Nick Oldham - Instinct

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.

As the meal finished Boone’s mobile phone rang. He excused himself and wandered down to the front of the houseboat where a muttered conversation took place, leaving Michelle and Flynn at the table, sipping wine. She produced the chocolates Flynn had bought for her.

‘Do you have a wife?’ she asked him directly.

‘Er…’ He was slightly taken aback by the question out of the blue. ‘Did have… went very wrong.’

‘But you must have someone,’ she insisted politely. ‘A man like you.’

‘Did have. That went wrong, too.’

At the far end of the boat, Boone said in a loud voice, ‘What, now?’ into his mobile. Flynn and Michelle glanced down at him, then looked at each other.

‘Is there someone — at all?’ she asked, still probing.

His face screwed up. ‘Nah. I think I might be past settling down now anyway. Not many women would put up with me. Too selfish.’

‘It’s good to share your life with someone. I really love Boone. We’ll get married I expect and live on the Ba-Ba-Gee.’ She spoke with heart-warming simplicity.

‘I truly hope so,’ Flynn said. He didn’t wish to dash her hopes but he thought Boone had a wife back in the UK. He smiled warmly at Michelle and selected a Turkish delight from the chocolates.

Boone returned, clearly agitated, phone conversation over. He shook the phone. ‘Pal, I’m really sorry about this. Bit of urgent business needing attention.’

‘Bits ’n’ bats?’ Flynn ventured.

At eleven p.m. that night, Henry Christie was in a bleak mood as he walked into his kitchen and went through each cupboard for the fourth time since arriving home. Once again, there was nothing in them, certainly nothing that appealed to him.

He still hadn’t changed, was still wearing the same clothes he’d been in since two thirty that morning when he’d been turned out to the murder of Natalie Philips. Many, many hours ago. A day which had seen him freeze at the scene of that murder (like a ‘numb twat’, he kept castigating himself), then get his act together, only to find himself on a wind-battered motorway dealing with a serious incident that had no connection whatsoever with the earlier murder.

He bent over to open the fridge door, then went light-headed as he stood upright again, stepping back a pace to keep his balance. He needed food. Behind the knife rack, the unofficial pending tray for letters delivered to his house, was also a menu for a local Chinese restaurant, one that he and Kate ordered takeouts from regularly. He hadn’t used it since she had died and unfolded it slowly whilst walking back into the lounge. He sat down and looked at the third-filled tumbler of Jack Daniel’s, still untouched, but tempting. He picked up the phone as he flicked through the menu and settled on his old favourite. Nothing fancy, just a chicken curry. They both liked the same and would order two, one with boiled rice, the other with chips and a bag of prawn crackers. They’d split the rice and chips and scoff the lot in front of the TV.

Henry looked around the lounge. It was deathly quiet. Leanne was out, so he was alone in the house. He could hear the wind outside. He looked through the menu again and decided to plump for something he’d never tried before, otherwise he’d just end up wallowing in the self-pity of what had once been. He placed the order by phone and was told it would be twenty minutes before it was ready. In that case, he thought, I’ll have a drive round in my new car.

As he opened the front door, Leanne was coming up the driveway with her boyfriend. She halted abruptly, surprised by Henry’s appearance. She and the man were obviously sneaking up to the house.

‘Dad! I thought you’d be in bed.’

‘Well I’m not.’ Henry’s cold eyes turned to the man. ‘What’s he doing here?’

‘We… we… uh, made up,’ Leanne stuttered.

‘This man has caused you endless grief,’ he said, his eyes still locked on to his prey. ‘And if you think he’s coming under my roof, you’re one off.’ He now moved his gaze to his daughter. ‘Your relationships aren’t my business, but I know a shitbag when I see one.’

‘Oi,’ the young man said warningly.

Henry’s head jerked back to him. ‘I’m not going to argue about it, but he isn’t coming in here — end of. I’m going for a takeout. I’ll be back very soon and he’d better not be here.’ Henry walked towards the pair, stopping shoulder to shoulder with the young man, who was fit and broad, but had no real scare factor about him. ‘And,’ Henry said, ‘no one “Oi’s” me at my house.’ He bustled past and got into his car, feeling a bit of a shitbag himself at his outburst. But also unrepentant. He didn’t like the guy and whilst Leanne was old enough to make her own mistakes, he still felt a certain parental responsibility towards her. It was odd, though, that she could not see what an out-and-out bastard the boyfriend was, yet he could. Why was life like that?

He reversed the Mercedes off the driveway and burned a bit of rubber to emphasize his disapproval. As he hit the roads of Blackpool, he exhaled, took a mental chill-pill and concluded that a ten minute tootle up the prom might give him chance for reflection on what had been, in Henry’s own words, ‘One hell of a fucking day.’

In complete contrast to the way in which his brain had imploded at the scene of Natalie Philips’s murder, Henry had remained clinical and professional on the motorway.