Instinct hc-17

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Well fucking well get them back in again,’ FB said. He glared at Beckham. ‘And you think of something to say.’

  The second briefing was much shorter. Beckham bluffed his way through it by saying that new information had just come to light literally in the last few minutes. Even then, he managed to gloss over the intelligence and basically reinforced the warning to any officers that might come face to face with either of the targets, whilst playing down the suicide bomber angle. Donaldson learned that Beckham was very much a man who understated everything.

  They filed out a little more muted than previously. When the last one had gone, Beckham looked acidly across at Donaldson and said petulantly, ‘That better?’

  Donaldson shrugged.

  Beckham said, ‘Please refer to a previous conversation we had about your sources, incidentally. It’s something I shall be actively pursuing on my return to London. Obviously we have a leak that needs to be plugged.’

  Bill Robbins, the firearms PC, re-entered the briefing room to gather some paperwork he’d left behind. Donaldson spotted him and had an idea, then trotted out behind Bill, not giving Beckham any response to the threat.

  ‘Bill — hi,’ Donaldson said, catching up with Robbins.

  ‘Karl, how’s it going?’ Bill was striding purposefully along the corridor.

  ‘I’m good. You?’

  ‘Well, back on firearms training, which is a step in the right direction,’ he answered, turning into the stairwell.

  ‘That’s great news — but we still have the inquests to come?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not worried.’ He started down the concrete steps, Donaldson at his heels. ‘Henry’s been fantastic and the force has been OK-ish. I was justified in what I did, so I’m not losing sleep, other than worrying about my aim.’

  ‘You were superb actually — hey, what’s your role today?’

  ‘Do you mean on this half-baked operation?’ he said, still talking over his shoulder as both men descended the stairs. ‘Oops — hope I haven’t said anything out of place?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m concerned. You saw through it?’

  ‘Always a cynic where the security services are concerned. They’re crap and they never tell you the truth.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Donaldson said, proud of his status as a law enforcement officer, which seemed so much higher a calling. ‘So what is your role?’

  ‘Just roving quality control, ensuring everyone knows their jobs, keeps on the plot. Welfare, that sort of thing.’ They had reached the lower ground floor on which the custody office and garages were situated.

  ‘Erm, any chance of tagging along with you today?’

  ‘Not a problem as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘As I’m supposed to be here as an observer,’ Donaldson said, ‘I’ll ride shotgun.’

  FOUR

  They returned to the murder scene in Henry’s Mercedes, in which Rik had driven him to the police station in the course of the panic attack, or whatever it was that Henry had suffered. Rik coveted the coupe but Henry, a bit meanly, had always denied him the opportunity of driving it. Henry therefore suspected that Rik had seized on the chance when his brain had gone into free-fall.

  Back at the crematorium, the mechanics of running a murder scene were well underway. The road past the cemetery was sealed off other than for essential traffic, and a diversion put in place. The scientific support vehicles were there, as were several paper-suited and booted individuals carrying out their tasks. Henry parked up in much the same place as on his first visit, this time drawing up behind a beautifully restored E-Type Jaguar that made him smile a little. He knew who owned it.

  A little away, leaning on an unmarked police car, was PC Driver, the officer who had found the girl’s body on his travels. He was drinking coffee, looking forlorn. Henry walked across to him.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  The officer, a man in his mid-forties, shook his head. ‘No, boss, still can’t get over it.’ His left hand massaged his neck continually in a motion that Henry associated with shock.

  ‘No — not your usual occurrence in Poulton.’ Henry gave him a wan smile. ‘Why don’t you get yourself home? You’ve done a good job here, no need to stay on.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll just get my statement done, first.’

  ‘OK, do what suits.’

  Henry and Rik were logged back on to the scene, clambered into new paper suits, ducked under the tape and approached the ten foot high screen that had been erected around the body to keep out prying eyes. A tent was due shortly.

  During the journey Rik had batted about a few ideas about what might have happened to the girl. Henry had tried to concentrate on what he was saying because he didn’t want another brain-freeze attack. He began planning his investigative strategy so as not to lose track. He’d stuck to the formula many times before so it was imprinted in his grey matter — under normal circumstances, that was.

  Henry parted a gap in the screen like he was stepping through stage curtains, but in front of him was the scene of a real tragic death, not some country house murder with men in tennis shorts, ladies in twinsets and pearls, and dour mustachioed detectives solving the crime, often without evidence.

  There was, however, the stereotypical comic character to lighten proceedings, who, at that moment, was on his haunches, down by the side of the girl’s head, his back to Henry and Rik, instantly recognizable by the large ears sticking out at right angles from his narrow head. Henry walked up behind him and cleared his throat.

  The man did not react. He was focused, his latex-gloved hands touching the side of the victim’s head, talking softly into a microphone fastened to his head, the recording being made digitally on a machine in his shirt pocket. This was the owner of the E-Type Jaguar.

  Henry coughed again.

  Still the man did not turn round, but instead said patiently, ‘Henry, I know it’s you. If you don’t mind, I’ll just finish off what I’m doing, then I’ll be right with you.’

  Henry grinned at the admonishment, slid his hands into his pockets — by sliding them through the gaping holes in the sides of the zoot suit — and let his eyes wander around the scene.

  Although the crematorium was on the outskirts of Poulton, it was rural and quite isolated, certainly not overlooked. The girl’s body had obviously been dumped here from a car, and as there was nothing overlooking the gates, that deed could easily have been carried out unobserved. Making things much more difficult in terms of finding witnesses.

  The man with the ears stood upright and turned slowly to Henry as though a huge wing nut was being twisted.

  ‘Hello Doctor-Professor,’ Henry smiled.

  ‘Henry Christie! My God, feels like years since we met over a dead body.’ Professor Baines, the Home Office pathologist, beamed at Henry. The two men had known each other for many years and developed a good relationship, often cemented by a trip to a local hostelry following a messy post-mortem in order to discuss the case informally. And, usually, to pass comments on ladies. Baines was the Home Office pathologist for the area, but over the last couple of years, because of other work, stand-ins had covered for him. Henry was relieved it was Baines today, though. Locums were OK, but they sometimes came with their own peculiar problems. Baines thrust out a bony hand to shake Henry’s and Henry noticed, not for the first time, how narrow Baines’s body was, accentuating the effect of the ears.

  ‘Good to see you back at the sharp end,’ Henry said, as they shook. ‘I hear you’ve managed to wangle yourself an OBE. Services to teeth, or something.’

  ‘Services to dental pathology,’ Baines corrected him. He specialized in teeth and had built up a database over the years of all things connected to teeth, including the various methods dentists from all over the world used to carry out their work. This was all with a view to help identify dead people. He had been particularly busy in Central Africa as well as Bosnia, where mass graves were still being dug up to this day. It just wasn’t news any
more.

  ‘Well, congratulations. Did you meet the Queen when you got your gong?’

  ‘Nah, some royal lackey or other. Guy called Charles. Had ears like mine.’

  ‘Ah, a minor royal.’

  ‘And you,’ Baines said, moving closer to Henry. ‘I heard about Kate. I’m truly sorry.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘However,’ Baines said, standing back, ‘it frees you to work the field again, eh?’

  Henry blinked, then smiled. ‘Y’know, I think I needed someone to say something like that to me.’

  ‘Henry, if I can but help,’ Baines said solemnly.

  ‘Yeah — you’re a great counsellor.’ Baines had always been intrigued by Henry’s often convoluted love life and had been severely disappointed when he’d remarried Kate and it had ground to a halt. ‘However,’ Henry said, ‘back to more pressing matters.’

  ‘Ah, yes, this young lady.’

  ‘What can you tell me?’

  Baines pursed his lips. ‘Dumped here from a car. Beaten about the face, but looks like strangulation, could be with a scarf judging from the indentations in her skin. I’ll have a clearer idea later, obviously. Female, sixteen to nineteen years, white, well nourished

  … sad.’

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘Hmm, always a bit of a finger in the wind at the scene, but I’d say she’s been here about six or seven hours. Could have been killed up to seven hours before that.’

  Henry totted up the figures. ‘So, maybe dumped here around midnight and murdered sometime between six p.m. and then?’

  Baines shrugged. ‘Best guess at the moment. More conclusive tests at the PM.’

  ‘Fair enough. Are you available to carry that out today?’

  ‘Yes.’ Baines glanced around. ‘Based on what I still have to do here… three o’clock this afternoon OK?’

  ‘Splendid.’ Henry turned to Rik, who had listened to the conversation and said, ‘Mother?’ Rik nodded. ‘Then we pull a team together.’

  ‘What was all that about?’ Bill Robbins threw the unmarked Vauxhall Insignia around the streets of Blackpool north.

  ‘All what?’ Donaldson gripped the hinged handle above the passenger door.

  ‘I half-heard something between you and that Beckham guy. I was lurking,’ he explained.

  ‘Interdepartmental rivalry, I guess. Which I don’t mind in the least, but not at the expense of safety.’

  ‘You mean the added-on bit.’

  ‘Yep — but even then you weren’t told everything.’

  ‘Nature of the beast,’ Robbins said. ‘We accept it to a degree. It’s the way spooks operate. Anyway, how come you’ve turned up for this charade? Us arresting a couple of would-be terrorists on what appears to be a purely speculative basis — uh, nothing new there — seems pretty low down the ladder for a guy like you. I thought you went after the bigwigs? Like the man himself, old OBL, cave dweller.’ He glanced sideways.

  ‘Ahh, briefings,’ Donaldson said fondly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like we said, they don’t always reveal all.’

  ‘As far as I can tell we’re pulling in a couple of lads who are up to no good, then had an extra warning they could be dangerous.’

  ‘More complex than that. Sometimes the little-wigs open up the path to the bigwigs.’

  ‘Explain yourself.’

  Donaldson regarded Bill. He had known him a while now, been involved in various investigations with him and found him sound and reliable. Dour, but likeable. ‘If I do, and you blab, I’ll have to kill you — you know that?’

  ‘Only if you get in the double-tap first.’

  ‘OK — for your ears only. The two men — lads really — that you’ve been told to pull in have just recently returned from an extended trip to Yemen. They’ve been on extensive training and indoctrination courses.’

  ‘Brainwashing?’

  ‘Fundamentalism… so, yeah, brainwashing. Also probably trained to use a variety of weapons and how to make bombs.’

  Bill swerved at this revelation like a cat had just leapt in front of the car. ‘They didn’t quite tell us that.’

  ‘No.’ It was a wistful word.

  ‘So really they’ve told us fuck all.’

  ‘Because if it comes to nothing, it’ll all be played down…’

  ‘Which is why it has to look like a routine stop-check.’

  ‘And if something is found, then they’ll be whisked down to Paddington Green police station in London and interrogated.’

  ‘Interviewed, you mean?’ Bill said.

  ‘Interrogated.’

  ‘OK.’ Bill got the less than subtle hint. ‘So they’ve been trained — does that answer why you’re here, Karl?’

  ‘Do you recall the bombing of the American Embassy in Kenya in 1998?’

  Bill scratched his balding dome. ‘One of many, but I recall it.’

  ‘A guy named Jamil Akram is one of the principal bomb-makers affiliated to certain terrorist organizations. First made his name making car bombs, more recently he’s been mass producing body packs for suicide bombers. Also a weapons expert, particularly small arms.’

  ‘And your interest is?’

  ‘He had a major hand in that embassy bombing — with others, of course. I lost two good friends in that blast and I don’t forget easily.’ His voice became brittle.

  ‘And somehow he’s connected to these guys today?’

  ‘In Yemen they were at a camp at which Akram is known to be a facilitator. The thinking is, I guess, although I can’t be sure, that something will be uncovered by arresting these two today that will lead us closer to Akram. Nailing him, even with a missile fired from a drone, would be a major scalp, one which MI5 would like to claim for their own.’

  The door opened as Henry and Rik walked up the pathway to the house. The woman standing there, maybe only in her late thirties, looked haggard and exhausted, a tatty dressing gown wrapped tightly around her, hair scraped and pinned carelessly back.

  ‘I know you’re the police,’ she said shakily.

  Henry flipped out his warrant card to confirm her suspicion. ‘Mrs Philips, I’m Detective Superintendent Christie from the Force Major Investigation Team and this is Detective…’

  Her face froze in an expression of horror. She had been able to recognize that two plain clothes cops were at her door, but when the first one introduced himself and stated his rank… that was when she knew, and it was as if an invisible weight had struck her. She sagged, swayed, her hand sliding down the door jamb. Henry lurched forwards to catch her before she hit the ground.

  ‘You’re going to be bored,’ Bill said to Donaldson. They were parked up in a street about half a mile away from where the targets had their flat, the street on which their car was also parked. The purpose of the operation was to sit on that car, which was being observed by two cops in the back of a van, wait for the subjects to get in and drive off, then stop them in an appropriate place. Four other plain cars, each with two armed officers on board, a police dog van and a personnel carrier with six uniformed support unit officers were also placed in well thought out, discreet locations, ready to move and pounce once the target car was rolling.

  There was nothing to say that the car would move that day. However, the operation would continue until it did.

  Donaldson yawned, folded his arms and sank low in his seat, closed his eyes, felt his stomach rumble and said, ‘Possibly.’

  ‘How good do you think the Intel is?’ Bill asked.

  ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘Who will have done all the legwork?’

  Donaldson opened one eye and squinted through it at Bill. ‘I always thought you were the laconic type, not loquacious.’

  Bill frowned, decided it was a compliment and said, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And in answer to your question, I don’t know. MI5, MI6, SIS, Special Branch, Counter Terrorism…’

  Bill was used to acting on intelligenc
e received from unknown sources, usually crims with a grudge or a debt to repay. It was the way things were done these days, with many firewalls between informant and the officers who then acted on the information. It protected people and he guessed that in this case, the firewalls were pretty much impregnable. He yawned, too. Then said, ‘Not much of an Asian population around here.’

  ‘No, but plenty of white holiday-makers,’ Donaldson replied and snapped open his eyes as a horrible thought struck him.

  Clare Philips was a single mother and Natalie, as far as Henry knew from the information on the MFH file, was her only child. Henry didn’t like to stereotype, but there was no doubt that Ms Philips was of a sort he had encountered many times during his service. Not that she was a bad woman, simply a victim of upbringing and circumstance. She lived alone in a tiny council house on Shoreside estate, one of Blackpool’s most deprived areas. She was unemployed, survived on benefits, shoplifting, some part-time piece work — as evidenced by the hundreds of pairs of shoes stacked precariously in the living room that she was lacing up — and had had a succession of crappy boyfriends. The last characteristic was Henry’s own guess, but he’d be happy to lay down money — ‘a pound to a pinch of shit’ — it was true. A series of feckless men who used her for one thing only, and he could see she was a good-looking lady behind the rather haggard face that she presented that morning.

  But none of that mattered.

  What was important was that it was almost certain she had lost a daughter. And no doubt it was a daughter she loved with all her heart.

  ‘I’m truly, truly sorry,’ Henry said gently.

  Clare was sitting on the battered settee, staring blankly but disbelievingly at a photograph of Natalie. Rik Dean came in from the kitchen and handed her a mug of milky tea, laced with sugar. She took it absently.

  ‘The thing is,’ Henry went on, ‘although the body we have found fits Natalie’s description, we can only be certain after formal identification.’ Clare nodded. ‘That means you, Clare.’

  ‘I know.’ She swallowed. Her eyes were ringed with red. ‘When?’

  ‘Later today. We’re not exactly sure when.’