Critical Threat hc-10

by Nick Oldham

  ‘What the hell are you on about?’

  Henry realized he’d rambled a bit. He put it down to the pain. And the drugs. ‘Just drive out of here, turn left up the arterial road, then right on to Whitebirk Industrial Estate, then I’ll direct you from there.’

  Bill shrugged.

  Henry fished out his mobile and made a call.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt your torture session, but I need to come and see you, Karl … a favour, yeah. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m asking … I need a name putting through your super-duper computer.’ Henry listened, then ended the call. He stared straight ahead through the windscreen, his heart thumping at the prospect of seeing Donaldson again so soon.

  Henry directed Bill to the front gates of the unit now leased by the American security services, although he doubted whether that fact was actually revealed in the rental agreement. The gates were closed and did not open on their arrival.

  ‘What goes on here?’ Bill asked.

  ‘It’s been rented by the Yanks to house some of their vehicles whilst the Rice visit takes place,’ he answered blandly.

  Bill looked at him disbelievingly.

  ‘OK, all right,’ Henry answered with a shrug. ‘Can’t tell you, OK?’

  ‘Fair enough. I know my place.’

  The gates opened wide enough to allow a very tired, harassed Karl Donaldson to contort out of the gap. He approached Henry suspiciously, eyeing Bill. Henry dropped out of the Galaxy.

  ‘So now you need us?’ Donaldson said bitterly.

  ‘I don’t have a problem with you hacking into other people’s computers. It’s hacking into people’s heads that bothers me.’

  Donaldson nodded at Bill. ‘You shouldn’t have brought him.’

  ‘He’s OK, won’t blab.’

  ‘He stays here, then.’

  ‘So be it.’

  Donaldson inclined his head for Henry to follow. Henry mouthed and gestured for Bill to stay put and followed the American through the gate, who then ensured it was locked. He walked ahead of Henry through a normal door adjacent to the main shutter door into the unit where the array of vehicles was parked up.

  As he walked, Donaldson said, ‘Don’t know why the hell I’m doing this,’ without turning.

  ‘Cos deep down you’re an old softie?’ Henry speculated, trying to lighten the atmosphere between them.

  ‘I misjudged you, Henry.’

  ‘No, Karl, I misjudged you,’ Henry said, realizing the atmosphere was not likely to rise much.

  The rest of the short walk was made in silence, through the door leading to the ground-floor corridor, then into the communications centre. Donaldson approached the same man who had done the earlier check on Mansur Rashid.

  ‘Give him the name, tell him which database to interrogate.’ Donaldson pushed out past Henry, saying, ‘I trust you to make your own way out … and by the way, hacking into other agencies’ databases is not ethical.’ Then he was gone.

  Henry gave the man the name and suggested some databases to interrogate. After a few moments, he leaned back. ‘There you go, pal.’

  Henry squinted at the screen, memorized what he saw and rushed back out to Bill who waited patiently in the Galaxy. He gave him the address.

  ‘I’m not even going to bother to ask how you got this.’

  ‘What you don’t know, don’t get you killed,’ Henry said.

  It was fortunate that the liveried Ford Galaxy with a uniformed police officer lounging by the side of it was parked behind Henry in the driveway, otherwise he would have had the front door slammed in his face. Even then, it was a close-run thing. He could tell from the look of horror on the Asian woman’s face when she answered the door and found herself confronted by a man who looked like he’d been dragged under a bus for a hundred metres.

  He quickly presented his warrant card and the woman hesitated, still considered closing the door, then relented because of the police vehicle.

  It was probably unusual to have anyone knocking at the door in this neck of the woods anyway. Henry guessed the most regular visitors would be the postman and the Sainsbury’s home delivery driver.

  The house was in one of the better parts of Blackburn, on Meins Road, right on the edge of town. A big detached property in its own grounds, with sweeping views behind it towards Preston and beyond to the faint shimmer of the Lancashire coast. The huge British Aerospace complex in the middle distance slightly marred the vista. It was the house of a wealthy family.

  The woman was late fifties, dressed in a very western style. She was also extremely attractive and Henry could immediately see the likeness between her and the photographs taken by Eddie Daley of Sabera Rashid. He caught his breath.

  ‘My name is Henry Christie. I’m a detective chief inspector with Lancashire Constabulary … please don’t be alarmed by my appearance — it’s been a tough day … I’m looking for Najma Ismat.’ He tried one of his boyish smiles, but all his broken cheekbone would allow was a scary grimace.

  ‘What is going on out here?’ an Asian-accented male voice with a definite Lancashire twang demanded to know from inside the house. An old man appeared behind the lady. When he saw Henry, he said, ‘You!’ accusingly. It was Mr Iqbal, the old man Henry had innocently involved in a dangerous car chase whilst on the lookout for a suspect who had dropped through his ceiling and fled from the police raid Henry had led.

  ‘Mr Iqbal!’

  ‘Out of the way, girl,’ Iqbal said and elbowed past the woman, holding out a hand for Henry to shake. ‘Salma, this is the policeman I was telling you about,’ he said proudly, his chest swelling as he stood next to Henry and put his arm around him. ‘Henry Christie, this is my daughter, Salma Ismat. She’s a doctor, you know,’ he said proudly.

  Henry proffered his hand hesitantly. She responded coolly, but shook his fingertips.

  ‘I am pleased to meet you,’ she bowed slightly. ‘My father cannot be quiet about his exciting ride in a police car … it made him a happy man.’

  ‘I thought I’d terrified you.’

  ‘Only in a good way,’ the old man said. He banged his chest with his fist. ‘Got the ticker pumping … exciting as hell.’

  ‘I’m pleased.’

  Iqbal looked curiously at Henry. ‘Have you had a car crash?’

  ‘No … look, I don’t want to be abrupt, but does Najma Ismat live here?’

  ‘Najma is my daughter,’ the lady said.

  ‘Is she in?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘I need to speak to her urgently … I’m afraid I can’t explain why. She’s not in any trouble, it’s just that she might know something. I’m trying to trace Mansur Rashid and I think she might know where he is.’

  ‘That bastard!’ Iqbal hacked up and spat. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’ Henry asked again. ‘I need to locate him.’

  ‘No, we don’t,’ the woman said. ‘And we don’t want to.’

  Another man appeared behind her, Henry guessing this was her husband.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, his eyes taking in the scene.

  ‘This policeman wants to talk to Najma,’ she explained.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know … when I saw the police car, I thought they’d come about Sabera for some reason.’

  ‘Why Najma?’ the father asked.

  ‘It’s not about Najma, it’s about that Mansur scum,’ Iqbal blurted.

  ‘You haven’t come about Sabera?’ the father said.

  ‘No … look, please,’ Henry said, aware this situation might well descend into farce if he wasn’t careful, especially when he noticed a fourth person standing behind the father, a young lad in his early teens, bobbing about on the balls of his feet, trying to see what was going on. Henry executed a chopping motion with the edges of his hands. ‘I’m trying to trace the whereabouts of Mansur Rashid, that’s all. I thought Najma might know where he was. If you know, it’ll save me talking to her.’
<
br />   He felt a bit of a fraud not letting on about Sabera, but he didn’t want to complicate matters further at that moment. Time was critical, He glanced at his watch. Condoleezza Rice should just about be arriving at her first venue.

  ‘We don’t know where Najma is,’ the father said sadly. ‘But she works for Rashid and spends a lot of time with him, too. She’s become very influenced by him and his radical views. We’re very worried about her. And we’re worried about Sabera, his wife, our other daughter.’

  ‘I know where Najma might be,’ Iqbal interjected, raising a finger. He looked at Bill and the Ford Galaxy. ‘If I get a ride in that, I could take you.’

  Eighteen

  Iqbal positioned himself like a VIP in the middle of the back seat so he could lean forwards between Henry and Bill to direct them. He was chewing that sort of unidentifiable paste again, giving his breath a sweet tang.

  Both officers leaned outwards to put a bit of distance between themselves and the old man.

  ‘Tell me about Rashid,’ Henry said as they set off, leaving a total of five people now standing at the door, another two relatives having emerged from inside the house.

  ‘He’s an extremist, always winding people up against the Brits,’ Iqbal said, chewing his cud. ‘Go down Preston New Road towards town,’ he instructed Bill.

  ‘What does he do for a living?’

  ‘Owns two petrol stations, two Indian restaurants, three shops, lots of property and drives fear into people’s hearts. Everyone is terrified of him, but the young kids — teenagers — think he’s great cos he’s always on about bombing and fundamentalism and stuff. I just think he’s a gangster using religion as a means to an end, but I’m an old guy, so what do I know, except I love this country. It’s been good to me.’

  ‘And he’s married to your granddaughter, is that right?’

  ‘Sabera, yeah.’ He looked glum. ‘It was an arranged marriage, but turned bad. He treated her horribly and eventually she did a runner, and to be honest, we didn’t blame her. If only she’d talked to us, though. We would have understood. We’re very liberal, you know. Haven’t seen her since … we’re very worried about her, actually. We think he may have done something to her, but we don’t know for sure.’

  For the moment that was a path Henry did not want to venture down. Maybe later. His priority was to find Rashid and Akbar and hopefully stop a terrorist atrocity from occurring. The murder investigation could be put on hold for a few hours.

  ‘Has he ever been to your house in Accrington?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Oh yes, he was thinking about buying a house in the same row and had a good look around mine to see what it was like.’

  ‘Did he go into the attic?’

  ‘Yes — he was up there for ages, actually.’

  ‘And did he buy a house in the row?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Henry churned it over. That explained the escape route. And I’ll bet Rashid is the owner of the house that was raided, probably through some innocent intermediary, Henry guessed. Something to follow up, if it wasn’t already being done by other parties.

  ‘So what’s Rashid done?’ Iqbal asked. ‘Not planning to kill Condoleezza Rice, is he?’ he laughed, then stopped abruptly when he saw the expressions on the faces of the two coppers. ‘He bloody is, isn’t he?’ the old man gasped, shocked.

  ‘We think Rashid and another man are planning to assassinate her and I’m trying to find out where he is,’ Henry admitted.

  The old man had slumped back in his seat, his hands laid on his chest, a stunned expression on his face, which had seeped a pale grey colour, similar to the shade he’d gone during the car chase.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Henry asked worriedly, hoping the old guy wasn’t going to expire in the back of the car.

  He nodded, leaned forward again and said with urgency, ‘Down here, turn right into Montague Street … Najma could be working in the shop at one of Rashid’s petrol stations on Preston Old Road, that’s what she usually does … if she’s not there, I know where his other places of business are.’ He licked his lips and said, ‘Bastard,’ under his sweet breath.

  According to the radio, Rice, aka ‘the Package’, had arrived safely at the first venue.

  She was still alive.

  Bill drove down the steep Montague Street, then at the bottom turned right into Preston Old Road, which snaked in a westerly direction out of Blackburn. The first mile or so of it was largely car showrooms, industrial units, shops and other business premises, before it became more residential further out of town.

  ‘Next petrol station on the left,’ Iqbal said.

  About two hundred metres ahead Henry could see a BP garage with a large, wide forecourt and a shop. ‘What do you think?’ he asked Bill.

  ‘Pull up, go in?’

  Bill drew the Galaxy on to the forecourt next to one of the pumps. Not an unusual sight as police vehicles are always filled up at local garages these days. A couple of other cars were at the pumps and there was a customer in the shop, browsing through the magazines.

  A young Asian girl sat behind the counter.

  ‘That her?’ Henry asked.

  Iqbal peered through the windscreen. ‘My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, but yes.’

  ‘OK. Mr Iqbal, you stay in the car. You and me go in, Bill.’

  They strolled together across the forecourt and into the shop. A customer ahead of them moved away from the counter and left the shop as they stepped in. As they approached the counter, Henry saw her name badge: Najma Ismat.

  A shadow crossed her face as she watched the two men come up to her, her eyes flicking from Bill’s uniform to the battered face of Henry Christie.

  Henry saw the family resemblance in Najma. She was less stunning than Sabera, but still very attractive, although her nose was quite hooked and her eyes were set deep and dark in her face.

  Henry fished out his warrant card and leaned on the counter. ‘Najma — I’m DCI Christie …’ She immediately glanced round to the door behind her which led to a small office at the back of the shop.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where is Mansur Rashid?’

  ‘I don’t … what?’ she blubbered, flustered. ‘Why would I know, and if I did, why should I tell you?’ she barked defensively, pulling herself together quite quickly, giving Henry a haughty, arrogant look … because of which he decided to give it to her right between the eyes. The time for pussyfooting around had long since gone.

  ‘Because he killed your sister, Sabera. That seems a pretty good reason to tell me.’

  Najma winced as though Henry had applied an electric shock to her. She shook her head in denial. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sabera’s still alive, living down south somewhere.’

  ‘When did you last hear from her?’

  Behind the officers, another customer entered the shop. Henry spoke out of the side of his mouth to Bill, keeping his eyes on Najma. ‘Get him out and lock the door.’

  A car also pulled up at a pump on the forecourt and the driver unhooked the petrol nozzle. A buzzer beeped and a button started flashing on the control panel in front of Najma. She pressed it automatically and the man started filling his tank.

  ‘A long time ago. Months,’ she said.

  ‘Does that not strike you as odd?’

  ‘I fell out with her.’ She was tight lipped.

  Henry had come prepared. He took a folded, but slightly crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and laid it out on the counter. It was a photograph of Sabera, showing her laughing, glowing whilst she sat in a Spanish restaurant.

  ‘A day after this, she was dead,’ he said brutally. ‘That was six months ago. She’s only just been identified.’

  Najma’s face sagged.

  The customer who had filled his car up was now at the shop door. Bill, who had nudged the other customer out of the shop and locked the door, mee-mawed at him to wait. There was a bit of a queue building up.
<
br />   ‘Mansur said he’d spoken to her recently.’

  ‘Mansur’s lying. He found her, abducted her, murdered her,’ Henry said, not one bit liking what he was doing.

  ‘No … you’re wrong. I know he hired a private investigator to trace her, but he said he’d spoken to her and … and …’ Her voice trailed off into the ether.

  Najma sat back on the stool behind her, stunned.

  ‘Where is he?’ Henry said slowly. ‘If you know, you must tell me, if only for your sister’s sake.’ He was praying that she didn’t react so badly to the news that she became hysterical and impossible to handle.

  Another car drew on to the forecourt. The buzzer on the control panel sounded as the driver removed the nozzle from the pump. ‘Listen, we don’t have a lot of time and I need to find Mansur rapidly. If you know where he is, tell me.’

  ‘Boss,’ Bill called from across the shop, ‘the package is preparing to move from venue one,’ he said, referring to Condoleezza Rice.

  Henry nodded, but did not turn. His eyes bore into Najma.

  ‘Boss,’ Bill called again. Henry looked round this time and Bill pointed out of the shop door. He saw that Iqbal had got out of the ARV and was now at the shop door.

  ‘Keep him out.’ He twisted back to Najma. ‘Where is he?’

  Najma glared up at him, sheer bloody defiance in her eyes. She stood up and spat at him. ‘You are lying. I need to tell you nothing.’

  Henry wiped the spittle from his sore face, beginning to simmer. Not much more and he’d be at boiling point, but he kept himself under control.

  ‘He killed your sister, strangled her, beat her, drowned her and burned her body and he’s also got his hooks into you, hasn’t he … if you need protection, then I’ll give it, but tell me where he is now!’

  Suddenly Iqbal emerged from the office behind the counter, having found his way into the shop via the rear door. He had overheard Henry’s last few lines to Najma and his face was contorted with rage and grief.

  ‘Granddad!’ Najma exclaimed on seeing him.

  ‘Najma — tell this man everything he needs to know, you foolish girl.’

  ‘But he’s lying … can’t you see he’s lying? They all lie. They hate us.’