Instinct hc-17

by Nick Oldham

  ‘I didn’t know if… if I should ever phone you.’

  ‘I’m glad you did, Alison.’

  ‘Really?’ She sounded relieved.

  ‘Yeah, really… but so late?’

  She laughed. It was a nice sound.

  ‘Hey, look. How does a coffee sound?’

  ‘Sounds brilliant,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, when I know what’s happening. I’ve got — er — some hot investigations ongoing.’ He almost chuckled at the way it sounded so self-important. ‘I’ll have more idea tomorrow afternoon, so it might be the day after…’

  Henry breathed out at the end of the conversation; an amazed smile broke on his face. As he was about to set off the phone rang again. This time he didn’t get a chance to introduce himself as an American voice came strongly on the line. ‘Henry, where the hell are you?’ Karl Donaldson demanded. ‘That Chinese better be a massive portion because I’m starving and there’s nothing in your cupboards.’

  Boone returned an hour later, fairly breathless and flustered, but businesslike. Flynn had spent the intervening time in Michelle’s laid back company, which, as she smoked a couple of spliffs, got even more relaxed. Flynn declined the offer of sharing one with her. Taking a drug other than alcohol — which he acknowledged was just as destructive as any other drug — did not appeal, not after all those years on the drugs branch, seeing the effects they had on people. He stuck with the Johnny Walker Black Label she produced. They’d chatted about their lives and she had gradually become very dreamy and sexy, her pupils expanding as they talked and she inhaled.

  When Boone came back on to the houseboat, he was full of apologies. Flynn thought he was going to settle down for the night, but he went down to the main bedroom and stuffed clothing into a rucksack, with Michelle watching him in her haze.

  He came back on to deck and said to Flynn, ‘Sorry mate, I need to get going.’ He rubbed his first finger and thumb together, meaning money. ‘Had an offer I can’t refuse, but I need to go now.’

  Flynn said, ‘It’s midnight, near as dammit.’

  ‘I know. Needs must.’ He turned to Michelle who seemed to be floating on air. ‘Babe, sorry, but you know.’

  She smiled wonkily, which was very alluring, Flynn thought. ‘It’s OK,’ she said.

  Then to Flynn, Boone said, ‘Look, pal, hang on here if you can, will you? I should be four days at most, y’know, there and back. Easy in Shell and the weather’ll be kind.’

  ‘Want company?’ Flynn offered.

  ‘No,’ Boone snapped. ‘No,’ he said more softly. ‘Solo job — y’know how it is.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Can you wait? Michelle will look after you — in a motherly way, that is.’

  ‘I can wait,’ Flynn said.

  ‘Look — go down the coast, do some shore fishing like we talked about. You know what you’re doing. Use my truck, no probs. But stay if you can. We still have a lot of fishing to do.’

  As Henry stepped through the front door of his house, Leanne skulked out of the living room, gave him a heart-chilling stare and grunted, ‘Your friend is in there.’

  ‘And your friend?’ Henry said pointedly.

  ‘Gone,’ she said furiously. ‘Dad, you have no right-’

  Henry’s right hand shot up, palm out: the classic police ‘stop’ signal. ‘I have every right to decide who comes into my house. We’ll talk about this later.’

  ‘Mum would’ve-’

  Once again his hand shot up, this time his fingers spread apart to reiterate the body language. ‘That is not something you may ever — ever — throw back at me.’

  She scowled, turning a lovely face into a harsh one, then stalked upstairs. Henry shook his head and entered the living room. He looked down the length of the open plan lounge/dining room to the conservatory beyond in which he could see Donaldson’s bulky figure slouched on the cane-backed sofa. He and Donaldson had had many serious discussions, and some not so serious, whilst sitting in the large conservatory that overlooked the rear garden and the flat farmland beyond. Henry had always liked the conservatory. It was a good place for relaxation, reflection and occasional nature watching. There was rumour that a housing estate was to be built on the back fields at some stage and if it ever happened, Henry would be devastated.

  He walked through and called, ‘Hey’ to his friend, who turned and gave him a friendly wave. Henry raised the takeaway and said, ‘Enough for two, easily.’

  ‘Great — I helped myself to a beer, hope that’s OK.’ He held up a bottle of San Miguel.

  ‘No probs, bought some more anyway.’

  Henry picked up his untouched JD from the coffee table as he walked past and downed it in one, then went into the kitchen where he plonked the food on a worktop and rooted out a couple of bowls and forks. As he opened the tin foil dishes, Donaldson joined him. The big American lounged on the door frame and sipped his beer. ‘Leanne’s pretty pissed at you.’

  Henry tilted his head and looked at Donaldson, halfway through tipping boiled rice into a bowl. ‘I’m saving her from herself — and the git that was, or is, her boyfriend.’

  Donaldson watched Henry divvy up the meal, finished his beer and took the bottle of Chinese beer that Henry gave him. Both then retired to the conservatory, perching their dishes on their laps and starting to eat.

  The new dish was good, but there was something pleasant and familiar about a chicken curry that Henry missed slightly.

  After they had each shovelled a few hot mouthfuls down, drunk some of the beer — which was exquisite — and the combination was having the desired effect, Henry looked at his friend.

  Since their early morning conversation on Blackpool seafront — it seemed almost a lifetime ago — Henry had only seen Donaldson once. That had been when he had turned up in a police car at the scene of the shooting on the motorway. By then, all traffic had been stopped in both directions, diversions were in place, and Henry was waiting for the circus to turn up.

  In the meantime, he had ensured that the body of the young Asian man had been covered by plastic sheeting and kept everyone away from it — once they were certain he was dead and nothing could be done to save him. The missing quadrant of his head and punched in face pretty much confirmed that. Once the scene protection was done, Henry had sat down with the AFO who had pulled the trigger.

  Henry didn’t know him personally. He turned out to be a thirty-one-year-old constable by the name of Jeff Clarke, who had four years’ experience on firearms, and was also a police sniper — hence the accurate shooting. Until that moment, other than in training scenarios, Clarke had never pointed a weapon in anger at anyone.

  Clarke had been ushered into the rear seat of the Volvo he’d arrived in — after his gun had been taken from him by Henry and sealed in the boot of his own car. Henry had done what was necessary with the scene, then had slid in alongside Clarke.

  The officer was silent, stone-faced. He glanced suspiciously at Henry.

  ‘How’re you doing?’

  Clarke’s cheeks blew out, he shook his head, shrugged, his hands jittered and he obviously couldn’t think of what to say.

  ‘You did well,’ Henry said.

  ‘I killed a man. A boy.’

  ‘Lawfully. I’ve checked him as much as I dare without contaminating or setting anything off, and he’s definitely got explosives strapped to his body and a detonator in his hand.’

  Clarke nodded numbly, taking this in.

  ‘You did your job when it counted.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ He wiped some spittle from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘No — you were superb and I’ll back you up one hundred percent.’

  Clarke angled his face at Henry, a cynical expression on it. ‘You’re a superintendent, aren’t you?’ Henry nodded. ‘Then forgive me for saying it, sir, but I’ll believe that when I see it. If I know this force, I’ll be strung out like wet keks.’

  Henry realized this wasn’t a point of view he would be a
ble to change sitting in the back of an ARV, on a motorway, fifty metres from a very dead body, so he didn’t try. Clarke would have to see that Henry meant his words in the fullness of time. His actions would speak for themselves.

  Other cops and specialists — the circus — were rolling up to the scene, including Donaldson who arrived in a car with the FB and Martin Beckham, the MI5 man.

  Henry laid a hand on Clarke’s shoulder, could not think of anything reassuring to say, so he got out and was instantly buffeted by the wind again.

  He had stretched crime scene tape around the area, using police cars as temporary points to attach it from, and Donaldson immediately ducked under it and almost ran to the body, squatting on his haunches and lifting back the plastic sheet, great hope on his face.

  Henry watched his head shake and a very pissed-off expression come on to his face. He lay the sheet back carefully and slouched dejectedly back to where Henry, FB and Beckham were standing behind the tape. Donaldson was still shaking his head.

  ‘Not Jamil Akram,’ Donaldson announced. ‘I thought it wasn’t from the description.’

  ‘Are you sure it was Akram you chased in the first place?’ Beckham said.

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘And you’re sure Akram is the one who knocked over a policeman?’

  ‘Totally. That guy,’ Donaldson jerked his thumb in the direction of the body on the carriageway, ‘is Rashid Rahman, the second of the two guys you briefed the cops on so well earlier. You know, the ones who were supposed to be holed up in a flat the cops were watching and who, somehow, got out without being seen? Shit like that happens, I know.’

  ‘And you’re sure you took a pot shot at Jamil Akram?’

  ‘As eggs is eggs — and somehow he changed places with that poor sucker, which means that Jamil Akram is still out there in the wide world, free as a bird.’

  ‘But you shot him — well, at least you say you did?’ Beckham sneered.

  ‘Oh, I shot him — obviously not well enough.’

  ‘Maybe you got it wrong in the heat of the moment. Maybe you didn’t chase Akram and maybe you didn’t put a bullet into him — maybe the male in the car was this one.’ Beckham gestured towards the body.

  Donaldson and Beckham glared at each other and continued to bicker on the hard shoulder. Henry just walked away, stunned by the childishness of it all.

  ‘Are you and Mr Beckham friends yet?’ Henry asked Donaldson. They had finished their meal, the Chinese beers, and Henry had rooted out some more San Miguel, which was cooling them down.

  ‘Uh, wouldn’t say that,’ Donaldson muttered. ‘Reached an impasse, which is probably as good as it gets.’

  ‘So where is everything up to?’

  ‘Well, as you know, Rahman was rigged up to explode, so the death call by your man, PC Clarke, was right on the money. He did the right thing.’

  ‘Let’s hope he hears that from all the right places,’ Henry said. ‘Including the justice system.’

  ‘He will.’ Donaldson sipped his beer. ‘The guy I wrestled down near to the Tower, Zahid Sadiq, will now be at Paddington Green police station in London for questioning. Usual procedure with a terrorist. Hopefully I’ll get to have words with him at some point — if your security people will allow me. Both he and Rahman were wearing the same explosives rig, and the guy behind that, the bomb-maker and brain-washer Mr Jamil Akram, is still free and no doubt already out of the country.’

  ‘So quickly?’ Henry said in surprise.

  ‘Yup — organized to run, these guys.’

  ‘But you’re sure you shot him?’

  Donaldson nodded and Henry believed him. ‘Winged the bastard, that’s all. I know exactly where I shot him.’ Donaldson pointed to a spot at the back of his own right bicep. He sighed. ‘Sadly it wasn’t through the head. They’ll find his blood in the car once they examine it.’

  The plane touched down twenty minutes ahead of schedule. The tailwind had assisted passage, but the flight itself had been beset by turbulence and the seat belt signs had been lit for most of the journey. Most of the passengers were mute and a little afraid, despite attempts by the cabin crew to keep up spirits.

  The small, ill-looking man in row 39, seat E — the window seat — hardly moved throughout the flight. He’d positioned himself at an unusual angle against the side of the plane, tucked in tightly, facing the window. He smiled wanly at the couple in the seats next to him, then closed his eyes and slept.

  On landing he waited for most of the other passengers to leave the plane before tugging out the small piece of hand luggage he’d stored under the seat in front of him. Then he rose slowly and stiffly, and tried to disembark without drawing attention to himself.

  It worked. No one had taken much notice of him. No one would really remember him, which was as it should be. He walked out unchallenged through the terminal building after showing his British passport to a bored and tired looking customs official.

  Normally the interior of the plane would not have been so thoroughly cleaned. If it had been a straight turn around, the cabin crew would have done a quick once-through and without much care.

  As it was, the plane had reached its resting place for the night and therefore a proper cleaning crew entered and worked their way methodically through it.

  When a cleaner reached seat 39E, she stopped suddenly, puzzled at first by the dark stain on the seat and seat back. It was big, not the normal food or drink stain she usually came across. She beckoned over a colleague and both women inspected the stain closely, then looked knowingly at each other.

  In unison, they said, ‘ Si, la sangre. ’

  Blood.

  NINE

  A sour-faced, very exhausted Mark Carter sat defiantly in an interview room at Blackpool police station. His arms were folded and he glared up at the camera positioned high in one corner that recorded his movements. Having attended the station voluntarily he had not been arrested, but he knew it was probably only a matter of time.

  Not that it worried him. He’d done nothing wrong, but there was always a problem demonstrating innocence to cops. They always worked on the assumption that you were guilty and worked backwards from there, making the jigsaw fit around that. At least that is what Mark Carter believed they did. Fit you up because it was easier than unearthing the truth.

  He jerked his middle finger up at the camera lens and mouthed a word that didn’t need a lip reader to translate.

  Henry’s morning had been hectic. Up at six thirty after a fitful night’s sleep exacerbated by severe indigestion: note — order chicken curry in future because that never made him feel bad. He had showered speedily and was walking into the station just after seven, trying to focus his mind on the day ahead.

  He met Rik Dean in Rik’s office just off the main CID office, where they sat down over a strong filter coffee and bacon sandwiches to organize the hours that lay ahead. They worked on to-do lists, wanting to miss nothing, and get the inquiry into Natalie Philips’s murder kick-started. Henry was aware that some of the momentum had been lost already because he’d got involved in yesterday’s motorway mayhem. He wanted to pick up speed and get a well-briefed team out there knocking on doors, making people who knew Natalie feel very uncomfortable. He knew how crucial the first seventy-two hours of a murder investigation were — and that had now been whittled down to forty-eight hours.

  By nine he had screamed and bawled at too many people. Not something the ‘old’ Henry had been prone to do, but since Kate died he’d discovered he was far less patient with people who dragged their feet. Anyway, it seemed to work that morning and something resembling a murder inquiry was coming together. Search and forensic teams were at the scene outside the crematorium, six pairs of detectives were responding to various ‘actions’ that had been generated and house-to-house enquiries were underway in the area around the crematorium.

  There was a slight problem in that the location of the murder was actually just over the border in another division
, but Henry wasn’t too concerned about it. Natalie was a Blackpool girl and it was more than likely her death was associated with people she knew in Blackpool, so Henry had decided to run the job from the resort.

  He was desperate to find the last person to see Natalie alive and his early theory was that it was probably somebody in Blackpool. At the back of his mind, he hoped it wasn’t Mark Carter.

  Henry sat back and stretched. Everything ached. Joints cracked and creaked. He felt his age and he scoffed contemptuously at whoever said the fifties were the new thirties.

  Next task was to get the Murder Incident Room — MIR — up and running with the necessary staff in it and to get the murder book up to date.

  The phone on Rik’s desk rang. The DI scooped it up. ‘Right, thanks, yeah… in an interview room… if he tries to leg it, arrest him… uh-huh… murder… be down, say five minutes. Cheers.’ Rik hung up and looked across the desk at Henry. ‘Well would you credit it?’

  ‘Mark Carter?’ Henry guessed as though he could read Rik’s mind. He hadn’t mentioned the phone call he’d got from Mark.

  Rik nodded. ‘You a mind reader or something?’

  The boy was almost eighteen now, old enough to be interviewed without any parent or other responsible adult being present. Not that he had a parent or anyone else that was interested in his welfare. No father, dead mother, jailed older brother, dead sister; Mark was pretty much alone in the world.