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‘Lottie's parents.'

‘Good … look, I'm on foot, Blackpool town centre … ditched my car … certain I've just spotted a guy who's a dead ringer for your e-fit of the murderer we're after … got patrols closing in … it's all over the PR.'

‘On my way,' Henry snapped.

He took totally inappropriate leave of Lottie's parents' house, saying he was sorry but he had to rush, that he'd borrowed her camera and would return with a receipt if that was OK. He hadn't waited for an answer, just tore rudely out through the front door and leapt into his car, which then screeched down the avenue.

Lottie's family lived in the village of Singleton, not too far away from Blackpool, and within a minute Henry was on the A586, Garstang Road, heading west towards the resort.

As he drove, he reached into the glove compartment, fished out his personal radio and switched it on, hoping the battery was charged up. It was, and the radio was already tuned into Blackpool's frequency; the first voice he heard was that of Woodcock, directing operations. Henry visualized his location: somewhere near to the railway station, Blackpool North.

‘Exchange Street,' Woodcock was transmitting. ‘Last sighting, Exchange Street, walking in the direction of the town centre.' He sounded out of breath.

‘Alpha Six, got that,' a mobile patrol shouted up. ‘Dickinson Road, heading to the town centre.'

One of the town centre foot patrols shouted up that he was on Springfield Road, which Henry knew wasn't far away from Exchange Street. There was a good chance that if the suspect was going in that direction he could well end up in that particular cop's arms.

Henry called up, driving one-handed, his Audi touching seventy. ‘Detective Superintendent Christie, presently Garstang Road, direction of the town centre. What's the description of this man?' he demanded. ‘And patrols to be aware that if this is our suspect, he is extremely dangerous and will not hesitate to injure a police officer.'

Woodcock piped up, ‘Six foot, medium build, short brown hair, wearing a brown zip-up leather jacket, blue jeans, trainers.'

‘Roger that,' the comms operator acknowledged.

A series of mobile patrols also acknowledged receipt of this information.

‘No sign Exchange Street,' Woodcock gasped.

‘Nor Springfield Road,' the officer on foot said.

‘A patrol needs to make for the railway station,' Henry butted in. He had weaved through the traffic, zapped cheekily around the busy roundabout at Little Carleton and was speeding down Westcliffe Drive, only minutes from the railway station himself.

Woodcock shouted up, his footfalls pounding as he ran, ‘I'm at the station now … I'll check it out.'

‘Be careful,' Henry said.

‘Roger.'

‘Alpha Six, I'll continue towards town, check out the bus station.'

The foot patrol said, ‘I'll do High Street, Talbot Road area.'

Henry powered on and then he was at the top of Talbot Road, driving towards the centre, having slowed right down and adopted cop cruise mode. His eyes searched hard, looked at every single person.

Woodcock chirped up over the radio, ‘In the railway station.' Then, ‘No sign.'

Henry felt deflated. He called up comms. ‘How many more patrols do we have free and within a couple of minutes of the town?'

He knew that people being chased could disappear very quickly and time was critical. The longer it took to get cops to the area, the less chance of a result.

‘Just two town centre foot patrols and one more mobile.'

‘Roger … keep them deployed in the area for at least another fifteen minutes if possible … DCI Woodcock, location?'

‘Railway station.'

‘One minute.'

Henry caught up with him on the concourse outside the station. He was doubled over, hands on his knees, gasping, red-faced.

‘I mean … I couldn't be exactly certain … I was on Dickinson Road, saw the guy out of the corner of my eye … looked just like the e-fit. Time I turned round, he'd scarpered. I combed the streets, then spotted him on Exchange Street, then got blocked by a bin wagon. Ditched the car, ran … fucking lost him … sorry, boss.'

‘You win some,' Henry said. ‘I wonder why he was walking around the town centre.'

‘Dunno, I'm just sorry I couldn't grab him …'

‘He's likely to be elusive … he won't be easy to nail or catch.' But why was he strolling around town? Henry wondered again. Was it possible he had digs around here? It wasn't unknown for felons to get their heads down in some grotty bedsit in Blackpool.

‘That's if it was him,' Woodcock said. ‘Bloody looked like him.'

Henry gazed around. ‘Any CCTV in this part of town?'

‘No,' Woodcock said sharply. Then more softly, ‘No … don't think so.'

‘Pity … just check to see if there is. You never know … could strike lucky.' Henry patted the DCI on the shoulders. ‘Never mind, mate.'

Having got his breath back, Woodcock stood upright and asked, ‘How did you go on at Lottie's?'

‘Er … not sure really … got some recent photos on a digital camera which I'll get printed and enlarged … might be nothing.'

‘And old man Archie?'

‘Didn't get round to see him. Might be tomorrow now … I'll give you a lift back to your car.'

S
teve Flynn was naked.

He stood in the centre of the cell.

The door opened and he glared at the gaoler, who noted the expression and hesitated slightly.

‘Señor,' the gaoler said, tossing a bundle on to the floor. ‘Put these on.'

Flynn glanced down at what looked like a roll of rags, then devilishly back at the gaoler, who retreated quick-time and slammed the cell door shut, leaving Flynn alone in the semi-darkness, the only light cast by a dim, flickering bulb behind toughened frosted glass over the door.

He picked up the pile. It was a very old pair of prison dungarees and they looked as if they hadn't seen washing powder for years. They were grey to start with, a slash of hi-viz neon yellow across the chest and back, and the lack of cleaning did nothing to help that colour.

Flynn peered into the crutch. It was soiled, marked with dried shit.

Much of Flynn's self-respect had already evaporated with the invasive strip search he'd had to endure and to some extent he was past caring, but there was no way he was going to dress in shit-soiled clothing. His own had been seized for scientific examination and he would probably never see it again, he assumed.

He dropped the dungarees, stepped over to the wall and jammed the heel of his hand on the ‘call' button set into the cell wall, and didn't release it. He could hear it ringing somewhere in the cell complex.

‘At least it's annoying someone,' he muttered, his rage starting to rise again.

Footsteps approached along the cell corridor, then the inspection flap in the cell door clattered open and the round, moustachioed face of the gaoler appeared. ‘Si?'

Flynn pointed at the dungarees and said, ‘Not. Wearing. Them. Shit. On. Them.' Then he added, ‘Sucio,' meaning ‘dirty'.

The gaoler pouted. ‘Y?'

‘Limpio – por favor,' Flynn said.
Clean, please
.

The gaoler harrumphed with annoyance. ‘Por qué?'

‘Porque sucio.'

The hatch slid up and slammed shut. Then the gaoler's footsteps began to recede and Flynn slammed his hand back on the call button again – but this time nothing happened. The gaoler had obviously deactivated the button from the outside of the cell.

‘Bastard,' he hissed and started to smash the side of his fist on the cell door, but eventually gave up, twisted his back to the cell wall and slithered down so his naked buttocks were on the cold, hard concrete floor. He rested his forehead on his drawn-up knees and wrapped his arms around his shins.

Having arrived at the police station in Puerto Rico he had been almost instantly transferred to the main police station for the island in Las Palmas where he had been roughly manhandled throughout the whole process, but acquiesced silently with the farce that was his arrest and detention. Then his clothing had been taken from him, he'd been full body searched – which included having to part his arse cheeks and display his anus to the searching officers – then been tossed into a stinking cell, the toilet in which was blocked with evil smelling faeces and toilet paper.

It was a grim place, but Flynn knew he could put up with it.

He had been given no rights, no phone calls, no offer of a lawyer and nothing to eat or drink, but he was pretty sure that was par for the course. He knew that Spanish cops still operated with impunity and dealing with a suspected double murderer clearly meant it was OK to deny rights, humiliate and rough handle him.

Flynn didn't care. He knew he could hack it.

He raised his head as footsteps came along the corridor. Two people approaching. Flynn could already recognize the ones belonging to the gaoler; the other set he did not know, but guessed they belonged to the detective, Romero. The key went into the lock, the cell door creaked open.

Flynn was right. Romero stepped into the cell. Flynn stayed where he was, just looked sceptically at his captor.

‘Señor Flynn – you have a complaint about the clothing we have provided?'

‘Literally, it's shit up.'

Romero tutted. He walked into the centre of the cell where the dungarees had been dumped and pretended to look at them, as if he hadn't known what state they were in. Flynn guessed this might be an olive branch moment, the showing of some compassion.

Romero's face turned angrily from the soiled clothing to the diminutive gaoler. There then followed a heated exchange in Spanish that Flynn struggled to understand, although he got the gist. At the end of a short rant from Romero, the gaoler looked crestfallen. Romero turned back to Flynn and reverted to English.

‘You have my most apologies about this, it is not right. These clothes are disgusting and I will ensure they are replaced immediately.'

Flynn continued to regard him unimpressed, not taken in by the sudden kindness.

‘Your welfare is paramount, Señor Flynn,' Romero cooed.

Flynn grunted and stifled what would have been a very loud guffaw.

Romero threw the dirty dungarees at the gaoler, who caught them delicately and scurried away.

‘We need you to be comfortable, for interrogation,' Romero said.

One of Flynn's eyebrows arched high. ‘Interrogation – or interview?'

‘Are they not the same beast?'

‘Hardly. Interrogation smacks of fingernails being pulled out – you know, like they did when Spain was ruled by fascists. Third World torture. Interviews search for the truth.'

Romero considered Flynn and his words, then said, ‘Whichever is suitable.' He gave Flynn a dangerous grin.

‘Never mind,' Henry commiserated again. ‘You win some …'

They were back in the MIR, in Henry's office.

‘I'm just gutted,' Woodcock said, still shaking from the exertion, but took a swig of tea from the mug Henry had made for him. ‘I'm certain it was him.'

‘Wonder what the hell he was doing strolling through Blackpool?' Henry pondered out loud – again.

‘Christ knows.'

‘I'll get someone to check CCTV footage,' Henry said. Woodcock looked at him sharply. ‘Yeah,' Henry conceded, ‘I know there isn't much coverage where you spotted him, but there's a rake of cameras all the way from the railway station into town. Maybe one of them picked him up.'

Woodcock looked doubtful. ‘I'll get that checked, if you want? After all, it was my mess.'

‘OK, that'd be good.'

‘So you didn't get to see Archie, then?' Woodcock said, changing the subject.

‘No; like I said, I'll catch up with him tomorrow. One cop a day's probably enough for him anyway.'

The DCI nodded his agreement to this course of action.

‘Oh – everything wasn't a total loss, though.' He pulled out the camera he had taken from Lottie's bedroom. ‘I rushed out with this, need to give them a receipt, mustn't forget … it was on her desk in her bedroom.' Henry switched it on and Woodcock came to stand by his shoulder. ‘Photos of her and Percy on a trip to Florida.' Henry flicked through them. ‘Mostly just of each other, but there is one …' Henry continued to flick through the images, also seeing some of high, remote looking cliffs that didn't seem to look like Florida at all. When Jerry Tope walked in the two higher ranking officers glanced up, then returned to their task, paying him no real heed. ‘Here, this looks interesting.' He held the camera so Woodcock could see the screen properly.

‘Lottie on a fishing boat?' Woodcock said.

‘Yeah – but the guy behind her in the shadow, in the cockpit or whatever they call the bit where the steering wheel is …'

Woodcock peered at the image, pouted. ‘Nah … what about him?'

Henry looked again. ‘I thought … dunno …'

‘Want me to look?' Jerry Tope ventured.

Henry held out the phone for him and he took his turn. Henry saw the subtle change in expression on the DC's face. His eyes widened, then he looked at Henry. ‘I know who that is!'

Henry waited for the revelation.

‘Do
you
?' Tope said.

‘Just tell me,' Henry said crossly.

‘Well …'

‘Don't screw me about.'

‘If I was a betting man – which I'm not, but if I was – I'd lay good money down on that being Jack Hoyle.'

The next pair of dungarees was straight out of the packet. As clean as they'd been made and straight from the factory, probably some grubby sweat shop in a Madrid back street. The only problem was that they were about three sizes too small for the tall, wide, muscular Steve Flynn. Years hauling in big fish such as marlin, with his feet jammed against the foot rail of the fighting chair in the stern of
Faye
, had built up his thighs to be wide and muscular in a natural way and he knew as soon as he started pulling the garment on that it was going to be a very tight squeeze. The material and seams almost screamed their displeasure. It did not help either that they were about six inches too short.