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Henry eyed what looked like a bombsite, in actual fact the rubble that remained of a row of shops systematically demolished by the youth of the estate and never rebuilt. That meant to buy anything, get a haircut or a newspaper, people had to leave the estate. Henry knew a lot of residents had started buying online from supermarkets and having orders delivered to their doors. That too had become a problem, because Henry also knew that in the past month, four supermarket delivery vans had been ambushed on the estate and emptied of their contents.

‘Next right, we're there … it's on the left,' Henry directed Donaldson.

He stopped outside the Costain homestead, two semi-detached council houses knocked together to form one very large house to accommodate the sprawling generations of the family. A black Mercedes Viano was parked outside.

Henry re-read the message from Gran Canaria, then slid out of the car with Donaldson, leaving Tope in the back seat.

Henry eyed his friend.

‘I'm gonna be your shadow,' Donaldson said.

‘Right,' Henry said. He walked to the front door and rapped on it with his knuckles. A cop-knock.

Footsteps, then the door opened and Henry was greeted with the sight of one of the most stunning women he had ever seen. Cherry Taylor had been the long-time girlfriend of Runcie Costain, briefly head of the clan before his short reign came to a tragic end in a hail of bullets from a rival gang. Cherry, it seemed, was still part of the furniture.

She was in her late thirties, but a raven-haired beauty who had been a stripper, lap dancer and hooker in the past. She was wearing tight cut-off jeans and a baggy, low cut top, and her hair and make-up were all mussed up as though she had just got out of bed.

Scowling, she flattened her hair and spoke to Henry, whom she recognized instantly.

‘Didn't I show you my fanny last time we met?'

‘You certainly did, Cherry, and a marvellous sight it was,' he said, recalling the moment when, just as a tease, she had presented her finely shaved pubic area to Henry, with the promise of a freebie. He had been impressed, but declined the offer – not least because he had been in hot pursuit of Runcie at that very moment.

‘Wanna see it again?' She grinned lewdly.

‘I'll pass,' Henry said.

‘So whaddya want, copper man?'

Henry squinted up at her. She was quite tall to start with and was standing on the threshold, one step above him. ‘May we come in, Cherry? I have something … delicate … to discuss.'

She eyed him suspiciously. ‘You're not gonna bust me?'

‘No – promise.'

‘OK, then, why not?' She spun like a lap dancer and led the way in.

Just before Henry followed, Donaldson leaned over his shoulder and whispered, ‘You never cease to amaze me.'

Henry gave him a knowing wink.

Flynn had sat in his cell all day in the tight dungarees. His drunken cellmate had sobered up, was sick, then was yanked out of the cell never to be seen again, leaving Flynn alone. The blocked-up toilet was never attended to but Flynn was given the concession of being allowed to use one along the cell corridor next to the shower block, where he had to sit and perform under the scrutiny of a gaoler. Then he was banged up again with the overflowing sewage and a slowly flooding cell floor.

He closed his eyes and dozed, leaning back against the cold wall, drawing his knees up to his chin.

The cell door creaked open and Romero stood there, his nose twitching with disgust. He gave Flynn a thumbs-up gesture.

‘You're free to leave, amigo.'

The lounge had a more modern look to it than Henry remembered, even had a bar in the corner. He recalled horse brasses adorning the walls, lots of nods and winks to the alleged gypsy heritage. Leather chairs, thick carpets. They had all gone. The carpet had been replaced by laminate flooring and the furniture was much more functional and up to date, something like IKEA might do. It seemed a practical upgrade to Henry as he stepped into the living room, which was divided from the dining room beyond with new sliding doors that met in the middle.

Cheryl took up a position in the centre of the room and turned to face Henry and Donaldson. She had fierce green eyes (though they had a hint of mischief about them) and Henry got the feeling she could be very intimidating and forceful, especially when she was fully awake.

‘So what have we done this time, officer?'

‘Nothing, I don't think, unless you want to admit to something now and save time.' Under the circumstances Henry knew he should not have been so facetious, but the Costains did have a bad effect on him and he instinctively rose to them.

Cheryl shook her head. ‘Can't resist, can you?'

‘No,' he admitted. ‘Look, Cheryl, I need to speak to an actual member of the Costains, a grown-up fully functioning member I can have a serious conversation with … no disrespect, but is that possible?'

She pouted demurely.

Henry heard some movement in the dining room, behind the sliding doors, a kind of whirring noise. Then it stopped and another whirring noise began, rather like an electric motor, then the doors opened slowly, rather like a stage curtain, revealing the dining room beyond.

They also revealed the very old man sitting in a state of the art wheelchair, who said with a slight Irish lilt, ‘I may not be fully functioning, but I'm grown up and a member of the Costain family – so do I meet your criteria, detective?'

F
lynn emerged into the warmth at the end of a Gran Canarian day, having had most of his property returned but no offer to take him home, nor any real explanation as to why he was released, just a fudging, ‘We're still investigating and no doubt I will be speaking to you again shortly,' from Romero. ‘I shall keep your passport, and we have not finished with your car yet and will keep your mobile phone too and, of course, your clothing.'

The detective waved Flynn's passport under his nose.

‘Where did you get that from?'

‘A search of your home address—'

‘Which revealed?' Flynn asked.

‘Who knows?' Romero said mysteriously. Flynn knew: nothing.

‘Am I on bail, then?'

‘No, but you cannot leave the country.'

‘So I'm not a free man?'

‘Semantics, as ever, Mr Flynn. You are free to go about your business, but not free to leave Gran Canaria.'

Flynn had started to protest until Romero held up a finger and said, ‘If you wish to be a guest of the Spanish justice system, then that can be arranged. I'm investigating a double murder and you still are the prime suspect, but until my scientific results come back …' He shrugged.

Flynn scurried out of the police station, feeling an argument over the matter would not go his way.

Stepping into freedom he reflected that he had been unaware up to that point just how good it felt – even if it looked as though he would be thumbing a lift home because, as he flicked through his wallet, he saw that the twenty euros that had been in it were gone. He wondered how easy it would be to cadge a lift dressed in tight-fitting dungarees, no shirt, no underwear, no shoes. Knowing some people who lived in Puerto Rico, Flynn thought there could easily be a queue forming of very nice men who were willing to pick him up.

He stood still and raised his face to the low sun, now desperate for a drink and some food. Problem was a lack of funds, and not really knowing anyone in Las Palmas.

He was about to step off the kerb when a car pulled in. It was Karen's beat-up Fiat Panda with the roll-top roof and rickety windows that wouldn't quite close.

‘Flynn,' she called, leaning across and opening the passenger door. He leaned in and she took in his chest bulging against the too tight top of the dungarees. ‘Get in or you'll have the whole gay population of the island baying for your body. Let me take you home.'

As much as he was a tough guy, a wave of relief flooded through him and he dropped into the passenger seat with a sigh. ‘God, it's good to see you … how did you know …?'

‘Adam's been on to them all day and they finally let him know you'd be released at this time.'

‘Good man,' he said.

Karen sniffed up. ‘You've got a bit of a whiff about you,' she said, wafting her hand in front of her face.

‘You should smell the other guy.'

‘What say a shower and food and drink, then a bit of storytelling?' she suggested, pulling the Panda into traffic, doing a hairy U-turn and heading back towards Puerto Rico.

‘Sounds good.'

She drove on to the GC1 and floored the little car. Then she said, ‘Did you?'

‘Did I what?'

‘You know, Steve. Don't play games with me. Adam's been to-ing and fro-ing all day, trying to get you out, pleading your innocence with that nasty detective, who is convinced you killed them, even if he can't prove it.'

Flynn shook his head. ‘They were dead when I got there. If I had killed them I wouldn't have hung around long enough to get locked up, trust me.'

‘So you didn't?' Karen looked at him fearfully.

‘No I didn't, darling.'

She held his gaze for a moment, tears filling her eyes – until a movement caught Flynn's peripheral vision. He grabbed the steering wheel and yanked it down. With a howl of its horn the other car swerved but at least there was no collision, and they also avoided ploughing into the back of the truck ahead of them.

‘Eyes front,' Flynn ordered.

Henry looked at the old man, amazed at how shrivelled and prune-like his skin was. His hands, controlling and manoeuvring the wheelchair, were arthritic and gnarled and looked extremely creepy. But he was dressed immaculately in a tweed jacket and bow tie with brown brogues on his unmoving feet. He edged the wheelchair through into the lounge and Henry now understood why the carpets had been replaced by laminate – to allow this machine and its occupant to drive from room to room without snagging on pesky shag pile.

He drew the machine up in front of Henry and slowly held out one of the shrivelled hands.

‘My name is Liam Costain.'

Henry took the twig-like hand and shook it, believing he could have crushed it without any great show of strength.

‘Don't believe we've ever had the pleasure,' Costain said.

‘Detective Superintendent Christie.'

‘Ah yes, I have heard of you, in a very negative context where my family is concerned.' The old man's grey eyes twinkled.

‘Really?' Henry said, taking an instant dislike to the weird guy, who had a neck like a tortoise and reminded him of a Disney cartoon character whose name evaded his mind at that moment. It would come to him. ‘And what context might that be?'

‘Death,' the old man said. ‘So why are you here, officer?'

Henry fleetingly wondered if he would still be able to draw his pension if he decided to tip him out of his wheelchair.

‘Because I need to speak to an adult relative of Scott Costain.'

‘I am his grandfather. His father was Runcie, whom I believe you knew,' Costain said. ‘Why do you need to speak to someone?'

‘Do you know Scott's present whereabouts?'

‘He's on holiday in the Canary Islands with his girlfriend. Has he been arrested or something silly like that?' Cherry asked.

Henry glanced at Cherry and said, ‘You might want to sit down.'

‘I'll stand.'

‘I've been contacted by the police in Gran Canaria and they have asked me to visit you … I'm very sorry,' Henry said solemnly, ‘but Scott and his girlfriend are dead. There is no easy way to say this, but they have been murdered. I'm sorry.'

And he really was, because as much as he despised the Costains he didn't wish any of them dead, although they seemed quite capable of bringing that on themselves.

‘My God,' said the old man, shaken. ‘I don't believe it.'

‘I'm afraid that's all the information I have. I don't have much detail, but it seems they were murdered at their villa.'

‘Is this a joke, a cop wind-up?' Costain demanded. ‘If so, it's in very poor taste, something that a cop like you, who has his knife very firmly in the ribs of a decent hard working family like ours, would say. Just for fun.'

Henry almost rose to the insinuation. ‘I don't play games, Mr Costain. I'm delivering a genuine message. Scott and his girlfriend have been murdered and I do not like delivering such news to anyone, even your family. What was he doing out there?'

‘Taking a holiday, like I said,' Cherry cut in, sensing the growing tension.

‘Yes, as she already said,' Costain snarled, revealing a very badly fitting set of false teeth that dropped slightly from the gums. ‘What are you implying?'

‘I'm asking a valid question.'

‘It was just a holiday,' Cherry insisted.

‘Most people who go on genuine holidays do not get murdered,' Henry said.

‘I do not like your chain of thought,' Costain said. He jerked the joystick on his wheelchair and the vehicle shot forward and rammed into Henry's shins. It hurt.

‘Ow.' He jumped back, but the old man jerked the stick again and ran into him again. ‘Oi, do that again and I'll tip you out of that chair.'

‘You'd assault a cripple?'

‘Depending on the circumstances.'

‘Well, at least I now know what sort of a man I'm dealing with.'

‘I'm just doing my job, delivering a message on behalf of another police force, that's all. They asked me to ask you what he was doing out there, simple as that.'

Costain reversed the wheelchair away, still staring angrily at Henry.

‘I have a telephone number, a direct line to the detective in charge of the investigation. He speaks good English, I believe, so there won't be a problem with communication. He's called Romero. There is every chance he will want you to travel out there to identify Scott formally.'