Free Ambush by Nick Oldham Page A

nothing else.
    â€˜Hullo,’ he answered gruffly.
    â€˜Can I ask who I’m speaking to?’ asked a male voice.
    â€˜You can ask, but you should tell me first because you called me.’
    â€˜My name’s Detective Superintendent Rik Dean from Lancashire Constabulary.’
    â€˜And I’m Steve Flynn.’ He sat up.
    â€˜Ahh – we know each other.’
    â€˜We certainly do, Rik … how are you, and what do you want from me at this time of night?’
    There was a pause. Flynn’s brow furrowed. He knew Rik Dean well enough, had known him way back as a great thief-taking PC on the streets of Blackpool, then on and off as a detective. They had been involved with each other on a few occasions over the past few years when Flynn himself had been innocently dragged into scenarios he would rather have avoided.
    â€˜Er …’
    â€˜What’s up, Rik? Is this about Craig Alford? I haven’t seen the guy in years.’
    â€˜You know about his death?’ Dean asked, surprised.
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜May I ask how?’
    â€˜Hey, look, I don’t want to get anyone into any trouble.’
    â€˜You won’t. Did you hear about it from Jerry Tope?’
    Hoping it would do no harm, Flynn said, ‘Guilty. He wanted me to know because he and I and some others worked on a special task force with Craig way back. But like I said, I haven’t seen or heard from Craig in a very long time.’
    â€˜OK, I get that.’
    â€˜So why phone? I’m pretty sure I can’t offer any help.’
    â€˜When, exactly, were you in contact with Jerry?’
    Flynn swallowed, not liking the tone of Rik Dean’s voice now at all. ‘Like I said, I don’t want to get anyone into trouble … Jerry was only telling me because—’
    â€˜Steve,’ Dean cut in sharply. ‘No one’s getting into trouble here. Jerry can’t get into trouble …’ His voice faltered.
    â€˜What do you mean?’ Flynn stiffened.
    Rik Dean told him.
    The disease had crept up slowly on Dave Carver. He was only fifty-six when the first ‘real’ symptoms were noticed, first by himself, then gradually by others. Seven years later its progression speeded up and it was virtually impossible for his family to care for a once proud, quick-witted intelligent man who no longer recognized any of them, who could not dress himself in the right order and whose eruptions of violent temper petrified his wife and grown-up children. He was sixty-three when he was placed in a home specializing in the care of dementia sufferers.
    The only comfort for his family was that most of the time Dave Carver did not remotely comprehend anything that was happening to him.
    If, indeed, that was a comfort.
    It made no odds to the gently smiling man standing patiently at the reception desk of the care home, waiting for someone to appear. In fact, his smile was the only thing that could clearly be seen of the man’s face, because most of it was obscured by the shadow under the pulled-down peak of his baseball cap.
    â€˜You can come through now.’ A woman beckoned as she opened the secure door by the desk. She was dressed in the smart uniform of the care home.
    â€˜Thank you.’
    The two walked along a corridor.
    â€˜We haven’t seen you here before,’ the woman said, chattily.
    â€˜Bit of a black sheep of the family,’ the man murmured. ‘Live down south … lots of family baggage, you know? But I couldn’t not come up here and see the old guy, even though I know he won’t recognize me.’ He sighed sadly.
    â€˜I know. It’s a terrible disease.’
    â€˜Yes it is.’
    She led him along the corridor, up a set of stairs to the first floor, a level of patients’ rooms only.
    The man kept his head tilted low, particularly when passing or approaching the very obviously placed and quite old-looking CCTV cameras on some of