But so far he’d been unsuccessful.
This was partly due to having to follow other targets, often selected at whim by the powers-that-be, and Boone was not always the top of that heap.
But one night it all came together. Using information from a snout and other intelligence, Flynn and his team ambushed Boone bringing a consignment into Glasson Dock on his RIB. The operation went well until Boone — heavy smoker that he was, coupled with the excitement of the bust — had a heart attack as he was being put into the back of a police van.
Flynn saved his life, all his first aid training clicking in — cardiac massage, mouth-to-mouth, the full hit.
Flynn’s mouth twitched at the memory. Boone must also have been sharing the flashback as he raised the bottle of Jul-Brew.
‘Thanks for saving my life — in so many ways,’ Boone said gratefully.
‘Could have gone either way,’ Flynn admitted, recalling the mad ambulance journey to Lancaster Royal Infirmary. It took ten minutes but felt like a lifetime.
Flynn visited him often and saw a change in the man who had been so close to death. A heart attack can soften even the toughest men.
‘I know you’ll be on me like a hawk on a sparrow as soon as I’m fit to walk out of here,’ Boone had whispered hoarsely to Flynn during one of his visits. His throat was like sandpaper from the number of tubes that had been inserted and removed from it. ‘Anything I say after that will be on record and I’ll say what you expect me to say — fuck all.’ Flynn had grinned. ‘But I’ve had time to reflect, and when this is all over and I’ve paid my dues, I’m off out of here. Going to live in the sun. Get a new life. You did that for me — gave me that chance, and I thank you.’
‘Plans?’ Flynn had asked.
‘Big ones,’ Boone answered. ‘A life in the sun, sea fishing and maybe a few bits ’n’ bats if necessary. If you know what I mean.’
Flynn knew. ‘Bits and bats’ meant things that were not above board, but what caught Flynn’s attention more than anything was the mention of sea fishing. He was well into the sport and when Boone revealed his plans to up sticks, head for the tropics, buy a boat, he was hooked and despite their positions on opposite sides of the legal fence, they became tentative friends.
And Boone kept his word.
At Crown Court he received a ten year prison sentence and was out in 2007. By using a stash of money the police had failed to find (and to be honest, Flynn hadn’t tried that hard to find it), he headed south never to be heard of again, paying for the Ba-Ba-Gee to be shipped down with him.
Flynn got a phone call from him a couple of years later. Boone had heard about Flynn’s inauspicious departure from the police, suspected — but never proved — to have stolen a million pounds worth of drug money from Felix Deakin, another big time drug dealer, RIP. By that time, Flynn had also gone south, tail between his legs, skippering a sportfishing boat out of Puerto Rico on Gran Canaria. The men had met up a couple of times and Boone insisted on Flynn coming down to the Gambia, where he had relocated, to spend a few days tarpon fishing in the river estuary.
Flynn had persuaded his boss, the actual owner of Faye2, to allow him to use the boat, take a holiday and visit Boone so he could check out the commercial viability of fishing in the Gambia.
It had been utterly fantastic.
He and Boone had spent the day of Flynn’s arrival fighting huge tarpon and Flynn could see the possibility of running some sort of operation down here, although the weather was always hot and sticky, more so than the Canaries.
‘Do you know how much this place cost?’ Boone said, handing Flynn another chilled beer. Flynn pouted and shook his head.
‘One.’
‘What? One thousand?’
‘No — one. One pound.’
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.