Free Low Profile by Nick Oldham Page A

along some precarious footpaths, or by boat.
    Costain was consulting a fold-out tourist map of the island he had taken from his rucksack.
    Over his shoulder, Flynn said, ‘If you’re sightseeing, you won’t see much of the island from this distance. I need to get in closer.’
    â€˜I’m aware of that. Just drive this thing, will you?’ He glanced at the map, then Flynn. ‘Where are we now?’
    Flynn checked his GPS. ‘Just about level with Veneguera now.’ That was one of the sandy beaches on this stretch of coast.
    Costain nodded. ‘Keep going and let me know when we get near Punta de las Tetas.’
    Flynn said, ‘OK.’ He set the automatic pilot and stood up from his seat.
    â€˜Where the fuck d’you think you’re going?’
    â€˜To make coffee and to look after my customers. You can keep an eye out for other boats if you want, but the radar will scream like a banshee if we get too close to anyone.’
    He shouldered past Costain and crossed the deck to Trish, who had slumped down in a ragged collection of limbs and a lolling head. She glared malevolently at him and growled, ‘Fuck this.’
    â€˜You might be better inside,’ Flynn said. He crouched down next to her. ‘At least you can lie down and it’s cooler.’ He held out his hand and was amazed as an expression of gratitude came over her face; she reached out and grabbed it. He hauled her gently to her wobbly legs and held on to her hand as
Faye
rolled sideways. She staggered a little two-step, so he slid an arm around her waist to steer her across the deck into the stateroom, past Costain who watched darkly and offered no help. Once inside, she flopped gratefully on to the settee and covered her face with her hands, moaning as only a seasickness-stricken person could. Flynn felt sorry for her, being dragged along on this expedition. ‘There is chilled water in the fridge and some sandwiches in the cool box,’ he told her, but the prospect of food consumption only made her moan even louder, then roll over and bury her face in the cushions.
    Flynn came out of the stateroom under Costain’s watchful eyes. ‘Best place for her is under a tree,’ he said.
    â€˜Eh?’
    â€˜Never mind.’ Flynn twisted on to the helm chair and took control of the boat again after having put the kettle on. Checking their position he saw they were sailing parallel to Playa del Cerrillo, about twelve kilometres up the coast from Puerto Rico.
    He was suddenly aware of Costain up uncomfortably close behind him. The man’s mouth was close to his left ear. A chill slithered down his spine.
    â€˜Ever touch that girl again and I’ll take umbrage,’ Costain breathed. ‘Get my meaning?’
    Flynn sighed. ‘I did what you should have done when I suggested it. Helped a lady in distress.’ He used the word ‘lady’ advisedly.
    â€˜I decide what help she gets.’
    â€˜And I decide what goes on on my boat. And I decide if we turn back to port or not. Get
my
meaning?’ He turned to Costain, who had taken a step away.
    They locked on to each other, then Costain’s face cracked into a smile. He backed off, hands raised. ‘Hey man, only joshing, fuckin’ hell!’ He was backtracking in every sense.
    â€˜Go check on her,’ Flynn said, ‘then come back on deck and tell me exactly where you want to go and what you want to see.’
    Costain’s face set hard again, not responding well to other people’s orders. He went past Flynn into the stateroom, muttering and slamming the sliding door shut.
    The old man’s voice was croaky, distant, harsh. ‘Where the hell are you?’
    Hawke negotiated a tight bend in the road whilst holding the mobile phone to his left ear. ‘On my way back.’
    â€˜How did it go?’ the old man demanded.
    â€˜It went. He’s dead. Just a bit of a