‘What?’ Henry said, screwing up his face. ‘Who?’
‘Flynn, Steve Flynn.’
‘What the hell are you calling me for? And at this time of day?’ Henry had little time for the man. Their history was rocky to say the least.
‘That’s not very nice,’ Flynn said. He took a swig of the mug of tea he’d prepared, which tasted amazing in the present circumstances.
‘I’m busy.’
‘Got something for you.’
‘If you’re phoning to tell me you never stole that million quid — wrong time, wrong bloke.’ Henry, now standing on the landing outside the flat, gave Donaldson a weary look, then said, ‘Did you try to phone me earlier?’
‘Yup.’
‘Why? I’m not interested in anything you might have to say.’
‘In that case I’ll hang up, find someone who does want to listen, and make you look stupid into the bargain.’
‘Look, Flynn, what the hell d’you want? I am seriously busy here.’
‘Jamil Akram,’ Flynn stated. Besides the mug of tea, he had made himself a couple of slices of thick toast coated in butter and marmalade. He folded half a slice into his mouth.
‘What? Say that again.’
‘You heard,’ Flynn said through a mouthful of toast.
‘Speak, now,’ Henry said, and mouthed ‘ Jamil Akram ’ to Donaldson.
‘I know where he’s been hiding out — and I know he isn’t there any more.’
Flynn set the autopilot, slid off the seat and walked on to the rear deck of Faye2, sat on the fighting chair, mug in one hand, toast in the other, mobile phone clamped between his shoulder and ear.
‘What? How do you know?’ Henry asked.
‘I think you should call me back,’ Flynn said. ‘Costing me money, this.’
‘No — I don’t want to lose the connection. I’ll reimburse you.’
‘That’s what I like to hear.’
‘Where are you? Can we speak face to face?’
‘Only if you can get to the Atlantic Ocean, eight miles west of the Gambia.’
‘Steve — Karl Donaldson’s here. You know him, the FBI guy?’
‘The Yank, yeah.’ Flynn had met Donaldson the previous year when all three of their paths crossed in the village of Kendleton when they found themselves in the middle of a gangster war zone.
‘I’m going to put my phone on speaker, so he can hear too. He has a vested interest.’
‘Anybody else there?’ Flynn said. ‘Not sure I want anyone else listening in.’
‘Just me and him,’ Henry lied. ‘Trust me.’
Flynn guffawed and tossed his toast crust into the wake being churned up by the boat.
Henry pressed the speaker button and held the phone between himself and Donaldson.
‘Steve — it’s me, Karl Donaldson. How ya doing?’
‘How do, buddy?’
‘Whatcha got?’
‘Just the basics, OK? And no nooky questions from you lot, OK? When you guys came across Akram, he had started his journey from the Gambia. After you screwed up his plans he returned here via Gran Canaria and Mauritania, where he recuperated from the gunshot.’
‘How did he get off Gran Canaria?’ Donaldson asked.
‘Private airstrip north of Las Palmas, to Mauritania, then by sea to the Gambia where he holed up.’
The line suddenly went dead.
‘Steve!’ Henry said. ‘Steve, fuck!’
‘Still here,’ Flynn’s voice came back.
‘How do you know all this?’ Donaldson asked.
‘Nooky question… no time for that, but there is something you need to know. He’s-’
The line went dead again
‘Oh great,’ Henry uttered.
‘Back again,’ Flynn said.
‘He’s what?’ Donaldson cut in.
‘He’s gone back to finish what he started. Check recent flights into Gatwick from the Gambia and a passport by the name of Masud Aziz. Say in the last two days. And that’s as much as I know, take it or leave it. So watch your arses because he’s one dangerous fucker. Do with that what you will. You’ve got a dangerous terrorist back on your patch.’
Flynn ended the call. He finished his tea and toast, then picked up the Glock and threw it out of the boat, together with the keys for Aleef’s office. Then he went back to the wheel, checked the autopilot settings, and tried to relax.
The GCHQ operative who had picked up the mention of Jamil Akram in the conversation between Flynn and Jerry Tope had been waiting for more from Flynn’s mobile number. And, when it came, he picked up the secure landline phone next to him which was programmed to automatically dial a number so that he could pass on anything further.
Martin Beckham thanked him for the information, ended the call and redialled another number that was answered immediately.
‘Do we have any resources in the north of England, Lancashire in particular?’
The question was directed to MI5’s operations manager who chuckled and said, ‘Ironically, yes.’
‘Why ironically?’
‘We have an SAS unit training. The irony being they’re on land owned by our good friend, Sir Hugo Marchmaine.’
‘Ahh.’ Beckham smiled. ‘Are they ready to roll?’
‘At a moment’s notice, sir.’
When Beckham had finished briefing the ops manager, he hung up the phone and settled back into his bed. The figure next to him said sleepily, ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing you need to know about. Now try to get back to sleep, Tom, my love.’
On the landing outside the tiny flat, Henry and Donaldson stared blankly at each other. Rik hovered close by.
Donaldson broke the silence. ‘Where do we take it from here?’
‘Talk to a murderer for a start,’ Henry replied.
Ten minutes later Henry was entering the custody suite at Blackpool police station, Donaldson close behind. Henry walked straight past the custody officer into the cell complex.
Driver’s cell door was open. A uniformed gaoler sat on a chair outside, keeping a suicide watch on the prisoner, who, still in the billowy forensic suit, was sitting up on the bench bed. The gaoler stood up, but Henry waved him back down, and stepped into the cell.
Driver looked up, his eyes raw. ‘Come to interview me in a cell?’ he dared. ‘Out of order, isn’t it?’
‘I want to clear something up. Where exactly did you pick up Natalie Philips?’
‘I don’t know. I picked her up and killed her, isn’t that enough?’
‘Where, exactly, did you find her in the first place?’ Henry insisted.
Driver held a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. ‘I don’t know. Somewhere just off the town centre. Not sure of the street name. I don’t really know Blackpool that well.’
‘If I showed you a street map, could you pinpoint it?’
‘Maybe, why?’
‘I think the time for you asking why is long gone, don’t you?’
Driver glared insolently at Henry, then his expression altered slightly and he dropped his arrogance. ‘Springfield Road,’ he said.
Just on the northern edge of the town centre.
