Seizure by Nick Oldham Page A

rubbing his oily hands with a rag. He’d seen Flynn take the call and witnessed the unusual reaction to it. He watched him with a faintly concerned frown – but not too concerned.
    Flynn was stunned. His son Craig was on the phone, completely out of the blue. The son he hadn’t officially been allowed to speak to for almost four years. All contact had been via furtive, occasional phone calls like this one. Craig, now fourteen years old. Flynn clamped his eyes tight shut and tried to imagine what he might look like. Fourteen, a young man growing up fast. He opened his eyes and a tear balanced in the corner of them, blurring his vision.
    â€˜Dad, you OK?’
    God, the voice, so grown up.
    Flynn, as though struck by a demolition ball, struggled to control himself. ‘Yeah, Craig, course I am. It’s just such a . . . pleasure to hear your voice. How are you? Is there something wrong?’
    â€˜No Dad, I just wanted to speak to you.’
    â€˜Does your mum . . .?’ Flynn started to ask, but didn’t even have to complete the question.
    â€˜No,’ Craig whispered conspiratorially, two thousand miles to the north. ‘She doesn’t know I’m calling you. She’d have a hissy if she did . . . I saw you on telly, being interviewed about those immigrants, y’know? Dad, it was really magic to see you.’ Craig’s voice crackled with either static or emotion, Flynn couldn’t quite tell. ‘I still miss you, Dad. I love you.’
    â€˜Yeah.’ Flynn’s voice definitely crackled. ‘Love you, too.’
    â€˜Er . . .’ Craig hesitated, not knowing what to say next, a fourteen-year-old boy not used to making small talk to adults, Flynn guessed.
    â€˜Hey – did you get my Chrissy present?’
    â€˜What? No . . . Mum said you didn’t send any.’ The bitch. Flynn nearly chewed the end off his tongue. He kept his voice level.
    â€˜Gotta go – she’s coming,’ Craig said hurriedly. ‘Love you, Dad.’ Then the phone went dead.
    Flynn was gutted. He stared at his phone, then eased out a long breath.
    â€˜You OK, gringo ?’ Jose asked.
    â€˜That was my son,’ Flynn said proudly. He smiled and gave a short laugh, suddenly so pleased they’d spoken. ‘Maybe some good has come from the TV appearances after all,’ he gushed and punched the air with a whoop.
    â€˜You know I can’t discuss any points of the case with you,’ Naomi Dale said sternly to Barry Baron. ‘To reveal the prosecution evidence would be unethical.’
    â€˜But we all know your case will go to rats if you can’t prove a direct link to Cain and Swann – otherwise it’s all circumstantial.’
    â€˜I’m not at liberty to say.’ She gave Baron an even harder glare.
    â€˜OK, have it your way. But what if I was to say that my client’s testimony will prove that Cain knew Swann, knew him personally and knew him well?’
    â€˜It would have to be direct evidence, evidence of what Mr Deakin saw or heard Cain do, not circumstantial. Otherwise we’re wasting time.’
    Deakin cut in. ‘I’ve been in Cain’s presence on numerous occasions when Swann was also there. Just three of us on several occasions. I can give evidence that he knew Swann, that Swann worked for him, went boozing with him, went away for a weekend with him once. And that Cain even once told me he suspected Swann of skimming from him and if he ever found out for certain, he’d kill him . . . which he obviously did.’
    The revelation stunned Naomi. She tensed up and for once her prosecutor’s composure deserted her. She came upright and shot Henry a look of excitement.
    Henry, on the other hand, remained cool and unsettled. Maybe it was because he wasn’t involved in the case personally and was somewhat detached from it. In fact he felt nothing, other than a