interview Sadiq. First off, all the DNA samples taken from her body have to be profiled and ready for comparison. Four profiles, four comparisons. Mark Carter’s is done, that leaves three — so what if the three belong to Sadiq, Rahman and Akram? What if all three of those guys had sex with her?’
Henry, Rik and Donaldson exchanged excited glances.
‘The first thing we need to do is get Sadiq’s and Rahman’s DNA analysed.’
‘We still have Rahman’s body in the mortuary,’ Henry said. ‘And his DNA would have been taken as a matter of course.’
‘But he’s dead — and you can’t speak to him,’ FB said. ‘But, yes, his DNA needs cross-checking with the samples. Then, if we get Sadiq’s DNA analysed… if that comes back positive, then there’s no way we should have any problems in getting to see Sadiq. And-’
Donaldson intercut, ‘If Akram’s DNA matches one of the samples from Natalie’s body, then we’re whoopin’.’
‘That’s only if these things match up… but if they do, then perhaps you can shoehorn yourself into Henry’s slipstream.’
‘I also think we need to have another look at Sadiq’s flat,’ Henry said. ‘If Natalie was seeing the two lads as Mark suggests, it might be possible to find something in the property that relates to her. That’ll help our cause, too.’
‘Mm,’ FB said dubiously. ‘You might be too late on that score. That place is being gutted, packed and then sent off for detailed examination by MI5 and CT as we speak. You’ll need to move quickly, otherwise it’ll all go, then you’ll have no chance.’
‘Shit,’ Henry said.
‘Anything else I can solve for you?’ FB asked. ‘I need to get back to my budget meeting. We’re just discussing FMIT, actually. Need to cut that budget by thirty percent.’
‘What budget would that be?’ Henry said. The Force Major Investigation Team operated on a minuscule budget, the money to run long inquiries coming from other sources as necessary, not from the FMIT pot.
‘We’re wondering whether four superintendents isn’t a bit OTT,’ FB said. ‘Two could probably be enough, so we could easily lose two of you… and as two of you could retire if pushed… just a thought.’
Henry’s guts churned. Maybe quitting the job wouldn’t be down to him after all.
‘Anyway,’ he muttered, ‘thanks for your input, sir. Very valuable.’
‘Happy to help. Once a jack and all that. Actually, I’m happy to help anyone, even the security services, but I was, and still am, miffed by the fact that they seemed willing to put my officers into danger without briefing them properly.’ His eyes turned to Donaldson. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yes sir,’ Donaldson said.
FB nodded then revolved away towards the door.
There was silence at the table.
Then Henry said, ‘As it appears I have nothing to lose, I’m going to hijack any evidence from that flat and get a tame scientist to look for any traces of Natalie.’
Flynn had fished all the time that Boone had been away. Mainly from the beaches south of Banjul, on safari from early each morning to evening, using Boone’s beat up Land Cruiser for transport. It had been a wonderful time. Being alone throughout the days was quite therapeutic.
After the fishing he returned to Faye2 and following a long shower, shave and cold beer, made his way to Boone’s houseboat to be cooked for by Michelle. It was worth watching her glide about the place in her loose flowing African dresses; sometimes the breeze blowing the fine fabric taut against her breasts or between her legs made it obvious that she wore nothing of note underneath and had shaved everything. She seemed oblivious to Flynn’s sneaky peeks, but as each evening progressed and she drank a little wine, inhaled good quality weed, she became more flirty with him.
But that was as far as it went. From their conversations — deep and meaningful — Michelle seemed to have an almost spiritual insight into Flynn’s soul, but not so much as to make him feel uncomfortable. It was obvious she was completely sold on Boone, and Flynn had no wish to spoil that. He was slightly envious, though, because he, Flynn, had no one. An ex-wife, a son he hardly ever saw and a woman he had loved who was now dead. That was his emotional footprint. He was seeing someone in Gran Canaria, but it was a relationship based on animal lust and he knew it was going nowhere. In the years following his divorce and his exit from the cops, he thought he would never want anyone to need him ever again, and vice versa. But as he aged — he was only a few years short of fifty now — he knew he wanted to spend his life with someone else, but that person eluded him.
Michelle had been reassuring on that point.
‘Seek and you will never find. Just rest, relax, and the world will come to you,’ she predicted over beer and cannabis. ‘You are a good man, Steve Flynn. I can feel it here.’ She placed a hand on to her groin. Flynn gulped. Then she removed it and put her palm on to her chest. ‘And here.’
Flynn calmed down, but his hand was dithering slightly as he drew his beer to his lips and sipped.
They had eaten one of Michelle’s wonderful chicken dishes, hot, spicy, aromatic, when the short wave radio in the galley squawked and Flynn heard Boone’s voice calling.
Michelle dashed down to answer it whilst Flynn sat back in the comfortable wicker chair and let his food settle. He did not take heed of the conversation going on below deck and soon Michelle came back up, beaming happily. ‘Boone is less than an hour away.’
Flynn raised his beer. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ At that moment the evening breeze moulded Michelle’s dress against her body, leaving nothing to Flynn’s imagination. In his mind he said, ‘And I’ll drink to that, too.’
‘I’ll go and greet him.’ Flynn rose from the second game of chess he and Michelle had played in the intervening hour, knowing he was beaten soundly again.
‘OK. I’ll warm him up some food.’
Flynn stepped off the houseboat, and sauntered down the pathway that clung to the riverbank which led to the next creek where Faye2 was moored, and where Boone was easing Shell into her mooring alongside Flynn’s boat. Flynn would have hurried along and assisted Boone to tie up, but the sight of the big old black Mercedes already parked on the jetty, plus the two big black matching men leaning on the vehicle, arms folded as they watched Boone manoeuvre the boat expertly into position, made Flynn pull up sharp. He was sure he hadn’t been seen in the darkness, so he stepped sideways out of sight behind a couple of empty oil barrels stacked on one another.
One of the men caught Boone’s mooring rope as he tossed it across the gap. Moments later Shell was secure and Boone played out the gangplank across to the quayside.
A man got out of the back of the Mercedes and dashed across on to the boat and had a quick conversation with Boone, who then took him inside the cabin. Flynn ducked low, peering around the barrels at the scenario some fifty metres in front of him, which was illuminated by a couple of lamp posts that cast a white, eerie glow on the tableau.
Flynn saw that one of the men lounging against the car had a machine pistol held at an angle across his chest. The wry look on Flynn’s face said it all. What the hell had Boone got himself involved in now? Before he could answer, Boone reappeared on deck. Behind him was the man from the Mercedes supporting another man with a blanket over his shoulders. This was obviously the cargo that Boone had been to collect from God knew where. The man was apparently injured in some way and had to be propped up as he was led across the gangplank into the hands of one of the waiting men, before being placed in the back of the car. Flynn concentrated his vision on the man in the blanket and, just before his head ducked into the car, he got a one second look at his face.
A further mouth-to-ear conversation took place between Boone and the man from the car, then the latter slid into the rear of the vehicle and the other bodyguards — because that’s what Flynn pegged the men as being — climbed into the car, which then set off with a spurt of red dust. He kept out of view as the car spun around in a turning circle, then drove towards him along the narrow road that ran parallel to the quay.
It was a big, battered old Merc. Flynn knew there were plenty knocking around Banjul, either driven as taxis or by gangsters. He instinctively read and memorized the number plate, noted an unusual dent in the rear wing and that the back bumper was twisted out at one corner.
Flynn stood up slowly and strolled towards the boat, whistling tunelessly as though nothing had happened. And maybe it hadn’t, but Flynn was an ex-cop and still had a nose that sniffed out badness. And what he’d just witnessed stank rancid and rank.
