Instinct

FIFTEEN

‘ It comes to something when officers with our length of service and rank are sitting in a crappy police car at bloody near midnight, keeping obs. Surely we’ve got something wrong somewhere? This is a job for the younger, keener, more energetic end of the policing family. Not old lags.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Rik Dean said. ‘You’ve got a lot of years on me, pal.’

‘But you know what I mean,’ Henry whined. ‘The principle of two relatively high ranking detectives doing what we’re doing… I dunno… unseemly, not right.’

‘I’ll have it sorted for tomorrow night.’

Henry slouched down in the passenger seat of the Nissan, which had springs that had collapsed completely and others that stuck in his spine like corkscrews. It wasn’t far off midnight and now it was all wearing a bit thin. Conversation had started sprightly enough. Not, as it happened, about sexual intercourse, but the other usual things that cops talked about on boring obs. The physics of the universe, how insignificant human beings were in the grand scheme of things, the power of the moon, the credit crunch and other such mind-blowing topics. Heavy stuff, about which they knew very little but spouted a lot. However, that had petered out as they drove fairly aimlessly around the north shore area in which the rapes had taken place.

It was pretty hit and miss and Rik had already decided that the officers who were due to be out tomorrow night would be more specific in their tasks.

Not much was moving. Not many cars. Not many people.

As they drove out in the general direction of Poulton-le-Fylde, they spotted a car coming in the opposite direction that Henry recognized as they passed side by side. He got a look at the driver, who he also recognized.

‘Corrie run,’ he said.

‘Eh?’

‘That car,’ Henry jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘It’s the plain car from Poulton.’

‘And how would you know that?’ Rik asked. He hadn’t clocked the car.

‘Because even though I had a mini collapse at the scene of Natalie Philips’s murder, I did notice the car that the PC who had found her had been driving.’

‘Oh.’

‘Don’t remember the PC’s name, though I sort of recall talking to him. He was pretty upset.’

‘Paul Driver. He found her by the crematorium gates.’

‘That’s the one.’

They continued their slow patrol, parking up here and there. A few kids were out on the streets. A couple of lads, a couple of girls, maybe walking home from a pub. Then they saw one lone female walking swiftly and with purpose. Not really many targets for an opportunistic rapist, if that is what the offender was. But maybe a quiet night was the best. Fewer targets, even fewer witnesses.

Henry checked his phone — again — slightly disappointed he didn’t have anything from Alison. Maybe she’s just used me, he tried to rationalize. But he knew that wasn’t true. She was honest, genuine, quite bloody gorgeous and wonderful.

Points which suddenly hit the nail on the head for him. His guts lurched as he suddenly realized how lucky he had been to meet Alison and get into a relationship with her. He knew he couldn’t afford to lose her.

‘Once more round the block,’ Rik said, ‘then let’s call it quits.’

Henry nodded. He was concentrating on sending a text. It began, ‘ SORRY ITS LATE. CAN WE TALK? B HOME IN BOUT AN HR ’. As an afterthought, he added, ‘ XX ’ so it could not be interpreted as one of those, ‘We need to talk, it’s time to end it’ texts.’ If he got one back without a kiss, he would be worried.

He found Alison’s number in his phone’s contacts list and after a moment of hesitation, pressed send, then raised his head from the task to see where Rik was taking him.

And then he saw the car parked up.

‘What’s he doing here?’ he said. He craned around to look as Rik drove on past the car that was parked on the roadside, in amongst a line of other cars. Henry did not see anyone in the car and Rik obviously did not know what Henry was talking about.

‘Who?’ Rik said. He’d reached the next junction. They were on a nice, well-established housing estate just off Garstang Old Road. If Rik drove straight across the junction, he would reach a T-junction at which a left turn would take him out towards Poulton, and right back into Blackpool.

Henry, ignoring his questions, said, ‘Go across here, pull in and switch everything off.’

‘Eh?’

‘Just do it.’

Rik complied, drove across, pulled in to the side of the road and parked about twenty metres along the next avenue, doused the lights and turned off the engine. Henry wound down his window — electric ones not being standard on the old Nissan — and adjusted his door mirror manually to give him a view back up the road.

‘What is it?’

‘That plain car from Poulton is parked back there in that line of cars.’

Rik jerked his head and squinted at Henry. ‘Your point being?’

‘What’s he doing there?’

‘Don’t know. Maybe he lives there. Maybe he’s popped home for a brew. Maybe he’s shagging, maybe-’

Henry held up his right hand. ‘Stop. Too many maybes. Whatever he’s doing, he’s off his patch.’

‘But he has to come off his patch to do the corrie run.’

‘I know that, but he’s taking the piss here, isn’t he?’

‘Henry — why are you bothered? You’re not his sergeant. Did you never sneak off for a brew now and again — or something else?’

‘All the time. But I’m a superintendent now. I have double standards and I’m therefore above that sort of thing.’ Henry wasn’t actually too bothered what the PC was up to, simply curious.

Rik’s mouth snapped shut, then he sighed. ‘Do you want me to talk to the inspector at Poulton tomorrow? I’d kind of like to get that nightcap now, you know? I don’t get paid overtime.’

‘Nor do I.’

‘But you earn almost twice as much as me.’

‘Stop bickering, will you?’

Rik murmured something incomprehensible, but was annoyed.

Henry finely adjusted the mirror, slumping in the seat for a clear view back up across the junction, enough to see if anyone approached the car along the pavement, but not necessarily if they came at it from any other direction. Rik also slid down his seat and adjusted his door mirror, so between them, they pretty much had it covered.

‘This just seems absurd,’ Rik said.

‘Have you got the number of Lancaster comms in your mobile?’ Rik muttered that he had. ‘Then call them and ask them to radio PC Driver and ask him for his current location.’ Although geographically adjacent to Blackpool division, Poulton-le-Fylde was actually in Northern division, the HQ of which was Lancaster, where the divisional control room was situated. Logically it would have made more sense for Poulton to belong to Blackpool as it had much in common with the resort, but such were the vagaries of political boundaries on which policing areas were more or less based.

Rik found the number and dialled.

As he was speaking, Henry’s own mobile bleeped with a text landing. It was Alison. Nervously he tabbed it open.

It said, ‘TIME DONT MATTER. THINKING OF YOU. LOVE YOU. WANT TO TALK. XX’.

Oh my God, Henry thought, and a shudder ran through him.

Rik was speaking to Lancaster comms room. ‘Yeah, uh, can you tell him that DI Dean wants to see him at Poulton police station?’ Rik gave Henry a desperate what-the-hell-am-I-supposed-to-say expression. ‘OK, I’ll hold.’ Rik then snatched up his PR from the door pocket next to him and tuned it over to the radio channel used by Lancaster just in time to hear an operator call PC Driver’s collar number and ask for his location.

There was a long pause, then the operator repeated the call.

Then Driver responded. ‘Yeah, just leaving Blackpool nick, en route back to Poulton, correspondence run.’ Henry and Rik exchanged a surprised look. ‘Can I ask why?’ Driver said.

‘DI Dean on the line, would like to see you at Poulton.’

‘Any reason?’

‘Stand by.’

The comms operator came on to the line and asked Rik the question. He said, ‘It’s a slightly delicate matter, not suitable for the airwaves. Just tell him I want a quick word on a personal matter.’

This was then relayed to Driver, who came back, ‘I’ll be about half an hour. I have a job I need to attend to on the way back.’ His voice was cool and not harassed.

‘I’ll pass that on,’ the operator said, and did so.

Henry pouted and said, ‘Fibber. Vinegar strokes.’

There was no guarantee that the man would even leave the club. He seemed pretty comfortable, lording it at the bar. Nor was there any guarantee that if he did leave, Flynn would be able to follow him anywhere of interest or without being sussed. As much as he wanted to confront the guy, he also wanted the other men involved in Boone’s death. That was the problem with life: no guarantees. As Boone had found out. As Flynn had once discovered when he lost the woman he loved. Life was the dealer of a pretty shitty hand sometimes.

The club door opened. Flynn leaned back in the doorway opposite, deep into the shadows. Several customers tumbled out, laughing. But not the man who interested him.

Flynn exhaled. The Glock, silencer fitted, was uncomfortable in his waistband.

A police Land Rover rolled slowly down the street, past the club, past where Flynn stood. Two uniforms on board. He tensed but the officers were more concerned with eyeballing women on the street.

A further stream of customers stumbled into the club exuberantly.

Flynn had been waiting forty-five minutes now.

He did not really have a plan. Yes, he wanted retribution against the men who had killed Boone and destroyed Michelle’s life, and almost killed him in the process. But beyond that he wasn’t certain. Really he wanted to find all the men together, the two who’d survived unscathed, and the one who’d been shot in the arm by Boone. The fourth one, Flynn assumed, had perished in the explosion caused by the bullet being fired into the fuel barrel. Flynn also wanted Aleef, who he was sure, was behind the whole incident, middleman or not.

Three killers, one businessman.

Flynn relived the killing on the quayside, the faces of the gunmen seared into the front of his brain for ever.

And he waited patiently.

He was good at that. Having been a soldier, then a detective, he was accustomed to watching and waiting without getting bored, then leaping into action. It was a learned skill, but one that had been absolutely necessary in the way he’d chosen to live his life.

The club door opened.

Several people surged in front of Flynn along the pavement at that exact moment, obscuring his view. He did not want to break cover, but he caught a glimpse of the one man who came out of the door, then turned quickly left, then left again into the narrow alleyway that ran along the gable end of the club building.

A single figure. A big guy. That was all he saw. It was enough. It was the man.

Both detectives slouched well down in their seats, so their shapes could not be seen, other than by close scrutiny.

Rik muttered, ‘So what, he’s been for a quickie.’

‘Yeah, well, let’s put the shit up him.’

Looking back by using the door mirror, Henry spotted a figure walking towards them in the distance. The figure — it was a man — stopped on the footpath. Henry could not make out any of his features using the mirror, so he looked over his right shoulder between the seats. The man had stopped next to the unmarked police car, a Vauxhall Astra, then took a step sideways so he was standing behind the vehicle.

Rik, too, had turned to look over his shoulder. His head and Henry’s were side by side, ear to ear.

It was impossible to ID the person, but the assumption they both made was that it was PC Driver returning to his car, having been rudely interrupted by comms and the fake summons to go and see the DI who was waiting for him at Poulton nick.

The hatchback of the Vauxhall opened and the man bent down out of sight behind it, obscuring him and what he was actually doing.

‘What’s he up to?’ Henry whispered.

‘Can’t tell.’

The hatchback closed with a thud. The figure got into the car. They heard the engine start up. The headlights came on and the car pulled out from between the other parked cars.

‘Get down,’ Henry said.

He and Rik quickly slid low into their seats, their heads under the level of the windows. The Astra zoomed quickly past them, up to the next junction, and turned left without stopping, heading away from Blackpool.

Rik fired up the Nissan, waited for the Astra to go out of sight, then set off without lights up to the junction and turned left, when he flicked on his sidelights and saw the Astra was now well ahead of them on the otherwise quiet road.

Henry sat up, flicking his fingers at Rik in a ‘Gimme’ gesture and said, ‘PR, please.’ Rik handed the radio across, which was still tuned into Northern division’s channel.

‘Superintendent Christie to PC Driver at Poulton, receiving?’

There was a pause. The brake lights flashed on the Astra for a split second. Then, ‘Receiving.’

‘I’m at Poulton awaiting your arrival with the DI. Do you have a current location and ETA?’

Again a pause. ‘Amounderness Way, Fleetwood. ETA, five minutes.’

‘Roger that.’

‘Can you tell me what it’s about boss?’ Driver asked.

‘Nothing to worry about,’ Henry assured him. Then he said, ‘Superintendent Christie to the Poulton section mobile currently driving the plain Astra on Garstang Road towards Poulton, give me a call.’

This time the pause stretched to complete silence, but the Astra sped up noticeably. Henry repeated the message and added, ‘Please pull in, I want to talk to you.’

Rik had responded to the Astra’s turn of speed with a mirrored surge from the Nissan which, worryingly, left a dirty black cloud of exhaust fumes behind. The Astra did not stop.

Henry said into the PR, ‘Please pull in now. We are behind you.’

Still no response, so Henry called up Lancaster comms who had obviously been listening. ‘Detective Superintendent Christie to Lancaster, please ask the patrol in the Poulton Astra to pull in now. I need a word.’

Comms relayed the message again and got no response. The operator asked Henry, ‘Are you certain it’s a Poulton section vehicle, sir?’ It was a question posed with great delicacy. Just for a moment, Henry had a wave of self-doubt. Was he making an arse of himself here? Was this the same car he’d seen at the scene of Natalie’s murder, the one used by the PC who had found her? Or had he got it completely wrong?

‘Yes, I’m certain. It’s an Astra, registered number…’ Henry reeled off the number of the car.

‘Roger that,’ the operator said.

‘Tell him to pull in again, please. We are behind him and I’m getting cross now.’

Rik flashed the headlights and the Astra then indicated and slowed down. Rik came right up behind it as it stopped. Henry jumped out and told Rik, ‘You stay in here until he gets out.’

‘Henry,’ Rik whined, ‘don’t you think you’re overdoing this?’

‘At the very least he deserves a bollocking,’ Henry shot back, and walked quickly to the passenger door of the Astra, which he yanked open. A spurt of relief shot through him when he saw it was PC Driver behind the wheel.

‘Boss,’ he said.

‘Get out, let’s have a chat. Switch off the engine.’

Driver blew out his cheeks, killed the motor, climbed out and trudged slowly around to Henry on the footpath, ready for a super’s bollocking.

‘You lied,’ Henry said.

‘Uh, yes, sorry boss.’

Henry saw he was dressed in uniform trousers, boots and shirt. His epaulettes were missing, as was his tie. He was breathing heavily and his armpits were wet with sweat.

‘What were you up to?’

Driver looked around for inspiration, then admitted, ‘Just popped in to see a girlfriend.’ He sighed with defeat. ‘Sorry.’

Henry nodded.

Rik climbed out of the Nissan and came around to them. ‘Henry, a word.’ He beckoned him to one side.

Henry said to Driver, ‘Stay there.’ To Rik he said, ‘What is it?’

‘Blackpool comms have just been on. A patrol’s attending the report of a young woman who hasn’t returned home from an evening out. I think we should leave this, and go and have a look-see. Could be connected with why we’re out here tonight. Just rollock him and have done, eh?’

‘OK, OK,’ Henry said and walked back to Driver.

The PC blurted, ‘Look boss, I’m sorry. I know I sneaked off my patch, but it’s not the crime of the century, is it?’

Henry gave him one of his hard, boss-like stares. ‘Take this as a warning.’ He jabbed his finger at Driver. ‘But I’ll be having a word with your sergeant.’ He spun regally away on his heels and took a step towards the Nissan, when he heard a dull knocking noise that didn’t make any sense to him. He stopped and also heard a sort of murmuring sound, and then another dull knock.

Rik was leaning on the open driver’s door of the Nissan.

‘You hear that?’ Henry said.

Rik shrugged. ‘What?’

Another knock.

‘There — again.’ Henry turned slowly back to Driver, who was watching him, a look of horror on his face. A tapping noise. Henry listened, his head tilted, and then he said to Driver, ‘Open the hatchback, please.’

‘Why?’

‘Open the fucking hatchback.’

Driver came slowly to the back of the car; Henry stood next to him.

‘Like I said, why?’ Driver demanded.

‘Open it.’

‘There’s nothing to see.’

‘Open it,’ Henry growled.

Driver hooked his fingers underneath the lip of the hatchback and released the catch. The hydraulic mechanism slowly lifted it with a hiss, taking up the parcel shelf and exposing the storage area, illuminated by a small light on either side.

Driver did not move then.

Henry looked in, horror-struck. His head flicked up and he locked eyes with Driver, who instantly lurched sideways to run. Henry grabbed out for him, missed and took a handful of fresh air as Driver ducked.

Henry shouted, ‘Get him.’

Driver was fast. Two strides and he was across the footpath, leaping over a low wire fence on to the playing field beyond.

Henry charged after him, clearing the fence cleanly, but with the agility of a dray horse. He landed heavily, slightly skew-whiff, but powered on, keeping his balance.

Rik was right behind, ready to support Henry with his actions, even if he didn’t quite know what was happening.

Driver ran, zigzagging across the close-cropped field, towards the utter darkness at the far side. Henry knew if Driver made it ahead of him, there was a good chance he would disappear into the night.

He couldn’t have that. He upped his speed, focused and gained on Driver, who was only a few feet ahead when Henry — digging out something from his old rugby days — hurled himself at the fleeing man. For a brief moment — in mid air — he thought he’d misjudged distance and speed, but his outstretched right hand latched on to Driver’s belt, his fingers tightened into a fist and Henry hauled the man down to his knees. Keeping up the momentum, Henry scrambled on to him, flattening him face down and kneeling hard between his shoulder blades.

Rik arrived, still unsure of what was happening. Gasping, Henry held out his hand and wriggled his fingers. ‘Cuffs,’ he said.

Henry and Rik dragged Driver back across the field. He struggled ineffectively between the two detectives, who then pulled him over the fence and forced him into the back of the CID car. They then returned to Driver’s vehicle, the hatchback of which was still raised.

The girl inside was gagged and bound, feet and ankles taped together, duct tape across her eyes and mouth. Even so, Henry recognized her as the girl they had seen earlier, walking quickly, and alone, through the streets.

‘I want you to be honest with me,’ Karl Donaldson said.

‘All right — I do not appreciate you calling me at this time of day.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long.’

‘How the hell did you get my number anyway?’

‘You gave it to me once — when we were friends, remember?’

‘Only vaguely,’ Martin Beckham said with annoyance. Donaldson had woken the man up with the late night call, but at that moment he didn’t give a damn.

Donaldson was still at his desk in his office. He had the phone on speaker and was leaning back in his big comfortable leather chair, hands clasped behind his head, ankles crossed on the edge of the desk.

‘What is it you want?’

‘One question. An important one.’

Beckham sounded resigned. ‘What?’

‘The flat the two lads were in. You and your team stripped it bare for forensic reasons.’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you find down the drains?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, when your expert team went through the place, what did you find down the drains?’

Beckham paused, his weary brain clicking over. ‘Tell me what you’re getting at?’

‘What did you find down the drains?’ Donaldson repeated slowly. ‘That’s what I’m getting at.’

‘Nothing.’

‘Is that nothing as in we looked, but didn’t find anything? Or, nothing as in we actually didn’t look at all?’

‘We didn’t look,’ Beckham admitted.

Donaldson dropped his feet on to the floor and tipped forwards to tap the disconnect button.

Flynn trailed the man down stinking, poorly lit alleyways, virtually devoid of people, other than the dark mounds that were the sleeping forms of beggars under cardboard and sacking. He managed to keep close tabs on him using distance, shadows and the very obvious fact that the man wasn’t expecting to be followed, a factor that counted for a lot. He was on home turf and it was pretty much a fact of life that when people were comfortable in their surroundings, being followed was one of the last things they ever considered. This principle applied as much to Mafia bosses as it did to hired killers.

The man kept going, taking Flynn further into the city. The problem for Flynn was that while the strip he had started out on was comfortable, with white faces in the crowds, these streets were not. Even darkness and a good tan could not disguise Flynn’s skin colour and ethnic background. White European through and through, he looked out of place in the backstreets of Banjul, especially late at night.

Then the man turned into a building and was gone from sight.

Flynn came to a halt, sank into shadow, considered his position, then stood in a dark recess on the opposite side of the street.

It was a fairly typical style of building for Banjul. White, square, shutters on the windows, just one level to it, a flat-roofed bungalow. Flynn could not work out if it was a home or a place of work. Its whole appearance was alien to him.

The door the man had entered looked flimsy, easily kick-downable. Light showed from the angled gaps in the Venetian-style shutters at the windows.

Then Flynn noticed the car parked a little further down the street. The big, old, black Mercedes. Its sight jolted him. The car that the injured man had been helped into from Boone’s boat, the one that Boone’s killers had later turned up in.

Flynn crossed the street quickly and flattened himself against the wall next to the door. The Glock was now in his right hand, held at his thigh, and he wished he’d had the foresight to bring along the shotgun that Michelle had almost killed him with. It would have been effective in a tight space. He reached for the handle and turned it slowly. Locked. He emitted an exasperated gasp of frustration, then stood directly in front of the door, turned the handle with his left hand and leaned his weight on it with his left shoulder.

As he guessed, it was flimsy. He felt very confident he could open it easily, but it would make a horrible noise as he forced it down.

He hated the lack of planning and wondered if it would be better to back off now. Recce the place in daylight, work out the logistics and practicalities. See who came and went. How many people would be inside, what the inner geography was like… all the sensible things.

Unfortunately he did not get the chance to withdraw. That decision was taken out of his hands because as he stood there dithering, his mind whirring and tumbling as to the best approach, the door opened and he was instantly face to face with the man he had followed from the club, who was putting something into the inside pocket of his jacket, looking as though he was on the way out again.

In those circumstances the outcome of such a surprise encounter was usually determined by the one who reacted first. The one who was ready.

The man’s face dropped and a frown knitted his thick eyebrows together — and he hesitated, not immediately computing anything, not recognizing Flynn, not even beginning to understand why a white man was outside his door. By that time it was far too late for him.

Flynn, by contrast, reacted instantly.

He was bigger, stronger and much fitter than the guy, who himself wasn’t small and unfit by any means.

Flynn’s left hand shot out, grabbed the man’s shirt at his chest and in the same movement brought up the Glock and rammed the muzzle of the bulbous silencer into the soft under part of the man’s wide chin.

He did not waste time with words.

He went for action, brutal force, speed.

He forced the man back into the premises, knocking him off balance, running him backwards on his heels.

Behind the door was a hallway of sorts. Three doors off. Using what little intelligence he had gathered from his short external inspection of the front of the building, Flynn thought the door to the left could be a living room of some sort. The one directly ahead was a kitchen — Flynn had glimpsed a sink beyond the open door — and the one on the right could be a bedroom. The one that concerned him in these opening seconds was the one to his left, because that was the one which was lit up.

Flynn powered the man backwards, then jerked him to the left and ran him into this room, which had no door to it.

With a massive heave, Flynn pistoned out his left arm and let go of the man’s shirt. He staggered, tripped and landed on his backside.

Flynn took in the rest of the scenario. To his left a man lounged on a huge, dirty beanbag. This man had a bandage around his left bicep, his arm in a sling. This was the one Boone had managed to shoot on the quayside.

Next to him, on the remnants of a battered armchair, was another man, a cup of something in his hand, which he spilled as Flynn came in through the door. This was the second, uninjured gun man.

On the right, sitting primly on a dining chair, was the smartly besuited Aleef.

The man in the armchair threw his cup aside and started to rise — his right hand picking up the revolver that was lying on the chair arm.

The Glock came around. Flynn fired twice at the man’s body mass. Two shots, quick succession, double-taps. They struck him perfectly, less than an inch apart, entering his heart, left and right ventricle, shredding the organ, the power of the impact smacking him back in the chair.

The beanbag man scrambled across the floor towards the AK47 propped up against the wall by an electric radiator. Flynn swivelled less than forty-five degrees, fired again. The man was side-on to him, his body mass a smaller target, so Flynn shot him in the side of the head, a temple shot, again a double-tap that entered the left side and exited at a downward angle, making a hole about as big as a drinks coaster. He jerked sideways, dead.

Flynn came around. The man he had forced into the room was lying on his side, his legs drawn up to his chest in a tight foetal position, cowering and whimpering.

Aleef, on the dining chair, had not moved. Flynn jerked the Glock at him, causing him to wince, dread on his face as he braced himself for the inevitable death that was coming. But Flynn swung the gun back around to the man on the floor and aimed.

‘No, no,’ he pleaded, his hands palm out.

Flynn shot him twice.

Then he turned to Aleef. ‘Are you armed?’ Aleef shook his head. ‘Get up.’

He stood, legs wobbling, and looked at Flynn, but then his eye line flickered slightly over Flynn’s shoulder. He tried to disguise this, but Flynn saw it, recognized it for what it was, dropped a shoulder, spun round and was faced with the horrific sight of another man coming for him with a double-handed hold on a panga, the broad-bladed, deadly African machete. It was a weapon originally designed for use in sugar fields or for clearing jungles. More recently it had become a lethal weapon, responsible for thousands of horrific deaths and punishment amputations on the continent.

What made it even worse was the appearance of the man who was brandishing the weapon. His face was horribly disfigured, burned and melted, and Flynn knew this was the man who had been caught up in the explosion caused by Boone’s bullet exploding a fuel barrel that the man had been seeking cover behind. He had been blown into the creek where Flynn assumed he had perished. Clearly he had survived, obviously to be deformed for the rest of his life.

The panga was held high and was slicing down at Flynn. Had it caught him before he’d turned, his head would have been sliced cleanly open.

But Flynn had caught Aleef’s look, turned, leapt backwards as the panga came down and just missed him, leaving the burned man wide open for a millisecond, an opportunity that Flynn did not miss.

He shot him in the chest. The shot was hurried, and Flynn shot slightly high, the bullet breaking the man’s collar bone and spinning him away like a top. The second shot was even higher and removed most of the left side of his face.

Flynn stood there for a moment, controlling his breathing, then he looked at Aleef, who emitted a little squeak.

Flynn stepped over the dead men at his feet and gestured for Aleef to go ahead of him out of the door. Flynn came up behind him, slammed him up against the wall and frisked him quickly, expertly, getting close to the man, inhaling the cheap aftershave of which he stank.

‘You’re a very bad man,’ Flynn breathed into Aleef’s ear.

‘I’m just a businessman. Who are you, what is this?’

‘Who else is here?’ Flynn demanded, ignoring Aleef.

‘No one.’

Flynn jammed the barrel of the Glock hard into Aleef’s spine at the small of his back. ‘Truth?’

‘Honestly.’

Flynn gripped Aleef’s jacket collar and steered him out of the room into the hallway. He checked the room to the left, found a basic kitchen and a bathroom/toilet beyond. Then he manhandled Aleef into the next room, directly opposite the living room.

It was empty.

Flynn switched on the light with the butt of the Glock, a low wattage bulb dangling from a frayed length of wire in the middle of the ceiling.

A thin single size mattress was on the floor in one corner of the room with a grimy, bloodstained sheet covering it. Flynn glanced around quickly and saw a small pile of bloody bandages and dressings discarded in another corner, flies buzzing around them. In another corner was clothing, a rolled up shirt and trousers and a pair of sandals. Next to the mattress was a plastic tray containing some crockery and cutlery, and next to that was a metal frame on wheels that held up an empty saline drip bag. Two other empty drip bags were in a bin, together with syringes and their packages. There was also a hessian prayer mat on the floor.

Flynn computed all this, putting together everything he knew and had witnessed, everything he’d read.

‘Where is he?’ Flynn asked Aleef.

‘Who?’ Aleef responded innocently.

Flynn buried the muzzle of the Glock into Aleef’s spine.

‘You know who.’

‘I… don’t know… I don’t know what you’re talking about

… look, please allow me to go… I don’t know what this is about. I haven’t done anything.’

Flynn backed off a step then brutally side-footed the back of Aleef’s right knee, causing the leg to fold and the man to drop on to his knees with a cry. Flynn pressed the gun into the back of Aleef’s head.

‘I said where is he?’

‘Gone… he’s gone.’

‘Gone where?’

‘I don’t know, sir, I don’t know,’ Aleef wailed.

Flynn forced him down to the floor, so the side of his head was crushed against the rough surface of the prayer mat.

‘Where is he?’ Flynn asked again, his instinct telling him that this mission of revenge for the death of a friend might have become something much more serious on a much larger scale.

‘Gone, gone,’ Aleef said, tears welling up in his eyes.

‘Who is gone? What is his name?’

‘Akram… Jamil Akram,’ Aleef confirmed.

‘And where has he gone?’

‘To finish what he started.’