Seizure by Nick Oldham Page A

notes. ‘A little bonus for good fishing and excitement – not to be revealed to the boss, OK?’ Jose nodded. His greedy mitts snatched the cash. At the present exchange rate it was almost equivalent to two hundred pounds sterling, money not to be sniffed at.
    Flynn glanced up at Tommy, who was watching the transaction with interest from the flying bridge. ‘Some for you, too – on the QT,’ Flynn told him and waved a couple of fifty-euro notes in his direction. Tommy’s young eyes lit up and he scampered down the steps. ‘She gave us a five hundred bonus to split,’ Flynn explained. ‘I reckon this is fair, don’t you?’
    â€˜Thanks Steve,’ Tommy enthused. He was usually paid a pittance by his dad for working on the boat, which he did for love rather than money anyway, during downtime from school. A hundred-euro windfall was an incredible amount for a fourteen-year-old.
    â€˜No probs. You did good yesterday. How’re you feeling?’
    â€˜I’m good.’
    Flynn smiled benignly at the members of his crew, aware that a little financial recompense had smoothed the rough edges of a possible rocky situation – and that they would never be aware of the true share of the bonus he had taken from Gill Hartland. He wasn’t going to tell them he’d pocketed seven hundred euros and the bonus had actually been a grand. He justified it in his mind, convincing himself he deserved it because he’d done all the work – particularly the extra-curricular stuff – hadn’t he?
    â€˜What’re you going to do with the rifle?’ Jose asked.
    Flynn shrugged. ‘Not thought that one through as yet. Maybe ditch it overboard when I get a chance.’
    Jose looked at him sceptically. ‘We won’t be out on the water for two days – and you can’t keep it on the boat, amigo . Adam will not allow it.’
    â€˜I know, I’ll sort it,’ Flynn whined. ‘So, have you finished scrubbing the deck?’ he asked, his turn to change the subject without warning.
    â€˜It’s come up well, considering, but still needs more work.’
    â€˜Better get cracking, then.’
    Jose turned instinctively at the instruction, almost falling for it momentarily, but then he glared at Flynn, his dark Spanish eyes very menacing. ‘A-ha, nearly had me then.’ He wagged an admonishing finger. ‘Anyway – what was that you were saying about Spanish firemen? Some kinda joke? I mean, a Spanish fireman is called Jose – so what the hell?’
    â€˜The joke is, his mate is called Hose-B. Gettit? Jose, Hose-B?’
    Jose stared blankly at him before returning to his blood-scrubbing duties. ‘ Ingles ,’ he muttered. ‘Sheesh.’
    There was one thing Henry Christie admired about police raids in the modern era: usually, they were fast, hard and professional. A world away from the ragtag raids he used to take part in when he first joined the job. Back then they were often based on an iffy tip-off to a fat jack who stayed in the CID office, feet up, fag in gob, while the uniforms (a derisory term) ‘spun the drum’, as they used to say.
    It was good fun, but Henry remembered at least three occasions when he’d been tasked to smash someone’s soil pipe and put a net under it to catch the drugs that were likely to be flushed away by the panicked felons in the house. Only to discover it was the wrong house. On-call plumbers and joiners made a small fortune from police callouts in those days.
    Nowadays more preparation time went into intelligence gathering and surveillance, and police training, before size eleven boots were applied to doors.
    Which is how Henry knew for certain that the house he and Rik were covering was the right one, and the occupant they were interested in was in. And because of the speed and force of entry, he was captured in just the way Henry liked. Underpants around his