Nick Oldham - Facing Justice

‘And me for you,’ he promised.

But then that little moment of tenderness was shattered by Jose’s booming Spanish-accented voice. ‘Big one, boss!’

Flynn looked up. Two hundred metres off the stern of the boat was almost certainly the biggest, and the last, blue marlin of the season, rolling magnificently through the waves. Flynn jumped into action and with his skill as the best skipper in the Canaries — something he rarely let Jose forget — took the bait to the fish and brought in a seven hundred pounder that had the newly married Tom fighting a battle that lasted almost two hours.

Halfway though the contest, Flynn had said to Cathy, ‘I hope you weren’t planning any conjugals tonight. After this I don’t think he’ll be able to lift a pint, let alone… you know.’

‘In that case he’ll have to lie there and take it — just like you used to do.’ Cathy laughed lustily and screamed with glee as the magnificent fish leapt a dozen feet out of the blue sea in an effort to shake loose the steel hook. Its muscular body writhed and twisted before it fell back into the water and dived deep into the ocean.

Flynn blinked himself back to the present day as his seafood paella arrived, decorated with pink langoustines, still in the shell. Flynn took one, burning his fingers, cracked open the hinged body to access the lovely white flesh within. With the assistance of another beer, he wolfed down the dish, then sat back to let it settle.

It was slightly cooler now, a breeze getting up, but still plenty warm to sit out, something rare in the UK, he thought, even in summer.

His mobile rang.

‘Steve Flynn.’

‘Flynnie… Flynnie… oh, thank God I got you.’

‘Cathy? What the heck’s going on? I tried to call you back loads of times. Are you all right, love?’

He heard her choke. ‘No, no, not really.’

‘What’s up then?’

‘Steve, can you come back? I know it’s a big ask… but I need to talk to you. I need a friend I can trust.’

‘Cathy, what is it?’

‘Look, I can’t talk over the phone. Steve, it’s Tom.’

‘Is he OK?’

‘Flynnie, I don’t know who to turn to.’

‘Cathy, what’s happening?’ he asked firmly.

‘I think… I know… oh, God…’

‘What do you know?’

‘Flynnie, I think Tom’s on the take.’ She paused. ‘I mean big style. He’s a bent cop.’

It was one of those slightly potty middle-aged-man ideas that usually don’t get anywhere. A product of a conversation loosened by alcohol which no one took seriously at the time but which planted a seed and was remembered.

The main problems were of logistics, workload and opportunity.

Both men were horrendously busy.

Henry Christie, as joint head of FMIT, had many serious enquiries to oversee, committees and working parties to attend nationally and locally. All that in itself would have been fine if the world stood still, but it didn’t, it continued to revolve relentlessly. People did not stop murdering others; long-running investigations didn’t suddenly get cleared up and there was always some new initiative that needed the presence of someone at Henry’s rank to make it happen.

Karl Donaldson, Henry’s American friend, worked as an FBI legal attache at the US embassy in London. He, too, was overwhelmed with work. Fundamentally he was an analyst and liaison officer, making and forging links between law enforcement agencies across Europe, from the UK to Russia. At the same time he often made forays into the field, sometimes finding himself in dangerous situations, whether coming face to face with a wanted terrorist or dealing with corrupt factions in his own organization.

The two men had first met over a dozen years before. Their paths had crossed when Donaldson, then a full-time FBI field agent, was investigating American mob activity in the north-west of England. Henry, then a detective sergeant, had encountered the Yank when an investigation he was pursuing became explosively intertwined with Donaldson’s. They had made friends hesitantly at first, but as their personal and professional lives continued to criss-cross over the years, they became good pals.

It also helped that Donaldson had met, fallen in love with and subsequently married a Lancashire policewoman. Even though she had subsequently transferred to the Metropolitan Police to be near Donaldson’s work in London, her northern connections often brought the both of them up past Watford regularly. His wife, Karen, also became good friends with Henry’s on-off-and-on wife, Kate.

A couple of months earlier, Donaldson had been in Lancashire on business — something hush-hush he could not even begin to reveal to Henry — and when it was completed he had stayed on at Henry’s for a couple of nights. On one of those nights, they had hit Henry’s local, the recently refurbished Tram amp; Tower.

They’d reminisced over a few pints, Donaldson becoming increasingly garrulous after his intake: he was a big man, six-four, as broad as a bear, but he couldn’t hold his drink. Anything over two pints and he started to lose control. Henry, on the other hand, raised in the seventies and eighties culture of the cops, always remained steady, although he didn’t actually drink much these days as he grew older.

‘Y’know, man,’ Donaldson slur-drawled in his soft American accent, ‘I love ya, man.’

They were seated in one of the newly constructed alcoves of the pub, chatting and paying passing attention to the newly introduced ‘Kwiz Nite’ hosted by the landlord, Ken Clayson.

Henry squinted at Donaldson’s revelation.

‘No, I mean, you’re a guy who’s always on the edge, but I kinda like that.’

‘Right.’ Henry drew out the word.

‘Hey! You thought about having any more kids?’

Now Henry screwed up his face. ‘That’s a resounding no.’

‘God, I can’t wait,’ Donaldson said, misty-eyed. He had — accidentally — made Karen pregnant but now he couldn’t wait to be a father again, even though they already had two kids who were just into their teens.

‘I’m too old, and so is Kate,’ Henry said. ‘We’ve only just got rid of the two daughters as it is — and they keep bouncing back like they’re on elastic bands. It’s chill time, pal.’

‘Karen’s no spring chicken,’ Donaldson pointed out.

‘How gentlemanly,’ Henry remarked. ‘Is everything going OK?’

‘Aw, hell yeah. Child-bearing hips, y’know. She’s blooming — and the pregnant sex is awesome.’

‘Whoa.’ Henry made the number one stop sign. ‘Too much. Anyway, glad to hear things are fine, but it’ll put the brakes on everything else,’ he warned his companion.

Donaldson sipped his third lager ruminatively. ‘Guess so.’ His voice was wistful. Then, ‘Hey! I have an idea.’

‘Go on.’

‘Before she gives birth, how about you and me sneaking away for a night or two of debauchery? Wet the baby’s head before it arrives.’

‘If I recall, the last time you were off the leash, you debauched a little too much.’

Donaldson looked sheepishly at Henry, his mind full of the one and only time he had been unfaithful to Karen. In a hotel room in Malta with a Scandinavian lady who had subsequently bombarded and terrified him with obscene e-mails with photographic attachments. ‘I was thinkin’ more of a guy thing. Not sure what, though.’

‘Whatever, it would have to be short and sweet, I guess. How about a walk and an overnighter?’

‘A walk? Do you walk?’

‘I’ve been known to put one foot in front of the other occasionally. We could set off over the hills one day, overnight in a village pub somewhere, then walk on. Park a car at either end, something like that.’