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And the smell.

Not that of a dead body – she was far too fresh to smell just yet. The aroma was cordite from the discharge of the weapon.

Flynn swore under his breath as his mouth dried up. He did not move, just remained where he was, looking through his one good eye at the scene of death. He was reluctant to step into the room to see if Scott Costain's body was somewhere just out of sight because he didn't want to spoil any evidence but, more importantly, did not want to taint himself with anything either.

Already, he wanted no connection with this killing.

Even so, he squatted on his haunches to look under the bed and then rose on tiptoes to peer into the en suite, the door of which was slightly open. From where he stood, he could not see Costain. He might not be there anyway, but Flynn thought he'd better check.

Reluctantly he edged around the room, ensuring his trainers did not touch any of the blood splashes.

There was no sign of Costain.

Flynn backtracked out of the room by the same route, gave one last look at the girl's body, his face now angry.

He walked into the hallway and back out of the villa, not touching anything, not closing the door. He was pretty sure he hadn't left his mark on anything.

Outside, he exhaled, not realizing he'd been holding his breath.

His instinct was to run for it, or at least walk very quickly away in a non-suspicious manner.

But the fact that Scott Costain wasn't there troubled him.

Even though Flynn had tagged Scott as a fairly mindless bruiser, he hadn't come across as someone with the wherewithal to murder his girlfriend in cold blood. So where was he?

Not inside the villa, for sure. It was only a single storey building with no upper floor or roof terrace and Flynn had checked the rooms.

Flynn walked to the patio/eating area, beyond which was the small swimming pool – which was where he found the answer to the nagging questions.

Scott Costain was floating face down in the pool, dead. The back of his skull was simply a gaping, ragged crater, reminding Flynn of an opened tin of baked beans with the lid twisted back to reveal the contents. It was a huge exit wound, maybe two bullets having passed through, and the very still pool water was clouded pink. A beautiful blue dragonfly hovered over Costain's busted head, seeming to look down and inspect it. Then, as if repelled by what it saw, it zipped away.

Flynn walked to the edge of the pool and went down on to his haunches again, noticing Costain's gun on the pool floor, the one he'd threatened Flynn with on the boat. He rose, feeling slightly dithery. He was a tough, hard man, but even he was affected by these two brutal deaths and the swirl of thoughts and possibilities mashing through his own head.

It didn't take a genius to work out he could easily be the next one on the list. He had been lucky last night, managed to escape … but two of his abductors were dead and Flynn knew their colleagues would not be likely to let him survive.

He turned, breathed out slowly, having held his breath again. And at that exact moment eight armed cops emerged like ghosts from the bushes around the villa and surrounded him. All dressed in black overalls, ballistic helmets, soft boots; each was carrying an H&K machine pistol and all eight were aimed at Flynn.

One of the cops then screamed instructions at him in Spanish, which he only half heard and understood, but the message was very clear indeed.

Some of the words he knew.

Manos
– hands.
Arriba
– up.

When the instruction was given to the accompaniment of the unmistakable jerk of a weapon's barrel, Flynn got it:
Hands up
.

Then,
En el suelo
– on the ground ground; and
bajar
– down.

Flynn guessed there would be the Spanish equivalent of ‘fucking' somewhere in amongst that – ‘Get down on the (fucking) ground.'

Lento
– slow.

Flynn did not need telling twice, even in Spanish. He raised his hands very slowly, then began to bend his knees and take himself to the ground.

Tumba
– lie down.

He went to his knees, keeping his expression fairly deadpan, then dropped forward on to the palms of his hands.

From that moment it was plain sailing.

Four of the cops then leapt on him, driving him down on to the terrace, pulling his arms behind his back and fastening his wrists with plastic cuffs – and when they had him, they backed off.

Flynn's cheek was on the tiles and he could look up through his good eye.

He recognized the man in plain clothes who threaded his way through the uniforms. Last time Flynn had seen this guy was when he had delivered a message to Flynn, telling him of Gill Hartland's sudden death.

He was a young detective with old eyes, but Flynn could not recall his name.

‘Señor Flynn,' he said.

‘I don't know what the fuck you're …'

The detective placed a finger over his lips. ‘Shhh … you are under arrest for murder, señor … double murder.'

He was transported to the police station in Puerto Rico, sitting snugly between two burly uniformed cops in the back seat of a big saloon car, his hands now cuffed on his lap. The car was driven by an equally burly uniformed cop and the detective, who was called Romero, sat in the front passenger seat. They had Flynn hemmed in and he sat there silent and sullen, trying to work out his plan of action.

First problem was that Romero had not been specific about which double murder Flynn had been arrested for. Two guys up in a villa in the mountains, or Scott Costain and Trish?

Flynn would wait for Romero to iron out that point.

Second problem was that he was in the custody of the Spanish police, and despite the fact that Spain was a fully paid up member of the European Union and its constitution and all the things that went with that – such as human rights – horror stories still came screaming from the cells and sometimes people who had been arrested languished for a very long time without charge or reason, and got forgotten about.

As the car dropped into Puerto Rico Flynn glanced across to the marina, shook his head despondently and wondered when he would next set foot aboard
Faye
, or see Karen Glass again.

The car wound down the hill. Flynn blinked with surprise when he saw that the low-loader with the damaged Lamborghini was still parked up near the police station, and he wondered if they were going to try and stick that one on him, too. The police car turned into the secure rear yard of the station and the gates closed automatically behind.

Flynn was now definitely where he did not want to be – ensconced in the Spanish justice system.

I
t was a tough four hours, by the end of which Henry was drained. He had sat through many post mortems in his long career and had never had any great problem dealing with them. He had found that the secret was to be interested in what was happening and learn something, not to be afraid of the gruesome – which they always were – or the fact that it was a fellow human being lying there on the slab.

If there was anything that bothered him, it was the lingering smell that clung to clothing for days after. That problem was pretty much a thing of the past these days, though. In the more health and safety conscious environment, everyone attending a PM had to be properly kitted out – masks, gloves, smocks – and the smell of death did not get through to the clothing as much.

At the end of this session, however – two dead bodies, two hours each, two intricate examinations – he felt like he'd had enough.

Finally, it had got to him.

He realized it could be a combination of factors such as tiredness, age, that pension hovering there if he wished to take it, the fact that he had only just survived the gunman who had murdered these two people, and his subsequent drenching and boat trip. Lots of things … and a little bird telling him that maybe these should be the last two post mortems he should ever attend.

Professor Baines refitted the rib cage he had earlier removed from Lottie's chest to give him access to her heart, lungs, liver and kidneys. (Although the cause of death was obvious – massive trauma to the brain caused by gunshots – he still had to do a full PM that included an examination of all vital organs and stomach contents.) He folded her skin back over her ribs and the mortuary attendant began to sew her up.

Henry lounged at the back of the mortuary, making up his own notes and observations, wanting to get out of here.

‘Are you OK, Henry?' Baines asked. He pulled down his mask as he walked over to Henry.

Henry pulled his face and drawled, ‘Yeah,' doubtfully.

Baines peeled off his latex gloves. ‘Had enough?'

Henry looked at him levelly and repeated the word. ‘Yeah.'

‘Time to go?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Just a quick observation – if you don't mind?'

‘Fire away,' Henry said.

‘The world needs people like you and me, Henry. People who make a difference, people who clear up the dross, and sometimes it gets hard to deal with … I know you can retire, but the world will be a worse place for that. Dead people need people like us, and so do the living.

‘I know there comes a time to go, and it's only right you should, you've earned it … fuck, I don't really know what I'm trying to say,' Baines conceded, ‘except – are you still shagging that barmaid?'

‘Well, at least the philosophical moment has gone.' Henry grinned at Baines, who had always been fascinated by Henry's see-sawing love life and was always a bit disappointed when not much was happening in it. ‘The answer is, yes.'

‘You're going to spend your dotage pulling pints, aren't you? And sleeping with a landlady?'

Henry sighed contentedly. ‘Yeah,' he beamed. It was a different kind of ‘Yeah' from the earlier ones. A dreamy, rose-tinted one.

‘Go for it then, you lucky fucker,' Baines said, ‘and leave all the dead bodies to some other poor sucker. I'll email you the formal results in about an hour.'

Whilst Henry had been at the PMs, DCI Woodcock had been in charge of proceedings. He had taken control of the office, got various people into various roles, overseen the allocation of tasks to detectives and other staff and, when he was sure these cogs were turning without too much effort, jumped into his car and headed out to see Percy's father, the dementia-racked Archie Astley-Barnes, at his farmhouse in Out Rawcliffe.

He drew up on the lane and climbed cautiously out of the car and approached the front door.

It opened a crack before he could knock.

The gap was dark and Woodcock could only just make out the grey, grizzled features in the shadow. What he could clearly see were the double, side-by-side barrels of the twelve bore shotgun shoved through and angled upwards at him.

‘Hold on there, old man,' Woodcock said.

‘Who the hell're you and what the hell d'you want?'

‘I'm a police officer – a detective …'

‘Yeah – heard that shit before.'

‘I am – really. Let me show you my warrant card, my ID. I need to get it from my jacket pocket.'

‘Slow … do it real slow,' Archie instructed like a Wild West gunslinger.

Woodcock took the card out and held it up to the opening in the door. ‘I'm working with the detective who came to see you yesterday, remember? Detective Superintendent Christie?'

‘Not necessarily.'

‘We're investigating your son's death.'

‘My son?'

‘Yes – Percy.'

‘Percy?'

‘Fuck me,' Woodcock thought unkindly, ‘this is going to be hard work.' But he smiled and was secretly pleased it would be tough.

The double muzzles dropped. Woodcock heard the security chain get drawn back and the door came open.

‘You'd better come in, lad,' Archie said, gesturing with the shotgun. Warily, Woodcock entered and followed Archie into the lounge area.

‘What's all this about?' he demanded.

‘How about you get me a cup of tea first, eh, old man?' Woodcock said. He looked Archie straight in the eyes, and said, ‘Do you know who I am?'

Archie frowned and peered hard at him. ‘You that detective who came yesterday?'

‘Yeah – that's me,' Woodcock answered with a cruel smile. ‘Now how about that brew, eh?' he said with a wink.

But as Percy walked out, he turned to Woodcock and said, ‘You know, I'm sure I do know you.'

Woodcock was waiting for Henry when he landed back from the post mortems, and followed him into his office off the MIR.

‘How did they go, boss?'

Henry slid his jacket off and hung it over the back of his office chair. ‘They went … nothing we didn't already really know … what was left of the bullet fragments have been bagged and tagged and are on the way to be analysed,' Henry said. ‘I want them fast-tracked, don't care how much it costs.' He arched his eyebrows and Woodcock nodded. ‘The longer we leave stuff on this, the less chance of anything, I'd say.' He slumped into his chair. ‘The killer's probably long gone anyway.' He shook his head. ‘How did you get on with Archie?'

Woodcock snorted. ‘Nothing … memory like a sieve … doesn't even remember you calling yesterday.'

‘I think we need to look into getting him some care sorted … what's the rest of his family doing?'

‘Spread far and wide. I'm pretty sure Percy is the only one directly connected to the family business up here and they don't seem to have much contact with dear old daft Dad. Ron Timpson's trying to make contact but I don't think they'll be of much help, to be honest.'

‘What about business partners, shop managers and the like?'

‘Actually very few staff, pared right down to the bone from what we can see. One manager oversees all the shops and just a few experienced sales people on the shop floors. Apparently Percy made a few redundant recently and there's talk, according to Ron –' Ron Timpson being one of the DCs on the murder inquiry – ‘that one or more of the shops might be closing.'