrible headache that had just started to tear his brain apart was his first ever migraine.

  The virtually silent Bentley drew into the side of the kerb in Claremont Road in North Shore. Steve Flynn climbed out, then leaned back in through the door and looked into Sue Daggert’s eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘Steve, you’ve got yourself into a whole heap of shit with these guys. You need to watch it, OK?’

  ‘Got you.’ He gave her a mock salute.

  She sighed. ‘Best sex of my life,’ she said ruefully.

  ‘And mine,’ he admitted. But didn’t add, ‘Wild and scary, too.’

  ‘The car will be here in an hour,’ she promised. ‘Old but clean, keys under the passenger-side visor, OK?’

  ‘Thanks again.’

  He closed the door. It locked with a dull, expensive-sounding clunk and the big car pulled away. Flynn watched it disappear. He zipped up his old jacket then plunged on foot into the network of terraced streets in the area, intending to call on someone from his past who he hoped would be as accommodating as Sue Daggert.

  As he stepped off the pavement, Molly Cartwright’s mobile phone started to vibrate in his pocket.

  He didn’t take the call.

  EIGHT

  Although she didn’t know it, Molly was less than a mile away, as a Blackpool herring gull flies, from Steve Flynn when she parked her damaged Mini in the reserved spot outside her flat, then climbed out very slowly and gingerly, inserted her key into the door and walked equally carefully upstairs to her first-floor flat.

  Her first port of call was to the stash of Co-codamol in a kitchen cupboard. She necked three, then poured a large glass of cheap Sainsbury’s whisky. She was about to drink it in one gulp but the glass stopped at her lips, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate it until she freshened up.

  She crept to the bathroom, shoulders ever tightening, and had a very hot, long shower with the jets focused on the back of her neck. That combination – hot water and painkillers – did have some soothing effect and she stepped out of the shower feeling slightly better but not much. She pulled on a fresh pair of jogging bottoms and a loose T-shirt. Before leaving the bedroom, she rooted through a drawer in the dressing table and found a sandwich box containing a selection of her old mobile phones she’d replaced over time but never thrown out. She laid them out in a row and picked an old pay-as-you-go Nokia she thought might still have some credit on it. She flipped off the back, saw there was a SIM card in it, then reassembled it, found the charger and plugged it in.

  She waited a moment, then dialled the number for a credit update and listened with a grin. £1.76p remained.

  She unplugged it and took the phone and charger into the living room where her whisky awaited – as did Alan Hardiker, who was sitting in the only armchair, checking his own phone with an air of comfort, as though he lived here and had every right to be in her flat. Even his legs were crossed.

  He looked up and smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Nice shower?’ He noticed the old phone in her hand. ‘Phone broken or something?’

  ‘This is getting beyond a joke, Alan,’ she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.

  He slid his own phone on to the coffee table in front of him, something he’d done unthinkingly many times during the course of their relationship.

  ‘Get out,’ Molly added. ‘And give me the door key.’

  His face twitched. He licked his lips. His nostrils flared with temper and a curious look came into his eyes.

  ‘I said get out,’ Molly restated, finding more conviction in her voice at what felt like an invasion of her private space. Not long ago he would have been welcome. Not now. She held up the phone. ‘I’ll call the cops.’

  Hardiker rose slowly. Molly shrank away slightly. He walked towards her. She stood with her back against the living-room door frame and he positioned himself directly in front of her. Close. Inches away.

  Her breathing stopped. A chilly sensation skittered down her insides, like crushed ice falling down a ravine.

  ‘You and me are not finished, girl,’ he breathed into her face unnervingly. His eyes drilled into hers but she did not retreat from his glare.

  ‘Give me your key and go, Alan.’

  He blew a gust of breath into her face. His right hand dropped into his jacket pocket and extracted a single Yale key which he held out between his finger and thumb – then dropped it deliberately on to the floor before turning and walking out. She stayed where she was, still holding her breath, listening to his footsteps descending the stairs to the front door, then the slam of it as he left.

  Only then did she exhale, check if he had really gone then pick up the key.

  She went down the steps to the door, opened it and tried the key from the outside just to make certain it was the right one for the door, because she would not have been surprised if it was just a nasty trick. It fitted, although she knew he could easily have had a duplicate cut.

  Molly stepped back inside, locked the door with the snick and drew the single, inadequate-looking bolt across.

  Back in the lounge, she sat down slowly, plugged the charger into the old mobile phone and then picked up the waiting whisky which she sank neat in one, without ice. With her hands dithering, she took up the phone again.

  Her thoughts turned to Steve Flynn.

  As a cop, Flynn had often operated on a knife edge, not least where the running of informants, or human intelligence sources as they were properly known was concerned. He had run several completely unofficial ones, totally against procedure and policy, because he knew that the individuals would have run a mile if he’d suggested to them they should be formally registered and allocated a handler who would not be him. Yet they were too valuable to lose and he did protect them and the information they gave him, and not one, he could have boasted (had he been allowed to) had ever been compromised or put in danger.

  One such man went by the nickname of Rank Xerox, although his real name was Arthur Benfield. In another life, Arthur had been a jeweller and watch repairer, but when his employer – one of the most respected jewellers in the country – began to notice that some of the minute diamonds used in watch mechanisms were unaccounted for, Arthur was sacked.

  He transferred his skills for great detail to the dark side and began a successful career forging documents, although the advent of online and downloadable documentation such as insurance and MOT certificates slowly put Arthur out of business, mostly. He did possess one skill that kept him in some work and that was forging passports, taking genuine, blank ones, usually stolen from official sources, adding fraudulent details and ensuring they appeared genuine to customs and law enforcement databases via contacts he had in various government departments.

  Flynn liked to keep Rank Xerox – named after the old copying machine company – warm and for a healthy remuneration he fed Flynn details of false passport
s he’d made for drugs dealers, from which Flynn could keep track of the comings and goings of kingpins and mules alike. When he pounced he always ensured the trail was far enough removed from Arthur not to arouse any suspicion that he had provided any information to the cops whatsoever.

  Arthur led a quiet life in a terraced house in Blackpool North Shore. The house, Flynn recalled, was outwardly dreary, but inside it was expensively furnished and kitted out and his workplace, a desk, was hidden, folded away in a wall.

  It had been over ten years since Flynn had any dealings with Rank who, even then, had been sixty years old. Flynn knocked on the front door, hoping the old guy hadn’t moved on.

  Flynn felt a little jittery being out in the open. His eyes constantly roved, expecting a police support unit to suddenly come crashing down on him.

  He knocked again, then after waiting a few moments he bent low to the letter box and flipped it open. ‘Rank, it’s me, Steve Flynn. Open up, mate.’

  He peered through and along the narrow entrance hall, seeing light around the edges of the kitchen door, saw a shadow move at floor level and someone behind that door.

  Flynn stood upright and clattered the letter box again, his impatience growing.

  A moment later the front door opened and an old man peered out through wire-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘Arthur, it’s me, Steve Flynn.’

  Rank Xerox shook his head. ‘I don’t recognize you. What d’you want?’ His tone was unfriendly.

  ‘Can I step in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Listen, you silly old fuckwit,’ Flynn blurted as Rank stepped back and began to slam the door in his face.

  Flynn jammed his right foot down, preventing the door from closing. ‘I need a favour.’

  ‘Go away, mister whoever you are.’

  ‘I’m Steve Flynn, Arthur, don’t you recognize me? I know it’s been a few years.’

  Rank opened the door again and looked blankly at Flynn, who was starting to get bad vibes.

  ‘I need a passport, mate. Quick, like.’

  ‘What?’ Rank screwed up his nose. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You know – a passport.’

  ‘I know what a passport is. You can’t have mine.’

  Flynn groaned inwardly. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  Rank shook his head and shrugged helplessly. ‘Should I?’

  ‘No, maybe you shouldn’t.’

  ‘I know I’m at home, though. I know this is my house,’ Rank said helpfully, clearly pleased he had remembered something.

  ‘I know, Arthur, I know.’ Flynn extracted his foot from the door. ‘Sorry to have troubled you.’

  ‘No worries.’ The door closed gently. Flynn leaned against the wall of the house and said, ‘Shit. Alzheimer’s, that’s all I need.’

  In his pocket, Molly’s phone vibrated as a text landed. He took it out and saw it was from a number not listed on the phone’s memory. Out of curiosity, he read the message: The next call will be from me. Please answer. Molly.

  Rik Dean had planned to go home, get his head down for at least four hours – bliss – but instead had found himself trying to brainstorm an investigative strategy for the next, crucial seventy-two-hour period. He knew those three days would be chaos and there would be very little time to rest, so he had to have a tight grip on everything that was going to happen, with contingency plans for the unexpected on what would probably be the biggest investigation of his career. He could not afford to fuck up.

  He said a little prayer: Henry Christie, please frickin’ help me!

  Time was spent drawing spider diagrams, flowcharts and jotting down one-word launch pads for ideas until his head was spinning, and then he tried desperately to simplify the whole thing.

  Still, it didn’t work.

  He’d been standing by the dry-wipe board in his office with three felt-tipped marker pens, red, green and black. At first, he’d had an idea that each colour would represent a particular thread of the inquiry, but by the time he finished the board was full and virtually meaningless, resembling the doodlings of a crazy professor. On speed.

  He stood back and critically surveyed the board – the inner workings of an exhausted mind.

  In a fit of disgust, because he could not make head nor tail of it, he threw the three pens up in the air. In a passing thought, he wondered that if they all fell together in some sort of pattern, maybe he’d be able to read a message in them like a witch doctor emptying chicken bones on to the ground.

  They landed far apart.

  No message there, then.

  He looked at the board once more, his eyes homing in on the name written in red, FLYNN, and another in black, BASHKIM.

  The two most important threads in the whole quagmire.

  He shook his head, stepped out of the office and locked the door behind him. There was one last job to do before heading home. He jogged down the stairs and entered the custody office, which for once seemed peaceful. He asked the custody officer about the two possible Bashkims in the cells who were still yet to be identified and was told they were fine. Arrangements, Rik knew, were in hand for interviews and translators later in the morning. He then had a quick skim through their custody records to make sure all was in order. Cases had often been lost or at least faltered at court because of nooky questions surrounding custody records. They had to be impervious to any scrutiny and were usually watertight. Custody sergeants prided themselves on the state of their bookkeeping.

  Even so, it was part of Rik’s job to check them.

  There seemed to be nothing untoward. Everything that had happened to each prisoner since their arrival had been scrupulously recorded and each entry signed as required. Which was good. Nothing to be concerned about on that score.

  He closed one record, then stopped and reopened it; his brow furrowed as he ran his forefinger down the entries, then shrugged and closed the record again.

  Puzzling, but it could wait.

  As he walked out of the custody complex, his mobile phone rang. No surprise there. It had probably rung about a hundred times in the last few hours. He was a man very much in demand.

  ‘Superintendent Dean,’ he answered, not recognizing the number on screen.

  ‘Hey, pal,’ came the male voice with the mid-Atlantic drawl which Rik instantly recognized.

  The man’s name was Karl Donaldson.

  The classic Mini Cooper screeched into the side of the road and the passenger door was flung open.

  ‘Get in.’

  Steve Flynn folded his wide frame into the seat and the car accelerated away.

  ‘Nice car, broken window,’ he commented, having noticed the cracked rear window as he tugged the seat belt across his chest, noting the car was so old it did not even have inertia-reels.

  ‘1964. Belonged to my dad. I inherited it when he died, looked after it ever since. It was his pride and joy, now mine.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘About ten years, just after I joined the job,’ Molly Cartwright said, shoving the car into third as she gunned it off Gynn Square roundabout and headed inland along Warbreck Hill Road.

  Flynn looked at her profile as she drove, seeing she was holding her whole body tight and erect, unnaturally so.

  ‘What’s going on? This isn’t very wise, you know.’

  ‘I could simply be luring you back into custody. I might be driving you into the waiting arms of an ARV team and Rik Dean.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he conceded. ‘Which would make you one hell of an actor – at least, a radio actor.’

  Flynn had reluctantly answered her call as his nosiness got the better of him. He’d found himself talking to a very distraught Molly, almost unable to speak coherently through her tears and sobbing. Flynn had calmed her down and promised he would meet up with her in half an hour at a location of his choosing because he – slightly – did not trust her.

  She agreed and he spent the next twenty minu
tes staking out the car park of the Hilton Hotel on the promenade before Molly called again and he told her where to meet up, ‘within the next five minutes or not at all’. In that short space of time, no cops descended on the location.

  Flynn kept his eyes on her, sitting upright behind the racing-style steering wheel. It gave her a kind of regal appearance. In the light cast as they zipped under street lamps, he saw a tear blob out of her eye and trundle down her left cheek like a transparent bug.

  ‘But you weren’t acting, were you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you’ve also got whiplash, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ She sniffed up.

  ‘So, where are we going and what are we doing?’

  She was in excruciating pain, but she wanted to drive – and fast – out of Blackpool on the road to Poulton-le-Fylde, then beyond in the direction of Garstang along the A586, a fast, winding road with little traffic but requiring total concentration at the speeds Molly was driving to get it right, take the correct line on corners and not end up in a field. Although Flynn hung on to the seat belt, he did appreciate Molly’s skills behind the wheel.

  She slowed on reaching the village of Churchtown, then after that turned on to the A6, where she leaned back a little and stuck to the speed limits as she headed towards Preston, obviously having driven a demon out of her system.

  ‘Better now?’ Flynn queried.

  She nodded. ‘Needed a blast.’

  ‘I get that.’

  ‘Do you, Flynn? Do you really?’ she demanded harshly of him. She slowed from fifty to forty mph through the village of Bilsborrow. ‘How? Come on, how do you get it? ’Cos I fuckin’ don’t! I cannot,’ she said as her lips tightened across her teeth, ‘even begin to understand, comprehend what I did yesterday morning. I. Killed. A. Man. Fuck, Flynn, I killed a man. I almost hacked the bastard in half with my bullets.’

  Flynn watched more tears tumble down her cheeks.

  ‘I can’t get my head round it.’

  ‘It’s not easy,’ he said inadequately.

  ‘You say that, but you’re finding it easy,’ she accused him. ‘You killed a guy and then stripped the bastard for his clothes.’