dialling DCI Lorimer’s telephone number.
‘He’s what?’ Lorimer paled as the woman recounted what she had seen.
‘Removed your house guest by the looks of things,’ came the reply. Mrs Ellis actually sounded as though she were enjoying some drama this Sunday morning. Lorimer listened long enough to copy down the red car’s registration and mutter a hasty word of thanks before grabbing the paper and jabbing out the extension number he needed.
‘Get a check on this one would you?’ He rattled off some more detailed instructions before adding, ‘And find Alistair Wilson. I need him. Now.’
Lorimer pulled his coat off the stand in the corner and headed for the door. He was almost at the foot of the stairs when the Detective Sergeant appeared, clattering down behind him.
‘What’s up?’
‘They’ve got Flynn,’ Lorimer answered shortly.
‘Who?’
‘That’s what we’re about to find out. Thank God for the Mrs Ellises of this world,’ he breathed. ‘She saw someone snatch him. We’ve put out a call for any available squad cars to track them. Meantime I want someone over at my place, see what’s there. Here’s the keys,’ he added, handing over the bundle.
‘Doubt if I’ll need them,’ came the answer and Lorimer nodded briefly. He was probably right. Whoever had taken the boy away wouldn’t have bothered about niceties like locking up. He cursed himself. Why hadn’t he told Flynn to put on the chain like he always did? It had become like a mantra every time he’d left the boy alone in the house.
The red car sped along the dual carriageway, oblivious to the notice that speed cameras lay just ahead. The driver took the roundabout at fifty screeching the tyres as the car wobbled between lanes. There was a straight stretch of road just ahead then he would turn along that country road just like Seaton had told him.
He put his foot on the accelerator and grinned as the rev counter flipped forward.
Then his face changed suddenly as a familiar sound drowned out the car’s whine. For a moment he was tempted to hit the pedal again but the flashing blue light ahead and a glance at Seaton’s angry expression told him he’d be wasting his time.
Flynn came to as the car thudded to a halt. For some reason he could hardly breathe and it was dark, wherever he was. Was this a nightmare? Was he going to wake up in his hospital bed? The blankets were stifling him and for some reason he couldn’t pull them away. His legs were tucked under him but he wanted to stretch them out. Suddenly the memory of another man curled into a duvet invaded his jumbled thoughts. He remembered the feel of the tray handles in his hands as he’d carried in the breakfast.
Lorimer!
Flynn groaned aloud as memory came flooding back bringing with it an ache in his head. He heard car doors slam and voices rise in protest. Then suddenly the light came back as the boot was wrenched opened and unseen hands pulled his twisted body from its cocoon of carpet. Trembling, Flynn closed his eyes, waiting for another blow to fall.
‘Flynn? You all right, son?’
Flynn opened his eyes and saw the familiar blue gaze of Lorimer staring anxiously down at him. The boy nodded then groaned as the policeman lifted him out of the car boot and tried to help him to stand upright.
‘Aw, ma heid,’ Flynn moaned, his hands investigating the recent scar. He did not resist as Lorimer’s fingers ran lightly across his scalp.
‘It’s OK. No apparent damage. But we’ll get you checked out just the same.’
‘Ah feel sick,’ Flynn swayed suddenly and turned away, grasping the boot of the car for support. Lorimer flinched as the boy’s breakfast exploded over the red paintwork.
‘Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and you can tell me all about it,’ he said gently, helping Flynn to straighten up.
‘Where’s …?’ Flynn’s question was answered as his gaze fell upon Allan Seaton and a fellow he knew only as Mick. They were being pushed into the back of a police car, their hands well and truly cuffed behind them.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘Just how did you know where he was?’ Lorimer asked, his face grim.
Allan Seaton shrugged, ‘The big man, big Carl, he told us,’ he replied, avoiding Lorimer’s angry stare.
The policeman sat back. How the hell had Carl Bekaert known his home address? Or that Flynn had been staying there?
‘What’re your dealings with Bekaert?’ Lorimer asked, silently adding, as if I didn’t know.
Seaton shrugged again. ‘Ach, he was a pal, y’know. We met up from time to time.’
‘Listen to classical music together, did you, Mr Seaton?’ Lorimer’s sarcasm even made his detective sergeant wince.
‘Aye, well,’ Seaton’s attempt at a grin failed as his eyes met Lorimer’s.
‘You were his supplier, son. We have this on good authority so don’t give us any of your nonsense.’
‘Flynn tell you this, did he?’ Seaton sneered suddenly.
‘Not until you cracked him over the head in my kitchen,’ Lorimer thumped the desk between them. Seaton’s expression changed, his sudden belligerence gone.
‘Didnae mean tae hurt the boy, know what I mean?’ he whined. ‘Should’a known he was a’right. A misjudgement of character on my part,’ he’d added, trying to retrieve the image of the big man he thought he was.
‘Right then, let’s just see what other misjudgements of character you’ve made, shall we? Let’s start with the late George Millar.’
‘Aw, c’mon, man, that wis nothing tae do wi’ me! Ah’m not intae killin’ folk.’
‘Just whacking them over the head and driving them off in rolled up carpets?’
‘We just wanted to scare Flynn, that was all,’ he muttered.
‘Your pal, Michael O’Hagan, might have a different version of that story,’ Lorimer warned him.
‘No he’ll no’,’ Seaton said shortly. ‘I told him we were jist puttin’ the frighteners on the boy. Wanted to know what he’d been sayin’ tae youse.’
‘George Millar,’ Lorimer began again. ‘What was his involvement with you?’
Seaton sighed. ‘OK. He wis after coke. I supplied it tae him through Flynn.’
‘How did Flynn come to know Millar in the first place?’
Seaton shrugged. ‘Met him in the street outside the Concert Hall. Flynn was high and old Georgie asked him where he could score. Put him onto me. Then the big Danish guy gets in touch, becomes a regular customer.’
‘And the stolen instruments?’
‘Dunno,’ Seaton muttered.
For the second time the table between them shook as Lorimer’s fist came crashing down upon it.
‘Listen to me, Seaton. This is a murder investigation. Get it? Try to hide one little thing about George Millar and you might find yourself charged with perverting the course of justice!’
Allan Seaton flinched, his hands flying up as if to ward off imaginary blows.
‘OK, OK! Millar was just part of an organisation. He’d pick up an instrument here and there when the Orchestra were out of the country. Like on tour, see? There was someone he knew in Europe who supplied him with the stuff. He’d bring them back and sell them on here.’
‘How did you find this out?’
Seaton laughed. ‘Old George had a big mouth. Had a few sessions at my place, didn’t he?’ The dealer licked his lips nervously. ‘Told me all about his business. Wanted to know if I could do him a favour from time to time.’
‘What sort of favour?’
Seaton’s eyes shifted from one policeman to the other. ‘Like puttin’ pressure on a couple of guys when their payments were late, know whit ah mean?’
