Nick Oldham - Instinct

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.’