by Nick Oldham
McMullen flicked off the screen.
Donaldson’s mouth was dry, every pulse beating.
‘He boarded the Las Palmas flight fifteen minutes later, then made it through their customs at the other end unchallenged – then gone!’
Donaldson said, ‘Passport?’
McMullen picked up a piece of paper. ‘Seems to be a genuine British passport in the name of Ali Karim. I have the details here. I’m getting it checked now. Question is – is that your man?’
‘It is. That’s Jamil Akram,’ Donaldson said.
‘Can you be sure?’ Beckham said. ‘Those images are not completely clear.’
‘It is,’ Donaldson said dully. ‘We need to check the booking,’ he said, thinking out loud, ‘see where it originated from, how long it had been made for, whose computer it was made from. And the passport.’
‘We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the cop in Las Palmas. He did well,’ McMullen said. ‘Followed his instinct.’
‘Did his job, you mean?’ Donaldson said.
‘Whatever,’ McMullen said, seeing he wasn’t going to get much praise or anything from these three. Fact was, a top-class terrorist had escaped right under their noses by simply walking into an airport and jumping on to a flight. No one was feeling good about that.
‘He must have started to bleed again on the plane,’ FB said. ‘He must be in real pain.’
‘And now he’s made it to the Canary Islands – but he won’t be there for long,’ Donaldson said. ‘I’ll lay odds he’s already gone.’ His lips pursed and he felt a dark shadow in his brain as his mind juggled all the angles. Some had already been mentioned, such as the origin of the passport and backtracking the on-line booking. Everything would have been in place for Akram to get out of the UK quickly, the only complication was that he – hopefully – still had a bullet in him. It was therefore vital to discover who helped Akram in the hours between him escaping from the car park, getting Rashid Rahman to take over the car, and walking into Liverpool Airport. It was a window of over eight hours.
‘Guys,’ McMullen said. ‘The plane he was on is due to land back here any time now. The seat he sat in and the two next to it have been kept free . . . would you be interested in having a look?’
‘Can we also get CSI to have a look?’ Donaldson asked. ‘Get a sample from the blood, check for prints . . . if anything it could help us get Akram’s DNA – which would be good.’
‘Grande latte, wet, extra hot, skinny, decaff,’ Henry said to the barista at Starbucks, ‘and a normal, small latte, too, and a couple of those iced buns,’ he added. He was in the short queue in the coffee shop, his eyes constantly checking out the woman he’d arranged to meet.
He paid for and collected the drinks and the buns on a tray and ferried them across to Alison at the small circular table she had managed to snaffle by the window. He slid the mugs and food off the tray, then propped it up next to the window.
‘Sorry about the food,’ he said. ‘Major peckish.’
‘Me too. Shopping’s hell. I heard your order, by the way,’ she grinned. ‘You obviously spend too much time in coffee houses.’
‘It’s become a habit I don’t seem capable of breaking. Costing me a small fortune.’ He took a sip of his extra hot coffee, which wasn’t that hot, but tasted good. He had always subsisted on the kick of coffee, it had sustained him through many a long inquiry, but now he was a little bit addicted to it and lurking around cafes, alone. It felt a bit shameful, like frequenting brothels, but less fun.
Alison sipped hers, her eyes shining across the rim of her mug. ‘Well, here we are.’
‘Mm.’ Henry wiped his lips. ‘Yep – here we are.’
He had literally no idea what to say to this lady.
‘You never called or came to see me,’ she said. It wasn’t spoken in a belligerent way, just factual.
‘I thought it better not to. For personal and professional reasons.’
Her brow furrowed.
‘The personal reasons may have skewed professional judgement, so I thought it better to delegate and let others reach conclusions, maybe with a few nudges from me.’
So he knows, she thought wildly.
Henry drank more coffee. It wasn’t hot at all any more.
‘I’m so sorry about your wife,’ Alison said.
Henry opened his mouth to say something but no words came out. Instead, he heated up from the neck and felt slightly nauseous. In the end, he half-shrugged and drank more coffee, the flow of which took away the sickly sensation. She reached across and laid her cool fingertips on the back of his hand, genuine tenderness in her eyes.
Henry knew that Alison had lost her husband a few years earlier in Afghanistan where they had both been serving in the armed forces, she as a medic. On leaving the forces she had bought the Tawny Owl pub in Kendleton, where she lived with her husband’s daughter from a previous marriage, and they ran the place between them.
Hesitantly his hand covered hers. He puffed out a long sigh that ended with a chuckle. ‘What a pair,’ he said. ‘Us, I mean . . . not . . .’
‘Henry,’ she said solemnly, ‘talk to me. Say what you need to say about you and Kate. Unload – because I get the feeling that so far it’s all still bottled up inside.’ She paused, her eyes searching for acknowledgement of this truth – which she got when his eyes refused to meet hers. ‘I won’t judge you,’ she promised. ‘I’ll listen, nod, ask questions and then, when you’ve finished, maybe we can possibly think about us. What do you say?’
He squinted, then said weakly, ‘I’m not sure where to begin.’
‘We’ll find a place,’ she said, but was cut short by Henry’s mobile, the ringtone of which he’d changed for another Rolling Stones’ intro: Miss You. He almost rolled his eyes at the corny pathos.
‘Sorry,’ he said and answered it, stating his name. He listened and grunted, then said, ‘Fifteen minutes,’ and hung up. ‘Really sorry, Alison, got to go. I’m investigating a murder. Got a suspect in custody.’
‘OK,’ she said sadly. They looked at each other for a few lingering seconds before she found the courage to say, ‘I’m booked into the Hilton for the night . . .’
Donaldson leaned over and looked at the bloodstain on the aircraft seat, then turned to the air stewardess who had been on the flight out and who recalled the quiet passenger wedged into the seat. She seemed to quake slightly as Donaldson’s eyes took her in and she gasped as she responded to his question.
‘Yes, I remember him. This was my section of the plane.’ Donaldson watched her mouth and eyes as she spoke and also saw redness creeping up her neck. ‘He . . . he . . . er . . . actually didn’t move once. He didn’t buy anything, no, he did, sorry, a bottle of water. Otherwise just pulled his cap down and slept . . . now I see why.’
‘You’ve been a great help. Thank y’all, ma’am.’ He purposely switched on the Yankee twang and the OTT politeness. He had only just learned, maybe in the last eighteen months or so, the effect he had on women, many of whom virtually swooned in his presence. ‘Can you tell me anything more about him?’
‘No, not really. It was a fairly late flight and quite a few passengers just tucked in and slept.’
‘OK, that’s great.’ He treated her to his best lopsided grin, which made her pupils expand with a blood rush and sent a tremor all the way through her. She turned and walked unsteadily down the centre of the plane, wafting herself with her hands.
Shuffled behind Donaldson, FB and Beckham were both looking at the blood. Donaldson’s winning smile morphed into a bitter line as he looked at them. ‘What is it now?’ he pondered. ‘Well over twenty-four hours gone? He walked straight on to a plane at an airport not fifty miles from where he’d been operating, unchallenged, wounded, using a false passport f’Christ’s sake. Disembarks four hours later and two thousand miles south, and he’s vanished. Fuck!’ He looked squarely at Beckham. ‘This operation could have gone so much better.’
‘I’ll l
et you into a secret,’ Beckham retorted, ‘this was one of half a dozen anti-terror operations that happened in the UK yesterday, one of over three hundred each year . . . you can’t expect—’
Donaldson cut him off. ‘But this was the real deal. We ended up with two real live suicide bombers. One dead, one in custody. Real deal.’
FB stepped in. ‘We still have things. The flat, for one, which might reveal something, and a body to sweat. There’s every hope he’ll talk.’
‘Oh, he’ll talk,’ Donaldson said. ‘I’ll make certain of that.’
What Donaldson didn’t see was the expression on Beckham’s face as he turned away from the American, an expression that said, ‘Oh no you won’t.’
‘What’s so urgent it couldn’t wait? I said I’d be back, or didn’t you pick up your messages?’ Henry demanded of Rik Dean, who looked hurt by Henry’s sharpness.
‘Uh, sorry, boss . . . it’s Mark Carter.’
‘And?’
‘He won’t speak to Martin or Ray . . . say’s he’ll only speak to you.’
‘Look, I didn’t kill her,’ Mark said, voice stressed.
‘Right,’ said Henry, unimpressed.
‘But, like I said, we did, y’know, screw . . . you’re going to find my stuff inside her, can’t deny that.’
‘Can’t deny how bad it will look for you, either.’
They were in an interview room within the boundaries of the custody suite. Mark had been processed and had opted for the services of a duty solicitor, who sat alongside him, facing Henry and Rik across the table. The tape and video recorders were running.
‘Why do you want to talk to me?’ Henry asked.
Mark shrugged helplessly. ‘Cos I know you, I suppose. Not that I like you; I don’t.’
‘Fine. Get talking. The tape’s running.’
Mark glanced at the solicitor, one of Blackpool nick’s regulars. He nodded encouragement to his client. Mark took a breath. ‘I suppose I’ve been stalking her, really,’ he revealed. Henry groaned inwardly. ‘She dumped me and I couldn’t hack it. Like I said, it was just someone else fucking me off. And I kept, y’know, following her and harassing her and generally pissing her off. But I didn’t threaten her or hurt her or anything like that. Just kept annoying her, I suppose.’
‘You stalked her,’ Henry stated flatly. Mark’s body language was desperate, like he was trapped in a well. ‘Did you rape her? Is this what it’s all about?’
‘No – NO! Did I hell. Henry, you know me. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I was just so . . .’ He threw his hands up, lost for words. ‘Angry . . . pathetic . . . all alone. Y’know, we’d had a good time, had lots of sex. She was on the pill – but her mum didn’t know. Then she dumped me. I could kinda see it coming, bit by bit. She liked lads, lots of ’em.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Putting it around. Lewis Kitchen was shagging her too.’
‘Just hold on a second. How come you had sex with her a couple of days ago if she’d dumped you?’
‘She caved in to my . . . persistence.’
‘Stalking, you mean?’ Rik interjected.
‘OK, yeah,’ Mark admitted. ‘I knew her mum was out because I’d seen her go. I was, like, watching the house. Then Natalie snuck back, I think, and spotted me lurking. We talked through the window and she let me in. Felt sorry for me, I suppose. She said she was getting ready to go out but I begged her to let me in so we could talk. One thing led to another, next thing we’re banging each other’s heads off. One for old times’ sake. We did it in the front room. Then she kicked me out, said it was over and she had people to see.’
‘Did she say who?’ Henry asked.
‘No.’
‘Lewis?’
‘Nah, he was well dumped, too.’
‘Who, then?’
Mark shrugged
‘And that was the last time you saw Natalie Philips? After you’d screwed her on her mum’s front carpet.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was she alive?’
‘Yes, she fuckin’ was.’
‘You sure about that?’ Rik swung in. ‘You killed her, didn’t you? You killed her at her mum’s house, I’ll bet.’
‘Fuck you. I’m saying nothing else.’
TEN
Sailing into Nouadhibou always gave Boone a feeling of desolation – and the creeps.
The final resting place for over three hundred rotting hulks of ships made it the world’s largest ship graveyard. Boone shuddered, not just at the sight, which was awesome and ominous in its own way – some ships were almost intact, run up on to sandbanks and abandoned, others just husks, lying on beaches like huge animal carcasses – but also at the thought that each ship had had a life, a meaning, a journey, a crew, and had been brought here to die by way of bribes paid by shady shipping companies to corrupt officials, who then turned a blind eye to the dumping. It was an incredibly sad journey up into the port for any seafarer.
Boone had pushed himself and Shell hard northwards along the African coast to Nouadhibou, formerly Port-Étienne, which was Mauritania’s second largest city, with about 75,000 inhabitants. Stuck on a forty mile headland, the city had the dubious accolade of being the most popular departure point for African migrants hoping to reach the Canary Islands, thence the EU. It was a very dangerous sea crossing in substandard boats and many thousands were drowned en route every year. About nine thousand actually made it, many landing on the shores of Gran Canaria.
Boone was familiar with the sun-battered port. He’d often called there, either to drop off or pick up cargo – goods or human beings. It was part of the way he maintained his income, for although he had eschewed his completely bad ways, he still had a living to make. Being a small cog in a bigger and very complex wheel of illegal smuggling kept the cash flowing. Ideally, he would have liked to make his living from tourists fishing off the Gambia but that was never going to happen, especially as cash was tighter than ever for everyone.
Not that he was going to let Steve Flynn know exactly what he was up to; once a cop, always a cop, Boone thought, even if Flynn had quit under a cloud. Whatever had been said about the guy, Boone never doubted Flynn’s basic honesty – which is why he thought it better not to tell him the details of his bits ’n’ bats. That said, he realized Flynn was astute enough to guess, but that was his problem, not Boone’s.
And keeping his hand in also gave Boone a bit of a thrill, though occasionally he did worry about his heart. It fluttered a little too much and sometimes he had to pray to keep it beating.
He manoeuvred Shell into port, mooring in a convenient gap between some gaudily painted fishing boats, waving at the African faces that watched him idly. Boone had not expected to be here at all. The deal was that he would pick up the man in three weeks’ time from another vessel at the same location he’d dropped him off, to the south of Gran Canaria, and then ferry him back to the Gambia; a mirror image of the initial journey. Drop him in Banjul, then bye-bye. Something had obviously gone awry, judging from the frantic phone call Boone had received from Aleef, summoning him immediately to his office in Banjul. That was when Boone had left Flynn in the company of the slightly stoned Michelle – with the hope she didn’t pounce on him and screw his brains out whilst Boone was gone. Under the influence of weed and alcohol, she became almost predatory in her needs.
Aleef, the small man, the fixer, had been in a real tizz. He needed Boone to drop everything and get his boat up to Nouadhibou and collect the guy he’d dropped off only a few days earlier.
‘Nouadhibou?’ Boone exclaimed. ‘That lawless shithole? What the hell’s he doing there?’
‘You don’t need to know the whys and wherefores,’ Aleef said. He was sweating profusely. ‘Just that he’s there and needs to be picked up urgently and brought back.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes. You’ve been paid to do it, so please do it.’
‘No. I’ve been paid – well, only part-paid actually – to pick this guy up in th
ree weeks. As such I can’t just drop everything. I have plans, commitments . . .’
‘You can and you will.’
‘Fuck you,’ Boone said, and made to go.
‘How much?’ Aleef said hurriedly. ‘How much extra?’
Boone paused in mid-turn. Hearing the hint of desperation and recognizing the glint of weakness, he said, ‘I want the rest of my money up front for a start – and an extra four thousand. Dollars. I’ll have to cancel the charters I’ve got booked.’ He didn’t have any charters, but Aleef didn’t need to know that. The little man did not even blanch. He spun his desk chair around and leaned towards the big old safe behind him. Edging himself in front of the digital keypad so Boone couldn’t see, he tapped in a five-digit code and opened the heavy steel door.
Boone did not see the combination, but did manage to get a glimpse of the contents over Aleef’s shoulder and saw it was stashed with blocks of cash. Nothing but. Big blocks of it. And his heart fluttered.
As Aleef spun back and closed the safe, a wad of notes in hand, Boone pretended he had not seen a thing. Aleef tossed the notes on to his desk. ‘That should see you.’
Boone snatched the money. ‘It’ll take me two long days to get up there if I set off now.’
‘Then set off.’
‘Am I being accompanied?’
Aleef squinted at him, not understanding for a moment. Then it dawned. ‘No, you go alone. You get there and he’ll find you . . . oh, and you’ll need this.’ Aleef handed him a green plastic box, the size of a small attaché case, with a red cross emblazoned on it. A comprehensive first aid kit.
Boone didn’t ask, just grabbed it and left. Two days later he was in the stinking African port, waiting as instructed. It had been a punishing voyage even though the seas had been kind. After connecting up to the electricity supply, dropping the harbour master fifty dollars, Boone stretched out in the air-conditioned cabin and fell into a much needed sleep.
