Critical Threat hc-10

by Nick Oldham

  The pavements were still wet from the overnight downpour, but the rain had ceased and the clouds were dispersing. Henry rushed out of the health centre clutching his briefcase under his arm and dashed on to Old Brompton Road, scanning as he went.

  The young woman could not have gone far, but as Henry knew, people could disappear within the blink of an eye. He had no way of knowing in which direction she had legged it, so he took a fifty/fifty chance, followed his instinct and hurried towards the West Brompton tube station on the District Line and caught sight of her standing on the road bridge opposite Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre spanning the underground line. She was talking into her mobile phone, constantly looking around as she did, as though the cops might be after her. Henry ducked into a doorway, keeping her in sight, his arse doing some real twitching now.

  Was it coincidence she had done a runner from work on the very morning he’d turned up asking a few questions and showing photographs?

  Naah.

  Although he was not close enough to hear her, he could tell she was screaming down the phone, gesticulating as she spoke, until the call ended. She looked at it with frustration, as though she was going to lob it over the bridge, shaking it angrily. Spinning on her heels, she crossed over the bridge, staying on the same side of the road, and scuttled away.

  Henry stepped out from cover, began to follow.

  He stayed about fifty metres behind her as she rushed past the entrance to Brompton Cemetery. Henry glanced to his right and caught sight of Stamford Bridge football ground, home of Chelsea FC, giving an involuntary shiver at the thought of all the money that had been ploughed into it.

  Aysha walked across the junction with Finborough Road, then Redcliffe Gardens, pushing in a north-easterly direction towards South Kensington.

  It was easy to tail her using buildings and other people for cover, and because she did not once look back over her shoulder.

  Suddenly she turned into a Starbucks and went out of view.

  Henry stopped, again relying on his instincts and what little he knew of the woman. She was a health centre receptionist, seemed to be in a panic, wasn’t likely to be versed in street-craft, so he guessed it would be unlikely she had spotted him and gone straight through Starbucks and out the back. He needed to get in a position from where he could monitor the front door. There was a Costa Coffee shop diagonally opposite on the other side of the road. He crossed quickly, took the chance to buy a coffee and wedged himself into a window seat, placed his briefcase on the window ledge, settled down and waited whilst churning the morning’s events and discoveries through his brain.

  If Sabera was the burned-out corpse, then he believed he had just unearthed a very good suspect for her murder in Dr Khan — someone who at the very least had some hard questions to answer — and possibly an accomplice, too, in the form of Aysha.

  Henry was having great fun. And the coffee tasted great.

  He did not have to hang around long.

  Ten minutes later, a man he instantly recognized walked hastily past his window, a matter of only three feet away, then crossed the road and entered Starbucks.

  He waited a few moments. Let him settle. Let him get a brew.

  A smile came to Henry’s face, the kind of smile a cat gives when it’s been amongst the pigeons and is now about to lick the cream.

  The couple were sitting at one of the tables in Starbucks, in deep but agitated conversation. They didn’t even see Henry enter the cafe, didn’t even look up as he wove his way between tables, chairs and other customers.

  It took a couple of seconds before they even registered he was standing behind them, rather like the spectre of their consciences.

  They turned slowly, theatrically, faces horror-struck, plastered with guilt.

  The kind of expressions Henry enjoyed seeing.

  ‘Mornin’,’ he said, grinning.

  Unfortunately, his ebullient approach to the situation meant that he dropped his guard and unexpectedly, the man who he knew to be Dr Khan, twisted round hard and drove his elbow into Henry’s groin with all the force he could muster.

  Aysha stood up and screamed.

  Henry doubled over, dropping his briefcase, both hands instinctively covering his testicles, whilst he blew out like a whale.

  Khan shot to his feet and pushed him over backwards, again with force, knocking him over a chair and sending him sprawling into another table at which two young mothers were sitting gabbing with their offspring in prams next to them. Henry’s right knee gave way at that moment and he fell between them, sending their hot frothy drinks everywhere. He just caught a glimpse of Khan’s feet running past him.

  He reached out to grab, but the doctor sidestepped neatly and was gone.

  There was no time to apologize. He heaved himself up using a table, rising wet from the spilled coffee, aware of the stunned faces of the customers and shouts of dismay and anger.

  Henry had a decision to make: should he bag Aysha or go for the doctor?

  He somehow knew that the doctor was the one he needed most.

  He jabbed his finger at Aysha and slavered, ‘You get back to work and stay there,’ with spittle coming out of his mouth.

  He flung his briefcase over the serving counter, shouting, ‘Look after that,’ to staff and, leaping over the table he’d upended, he gave chase, chunnering the word ‘Bastard!’ between his teeth as he flung open the door and skidded comically out on to Old Brompton Road, seeing Khan running in the direction he’d come from, towards the tube station.

  Seething, Henry clenched his jaw and set off, attracting worried looks from all other pedestrians. He got going like a lumbering steam train, arms pounding like engine cylinders, glad of the time he’d spent in Special Projects because one of his own special projects had been to get fit again and being dumped in headquarters had given him that chance by way of extended lunchtimes and three-mile daily runs. In fact, he didn’t consider himself a steam train. By dropping more than a stone in weight, he’d become a whippet, all six-two and thirteen stones of him.

  Unfortunately, Khan also looked like he could run. He was small and wiry and had no trouble skipping round people, but his lack of experience in running away from the police showed. Anyone who had experience of having to outrun the fuzz would have known to cross the road and dive into the busy area outside Earl’s Court, using the cover provided by others. Instead he chose to do a left into Brompton Cemetery through the north gate and run down the central avenue of the huge, almost deserted cemetery in the direction of the chapel at the far end.

  Henry powered after him, also aware that most doctors don’t practise what they preach: health and fitness. At least, Henry’s own whisky-swilling GP didn’t.

  Khan began to flag after another hundred metres. Henry started to gain, although he was tiring and regretting his overindulgence at breakfast.

  But Khan had nowhere to go. He eventually sagged down on to his knees, as though his batteries were running out, then slumped on to all fours and puked.

  Henry skittered up behind him in the gravel, panting, ‘You …are … under … arrest … onsuspicionofmurder.’ He emitted the last four words as one.

  Even though the complication of Henry being a detective from Lancashire operating without the knowledge or blessing of the locals was quickly dealt with, his prisoner was not. After pinning Khan down and dragging him back to the north gate, Henry had called 999 on his mobile and waited patiently for the promised response, which took about twenty minutes.

  The circumstances took another ten minutes to explain to the two PCs who arrived in a Transit van and then conveyed him to the police station on Fulham Road, via Starbucks where he collected his briefcase and made his apologies. Unsurprisingly, Aysha had disappeared.

  Booking the prisoner in took an interminable length of time.

  Southwest London must have had a busy morning. Henry was told he had to remain with his prisoner until the booking-in was done. He wasn’t required to remain phys
ically by the side of Khan, but was instructed to stay in the custody area. Khan was put into a holding cage with six other prisoners who all looked like serious armed robbers.

  Henry paced the cell corridor, straightening his thoughts, wondering what the best course of action would be.

  As ever, he decided to wing it.

  ‘DCI Henry Christie, Lancashire Constabulary,’ he introduced himself to the Met custody sergeant. He pushed Khan up to the desk, caused the sergeant to look at him, then at Henry, then back to Khan.

  ‘Hello, Dr Khan.’

  Khan nodded miserably.

  ‘Do you know this person,’ the sergeant said to Henry, ‘is one of our police surgeons?’

  Henry gave him a pained look. ‘How would I know that?’

  ‘You wouldn’t.’ He smiled thinly at Henry. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I’ve arrested him on suspicion of murder.’

  Once again the sergeant glanced from one person to the other. ‘Murder?’ he said in disbelief.

  ‘Murder,’ Henry confirmed.

  ‘Which murder?’

  ‘That of a woman called Sabera Ismat, whose body was found in Lancashire about six months ago. I was the SIO,’ he concluded.

  ‘Do you have anything to say, Dr Khan?’

  Khan shook his head, but he was clearly affected by what Henry had just said. The sergeant again gave Henry a stare which said it all, and with a heavy sigh began the process of detaining Khan under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, not impressed.

  It was four miserable hours before a duty solicitor became free and the time was approaching 3 p.m. Henry had expected to be on his way back to Lancashire by now.

  His newly formulated plan was to have a quick interview with Khan and then arrange for him to be transported up north where he could be dealt with properly.

  They were in a grotty interview room with peeling paint on the walls and a strange smell of sewers. Henry had the tape on and had cautioned Khan.

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of Sabera Ismat whose body was found six months ago in a field in Lancashire,’ he began. It was the first time Henry had actually been face to face with Khan properly. He was a good-looking Asian man around about the thirty mark. As he spoke the words, the colour of Khan’s skin faded to a grey. He looked as though he was about to say something, but nothing came out.

  ‘You knew her, didn’t you?’

  ‘That doesn’t make my client a murderer,’ the weasley-faced brief interjected. ‘I already have the feeling that this is a purely speculative arrest.’

  Henry ignored him. ‘Please answer the question. Did you know her?’

  ‘I knew her. She used to be a locum for the practice.’

  ‘How well did you know her?’

  Khan rubbed his head. ‘Not that well.’

  ‘How well would you say on a scale of one to ten?’

  Khan thought. ‘Four, maybe.’

  Henry gave him a withering look.

  ‘I’d met her back in med school, but then I didn’t see her again until a few months ago when she came asking about a job.’

  ‘Which you got her?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Without even a formal interview.’

  Khan’s face turned stonily towards Henry. ‘It was based on her references, qualifications and my personal knowledge.’

  ‘Yet you say you didn’t know her that well?’ Henry paused. He liked waiting. It made people feel uncomfortable and often they had the urge to fill in the gaps. If used well, silence could be a deadly trap, a void into which the unwitting could tumble. Khan, though, just looked down at his hands as his fingers intertwined in anguish. His chin shook.

  ‘Where are her employment records?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, they seem to have disappeared from the filing cabinet in which all the health centre employment records are kept.’

  ‘No idea.’ His eyes closed and opened slowly as he said the two words.

  ‘How come you haven’t asked me more about the fate of one of your employees? Someone you knew from university, someone you gave a job to, someone who then suddenly disappeared? Aren’t you curious about what happened to her? Or is it that you already know?’ Henry was still aware that he did not have a hundred per cent proof that the dead woman was Sabera Ismat and that Khan could feasibly tell him where she was, alive and kicking … although his marked reluctance to say anything convinced Henry he was on the right track.

  The woman in the photos was Sabera Ismat and Dr Khan, renowned police surgeon, damn well knew something about her.

  And yet, there was something about this man that made Henry doubt he could have killed her … but he’d been wrong about killers before. Everyone — everyone — was capable.

  Khan remained silent. He was sweating and Henry almost believed he could hear the man’s heart beating against his rib cage.

  ‘Dr Khan, you have a lot of questions to answer. I’m going to arrange for you to be conveyed to Lancashire for further questioning. You are a very good suspect for her murder. You knew her, you employed her, and I’ll prove you pulled her records when she mysteriously disappeared. And while I’m waiting for transport from Lancashire, I’ll be going to arrest your receptionist too. She can have a trip up north, because you’re obviously both in this together-’

  ‘No!’ Khan erupted. ‘Neither of us hardly knew her! Aysha …’ His voice tapered out.

  Henry reached down for his briefcase at his feet under the interview table. He laid it on his lap, opened it and pulled out two sheets of paper, which he positioned face down in front of Khan.

  ‘For the benefit of the tape I am showing Dr Khan two photographs. The first shows him sitting at a restaurant with the victim, Sabera Ismat.’ Henry slowly turned the photograph over and slid it across to Khan so it was right under his nose. Henry’s eyes remained firmly fixed on Khan’s reactions. ‘The second is a photograph of Khan embracing the victim, as though they were lovers.’ He did the same with this one, the photograph taken of Khan and Sabera holding each other on a bridge. Khan’s face was a picture to behold. ‘So, Dr Khan, just run that past me again, will you? How well do you know Sabera Ismat?’

  The next problem was arranging transport from Lancashire to come down to London and pick up the prisoner. Not the easiest thing to arrange because it meant two uniformed bobbies coming down from Blackpool, as that was the division in which the body was discovered, who had to be released from other duties to tear down south.

  Henry wrestled with it, working it all through his head; how long it would take to get them down to London, how long back, how it would all impact on the time factor in relation to the prisoner. He was sitting in the police surgeon’s room, weighing up the factors, hand on the phone, when the custody sergeant came in.

  ‘Guv,’ he said, ‘Dr Khan wants to see you. Says he’s got something to tell you.’

  Henry jumped up and hurried through to an interview room to await the arrival of Khan and his solicitor. He was surprised when only Khan was escorted through by a gaoler. He sat down opposite Henry, clearly crushed and worried.

  ‘Where’s your brief?’

  ‘Sacked him.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘I don’t think he was very wise.’

  ‘What do you want to tell me?’ Henry unwrapped a double-pack of cassette tapes and dropped them into the machine.

  Khan took a deep, unsteady breath.

  Twelve

  Not even 125 mph was fast enough for Henry Christie. As the early morning Virgin Express Pendolino service left the environs of London and scythed north-west towards Rugby, even his full English breakfast, as good as it was, hardly tickled his taste buds. Once again he read through the twelve-page statement he had painstakingly extracted from Dr Sanjay Khan, the man he had suspected of murdering Sabera Ismat — or, as Khan had corrected him, Sabera Rashid.

  On the previous evening Henry had listened with fascination, and t
hen with a chilled heart, as Khan spilled the truth and recounted the story of a beautiful young woman whose hopes of freedom and a decent life had been cruelly terminated.

  It took him half an hour to haltingly tell the tale the first time round, after which Henry took him from the suspect interview room and found a more comfortable room in the police station in which he could get Khan to relax and expand on everything whilst Henry recorded the statement on paper.

  It was clear that Khan was a man who, underneath his veneer of being a normal GP and police surgeon on the side, lived in fear. He looked desolate, afraid.

  ‘Yes, we fell in love,’ he said painfully, tears welling in his eyes. ‘It was wrong, but it was also very, very right.’

  Henry made a guggling sound to encourage him.

  ‘All she wanted was freedom, the right to be her own person, to follow her vocation, but that was denied her by a tyrant of a husband who beat and raped her most horribly … we met at university and we were just good friends, though there was a spark.’ He looked desperately at Henry. ‘We knew she would return to get married and that was accepted between us, so nothing happened in those days …’ His story was all over the place at first, but Henry allowed him his ramble before putting structure to it. ‘Then she came back to me out of the blue … I’d never married … and she told me she had left her husband and wanted a new life. God, it was so hard for her … so much pressure on her from inside and outside, but she knew that when she had made that step, returning was out of the question … those photographs you showed me … taken by a private investigator?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘So she was tracked down, got careless I suppose. Her husband had that sort of money, though. He is quite wealthy, I believe.’ Khan paused. ‘That night, the night of the photographs, was the last night I ever saw her …’

  Henry was running these words through his mind when the train began to slow down, then stop … in the middle of nowhere. South of Milton Keynes, he guessed. The regretful announcement was that there would be a short delay whilst a broken down train ahead of them was removed from the lines. Henry cursed, but smiled when the pretty stewardess appeared by his side offering more coffee. There was nothing he could do about any delays. Not as though he could get out and kick the wheels, call the AA or remonstrate with anyone. If a train ain’t going nowhere, it ain’t going nowhere. He held up his cup. The coffee was good.