Deadly Terror (Detective Zoe Finch Book 4)

by Rachel McLean

  “Let’s watch it again.”

  They all fell silent as the woman slid into view once again. Behind her the escalator was crowded. Immediately behind her was a man in a grey hoody and a cap that obscured his face.

  “Typical,” said Connie.

  “Sometimes I wish we could ban bloody baseball caps,” said Zoe.

  Onscreen, the woman stumbled. Momentum propelled her forward and she almost hit two women walking past.

  “That’s Sameena,” said Zoe. “Pause it.”

  Rhodri clicked his mouse. Onscreen, Sameena was looking at the bomber. Behind her was her daughter Jamila, staring over her mum’s shoulder. The man in the baseball cap was heading away from them, towards the nearest shops.

  “If she was with him and he pushed her, she’d look at him,” Ian said.

  “She’s distracted by Sameena and Jamila,” Zoe said. “Looks like she might have crashed into them.”

  Sameena hadn’t mentioned this. Maybe she hadn’t remembered, or didn’t think it was important.

  “We’ll have to go back to Sameena,” Zoe said. “I want to know if she saw that man.”

  “He’s just a random man,” Ian said. “That escalator’s slow, I get shoved on it all the time.”

  Zoe raised an eyebrow. “You an expert?”

  “I live in Erdington, remember? When I go into town on my day off, I use the train.”

  She tapped her teeth with her pen. “I want you to find footage of the man in the cap after he leaves the escalator.”

  “Boss,” said Rhodri. He clicked his mouse and the image on the screen changed again. Sameena’s hand was on Jamila’s shoulder, and Jamila was looking at the bomber. The bomber turned away and started walking towards the far side of the shopping centre, but Sameena and her daughter followed her.

  Rhodri hit fast forward and the women started making jerky movements, hurrying away from the escalators.

  “Stop,” said Zoe. “What’s she looking at?”

  The bomber had stopped next to the café overlooking the station below. She looked out over the empty space, her eyes ahead. She wasn’t looking down at the station, but across at the other side of the shopping mall.

  “What’s she looking at?” Zoe said.

  “Maybe your mystery man,” Ian replied.

  She turned to him, her eyes sharp. Don’t mock me.

  The bomber turned to Sameena. The video was indistinct and Zoe couldn’t tell if they were talking. Then the bomber opened her coat and Sameena grabbed Jamila’s arm. She turned to her daughter, their faces close. After a few moments like this, Jamila walked away, turning back to stare at her mum until she was out of shot. The bomber had closed her coat again.

  Sameena stood facing the bomber.

  “They’re talking,” Zoe said. “She’s trying to talk her down.”

  The bomber looked back at Sameena. From time to time she turned to look behind her.

  “Something over the other side is certainly bothering her,” said Connie.

  “Yes. And we need to find out what, or who, it is,” said Zoe.

  Chapter Thirty

  Mo had been trawling through mugshots for two hours. He was trying to identify a man that Sheila Griffin’s surveillance cameras had seen on two occasions with the prostitutes they’d been watching. The man hadn’t invited any of the women into a car, which meant he was probably a pimp rather than a punter. Mo didn’t recognise this man, not from previous cases or anywhere else. And Sheila was at a loss too.

  The problem was that this man looked like a million other lowlifes. He had a shaved head and a squat, dumpy body that spoke of too much time on his backside. He wore the same generic grey hoody that Mo could swear was being given out to all the local criminals as a kind of uniform. He was white, with hair of indeterminate colour due to the shaving, and had no visible scars, tattoos or other distinguishing features.

  To make things worse, the photo sitting next to Mo’s computer had been taken at night and was illuminated by a dim streetlamp. Half of the man’s face was cast in shadow and the other wasn’t sharp enough to be helpful.

  He was getting nowhere.

  He sighed and picked up the phone.

  “Mo.” DS Sheila Griffin sounded as tired as he felt.

  “Sheila. This photo you’ve given me. Haven’t you got anything better?”

  “Sorry, mate. He only stood under that light for a few seconds. Guy knows what he’s doing.”

  Mo lifted the photo and peered at it. He considered tracking down a magnifying glass, but he knew that would get him nowhere. Sheila’s techs had enlarged it to the point where if he zoomed in any further, the picture would disintegrate before his eyes.

  “In that case, we’re no further on,” he said.

  “I thought as much. Still, worth a shot. We had something odd happen last night though.”

  “Go on.”

  “Macauley Street’s cleared out.”

  “How d’you mean, cleared out?” Mo put the photo down and leaned back in his chair. The office was empty, all the other members of the team at the airport.

  “No girls. Women. It’s like the place was never active, let alone one of their most lucrative spots.”

  “What about the punters?”

  “A couple of cars drove up and down the street, according to the surveillance team. Slowly, like they were looking for the women. Then they buggered off. No cars after midnight. It’s like they all got a memo or something.”

  “So there were no women working Macauley Street last night?”

  “Not one.”

  “You think they knew you were watching them?”

  “It’s an option. But we’ve been watching them for weeks now. And we’ve been bloody careful. Why would they suddenly clear out?”

  Mo considered. “Maybe they finally spotted the cameras.”

  “I think there’s something more to it,” Sheila said. “There was no activity at the house on Curton Road.”

  The house she was referring to was home to a shifting population of between eight and twelve women. Four of them seemed to be permanent residents, the others came and went. Most of them also worked Macauley Street. They’d had cameras on it for two weeks now, but had seen no sign of the women’s pimps.

  “Maybe they all stayed inside and kept off the streets. Sounds like they’ve rumbled us.”

  “Rumbled us, DS Uddin? What’s this, Hawaii Five-Oh?”

  He laughed. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah. Things have been hotting up. A couple of known pimps have turned up dead in the last two weeks. Three mid-level drug dealers.”

  “You think it’s connected?”

  “I’m not sure. I think there might be a new gang trying to stake some territory. The beginnings of a turf war.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “Not yet. But we’ll be keeping an eye on things. Anyway, we’ve applied for a warrant to go into the Curton Road house tonight. Official grounds is the usual, but between you and me I’m worried about those women.”

  “You haven’t seen anyone else go in?” he asked.

  “No. But…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d like you with us when we go in,” Sheila said.

  “What time?”

  “Depends when we get this warrant, but it’ll be late. Worried about getting home past your bedtime, Mo?”

  “No.” Past his daughters’ bedtime, he thought. But that was the nature of the job. His wife Catriona would understand: her job was unpredictable too.

  “I’ll see you later, Sheila. We’ll find out what’s going on.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “It’s nothing,” said Randle.

  “She was pushed off the escalator by this man,” Zoe replied. “And afterwards, she doesn’t look round, doesn’t even react. If a stranger shoved you off an escalator, you’d flinch at least.”

  “She’s carrying a bag full of explosives on her
chest. I think she’s likely to avoid confrontation.”

  “With respect, sir,” Zoe ignored Randle’s raised eyebrow, “I think we should follow this up.”

  They were in the briefing room, Zoe standing opposite Randle with the rest of Force CID and half the anti-terror division looking on. There was no sign of Mo, but Dawson was there, sitting back in his chair and looking pleased with himself.

  “Just sit down, DI Finch. We’ll talk about this later.” Randle glared at her until she reluctantly took her seat. She wished Lesley were there.

  Beside her Ian stared ahead, refusing to make eye contact. Rhodri and Connie were behind them, so she couldn’t see their faces.

  “Right,” said Randle. “So the video footage we have doesn’t give us anything new and the post-mortems from New Street tell us that the explosive was TATP, which anyone with an internet connection can make at home. On top of that, the witnesses are all traumatised and can’t remember anything helpful about this woman except that she had a bruise. Anything useful?”

  “The bruise does back up DI Finch’s theory that the bomber was coerced,” said Detective Superintendent Silton. Zoe gave him a nod of gratitude.

  Randle turned to the Superintendent, who sat behind him, facing the room. “Do we have any additional evidence to support that?” he asked.

  “She could have been hit, by whoever it was that made her walk in there with a bomb. It’s a possibility.” Silton held his hands up in a shrug.

  Zoe felt her shoulders relax. At least someone was backing her up.

  “Is that something Islamist terrorists do a lot?” asked Ian.

  Silton frowned. “Plenty of documented cases. But there’s no reason to assume this was done by Islamists. No one’s claimed it yet. It could be anyone.”

  “The alternative is far-right groups,” said Randle. “They’re much less likely to go public.”

  “It’s an option, yes,” said Silton. “But in every incident involving one of those groups, there’s been a declaration by the perpetrator. They like to shout out their beliefs for everyone to hear. All this woman said was run.”

  “She was wearing a headscarf,” said Randle. “So probably Muslim.”

  Silton stood up. “We have to very careful about any assumptions we might be tempted to make in this investigation. She might have been wearing the headscarf because she was Muslim. Or she might have belonged to another faith that decreed the covering of the head. Either way—”

  “Or she might just have been cold,” said Rhodri. Zoe turned in her seat to give him a warning frown.

  “That is an option, Constable,” said Silton. “Not that I expect someone who’s about to detonate a bomb in New Street Station would be too worried about the cold.”

  “Shh,” Zoe whispered to Rhodri.

  “Sorry, boss.”

  Rhodri leaned back. Connie, next to him, had her arms tightly folded across her chest. Her lips were pursed and her forehead deeply creased. Calm down, Zoe thought.

  “But whatever her motive, you haven’t identified our mystery bomber yet, DI Finch?” Randle said.

  “Not yet, sir,” Zoe replied. ‘Still working on it.”

  He shook his head and turned back to the room. “What do we have from the airport?”

  Dawson reached into his inside pocket and brought out a stack of photos. “This.”

  The photos were passed forward to Randle, who perused them and then handed them to Silton. “A handbag.”

  “We found it next to a section of wire gate alongside the roadway that had been cut through. Two hundred metres away from that spot there was a plane that had landed just after the explosion, and we’ve since found out that that this plane has passengers missing.”

  “What do you mean, missing?”

  “Wizz Air flight 375 from Bucharest. The manifest says a hundred and seventy-one people boarded it. We only have records of a hundred and fifty-eight getting off.”

  “And that plane was on the tarmac when the bomb went off, DI Dawson?” Randle asked.

  “It was, sir.”

  “So it would have been evacuated. I doubt that every plane’s passengers have been accounted for in the panic.”

  “All the others have, sir.”

  “And you say there was a damaged gate?”

  “Someone had cut through it. With wire cutters. It wasn’t accidental damage. Definitely deliberate.”

  “Any chance they kept wire cutters on that plane? Maybe people escaped, were scared the fire might spread, and wanted to get away from the airport.”

  Silence descended over the room.

  “With respect, sir,” said Dawson. “I think that’s unlikely.”

  Dawson sat upright, his back not touching the chair. His breathing was shallow. Zoe had seen him like this when she’d been a DS on his team. For all his bluster back in the office, Randle clearly scared the shit out of him.

  “So you think this handbag belonged to one of the passengers?”

  “We’ve got a forensics team going through its contents. There’s a postcard from Romania, and a purse.”

  “Credit cards?”

  “Just cash.”

  “Passport?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hmm. So whoever owned this bag escaped the plane, but kept her passport with her and didn’t own any credit cards.”

  “Lots of people put their cards on their phone these days,” said Rhodri.

  “Constable Hughes, you seem intent on regaling us with your knowledge of the world,” said Randle.

  “Just trying to help,” Rhodri muttered. Zoe suppressed a smile.

  “Right,” said Randle. “We have this bag, a bruise on the cheek of the New Street bomber and some TATP explosive. This is sounding more like a Hercule Poirot story every hour. Does anyone have any concrete evidence? What about the bodies at the airport?”

  Dawson nudged Fran Kowalczyk at his side. She cleared her throat. Zoe wondered where Mo was.

  “Eighty-six bodies,” she said. “Or the remains of them. We’ve identified fifty-eight of them. We’re trying to contact dentists for the rest, but tracking down dentists in Pakistan isn’t exactly easy.”

  “Are the Pakistani authorities working with us on this?”

  “Oh God yes,” said Dawson. “Foreign Office has stuck its oar in, too. Diplomats coming out of our ears.”

  There was suppressed laughter on Dawson’s side of the room. Randle sent his stare in that direction and it stopped.

  “Do we suspect any of the passengers might have planted the bomb?” Randle asked, his gaze on Dawson now.

  “We have a potential suspect,” said Fran. She was the newest member of Frank’s team, only in CID for a few months. Zoe knew what it was like to join DI Dawson’s team as a DC and didn’t envy her. But she had a quiet calm to her and seemed to be holding her own.

  “Go on then,” Randle urged. “Don’t make us wait all day.”

  “There was a man with explosives residue on his clothes. When the bomb went off, he was six rows away from the blast, and most of his clothing remained intact. He was killed by a sharp object piercing his lung. Probably part of a seat. But Forensics found TATP on his sleeves and his hands.”

  “Could the residue have got there from the explosion?” Randle asked.

  “Some of it, yes. But at least half of it was dry. Hadn’t been detonated.”

  “How can that happen, when someone’s been right there when the bomb went off?” Zoe asked.

  “Residue from explosives handling embeds itself in the folds of the skin. It can be protected by clothing or simply by positioning,” Adi said. “According to Sue Turbin.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Fire service investigator.”

  “She an expert on explosives?” Randle said.

  “She is, sir.”

  “OK. Do we have an ID?”

  “Not yet, sir. But we’re working on it.”

  “Good,” said Randle. “That’s the lead we need t
o be working on. Zoe, double down on finding out who our New Street bomber was. That’s your focus. And Frank, drill down on this suspect on the plane. I want to know who he is, if he was travelling with anyone else, and where he came from. That’s all for tonight.”

  “What about the DCI?” asked Zoe. “Any news?”

  Randle frowned. “She’s being looked after.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  DI Finch, if you need to investigate the health of DCI Clarke, I suggest you make a call yourself. Or just leave her be. OK?”

  Zoe glanced at Ian, who shrugged. Randle waved a hand in dismissal and they filed out.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Sofia walked through the shopping mall, gazing from side to side at the displays but unable to focus on them.

  Kyle, another of her boyfriend’s men, followed six paces behind, like some sort of unwanted servant. She could feel his presence at her back as surely as if he’d been pushing her along. He’d been in a bad mood since he’d picked her up. She’d overheard him on the phone, laughing, saying he’d done his bit. Of what, she couldn’t be sure.

  She reached John Lewis and went inside. Maybe she could give him the slip in here, lose herself among the displays. Or she could go into a changing room and find an alternative way out.

  It was no help that she’d never been here before. The city centre was out of bounds, Titi apparently insistent that she should go nowhere near the site of yesterday’s bomb. This mall, in Solihull, was quiet. Those few who had braved it out looked scared. They stared at her as she passed them, no doubt wondering whether this lone woman would turn out to be a repeat of the one who’d set off the New Street bomb.

  She came to the clothes department. Womenswear, it said. There was another door at the far end, a route into a car park.

  She glanced round. Even if she gave him the slip, how was she supposed to find Andreea or the children here?

  She turned, waiting for Kyle to catch up.

  “I want to buy underwear,” she said.

  His gaze was steady on her face. “Fine.”

  “This is not something for you to see.”