Instinct

by Nick Oldham

  Driver shrugged. ‘Dunno. Sounded sexy, though. Shaved him and his two mates, apparently.’

  There was a street map underneath the custody officer’s desk. Henry and Donaldson inspected it, Henry putting his finger on Springfield Road, which was about a quarter of a mile from where Donaldson had first spotted Sadiq on the prom, clean-shaven and ready to explode. It was at least a mile away from the flat further north that had been under police observation, the one Sadiq and Rahman were believed to have been in.

  ‘She went with Sadiq to an address somewhere around here,’ Henry said, his finger circling the street map. ‘Had sex with him and Akram, then they ditched her after she shaved them from head to toe – is what I think. Which is when Driver found her.’

  ‘OK,’ Donaldson said. ‘So they had access to the apartment under surveillance, but they sure as hell did not prepare for their last journey there.’

  ‘Bingo,’ Henry said. ‘You said your insider found out there were three of them, not two – which fits. They used someone else’s flat to prepare, and to have sex with Natalie.’ He mulled it over, his mind suddenly alive again. ‘We caught two of them, and you almost nailed Akram, which put a spanner in their works and obviously bomber number three was aborted.’

  ‘And if what Flynn says is true, that Akram has come back to finish what he started, then there will be another one of them waiting for him. Akram himself won’t be the third one, because he’s the one who sends others to their deaths. So we were right – it’s not over. He could be back in town right now, strapping explosives on to another poor schmuck. He needs to be there to push the buttons, metaphorically and literally.’

  ‘Then again,’ Henry said, ‘we could be completely wrong.’

  ‘I’d rather have egg off my face, H.’

  ‘Me too,’ Henry agreed. Henry led Donaldson back through the station corridors to Rik Dean’s office, both wondering how best to come at the problem. Rik was in his office, and so was an exhausted looking Chief Constable Robert Fanshaw-Bayley. He had felt it his duty to turn out because of PC Driver’s arrest.

  ‘Morning, boss,’ Henry said, his enthusiasm waning.

  ‘And Mr Donaldson, too,’ FB said. ‘Sometimes I think you guys are joined at the hip. Anyhow, come in and grab a seat. DI Dean is just bringing me up to speed with PC Driver. Good arrest, Henry. Shame it’s a cop. And you thought she might’ve been murdered by our terrorist friends.’

  ‘Not a bad guess, based on the fluids inside her.’

  ‘I know all that, but it wasn’t them.’

  ‘No, but I’m sure she was with them in the hours before her unfortunate meeting with PC Driver.’

  FB nodded, then looked at Donaldson. ‘And why are you back up in this neck of the woods?’

  ‘Our terrorist friends.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Akram is back on UK soil,’ he stated, then turned to Henry. ‘I know this guy, Henry. I’ve been on his tail since 1988. He’s here in town, I feel it. He finishes jobs, and whether it’s today or next week or next month, a lot of people in Blackpool are going to die en masse, but my guess is sooner not later. He’s a quick operator. It would have all been set up until we spoiled it. He won’t hang around. He’s a busy guy, lots of people to kill the world over, and, according to my sources, there is someone else involved.’ He paused – a little too dramatically for FB, but it was to good effect – and turned to the chief, ‘You need to launch a manhunt – sir.’

  ‘Bastard laughed at me,’ FB said. The chief had made a call to Beckham at MI5, while Henry and Donaldson went up to the canteen to order breakfast. He’d then climbed the stairs to the dining room, arriving red-faced and breathless and not a little annoyed.

  A coffee and bacon sandwich were waiting for him and he dived on to them with gusto, tore a few mouthfuls from the sandwich, wiped his mouth and then declared Beckham’s reaction to him.

  Henry said, ‘What did he actually say?’

  ‘I told him we suspected another person was involved and he said, “What, three?” I said, “Yes, is that correct?” He said no, but wanted to know where my information had come from, and I told him I wasn’t at liberty to reveal my source.’ FB looked pointedly at Donaldson, who experienced an unsettling quiver through his intestines, and not from the look or the food. ‘He laughed and said, “From a Yank, I’ll bet” – then he clammed up.’

  ‘Did you press him on that?’ Donaldson asked. FB shook his head. Donaldson fell silent and Henry watched him working through this new piece of information.

  ‘Two things,’ Donaldson said at length. ‘I think I’ve been fed a hook, line and sinker here. They ensure that Edina –’ Donaldson held up his hand to stop FB’s question ‘– hang on a minute . . . they ensure Edina comes across some information that might be of value to me. In other words, they feed her what they think is false information to see if it surfaces somewhere, then they can backtrack it. And now it has surfaced –’ he looked at FB – ‘and now she’ll need to really watch her ass. She thought they were on to her, now it’s for sure.’ He shook his head at the enormity of the situation.

  ‘You said two things,’ Henry reminded him.

  ‘Oh yeah. Thing is, therefore, MI5 don’t actually know there’s a third party involved. They don’t know. They made it up, like spies do, to feed the “enemy” – me – a line. They don’t know. They knew about the two lads and about Akram, but they haven’t yet worked out that they set off from another location, just assumed, like us all, they managed to get out of the flat without the cops seeing them. Shit like that happens. They didn’t even check the drains. I’ll bet their scientists haven’t found any traces of explosives or anything in that flat – because the lads simply lived in it, but didn’t operate from it.’

  ‘Half-baked Intel,’ FB spat. ‘And if it hadn’t been for you guys, Blackpool would have been blown to smithereens.’

  Henry blinked. FB handing out accolades. Almost unheard of.

  ‘It still might be,’ Donaldson warned. ‘Akram is back in town. Don’t forget Rahman’s video . . . “the big one is yet to come”.’ He exhaled. ‘That said, I need to make a phone call and warn somebody.’

  As Donaldson stuffed the remainder of his bacon sandwich into his mouth, swilled it down with his coffee and got to his feet, Henry remembered something. It was eight fifty and Mark Carter was due to answer his bail at nine.

  ‘I need to move, too.’ Then Henry realized something else that he’d nearly forgotten. He put a hand on Donaldson’s sleeve. ‘Come down to the front desk with me. Might be something, might not . . . make your call on the way.’

  Hung over, Mark Carter sat disconsolately in the public waiting area of the police station. He rocked slightly whilst waiting for the chance to get to the front counter and present himself, but there was a queue and he wasn’t in a hurry. His face fell when Henry appeared and beckoned him across. Henry opened the door for him and led him through to the custody office, booking him back into the system.

  ‘Do I need a brief?’ Mark asked when the question of his rights came up.

  Henry said, ‘No.’

  ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘No. This way.’ Henry steered him into an interview room and sat him down. ‘We need to wait a minute for someone to arrive, then we need a serious talk.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just been fun up to now, has it?’ Mark sneered.

  ‘C’mon babe,’ Donaldson whispered into his phone as he listened to it ring out.

  Then a man’s voice came on. ‘Hello, Edina Marchmaine’s phone . . . could I ask who’s calling, please?’ He had a southern accent and Donaldson was thrown slightly off kilter. Was this her husband, Hugo?

  ‘Can I ask who that is, please? I’m calling to speak to Mrs Marchmaine.’

  ‘My name is PC Archer from the Metropolitan Police.’

  ‘What are you doing with Mrs Marchmaine’s phone?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but you need to tell me who you are.’

>   Feeling this ping-pong could go on for a while, Donaldson said – with dread – ‘An old friend . . . John Hancock from America,’ a poor ad-lib, but all he could come up with there and then. ‘We’re due to have lunch today, Mrs Marchmaine and I.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the voice said, ‘but Mrs Marchmaine has had an accident . . .’

  ‘A bad one?’

  ‘I’m sorry to say, sir, but she died in a fall from her balcony last night . . . you wouldn’t happen to know—’

  Donaldson hung up. He stepped aside as two office workers crushed past him on the stairwell. He had to grab the banister to steady himself and to swallow hard so as not to vomit.

  EIGHTEEN

  Henry could not understand what the look on Donaldson’s face meant when he came into the interview room. He could see there was an expression of deep shock, but beyond that he didn’t have a clue. Henry looked at his friend with his own brow deeply furrowed and asked, ‘Are you OK?’ Donaldson gave a quick shake of the head. Henry gave him a further – brief – puzzled look, then turned back to Mark Carter sitting at the interview room table.

  ‘You guys know each other,’ Henry said. Mark and Donaldson had met as a result of Mark having witnessed a hit and run that had involved an Italian mobster who was hiding out, and ultimately the FBI. ‘I won’t waste time on introductions.’

  Henry expected Donaldson to offer at least a handshake, but nothing came.

  Mark squinted at Henry, alcohol-induced pain behind his eyes, and said, ‘Big guns, eh? Brought in the Yanks.’

  ‘Mark, serious this,’ Henry said. The lad shrugged insolently. Donaldson, seemingly in his own world, leaned back on the wall. To Henry, he seemed to have lost his focus all of a sudden. Ten minutes before he’d been excitedly jigsawing the pieces together, now he looked as though he didn’t give a damn. Phone call, Henry thought. He said, ‘I’ll get straight to it—’

  ‘Hang on,’ Mark interrupted. ‘First off, do I need a brief, or what? Second, I haven’t heard you caution me. Third, why’s the tape not turned on?’

  There was a rapid blur of movement as Donaldson erupted without warning. He shot across the gap between him and the teenager, and before Henry could react, Mark was hoisted by his throat off the chair, which went over with a clatter, and found himself pinned hard against the back wall. Donaldson’s face was less than an inch from Mark’s, his features contorted with fury.

  ‘Listen, fucker,’ he growled, ‘don’t make the mistake of thinking this is anything like a police interview. It isn’t. This is about terrorists who kill fuckers like you. So sit and answer these questions or I’ll make a point of seeing you outside these walls, then you can answer my questions.’

  Donaldson swung Mark back around, righted his chair for him and plonked him back down into it.

  Mark rubbed his neck, gasping for air, having realized that Donaldson was something different and dangerous. Nervously Mark said, ‘Look man, I didn’t kill her. Honestly.’

  Donaldson had returned to the wall, arms folded, as though he had expended no effort.

  Henry, stunned for the moment, had not moved. He swallowed and wondered if he might sneak out of the room and submit his ‘Intention to Retire’ report before he lost his job. He cleared his throat. ‘We know you didn’t. This is about her, but in a different way. You need to answer everything I ask truthfully, even if you’re repeating gossip, OK?’

  Mark’s eyes darted to Donaldson as though he expected another attack. ‘Just ask, OK?’ he said, keeping his eyes on the American, though addressing Henry.

  ‘Remember you talked about Sadiq and Rahman being like the musketeers? What did you mean?’

  ‘Uh, that they always hung around together. All for one, that kind of shit. All the time, in each other’s pockets. Didn’t even have much to do with any other of the Asian students. Always whispering and looking at the rest of us like we were shit.’

  ‘But there were three musketeers.’

  ‘There were three of them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Aramis, Porthos—’

  ‘No you idiot – Sadiq, Rahman – and who? Do you mean there was another one of them?’

  ‘Umar Ali.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Another student.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything about him last time we talked?’

  ‘You didn’t ask.’

  Henry’s right hand bunched into a fist, but it was himself he wanted to punch. In his experience, anyone talking unwillingly to the cops, as Mark was, doesn’t just blab unless they’re unloading guilt. No one tells you anything, was what he’d learned over the years, unless you ask them. Henry kicked himself for not being on the ball.

  ‘Do you know anything about Umar Ali?’

  ‘Just a student. On the same course as the other two, politics, or something crap like that . . . But you’re wrong,’ Mark finished.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘There were four musketeers . . . well, sort of.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Henry glanced at Donaldson. Still brooding.

  ‘Aramis, Porthos, Athos . . . and d’Artagnan. Well, he’s a sort of apprentice musketeer, but he’s one of them. Seen the films.’

  ‘How does that relate to Sadiq and Rahman?’

  ‘Well, there was Umar Ali, making three . . . and Mr Haq, making four.’

  ‘Who the fuck’s Mr Haq?’

  ‘College lecturer. He was always knocking around with them – and Natalie. She was always sniffing around them, too. If you ask me, Mr Haq was a bit too friendly with her – and them – and other girls. They were well into girls, cos they were good-looking lads and a bit mysterious.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Always whispering, like I said.’

  ‘Do you know anything about Umar Ali?’

  Mark shrugged, rubbed his throat, eyed Donaldson warily. ‘Not much . . . but there is one thing . . . I heard he was living with Mr Haq. Not arse-bandits, like. A lodger, I think.’

  A feeling of dread washed through Henry. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Do you know where Haq lives?’

  Mark looked uncomfortable. ‘Might do.’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘Just off the town centre. I once followed Natalie to his place.’

  ‘Street name?’ Henry demanded.

  ‘No idea.’

  Henry turned to Donaldson. ‘Shit,’ he said again.

  ‘What?’ Donaldson grunted.

  Henry took out his mobile phone, half-expecting there not to be a signal. There was. He dialled Rik Dean’s number. ‘Where are you?’ he demanded curtly of the DI.

  ‘MIR, why?’

  ‘Natalie Philips? When we spoke to her mum, there was mention of a teacher at college, yeah? Hadn’t her mum found something in a diary? Do you remember? I should fucking know this, but I don’t,’ Henry said, infuriated at himself.

  ‘I remember. It got actioned. One of the teams went to see him, but there was no reply and, as far as I know, no revisit as yet. What’s the rush? You sound stressed up again.’

  ‘Find the guy’s name and address.’

  Henry heard Rik shuffling through papers. ‘Here it is . . . yep, no reply, revisit to be allocated. I think things have moved on a bit since, though.’

  ‘Name and address,’ Henry said.

  ‘Salim.’

  ‘Salim?’

  ‘Yeah . . . Salim Haq, or Haq Salim . . . interchangeable, I suppose.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘It’s . . . it’s on Springfield Road, Blackpool . . . ooh,’ Rik said, realizing. ‘Which is where Driver picked up Natalie from . . .’

  ‘What number Springfield Road?’

  On receiving the information they moved quickly into position. Eight men, all dressed similarly in zip-up wind jammers, jeans and trainers. All were unshaven, their hair unkempt, their age ranging from twenty-six to forty-two. They travelled in four vehicles, a Range Rover, Ford Galaxy, BMW 320 and an Audi
A4, two in each. They were at the address within minutes.

  They were not overly concerned about having next to no time for preparation. This was how they were used to operating. Prep time was a luxury; nice when it happened, but unusual.

  That did not mean they were reckless. They were a close-knit unit, knew precisely how each other worked, were fitter than Olympic decathletes and they trained constantly using highly stressful scenarios that were as close to reality as could be. Sometimes they were allowed to plan, sometimes they just acted, ad-libbed and relied on their extreme professionalism and disregard for human life.

  They had spent the previous night on the Lancashire Moors and the pre-dawn hitting their practice target, a disused hospital in which a hostage was being held. The place was booby-trapped throughout with tripwires, beams, alarms and people waiting to kill them. Their only briefing had been that this was a hot operation and that the hostage had to be freed. They did this at 5.05 a.m., successfully killing every terrorist and releasing the hostage. Then, before they could debrief, they had received the call from London ordering them to move to Blackpool and be ready for a real event. Training was over.

  They had no time for anything other than a drive-by reconnaissance, their orders being that they had to act immediately. They discussed their tactics on the move, then went for it, all checking the mug shot they had received on their mobile phones and the names of the other two people suspected to be inside.

  Gaining access to the building was easy. It was a terraced house, divided into two large flats, ground and first floor. They were in the hallway, outside flat number one, when they pulled on their full-face ski masks and drew their weapons out of their clothing.

  The explosives expert fitted the plastic explosive to the front door of the flat in such a way that the hinges and lock would be blasted off and the door itself would be left standing, ready for the boot down and entry of the first two members of the team. The explosion was muffled, hardly loud enough to hear, and then they were in.

  Once inside, they worked in pairs, moving through the lounge area, then into the two bedrooms.

  Not one of the three occupants had been roused by their entry.