Seizure by Nick Oldham Page B

deep-rooted mistrust for Deakin and his motivation. And a sense that the whole thing seemed a bit contrived.
    Although Steve Flynn had never suffered from it, he knew that one of the worst ailments anybody can have is seasickness. The condition is compounded when the sufferer is surrounded by others who are not affected and refuse to offer any form of succour, condolence or hope – and just take the piss instead.
    Flynn glanced down from the flying bridge and sympathized with the sole member of the charter who was hanging over the side of the boat, retching dreadfully on a now empty stomach while his three mates steadfastly refused to listen to his pleas to return to shore. Instead they took it in turns to tell him that to be cured he should sit under a tree. All found this highly amusing except the sick one, who crawled on all fours into the stateroom and flopped on the bed, closing his eyes.
    Not a good move, Flynn knew. The blackness behind the eyelids just made things a whole lot worse. Better to keep moving and concentrate on the horizon.
    However, not his problem – except the sick man had earlier tried to do some fishing, but his state of nausea meant he did not concentrate or care and he managed to ‘bird’s nest’ one of the reels, much to Jose’s anger, who had to put it right. At that moment, the Spaniard was still unpicking the mess with a scowl on his face that made him look as though he was munching gravel.
    Instinctively Flynn knew it was three p.m. Another half-hour, then back to Puerto Rico. Then a night on the town with Gill was his plan. Eat, drink, dance, fuck. The circle of life.
    He smiled contentedly. The last couple of days of trials and tribulations were over. He knew he’d have to give evidence regarding the deaths of the immigrants, but that was way ahead and would be a low-key affair. The Spanish authorities were not overly concerned with the fate of people trying to enter their country illegally and didn’t put much effort into investigating how their deaths came about. Much to Flynn’s relief.
    â€˜Hey, hey, hey!’ screamed one of the trio of fishermen as a line zinged out.
    Flynn got his mind back into gear and reacted.
    He had fish to catch. From the way the line was shifting he could tell it was a barracuda, vicious, nasty – a handful.
    Henry Christie had never bothered to delve too deeply into the theory of the psychology of criminality, even though offenders and their motives did fascinate him. He was more concerned with being the hunter bringing down his prey, and would be the first to acknowledge that he probably allowed the deep-rooted element of his psyche that was still ‘man the hunter’ to manifest itself in his job. He worked on instinct when it came to dealing with people and always believed he could read others well – with the exclusion of women, that is. But he knew crims, knew what made them tick; he knew when he was being lied to and tricked – usually. That had been one of the reasons he’d been a good thief taker in his younger days and an excellent, if flawed, SIO in his later years.
    Which is how he knew he was being twirled by Felix Deakin.
    Problem was, there was no way of proving it.
    It wasn’t anything Deakin had said. He’d uttered all the right words. Nor was it in his body language. He’d used open, reassuring gestures, maintained eye contact without overdoing it, not clamped up, been pleasant . . . so what was it about him?
    Henry pondered. Maybe, he thought, it’s because I simply cannot be swayed to trust a single freaking word that comes out of his mouth.
    And, on reflection, that was probably the root of Henry being a good jack. He started every investigation on the basis that everything he heard was a lie. It was a bit like gathering corn, sorting the wheat from the chaff. Everyone’s a liar until proved different. Even the witnesses.
    There was a flicker of a smile on