Headhunter Page 21

  Molly was looking at her phone. She had logged on to the tracking system and it still showed the signal pulsing from this location.

  ‘Not moved,’ she announced. ‘Phone’s still in his car.’ She knew it was accurate up to about two metres.

  Donaldson slid out from behind the wheel and walked over to the car, noting it was parked between a Vauxhall on one side and an oldish Volvo saloon on the other. He shaded his eyes and peered into Hardiker’s car. It was empty but when he tried the door handle he discovered it was unlocked.

  Molly and Rik watched from the Jeep.

  Donaldson shrugged at them, walked around to the passenger side of his car and Rik opened the window.

  ‘Could have been picked up, could be in the hotel,’ Rik said.

  ‘Just seems odd,’ Donaldson said.

  ‘Maybe we should leave it,’ Rik said. ‘Maybe it has nothing to do with anything.’

  Donaldson’s mouth twitched as he regarded Rik, then looked at Molly in the back seat. ‘And we all know that is garbage. We’ve all been in this game too long for this to feel comfortable.’

  ‘Except if he walks out of the hotel now and sees us, our game with him is over,’ Rik said. ‘We’re blown.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Donaldson nodded.

  ‘I think we should challenge him,’ Molly said, ‘or at least you two should. I think this is odd, even for him. And the fact is we have a lot of incriminating stuff against him, so all is not lost.’

  The men eyed each other and reached their decision with a nod.

  Rik got out and he and Donaldson walked across to the hotel, leaving Molly in the Jeep. She sighed, wondering what the increasingly sordid Alan Hardiker was up to now. As the two men entered the hotel, Molly dropped out of the Jeep, jarring her spine and making her wince: her whiplash wasn’t going away quickly. Driven by the curiosity of a cop, she went to Hardiker’s car, opened the driver’s door and peered inside, not expecting to find anything. She didn’t, so she walked around the car and peered in through the passenger-side door. Nothing.

  Her phone still pulsed with the tracker from Hardiker’s phone.

  She leaned against the passenger door of the car parked alongside, which was the old Volvo, narrowing her eyes and trying to think what Hardiker could be up to.

  A prostitute was the most likely scenario, Molly concluded. Right up his street. Or maybe a rendezvous with Laura’s fanny. Either option was a good bet.

  She looked over to the hotel; Rik and Donaldson came out of the front door and made their way back to join her at Hardiker’s car.

  ‘Not booked in and no one fitting his description has entered or left the hotel in the last hour or so, according to the night porter. I think we should just leave it for now,’ Rik said.

  Molly wasn’t happy with that, but she nodded, pushed herself away from the Volvo and followed the men back to the Jeep. It was only as she took hold of the door handle that she realized her right hand was a bit wet. Puzzled, she pulled it away slowly and brought her palm up to her face to inspect it.

  Suddenly the pulse in her ears started to pound.

  Donaldson had watched her. ‘What is it?’

  She turned her hand palm away from her so he could see it.

  Blood.

  The ever-so-slight rocking of the boat in the still water of the marina, coupled with the last whisky of the night on the rear deck, combined to have a huge soporific effect on Flynn. Back in the environment he loved, he had the longest, deepest, least interrupted sleep he’d had in a very long time on the soft, wide, rectangular bed in the main cabin.

  He teetered to the shower and swilled off, then replaced the dressing on his leg wound. His eardrum still throbbed, but that too was improving and was manageable with paracetamols.

  After drinking half a litre of chilled water, he rooted out a pair of shorts, a baggy T-shirt and a pair of old trainers and stepped out on deck, feeling the need to get back into the groove of daily runs. He had to be fit and strong for whatever was lurking dangerously over the horizon and decided to start today with a very gentle jog on the flat around the marina, then along the seafront of Santa Eulalia as far as the river mouth, then back, maybe two miles in total. Not a lot, but a beginning.

  Even keeping it smooth, the run jarred the wound and he walked most of the return leg.

  He showered on the boat again, though there wasn’t much hot water left in the system. After drying himself he got a pot of coffee filtering and prepared scrambled egg on toast with a glass of tomato juice, all of which he devoured like a lion – and then made himself another couple of slices of toast, poured another coffee and sat and watched a bit of life going by, trying to keep his dark thoughts of revenge at bay for a while.

  He was in no great hurry to seek out his mate with the charter business, so busied himself with chores around the boat for a couple of hours.

  His phone rang at eleven a.m., ten a.m. British time. It was Molly.

  ‘Hi, still tracking me … feels like Enemy of the State,’ he quipped, naming one of his favourite but now slightly dated films.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Even from those few syllables, Flynn picked up something very wrong in her voice.

  ‘What is it, Molly?’

  ‘It’s Alan.’

  ‘Oh, has that bastard been harassing you again?’ Flynn said vehemently, instantly flying off the handle. ‘Hasn’t he learned anything? One thing I’ll be doing when this has all settled is—’

  ‘Steve, Steve – no,’ she cried.

  ‘What? What then?’ he frowned.

  ‘He’s dead, Steve. He’s dead.’

  Flynn sank on to the fighting chair. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was murdered. Stabbed,’ she stammered. ‘Maybe a hundred times.’

  ‘Hell! Tell me, Molly.’

  Falteringly, she related the tale of tracking the phone signal, finding Hardiker’s car in the pub/hotel car park (a location Flynn also knew well), the blood on the Volvo, the blood inside the Volvo – lots of it – and finally checking the boot. She described in detail the lid opening and seeing Hardiker’s terribly mutilated body folded up in a foetal position, stabbed multiple times, the number of which would only be confirmed when the post-mortem was carried out.

  The Volvo turned out to be stolen from near Manchester airport and was on false plates.

  Flynn listened, mostly horrified, slightly glad but also unhappy when Molly revealed, ‘Rik Dean fed him some information about your whereabouts.’

  ‘And the hypothesis now is that Hardiker might have shared this with whoever killed him?’ Flynn ventured.

  ‘Well, we don’t know that but, y’know …’

  ‘Suspects, witnesses?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Neither … The security cameras in the car park had been tampered with, disabled and so far no actual eye witnesses have been traced.’

  ‘So could he have been lured to the location?’

  ‘Yes,’ Molly said. Her voice was cracking.

  Flynn said, ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘It’s just shock. Can’t get my head around it.’

  Flynn didn’t want to be flippant because he didn’t wish death on anyone before their time. As such, he had to hold his tongue and not make an inappropriate remark such as, ‘At least he won’t be harassing you again.’

  ‘It’s you I’m bothered about,’ he told her genuinely.

  ‘I think I’ll be all right. It’s just so horrific … another terrible thing …’

  ‘I understand. Since you Tasered me, guarded me, met me … things have really gone down the pan. I’m bad to be around.’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘I think you’ll find you did.’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Back at HQ in the bedroom they’ve given me. I just vomited,’ she concluded colourfully. Obviously Flynn couldn’t see this but she was standing by the washbasin in which she h
ad just been sick and was miserably poking the plug hole with the handle of her toothbrush to clear away the lumpy sick which blocked it. ‘Steve?’ she said.

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘Please be careful. If this is connected to the Bashkims … these people are too dangerous …’

  ‘Now you tell me.’

  Flynn hung up, then messed about on his boat for a couple more hours, thinking about what Molly had told him and its implications. If Hardiker had passed on information about Flynn’s whereabouts, then Flynn had to assume that at some stage in the not-too-distant future, one or more representatives of the Bashkim family would turn up on the jetty, knocking on the cabin door.

  Flynn knew he had certain options.

  He could await the arrival or he could put to sea now, head back to Gran Canaria and put off the inevitable visit, or he could take the game to them, the latter always having been his preferred option.

  The issue with the first two was that whoever turned up on his doorstep would still only be enforcers – heavies sent by the Bashkims to deal with Flynn and, if he dealt with them first, nothing would change much. They were just messengers and would keep turning up until one got lucky and he was dead.

  Therefore, sailing to Gran Canaria would just delay things.

  So to Flynn, the only option open now was somehow to go and meet old man Bashkim and put this nonsense to bed. He had a vaguely formed idea about how this might be achieved, though he was loath to call it a plan, and he needed to know one thing for certain.

  He called Rik Dean.

  ‘I don’t want any wishy-washy discussion about this, Rik,’ he told him. ‘Molly’s informed me about Hardiker and if he did tell them anything about my whereabouts, then I reckon I’ve a day or two’s grace before I need to shift out of here; even if he didn’t, I need to know one thing.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Is Bashkim’s boat, Halcyon, still in Zante?’

  ‘I’ll find out and let you know.’

  Satisfied for the moment, Flynn jumped on to the jetty and walked to his friend’s boat charter office on Calle Sant Llorenc, a step back from the marina front and therefore cheaper to rent.

  Despite the office hours being displayed as nine a.m. to five p.m., it was closed. Flynn wasn’t surprised. Office hours in this part of the world were, at best, just guidance. He decided to stroll around town, catch a coffee somewhere to people-watch, come back in an hour or two and wait for an update from Rik Dean.

  He heard from Rik as he sat sipping a coffee at a café overlooking the beach.

  ‘Location currently unknown,’ the detective told him. ‘Definitely not in Zante.’

  ‘No news from Donaldson’s source?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘OK. Keep me informed, please.’

  Flynn thought that was a bummer. He had visualized mooring next to Halcyon, climbing aboard and presenting himself to Viktor.

  He finished the coffee, pushed himself up from his chair and walked back to the charter boat office.

  This time the door was open and Flynn stepped into air-conditioned coolness. There was a young lady who did the front of house meet-and-greet and admin sitting at a glass-topped desk and behind her in a glass-fronted office was his friend Paul Caton, talking to a couple of customers, Flynn assumed.

  Paul glanced around as Flynn sauntered in and an immediate look of relief crossed his face. He said something quickly to the couple, who looked over at Flynn, and gave them a ‘wait a moment’ gesture, stood up and came out of the office to Flynn.

  ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he hissed but kept a professional smile on his countenance.

  Flynn blinked at him. ‘Don’t you read the newspapers or watch the news?’

  ‘Nope. I hire boats for charter in Ibiza; I spend my days on them and my nights shagging the available clientele of the female variety. Why would I watch the fucking news?’

  At least it made Flynn smile: the lifestyle of the louche and lush, something he once might have aspired to.

  ‘Anyway, matey,’ Paul said garrulously, slapping Flynn’s shoulder. ‘You’re back and that’s what counts.’ He turned his back on the couple in the office. ‘These two are desperate for you – yes, you, as it happens.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Word of mouth. A couple you took out earlier this year spoke about you in glowing terms, highly recommended, and this lovely duo, on their honeymoon, no less, want to hire you for a couple of days including an overnighter in one of the bays if possible. Yeah? Willing to pay over the odds, so I’ve just doubled the price … I’m assuming the boat’s shipshape? Get a nice meal together for them to eat on board – lobster and all that crap, you know the drill. Can Maria do that?’

  Flynn gasped inwardly at the mention of her name. Maria had been his unpaid helper over summer, accompanying him on the day charters, sorting out the food and drink for the clients.

  ‘What is it?’ Paul asked, seeing Flynn’s odd reaction.

  ‘Nothing … she just had to get back,’ Flynn said, unwilling to expand. ‘I’ll sort it. A cold buffet type of thing, oysters maybe, the food of love.’

  ‘Good man.’ He slapped Flynn’s shoulder again and gave him a double-fisted sign of encouragement. ‘Come and meet them. Really nice couple … Tons of dosh,’ he added from the side of his mouth.

  Flynn followed him into the office. They couple stood up shyly but were fresh-faced and full of life, really nice looking, setting off on life’s great adventure.

  Paul introduced him. ‘This is Steve Flynn, who you’ve heard about.’

  The young man smiled broadly. Unkempt brown hair, blue eyes sparkling. He held out his hand and Flynn shook it.

  ‘So pleased to meet you.’

  To his side, his young wife reached out and also shook Flynn’s hand. Pretty, slim, brown arms and legs, azure-blue eyes.

  ‘So pleased to meet you, too.’ She echoed her husband.

  ‘Hi, hi,’ Flynn said, all smiles, quite a good-looking bastard himself.

  ‘It seems really odd to say this, as we’re not quite used to it.’ The husband glanced playfully and with love at his new wife, then back at Flynn. ‘We’re Mr and Mrs Jackson.’

  The timing gave Flynn another afternoon and night alone, which he was pleased about. It enabled him to buy supplies, stock up the on-board freezer and fridge and prepare the boat for a two-day mini cruise. He could do a bit of planning, too. He usually took out day charters but had done a few overnighters and knew what they entailed. Look after the clients, make sure they didn’t drown, find somewhere nice and calm for the night and hopefully get a huge tip.

  After prepping the boat and foodstuffs, it was almost six p.m. He had not heard anything from Molly but decided not to trouble her or Rik. They would all have their work cut out with the murder of another cop. He could imagine the headless chicken routines going on plus all the explanations Rik would have to be spinning about using Hardiker as possible bait, although his murder could not have been predicted. That said, it was just another of those door things Flynn often talked about. In this case, Hardiker had opened a door to the dark side and what had come through it was not nice.

  Flynn spent the evening mooching listlessly around the market stalls in the resort before finding a seat at El Corsario Negro for another paella and a couple of beers. While shovelling the paella into his mouth he caught sight of tomorrow’s clients sitting at a table in the corner of the terrace, pretty much engrossed in each other, doing all the silly, nonsensical things that couples in love do: feeding each other, giggling at crass jokes, drinking through intertwined arms, the full gamut of young love. He watched them for a few moments and the young man accidentally caught his eye, whispered something to his missus and both looked at him, waved and smiled. He raised his pint to them, actually now quite looking forward to their company over the next few days, though he hoped their humping wouldn’t rock the boat too much. Their attention went back to themselves.

  Flynn fini
shed his food and then strolled back to the boat and completed the evening in his usual style, with a glass of whisky before falling into bed.

  He was up before the sun, doing last-minute prep and cleaning, ready for the clients who were due at ten. He redressed his wound again, still healing well, and dressed himself in a nice pair of cargo shorts, just long enough to cover the bandage, and a Fred Perry polo shirt.

  His phone showed nothing from Molly, Rik or Donaldson. He’d call them later if he got the chance.

  Coffee was filtering and the engines were ticking over nicely when the two guests arrived still looking fresh and full of life.

  Flynn welcomed them effusively and, after he’d shown them to their luxurious cabin, he slowly manoeuvred the boat out of the mooring and turned to the open sea.

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘She’s really a sportfisher, isn’t she?’ the man called Mr Jackson – Matt – said. Flynn nodded. ‘She’s got great lines.’

  Flynn acknowledged the compliment. Anyone saying how good his boat was always went up in his estimation.

  Matt was by his side at the helm.

  ‘I’m just helping Paul out this summer,’ Flynn said. He explained the backstory briefly and added, ‘She makes a great pleasure cruiser but she really comes alive in the ocean, out fishing.’

  ‘Not much good fishing in these parts, I guess,’ Matt said.

  ‘Not really. The open oceans are the best places for the big fish, though the Med does have its moments, I guess.’

  ‘What’s the biggest you’ve ever caught?’

  ‘Personally? Marlin, just short of 800 pounds; a customer once pulled an 1100-pound one out, a few miles south of Gran Canaria, but we always tag and release.’

  ‘Good going,’ Mr Jackson said, impressed.

  Flynn smiled at the memories: simpler days, maybe.

  Through the windows he could see Mrs Jackson – Lizzie – sunbathing on the foredeck in a tiny bikini bottom but no top.

  ‘Where does the name of the boat come from?’ Matt asked. ‘Maria?’

  Flynn’s face became rigid. ‘Nowhere, really.’