Facing Justice Read Online Free PDF Page B

sidled up to him, out of sight and earshot of Tom. She was down to a skimpy bikini and her body was still slim, yet plump in all the right places – just as Flynn remembered it all those years before. She gave him a loving hug and whispered into his ear, ‘Oh, what could have been.’
    â€˜I reckon you’ve got a good man,’ Flynn said, trying to hide the rush of blood her proximity had given him.
    â€˜Yeah, I have. He’s a good man, you’re right.’ She glanced over at Tom who was harnessed in the fighting chair, being attended to by Jose. Then her face turned to Flynn. ‘Thanks for this,’ she said.
    â€˜It’s what friends are for.’
    â€˜I just wish you were as happy.’
    Flynn chortled. ‘One day I will be.’
    â€˜Good. I hope so, Flynnie.’ She touched his face gently with her fingertips. ‘Always be there for you, y’know, y’ big lug.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Steve Flynn.’
    â€˜Flynnie . . . Flynnie . . . oh, thank God I got you.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜What’s up then?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Cathy, what is it?’
    â€˜Look, I can’t talk over the phone. Steve, it’s Tom.’
    â€˜Is he OK?’
    â€˜Flynnie, I don’t know who to turn to.’
    â€˜Cathy, what’s happening?’ he asked firmly.
    â€˜I think . . . I know . . . oh, God . . .’
    â€˜What do you know?’
    â€˜Flynnie, I think Tom’s on the take.’ She paused. ‘I mean big style. He’s a bent cop.’

FOUR
    I t 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