‘Bastard,’ Henry whispered. They looked at each other. ‘So if this pattern continues, when would he be due to strike again?’
‘This week,’ Rik calculated. ‘Although he hasn’t done so far, unless it hasn’t been reported.’
‘No set days?’ Henry asked. Rik shook his head. Henry pouted. ‘Could it be a shift worker of some sort, out on a break?’
‘That’s something I’ll check, see what businesses are operating around that area twenty-four hours.’
‘I wonder how many he’s actually carried out?’ Henry mused.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The reported ones are always the tip of the iceberg… the terror factor makes a lot of victims clam up. Any chance of pulling an operation together for a couple of nights this week?’ Henry asked in vain hope.
Rik screwed up his face. ‘I could possibly muster a few bodies tonight, but it’s a late request. Maybe more tomorrow, but then we hit the weekend and everybody’s stretched.’ He checked his watch. ‘I’ll see what I can do, but don’t hold out much hope.’
‘We need to plan something for next month.’
Rik nodded and gathered all the paperwork together. ‘I’ll get home for some tea, then I’ll see you at Blackpool for Mark Carter, seven thirty?’
Rik left. Henry picked up the phone to call a detective sergeant at Preston who was dealing with one of the domestic murders Henry was overseeing. He needed an update… and that was how the rest of Henry’s afternoon unfolded, checking up on progress. Then it was six and he had a sudden, gut-wrenching thought that he hadn’t called Kate to let her know he would be late home.
It was only as he unthinkingly tapped the first digit of his home phone number that he remembered. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by a feeling of despair and emptiness, heartbroken by the realization that it was a call he would never have to make again.
In the same time zone, about three thousand miles to the south on the west coast of Africa, Steve Flynn steered Faye2 out of the deep Atlantic Ocean and into the wide mouth of the Gambia River. The journey from Gran Canaria had been uneventful, even his overnighter in Nouadhibou. Here Flynn had refuelled, taken on fresh supplies and had a long, uninterrupted sleep.
The Gambian capital, Banjul, was on his starboard side and he sailed past with disinterest, his eyes cold as granite under the brim of his baseball cap. He angled Faye2 upriver and cruised slowly past many creeks, surveying them with binoculars, until he found one he wanted. It was deep enough and contained a badly constructed wooden quayside against which he manoeuvred and tied up his boat. He had noticed it on his previous visit to the country, but had never imagined he would be returning to use it.
The heat was heavy and cruel in the early evening, although the sun had virtually disappeared over the western horizon.
Flynn poured himself a long, iced cola and rolled his hips as he drank it, still feeling the pain of the gouge-line ploughed by the bullet along his ribcage, nicking bone as it went. The wound was healing well but had a way to go yet. But he was mobile enough to return to the country from which he had fled like a rat being chased by dogs.
He had abandoned a dead friend and left that friend’s lady in a horrifying situation, and did not even yet know if she had survived it. She could well be as dead as Boone, and that was what Flynn expected.
His guilt was gut-wrenchingly physical. Tearing him up.
Boone had been dead for certain, his body kicked like a dog into the creek. But Michelle had been alive and maybe she had survived. He knew he could not have helped her at the time, but that didn’t make him feel any better.
Which is why, after a horrendous return to Gran Canaria and some convalescence there, he was right back in the Gambia as soon as he was fit, with one thing on his mind.
He downed the last of the cola, the ice chinking against his teeth, then vaulted off the boat, tucking the 9mm Glock 17 into the waistband of his three-quarter length trousers, pulling his shirt over it and pushing the silencer into his pocket.
Henry did not bother going home, unable to face the house, empty or otherwise. He’d spent about half an hour staring into space at his desk, his mind empty and dull. Eventually he clicked into action, roused himself with a sorry shake of his head and pushed himself up from his chair, which was like trying to lift a lead weight. He gathered his stuff and made his way to his car, sat in it for a while and experienced more guilt at having acquired such a fancy machine for what, it seemed, was the cost of Kate’s life. He knew he would not have owned such a beast if she was still here. It would never have entered his head. The Mondeo had been more than adequate.
The Mercedes engine barely made a noise as he drove up the avenue away from the FMIT block, towards the HQ building. At the junction he was faced with a slight dilemma: turn right and exit, or go straight on to the sports and social club, aka The Grovellers’ Arms. The beer was cheap but at that time of day, between five and seven, it was full of office staff and bosses, none of whom he cared to mix with. He rarely socialized with other cops, other than a few close friends, and was a bit worried now that he’d reached the rank at which others might want to brown-nose up to him. The thought worried him. He had always disliked rank and authority, yet was now part of the establishment. Sort of like Mick Jagger accepting a knighthood.
With that in mind, he selected a very old Rolling Stones album from the in-car iPod, from the days when they were the bad boys, and swung the car right, spurting under the rising security barrier quickly, because he never quite trusted it. Then, to the strains of Gimme Shelter, he hit the road.
He joined the traffic heading into Preston, bearing left after crossing the River Ribble, out towards Blackpool, past Preston docks. He enjoyed the drive in the new car, although his left shoulder was giving him some gyp, the one which had been peppered with shotgun pellets during the blood-soaked stand-off in Kendleton, where he first met Alison. A slight sweat came at the memory of his lucky escape.
As he drove he did his retirement sums again. The house was now paid off. The pension would be good. He could buy a dog… Or maybe just keep going until they forced his hand? Then he could come back as a cold case consultant on half the salary, no responsibility and all the fun.
In Blackpool he turned into the KFC on Preston New Road and parked in one of the wide grill bays. Once inside he stood at the back of a long queue and kept an eye out for Mark Carter, who was nowhere to be seen. He ate in the restaurant, glumly avoiding standing on the chips on the floor, having had to wipe the table before sitting at it. But the food was OK and gave him that short energy burst he needed.
At seven thirty he was at Blackpool nick in the CID office with Rik, awaiting a call from the public enquiry desk to say that Mark Carter had answered his bail.
He chatted with Rik about the serial rape inquiry, and whether he had sorted anything out for later. The DI looked sheepish.
‘Singularly unsuccessful. Tomorrow night, maybe, plenty of bodies about, but tonight, too short notice.’
‘Which means?’
‘Uh, well, after we’ve finished with Carter, I’ll get changed into my scruffs, grab the crappiest CID car I can find and troll about myself until midnight.’
‘Yourself?’
Rik nodded.
‘Keeping obs for a rapist?’
‘Yep.’
‘Not exactly the well-resourced operation I had in mind,’ Henry sighed. ‘Tell you what, I’ll come with you. Wouldn’t expect you to do it alone.’
‘Seriously?’ Rik sounded doubtful. ‘Only thing is, every time I go out on a job with you, I seem to end up getting injured.’ He was referring to the times when he’d been stabbed once and shot once, each time out with Henry.
‘You’re still alive, aren’t you?’
‘Just.’
Henry winked, checked his watch and picked up a desk phone, dialled the front desk and asked if Mark had shown his face. Negative. Cradling the phone, Henry checked his watch again and decreed, ‘I’ll give him until half eight, then I’ll go looking.’
‘Probably done a runner,’ Rik said. ‘Guilty and all that.’
It was a ten minute walk to the creek in which Boone’s houseboat was moored. As Flynn turned on to the
