A man got out of the back of the Mercedes and dashed across on to the boat and had a quick conversation with Boone, who then took him inside the cabin. Flynn ducked low, peering around the barrels at the scenario some fifty metres in front of him, which was illuminated by a couple of lamp posts that cast a white, eerie glow on the tableau.
Flynn saw that one of the men lounging against the car had a machine pistol held at an angle across his chest. The wry look on Flynn’s face said it all. What the hell had Boone got himself involved in now? Before he could answer, Boone reappeared on deck. Behind him was the man from the Mercedes supporting another man with a blanket over his shoulders. This was obviously the cargo that Boone had been to collect from God knew where. The man was apparently injured in some way and had to be propped up as he was led across the gangplank into the hands of one of the waiting men, before being placed in the back of the car. Flynn concentrated his vision on the man in the blanket and, just before his head ducked into the car, he got a one second look at his face.
A further mouth-to-ear conversation took place between Boone and the man from the car, then the latter slid into the rear of the vehicle and the other bodyguards — because that’s what Flynn pegged the men as being — climbed into the car, which then set off with a spurt of red dust. He kept out of view as the car spun around in a turning circle, then drove towards him along the narrow road that ran parallel to the quay.
It was a big, battered old Merc. Flynn knew there were plenty knocking around Banjul, either driven as taxis or by gangsters. He instinctively read and memorized the number plate, noted an unusual dent in the rear wing and that the back bumper was twisted out at one corner.
Flynn stood up slowly and strolled towards the boat, whistling tunelessly as though nothing had happened. And maybe it hadn’t, but Flynn was an ex-cop and still had a nose that sniffed out badness. And what he’d just witnessed stank rancid and rank.
Boone was reticent about the job. Flynn didn’t press him, it wasn’t his business. The guy was clearly exhausted by the journey and although he was ecstatic to see Michelle, and ravenously ate the meal she’d prepared for him, he was dead beat and crap company. He hauled himself off to bed within an hour of landing, leaving Michelle and Flynn alone on the deck of the houseboat.
They chatted until the early hours. Usual subjects. Love, life, food, religion… sex. At one thirty Flynn dragged himself up, complimented her on the food and her company, bowed like a gentlemen — having had a little too much to drink — kissed the back of her hand and left.
Twenty minutes later he bedded down on Faye2 in the air-conditioned chill of the stateroom and was deep asleep almost instantly, but not before looking forward to the next day’s fishing out on the estuary, his last day in the Gambia.
TWELVE
Boone had promised Flynn a wonderful day of fishing, then a slap-up meal at one of the beach hotels on the coast followed by a drinking session, after which they would crash out in rooms at the hotel. Then, after breakfast the following morning, they would wave bye-bye. Flynn had to get back to Gran Canaria to prepare Faye2 for the summer season and the marlin runs. He needed to get the boat and his crew, Jose, the sour tempered Spaniard, ready for action.
Flynn woke early, and after a cool shower sat in the fighting chair with a breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast, accompanied by a cafetiere of coffee and a tall glass of chilled orange juice.
He was feeling pretty tranquil. After the ructions of the last couple of years he was sanguine about life ahead. The midnight talks with Michelle had been very beneficial for him; her view of the world, the way she saw into his soul, then reached in and gently massaged what she found.
He sat back with his coffee, raising his face to the tropical heat, smiling. But just for a moment, unaccountably, his thoughts revolved around to Henry Christie of all people. This was the guy Flynn had blamed for hounding him out of the police almost six years ago and who had crashed back into his life a couple of years back at the same time Flynn’s sordid past had intruded.
Flynn shook his head to rid his mind’s eye of Christie, his face now scowling, thinking that if he never met Christie again, it would be too freaking soon.
Flynn grunted, collected his breakfast things, rinsed them off, then hopped on to the quay and started the short walk to Boone’s houseboat. He glanced at the deck of Shell and saw Boone hadn’t mopped the deck properly last night. There were some droplets of blood on the white decking, dried and brown now. Definitely blood, Flynn thought, pausing, recalling what he’d witnessed last night. Flynn couldn’t have known that the injury was a wound of some sort, but the blood confirmed it. His face screwed up, thinking about men with guns and the brief glimpse of the injured man’s face as he got into the car. Flynn had seen him clearly, his eyes as sharp as they’d ever been. So who was he?
He walked on and five minutes later he was at the houseboat, once more amazed at how brilliantly it had been refurbished. Nice one, Boone, Flynn thought, and smiled brightly at the figure of Michelle who was on deck, sipping juice and reading a paperback.
She saw him, tipped back her sunhat and placed the book down. Her smile was radiant and Flynn caught his breath, not for the first time, at her beauty. Nice one, Boone, he thought again. Don’t screw this one up.
Michelle hugged him and he could not stop himself from loving each second of the short embrace, feeling every contour of her body, even though today she was wearing a cut-off T-shirt that showed a few inches of her midriff, and three-quarter length jeans, not one of her wispy dresses.
As they parted, Flynn said, ‘Where is the old rogue?’
‘Gone into town. He said he wouldn’t be long and for you to wait. The fishing will be great, he told me to say.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘Did he mention what he’d been up to?’
Michelle frowned, not quite understanding the question, so Flynn rephrased it slightly. She said, ‘No, he tells me nothing.’ But she did not seem put out by this. Boone was clearly a man with secrets that she was prepared to tolerate. ‘I need to shower,’ she told Flynn and picked at her T-shirt. ‘You relax, make yourself comfortable — help yourself to a drink if you want.’ She smiled and went below.
Flynn was slightly narked at Boone’s absence, having been anticipating a day heaving in tarpon again, but there was nothing he could do other than chill. He heard a door close below decks — the bedroom, he guessed — and after giving Michelle a few moments to get in the shower, he went below with the intention of getting a drink from the fridge.
He helped himself to chilled mineral water and added some fruity cordial, stood there and took a long draught of it. He glanced around the living area and saw a laptop computer on a small desk tucked in one corner, the screen saver pulsing out exploding stars. Flynn wasn’t particularly drawn to computers but he thought he might take this opportunity to check his e-mails. He was expecting one from his son, who he hoped would be visiting him next month in Puerto Rico. He sat in front of the laptop and tapped the enter key. The screen saver disappeared, but a log-in screen appeared asking for a password.
Flynn cursed, sat back and sighed — but spun quickly in the chair when the bedroom door opened and a very naked Michelle stepped out.
‘Oh — jeez, sorry,’ Flynn gasped, trying to avert his eyes.
Michelle stood at the door, completely unfazed by the encounter. ‘You want access to the computer?’
‘I… I… thought I might check my messages.’ Flynn began to rise, but suddenly Michelle was right behind him, leaning over his shoulder, her breasts pressing into his shoulder blades, her amazing scent invading his sense of smell, almost overpowering him in a subtle way. She reached over and her fingers tapped on the keyboard. Flynn froze, certain that Boone would come back at this very moment and witness this little scenario.