Instinct (11 page)

‘You sure, pal?'

Flynn had spotted the exchange of lustful looks between Boone and Michelle. From Boone's boasting, Flynn was fully aware of the full-on sexual nature of this relationship and Flynn guessed it would be a good move on his part to let the two of them get it out of their system before the evening meal.

‘Certain.'

Boone gave him that smug wink again. Flynn watched as the two lovers sloped away, draped around each other like teenagers, Boone with a hand firmly gripping one of Michelle's buttocks. Flynn readjusted his cap again, smiled slightly enviously, then took the three strides back across on to
Faye
's deck.

There was the accumulated debris of a long sea journey and then a six hour fishing trip for tarpon to clear up. Flynn liked to keep the boat spotless and was intensely proud of the way he cared for
Faye2
and the fishing tackle, so he got to work.

He hosed down the decks, vacuumed and dusted the small galley, lounge and stateroom. He cleaned the rods of any salt and fish debris, all of which took longer than an hour, by which time the sun had dropped in the sky, then dramatically hovered hugely over the horizon before disappearing. A hot, sultry night had fallen over the Gambia River.

Flynn, sweating heavily, was desperate for that beer. Still, he took the time to grab a quick shower and shampoo, applied a manly underarm spray, then mosquito repellent, a wicked combination that he hoped would defeat even the most determined insect invader. He changed into his beloved Keith Richards T-shirt, a pair of three-quarter length pants and flip-flops. From the fridge he grabbed the box of chocolates he'd been keeping there. Then he ensured the gas bottles were tightly closed and the engine cut-off that he'd wired to a secret compartment under the tackle station was definitely in the ‘off' position. As he extracted his hand from this hidden compartment, his fingers brushed against the Bushmaster .223 AR-15 Predator rifle also secreted in there. An additional piece of kit only he knew about, kept for purely defensive purposes, he would argue. Pirates and desperate refugees were a growing menace.

Next he secured the boat and rechecked everything, because he knew theft was endemic around these parts. Lastly he set the alarm which, if breached, would scream loudly and deafeningly for twenty minutes. He stepped ashore clutching the chilled chocolates, gave his babe one last all-over glance and set off, hoping to reach his destination before his gift melted in the oppressive evening heat.

Boone's houseboat was moored in the next inlet alongside another poorly constructed quayside, affixed to shore by various ropes and chains that allowed it to rise and fall with what little tide there was, while flexible power cables and sewage pipes ran into the riverbank.

It was not a houseboat in the way most people might visualize one. Usually they would imagine a square, wooden structure afloat in a marina or along a canal bank, or perhaps a refurbished narrow boat, but Boone's was completely different. Flynn knew exactly what it was and from where it had originated.

It was actually a huge concrete barge, consisting of two levels – upper and lower deck. It had been built probably sixty years before by British Waterways for use on the canals of northern England, but it had spent only a short time performing that function.

Flynn smiled at the memories it brought back to him, as for most of its life this fairly ugly looking two-storey barge, well over sixty feet long and twenty wide, had been moored at the edge of the marina at Glasson Dock, the tiny port on the Lune estuary on the north Lancashire coast. It had been converted into a cafe and fish and chip shop. Flynn knew it from his youth and adulthood. As a kid he had been taken there occasionally by his parents for a treat. He recalled wonderful fish and chips and mugs of tea. He had never known the barge, which was called the
Ba-Ba-Gee
, to serve any function other than a floating, but permanently moored, refreshment stop.

Over the last few years the restaurant business had failed and the boat, one of Glasson Dock's best known sights, had fallen into disrepair and been put up for sale for one pound, it was rumoured, conditions attached.

Then it had disappeared and Flynn now knew where it had ended up. Luxuriously refurbished, lashed to a muddy river creek off the Gambia River, a home for one of north-west England's biggest drug dealers – as was – who had a bit of a soft spot for the place in which he'd almost died.

The upper deck accommodation was fitted out as a large covered sitting and dining area, whilst below decks there was a lounge, a large bathroom and two double bedrooms, the master having an en suite shower and toilet. On deck it was spacious and open plan with floor to roof sliding windows. The whole boat was air-conditioned, vital in the heat of this tropical country. The living area was surrounded by a wide, walk-around deck constructed of teak, which opened to an outdoor, rattan-covered sitting area at the stern, the roof of which could be extended or folded away as required.

Boone and Michelle were relaxing on cane chairs on the open deck area, each with a beer in hand, chatting softly. The deck was illuminated by fluorescent lights that were less attractive to bugs, but even so Flynn could see huge numbers of massive moths and other insects flitting through the light. Fortunately a fine mesh curtain surrounded the seating area and did a reasonable job in keeping out the unwanted guests.

He coughed to attract attention.

‘Flynn, old pal, come on, come on,' Boone greeted him effusively. He got to his feet and drew back the curtain to allow him to step through. Michelle had also risen to her feet. She gave Flynn a double-cheeked kiss and he caught a sexy, musty scent on her.

‘Sorry I was a bit longer than anticipated,' Flynn said.

‘No problems,' Boone said. ‘Have you battened everything down? They're a thieving bunch of bastards hereabouts,' he warned.

Flynn nodded, then handed Michelle the chocolates. ‘For you.'

Her bottom lip tightened with surprise and pleasure. ‘Thank you.'

‘Probably need to get them into the fridge,' Flynn advised.

‘I will.' She batted her long eyelashes at him. ‘I'll get you a beer at the same time.'

‘That would be fantastic.'

She went to the steps in the centre of the boat that led below decks. Both men watched her until Boone raised his eyes slowly at Flynn, caught him looking and said, ‘Kill you if you even think about it.'

‘I was just concerned about the chocolates.' Flynn grinned, and the men laughed.

‘Take a seat,' Boone gestured.

Flynn dropped into a cane armchair. ‘This is a great job,' he commented, his hands indicating the barge.

Boone's head bobbed with the compliment. ‘Yeah, thanks. It is, even if I say so myself.'

‘Surprising what you can achieve with drug money,' Flynn said, mischievously straight-faced.

Detective Sergeant Steve Flynn from the Drugs Branch of Lancashire Constabulary's Serious and Organized Crime Unit had been hunting Ray Boone for two years solid.

Back then, Flynn's job was to bring about the downfall of some of the north-west region's top level drugs traffickers, Boone being one of them.

The frustration for Flynn was that although he knew Boone used an RIB – a rigid inflatable boat – to bring drugs ashore, usually from Ireland on to the Lancashire coast, he always managed to fox him as to his pick-up and landing locations. On the face of it, it should have been easy to capture someone like Boone, but it wasn't. RIBs were fast, could easily outrun and outmanoeuvre customs boats, could come ashore at almost any point (once he had even run on to Blackpool beach), could navigate shallow, treacherous waters and were easy to hide. But Flynn knew Boone was active and he should have been able to catch the sneaky bastard.

But so far he'd been unsuccessful.

This was partly due to having to follow other targets, often selected at whim by the powers-that-be, and Boone was not always the top of that heap.

But one night it all came together. Using information from a snout and other intelligence, Flynn and his team ambushed Boone bringing a consignment into Glasson Dock on his RIB. The operation went well until Boone – heavy smoker that he was, coupled with the excitement of the bust – had a heart attack as he was being put into the back of a police van.

Flynn saved his life, all his first aid training clicking in – cardiac massage, mouth-to-mouth, the full hit.

Flynn's mouth twitched at the memory. Boone must also have been sharing the flashback as he raised the bottle of Jul-Brew.

‘Thanks for saving my life – in so many ways,' Boone said gratefully.

‘Could have gone either way,' Flynn admitted, recalling the mad ambulance journey to Lancaster Royal Infirmary. It took ten minutes but felt like a lifetime.

Flynn visited him often and saw a change in the man who had been so close to death. A heart attack can soften even the toughest men.

‘I know you'll be on me like a hawk on a sparrow as soon as I'm fit to walk out of here,' Boone had whispered hoarsely to Flynn during one of his visits. His throat was like sandpaper from the number of tubes that had been inserted and removed from it. ‘Anything I say after that will be on record and I'll say what you expect me to say – fuck all.' Flynn had grinned. ‘But I've had time to reflect, and when this is all over and I've paid my dues, I'm off out of here. Going to live in the sun. Get a new life. You did that for me – gave me that chance, and I thank you.'

‘Plans?' Flynn had asked.

‘Big ones,' Boone answered. ‘A life in the sun, sea fishing and maybe a few bits 'n' bats if necessary. If you know what I mean.'

Flynn knew. ‘Bits and bats' meant things that were not above board, but what caught Flynn's attention more than anything was the mention of sea fishing. He was well into the sport and when Boone revealed his plans to up sticks, head for the tropics, buy a boat, he was hooked and despite their positions on opposite sides of the legal fence, they became tentative friends.

And Boone kept his word.

At Crown Court he received a ten year prison sentence and was out in 2007. By using a stash of money the police had failed to find (and to be honest, Flynn hadn't tried
that
hard to find it), he headed south never to be heard of again, paying for the
Ba-Ba-Gee
to be shipped down with him.

Flynn got a phone call from him a couple of years later. Boone had heard about Flynn's inauspicious departure from the police, suspected – but never proved – to have stolen a million pounds worth of drug money from Felix Deakin, another big time drug dealer, RIP. By that time, Flynn had also gone south, tail between his legs, skippering a sportfishing boat out of Puerto Rico on Gran Canaria. The men had met up a couple of times and Boone insisted on Flynn coming down to the Gambia, where he had relocated, to spend a few days tarpon fishing in the river estuary.

Flynn had persuaded his boss, the actual owner of
Faye2,
to allow him to use the boat, take a holiday and visit Boone so he could check out the commercial viability of fishing in the Gambia.

It had been utterly fantastic.

He and Boone had spent the day of Flynn's arrival fighting huge tarpon and Flynn could see the possibility of running some sort of operation down here, although the weather was always hot and sticky, more so than the Canaries.

‘Do you know how much this place cost?' Boone said, handing Flynn another chilled beer. Flynn pouted and shook his head.

‘One.'

‘What? One thousand?'

‘No – one. One pound.'

Flynn blinked. So the rumours had been true.

‘Yep – condition being that I took it away from the mooring in Glasson. Cost one hell of a lot to get it transported down here, and refurbished, but it's bloody great. And the superstructure is still in fantastic condition, easily last another thirty years.'

‘Why though?'

‘Nostalgia. Used to get my fish 'n' chips on it when I was a biker. Bikers used to congregate at weekends in Glasson and I loved it. Didn't want to see it broken up, which is what would have happened.'

‘So how much did you have stashed?' Flynn asked cheekily.

Boone's lips twitched a smirk. ‘I could ask you what you did with Felix Deakin's million quid,' he retorted playfully, but realized he'd touched a raw nerve when a cloud passed over Flynn's face. The allegation was one that was destined to haunt him. Sometimes Flynn wished he'd been the one who had taken the damned money. It was his partner, Jack Hoyle, who had – whilst also having a torrid affair with Flynn's wife behind his back.

‘Oops,' Boone said.

‘No probs.' Flynn coughed and shook it off. As a cop he'd been tough, often violent, but definitely honest. He forced a smile and took a long draft of the beer. ‘So  . . . how do you keep the wolf from the door around here?'

‘Oh,' Boone shrugged, ‘bits 'n' bats, you know  . . .' At which point Michelle reappeared from below decks and cooed that dinner was ready, and that she needed a hand to carry the pots upstairs.

The food was remarkably good. Flynn ate ravenously, drank the excellent wine and enjoyed the nice small talk, mostly about fishing and lifestyle. Boone seemed to have it good and was very content with his lot. He took a few tourists fishing on the coast and upriver. He also did a few other moneymaking tasks and, reading between the lines, Flynn reckoned that an old dog like Boone certainly hadn't learned any new tricks. Flynn guessed he was still dabbling, just in a new environment. The Gambia, as he knew, was just one link in a worldwide drug and people smuggling chain and Boone was probably getting his cut, using his boat as a means of transport. But Flynn was past caring what others got up to. He wasn't a cop any more and certainly felt no obligation to get involved in preventing or detecting crime. Those days were long gone.