Instinct (16 page)

‘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

S
ailing 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 three 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.

‘At least he was telling the truth,' Henry Christie said, scanning the results of the DNA tests carried out on the sperm found inside Natalie Philips's body, samples having been taken from her uterus and stomach. Henry had pushed hard for the results which often took six weeks to come through, even with a following wind. The sheer volume of work stacked up in the forensic labs was incredible. Only the fact that he knew one of the scientists personally had enable Henry to cajole him into doing a one-off favour – to ascertain if any of the sperm samples matched Mark Carter's DNA profile. A perfect match was made.

He was discussing the results with Rik Dean as they sat at desks in the MIR at Blackpool police station.

‘He remains our prime suspect then,' Rik stated. He had not seen the results that had been e-mailed directly to Henry, forwarded ahead of the official report.

‘He does  . . . but I still don't think he did it.'

‘You're just soft on him,' Rik said.

‘Over the short time I've known him, I've actually been bloody hard on him.'

‘Yeah – and he plays on it. He knows you feel guilty about him. I reckon we pull him back in and sweat the little shit – obviously within the bounds of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.'

‘No. He's on police bail, let's leave it at that for the moment. We need to look at all the other lines. Y'know – the other ex, Lewis Kitchen, the school teacher who's been paying her too much attention, the missing stepdad. We should have some updates on these, shouldn't we?' There was a debrief due to take place at nine that evening, and the inquiry teams would be reporting their findings. It was now seven.

‘Pointless,' Rik said. He jabbed his finger at the printed out e-mail in front of Henry containing the result of the DNA compari-son. ‘He's our man – boy – whatever. I'm convinced. He admits stalking her – and the way he clammed up when I put it to him. Says a lot, that.'

‘Baby love, that's all,' said Henry.

‘I vote we bring him back in.'

Henry shook his head. Then he glanced up past Rik's shoulder and saw the figure of Karl Donaldson enter the MIR. Henry pushed the e-mail print out over to Rik and said, ‘Read this.'

‘Hi pal,' Donaldson said to Henry. He nodded at Rik who'd taken the e-mail and plonked himself down nearby. Donaldson looked exhausted. Henry had hardly seen him in the last couple of days. He'd given him a key to his house with instructions to use the facilities when necessary, but Henry knew he'd been down to London and back again, then back down to keep track on the progress being made in interviews with Zahid Sadiq, the failed suicide bomber. Henry had no idea how that was going. Another high ranking detective had taken over the police shooting on the motorway and apart from being interviewed himself and making a statement, that was as far as his involvement went. He knew it wouldn't go away, though, because the Independent Police Complaints Commission was now in the mix and Henry would be speaking to them shortly. And what a jumble it was, he'd thought: cops, Counter Terrorism, Special Branch, the FBI, MI5, IPCC. He hoped to keep as far away from it as possible. It was like torrid porridge.

‘Karl – how goes it?'

‘Can we get a coffee somewhere?'

‘Sure – Rik's office has a machine on the go. Rik, that OK?'

Rik's eyes rose from the e-mail, wide and astonished. ‘Yeah, yeah  . . .' he said absently, then, ‘fucking hell, Henry. Now I see your point of view about Carter.' He stabbed his finger at the piece of paper. ‘According to this she had sex with at least three other men before her death – and oral sex with one of them. She's got four lots of sperm in her.'

‘Yep – and we don't know who they are.'

Donaldson took the coffee gratefully, then sat in one of the comfortable chairs in Rik's office. Henry, also coffee in hand, perched on the corner of the desk.

‘You look jaded.'

Donaldson held up his mug in a ‘cheers' gesture. ‘Love you too.'

‘Been a slog?'

‘Feel like I'm hitting my head against a shithouse wall.'

‘I thought you Yanks called them restrooms?'

‘Getting too English for my own good. I even queue without complaining these days. Even skipped complaining altogether about anything.'

‘Jamil Akram,' Henry guessed.

‘Mm.' Donaldson looked despondent. He sighed, ‘Part of the problem I have is that I foisted –
foisted
? – myself on Beckham, the spookmeister, and he don't want me around because I annoy him. I know more than he does, but they – your security service – seem content with what they've got.'

‘Two suicide bombers, one in custody, one dead?'

‘Hey – a victory in the war on terror.'

‘A good victory, Karl,' Henry assured him. ‘And you played a major part in it.'

‘Hell, yeah  . . . but it could be so much better  . . . and not only that, this goes real deep, Henry. Feel it in my bones.'

‘Feel what?'

‘Instinct, Henry, instinct. You know what the hell that is?'

‘The dictionary definition or the gut-wrenching feeling you have when you just  . . . just
know
? That can't be defined.'

‘That's the one.' Donaldson stifled a yawn. ‘We missed him by a gnat's todger. I picked that up from one of your Met guys.'

‘A midge's dick.'

‘Same difference.' He sipped his coffee. It was good, slightly bitter and with a subtle kick to it. ‘Jamil Akram is a fanatical terrorist,' he said forcefully. ‘He runs training camps that teach stupid kids how to make bombs, shoot guns, stick knives into people and he has the ability to brainwash people, too. Simple kids who are disaffected and want something  . . . his bombs have been planted in war zones and shopping malls. People he's brainwashed have walked up to military checkpoints, superstores, and blown themselves and hundreds of others to pieces. His bombs were used in the American Embassy blast in Kenya in 1998 where I lost a good pal. Mostly, though, he doesn't come out of hiding. But when he does, it precedes something major.'