The Last First Time

by Andrea Bramhall

  Mallam looked at her for the first time and nodded. “Yes, he travelled with Shiraz Zaghba to and from Turkey. Zaghba, thirty-three years old, Pakistani descent. He has been on the radar for some time. We’ve had a number of anonymous reports raising concerns about his behaviour, beliefs, and expressed views in regards to IS, extremism, suicide bombings, and beheading infidels.”

  “Why hasn’t he been picked up?”

  “We have him under surveillance. The hope is that Ayeshydi will make contact and then we can scoop them both up at the same time.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “We are working on other leads.”

  “Care to share what those might be?” Vinny asked.

  “Need to know,” Mallam said with as much confidence as someone who thought they might be about to get lynched.

  He wasn’t far wrong. A chorus of mimicked farting sounds were hurled his way, along with a string of curse words to make a sailor blush. Might have even been one or two new to Kate…but it was hard to tell amongst so many old favourites.

  In the end, it was Clare who held up her hands to bring them all back to order. “All right, people, give him a break. He doesn’t set the orders.”

  “Just another bloody ‘yes’ man for the fucking government,” someone shouted.

  “We’re all frustrated, we’re all angry, and, by God, we’ve all seen more than enough. But this is why they pay us those peanuts and promise us a glorious retirement, folks. Because we go out there and we do our jobs. We do everything we can to keep people safe and when we can’t, we bring pieces of shit like this to justice.”

  “How do you expect us to do that without all the information? We’re not fucking mind readers, ma’am.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easy if we were,” Clare responded with a sardonic smile. “We do the best we can with the information we have,” she glared at Porter and Mallam, “and trust that our colleagues will divulge all the information we do need at the appropriate times.”

  More grumbling from the crowd.

  “It’s not perfect. I know that, and you know that. But you know what? Nothing is. This is what we’ve got, and this is what we have to deal with.” She met the eye of every officer looking at her. “I believe in my people, I believe in you. Every single one of you. There is nowhere you won’t look, no lead you won’t chase down, and not a fucking rock you won’t turn over until we have this bastard in our sweaty little hands.”

  A rousing chorus of hell yeahs and too fucking rights chased her words with enthusiasm.

  “Sanderson, Manners, Brothers, and Powers, you’re with Porter.”

  “Ma’am?” Martin Sanderson asked.

  “Surveillance on Zaghba. We need to spell off the team that are watching his place at the moment. Twenty-four-seven eyes and ears. You four take the next shift. You’ll have cover come in by five tonight.”

  Sanderson nodded, and Kate could practically hear Tom moaning. He hated surveillance.

  “Brannon, Jackson, and Co., take Mr Mallam here to meet with your Mr Grimshaw, and see where we’re up to with that diary you found. See if Nadia left any clues in there as to where the bombs were made or where Ayeshydi might be hanging out when he’s not at home.”

  Kate nodded. So much better than surveillance. Even if she did have to work with Mel and Mallam. She looked around to see if she could see Gareth, but if he was there, he was hidden in the crowd.

  Clare continued to hand out assignments and quickly the room emptied until Kate, Vinny, and Mel were the only ones left besides Timmons, Clare, Mallam, and the two guys from the counterterrorism unit.

  “Looks like you’re missing a body, DS Brannon.” Timmons cocked his head to the side. “Where’s the pretty boy?”

  “Not sure, sir.” She pulled her phone from her pocket to see if she had any word from him, but there was no message, no missed call. She flicked the screen in Timmons’s direction and shrugged.

  As he ground his teeth, Timmons’s face darkened to a ruddy shade of puce Kate usually associated with long-term alcohol abuse. “Right, well, carry on, and I’ll send the little bastard to you when I’m done with him.”

  She nodded, glad she wasn’t going to be in Collier’s shoes when he finally dragged his arse out of bed.

  Mallam wandered over to them and held out his hand to Kate. “Zain Mallam.”

  She shook his hand. “Kate Brannon.” She pointed to Vinny as she let go of his hand. “Vinny Jackson.”

  “Nice to meet ya.” Mallam shook Vinny’s hand.

  “Likewise.”

  “And Mel Brown.” Kate pointed to Mel as they shook hands.

  “Pleasure.” Mallam smiled at Mel.

  Mel just nodded.

  “So, you found the diary?” he asked Kate.

  “Yes. It’s all in Arabic, so it’s down for translation.” She led them out of the room and down into the bowels of the station where the crime lab lived.

  “Maybe I can help with that,” he offered.

  Yeah, like I’d trust you to tell me what it said? Need to fucking know, right? “Sure, I’m sure Grimshaw will be glad of any help you could offer.”

  They surely all knew she was lying. Grimshaw was never glad of help. Now, she was the only one who knew that about him. But the others had to know she was lying because none of them would trust Mallam as far as they could throw him either. He’d already proved to them they couldn’t. And Mallam… Well, he had to know, if only because he was a spook. They knew everything.

  Except where a bomb was gonna be set off.

  Or where their suspect was hiding.

  Or anything relevant he could share.

  On second thought, maybe he didn’t know she was lying to his face.

  Chapter 15

  Gina parked her beat-up old Astra on the main road and unclipped her seatbelt. “Don’t forget your PE kit,” she reminded Sammy.

  Sammy slapped her backpack and pushed open the rear door.

  “Have you got your lunch?”

  Sammy slapped the bag again, slung it over her shoulder, and slammed the door shut behind her.

  Gina climbed out of the driver’s side, grabbed hold of Sammy’s hand, and led her down the gravel-covered road to Brancaster Primary School. The low brick wall was topped with an ornate iron railing and heavy black iron gates that were swung open to allow entry. Mums and other kids milled around the small playground.

  There were thirty-seven children in the school, ranging in ages from nursery to eleven years old. And not a one of them walked up to Sammy to say hi as Gina walked her across the yard and straight up to Mrs Eastern—Sammy’s class teacher and protector since the bullying had started. Wrongly blamed for most of the kids’ fathers facing jail time, Sammy was bearing the brunt of their confusion, fear, and the misplaced anger of the parents of the village.

  Sammy wasn’t the one who enticed their fathers into smuggling drugs from overseas, storing them in oyster pots on the sea bed, and then bringing them ashore on demand. Nope. That had been Ally and Adam Robbins. Sammy’s own father—Matt the Prat, as Gina called him—also sat in a prison cell waiting for his trial. In fact, his arse-covering had set off the chain reaction that had brought the village’s fleet to a standstill and put all the fishermen either in prison or out of work.

  That was why Sammy was getting the shit-covered end of the stick.

  Because Matt was far more than a prat. He was a fucking idiot. A fucking drug-dealing, child-abandoning, moronic imbecile whose poor parenting decisions led Sammy to believe she’d killed Gina’s best friend, Connie Wells. So, yeah…Matt was way more than just a prat.

  “Morning, Gina,” Mrs Eastern said. “Terrible business all this in Lynn, ain’t it?”

  Gina slapped her hands over Sammy’s ears and pulled her in front of her body so she couldn’t possibly read her lips as she said quietly, “Don’t.”

  Mrs Eastern frowned, her eyes begging the question.

  “I was there.”

  Mrs Ea
stern clasped her hands in front of her mouth.

  “One of our friends is still in hospital with her injuries. Sammy knows, but we’ve downplayed it. She doesn’t need anything else to worry about.”

  Mrs Eastern nodded vigorously. “Of course.” She forced a smile to her lips and dropped her hands. “Are you coming to the nativity this afternoon?” She reached over and ruffled Sammy’s hair. “Someone we both know is playing the Angel Gabriella and narrating the whole show.” She winked at Sammy. “We’ve been working hard on those lines for a while now.”

  Sammy nodded and looked up at Gina. “Can Kate come and watch me too?”

  Gina’s heart clenched in her chest. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but she can’t. Kate’s really busy. With Stella getting that bump on the head, she’s got to do all of Stella’s work too. I know she’d want to, though. More than anything else.”

  Sammy’s head dropped, the disappointment evident in the droop to her shoulders. “’Kay.”

  Gina thought quickly. “She made me promise that I’d video it so we could all watch it together later when she got home. That’s how disappointed she was that she wouldn’t be able to come.”

  Sammy’s head shot up, her braid bouncing about and whipping her in the face. She waved it back with an exaggerated swipe of her arm. “Really?”

  “Absolutely.” Gina crossed her finger over her heart. Note to self: text Kate and tell her to be OTT about disappointment tonight.

  “Kate’s so cool. Laters.” Sammy skipped away.

  Mrs Eastern sniggered. “Saved by the awesomeness that is a smartphone, huh?”

  Gina sighed. “Oh yeah.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket and quickly started typing.

  It’s Sammy’s nativity play this afternoon. She was upset when I told her you wouldn’t be able to come because you were so busy at work. I cheered her up telling her you begged me to video it to watch later. Sorry. You now have to show excessive amounts of enthusiasm or face the wrath of a sulking pre-teen. xx

  There. Now she could forget about it…until one o’clock.

  The rest of her journey to work was uneventful. The campsite and hostel were empty, and Will was checking the stock of gas bottles stored in the locked cage outside the information centre. An uncomfortable thought battered at Gina’s brain. Gas bottles…open cage…explosions.

  “Will, can we get the gas bottles stored in the barn?”

  He frowned at her. The dark beanie hat on his head was sodden and slipped low over his eyes. The ever-present cigarette hung from his lips as he spoke around it, hiking up his pants when he stood up straight. “Well, yeah. But that’s gonna be a ball-ache when we have to traipse up and down every time we sell one of them.”

  Gina nodded. No doubt it would be. With just the two of them working at the campsite now, if only one of them was around when they needed to go up to the barn for a bottle, they’d have to lock up the shop, carry the often heavy canister down, unlock the shop, sell the gas, then take the empty canister back up to await collection and refilling. Like Will said, ball-ache. But she really didn’t like the idea of those flammable, explosive cans just sitting there. It had never sat well with her. After…well, now…she really couldn’t stand the thought of it.

  “I know, but it is safer. I think that has to be a priority right now. Not the work involved.”

  Will scowled but nodded. “I’ll sort it.”

  She smiled at him. That was his stock answer. Anything she needed, anything that needed doing around the site, helping with Sammy… “You’re a star, Will. Thanks.”

  He dipped his head, and she pushed open the door to the information centre. A quick look over the booking system showed her that they’d had only one departure that morning, so only one room needed to be changed over. Will would no doubt sort that when he was done with the gas bottles, leaving Gina free to trudge through the growing mountain of paperwork sitting on her desk. They weren’t even open as a campsite now; how did the paperwork continue to breed? She grabbed the small stack of post and walked up the lane to her office.

  She switched on the oil radiator, dumped the post on her desk, and decided coffee was in order before she settled down. Brandale Café was a busy spot all year round. This morning it was filled with various contractors who were working on the holiday homes that sat vacant through the winter. Orders for bacon baps, sausage butties, and tea you could stand a spoon in were yelled across the counter to a harried-looking woman. Gina stood to one side and waited for it to quiet down a bit.

  “It’s a bloody disgrace, I tell you,” one builder said to another.

  Gina craned her head to see if she recognised the speaker. She didn’t.

  “Do they know who did it?” the second builder asked as he stirred a fourth packet of sugar into his tea.

  Did what? Gina frowned.

  Builder One shook his head. “Be kids, probably. We all know what Mrs M was growing in that hothouse of hers.” He mimed taking a puff off a cigarette. “Wacky-backy.”

  Mrs M, a.k.a. Mrs Maureen Mitchell, suffered from multiple sclerosis and grew marijuana in her greenhouse for her own medical consumption. It was a well-known local secret. Even Kate knew and wished Mrs M all the best with it. As long as she was only using it for herself…Kate had no problem. The poor woman was suffering enough. The idea that some ignorant kids had broken in and damaged Mrs M’s medical stash was appalling. The woman was ill.

  “Yeah, but when I saw her this morning, Mrs M said there was no damage to those plants. Just every one of her roses had been de-headed, and the pots knocked over. Sounds personal to me, not like kids looking for a quick smoke.”

  Gina’s attention spiked. Mrs M was also renowned for her roses. Her beautiful, fragrant, yellow-headed roses. She grew them to help cover the smell of the marijuana plants. She had dozens of rose bushes in the hothouse, growing blooms all year round. She said the colours made her feel better, sunnier, when she felt nothing but grey or black inside.

  “Bastards,” Builder One said again.

  “Excuse me,” Gina interrupted. “When was this?”

  Builder Two looked her up and down, a grin twitched on his lips. “Few days ago, love. Maybe a week at most. She’d had a bad bout and had not been in there for a few days, so didn’t see the damage until this morning.”

  “Has she called the police?”

  He shook his head. “They’ve got bigger fish to fry right now then a few damaged plant pots, don’t ya think?”

  Gina nodded. Of course they did. But a horrid thought skittered through her mind, and she needed to figure out if it was possible or not. “Thanks.” She straight-armed the door open and jogged the couple of hundred yards to her house. A small stack of mail sat on the mat. She scooped them up and tossed them on the kitchen table as she passed through. The flowers were still in the bin where she’d dumped them after learning they hadn’t been a gift from Kate. Fifty yellow roses.

  She just hoped she could find the card that had come with them. She pulled each stem from the bin bag, grateful that the flowers were the only thing in it.

  The tiny scrap of card sat at the bottom, the white of it standing out against the black bin bag.

  Missed you last night. How about tonight we make it special? The Victoria, 8pm? xx

  The handwriting was a ridiculous scrawl, and there was nothing else on it. No shop logo, no address of the florist that sent or delivered the flowers. Not even the name of the shop. Shit.

  Gina’s first thought had been that Ally had sent them to her. A kind of sick ‘thinking of you’ kind of gesture to make sure Gina kept reliving the nightmare over and over again.

  But Ally was in prison.

  Fear skittered up Gina’s spine, but just as quickly, she shut it down. Gina pulled in one deep breath after another and focused her mind, refusing to let it claim her. Ally was in prison, she couldn’t hurt her anymore. And whoever was sending her flowers…well, they were just flowers, right? What was bad about flowers?

&nbs
p; Maybe nothing at all. Maybe…something else entirely.

  Grabbing her mail and stuffing it into her pocket along with the card, she jogged out of the house and down the village to Mrs M’s house. She knocked on the door until she heard “just a minute” in a scratchy, slightly strangled sounding voice that Mrs M had on a bad day.

  Gina forced her worry and frustration to be patient. She couldn’t shout at a disabled person to hurry up because she needed information.

  When Mrs M opened the door, Gina gasped. Always a frail looking woman, today she looked like she was about to break. Her thin frame was little more than skin and bones. The hand that curled around the control of her electric wheelchair was white knuckled and more gnarled than Gina could ever remember seeing. There was a sunken look to her eyes and cheeks that gave her an almost skeletal look, and it was a shock. Gina knew Mrs M to be a feisty, fiercely independent woman who refused to let her condition beat her. Who had stood up to those in the village time and again for whatever she bloody well felt like, including the right to graze her horses on the common land around the village—something that hadn’t been popular with the locals…or the farmers…or the tourists avoiding the mounds of manure the little darlings had left on every footpath they could fine. But the Mrs M Gina was looking at today, wasn’t the same woman. She looked beaten.

  “Gina,” Mrs M said with a tight smile. “Long time no see.” She scooted her wheelchair back to let Gina inside, leading her to the front room.

  Gina smirked. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

  Mrs M shook her head a fraction. “I heard you’ve had a lot going on. I was going to come and see you, but…” She turned out a hand to indicate her chair. “I’ve been a bit tied up myself,” she finished with a bitter laugh.

  “I heard your greenhouse has been broken into. Are you okay?”

  Mrs M nodded. “Pissed off, and I can’t get in there because of the mess, so there’s not a lot I can do about it at the moment. I’ll have to wait until the next time Susie, my daughter, decides to make a trip up from London to get it sorted out in there.”

  “What do you mean?”